by Mark Minnie
In 1987 Chris Steyn made it back to South Africa and began to follow up on a series of perplexing events, including the apparent suicide of a well-known cabinet minister and his close friend – a conservationist, diver and police reserve lieutenant.
From opposite ends of the country, 30 years later, Chris and Mark would finally connect the dots to rip the veil of secrecy off the tragic and shocking story of abuse, criminality, cover-ups and official complicity in the rape and possible murder of a number of children, most of them vulnerable and black.
These children are the Lost Boys of Bird Island.
Marianne Thamm
Cape Town
2018
MARK
1
The call
Paedophilia. Government corruption. Murders. And they wanted to kill me. Fuck them. I’m an undercover narcotics agent with the South African Police. Here’s my story, which begins in February 1987.
The phone rings. It’s the brigadier.
‘To my office. Now!’ he barks.
He hangs up abruptly, leaving me no opportunity to reply, much less resist. It sounds bad. I’d better get there.
But why on earth is he calling me? I’m 50 leagues below him in the chain of command. If he needed to see an investigator, he could have summoned one through my branch commander, the lieutenant. Something’s clearly amiss. I begin to panic, but tell myself to keep calm and maintain a level head. The thing is, you don’t mess around with this guy. He can end your career in a blink and mine’s already going nowhere.
I rush along the dark corridor, grabbing a cup of watered-down coffee along the way. I’m hoping it will mask the smell of stale whisky on my breath. I’m battling to hold the cup with my right hand. My pinkie is swollen and has taken on a purplish colour. It looks distinctly like a miniature eggplant. I’m convinced it’s broken but I’ll have to deal with it later.
I hate the smell along this stretch of the corridor en route to the brigadier’s office. Why can’t they unclog the damn toilets?
I hesitate before knocking on the brig’s door. I have a crashing headache. I definitely should not have overindulged last night. It wasn’t good. Maybe that’s why he wants to see me? I’m in deep trouble if he has found out what happened. Or maybe he just lost on the horses again. He’s an irredeemable gambler. So much so that if he spotted two cockroaches running up a wall he’d be inclined to place a bet.
‘Come in,’ the brigadier growls. I enter his office, my stomach churning. The air inside is thick with the acrid smell of cherry tobacco. It makes me want to wretch. A quick look at the ashtray reveals five cigar stubs and it’s only 8:30 am. He clocks in at 8:00, so either the stubs are yesterday’s leftovers or he’s got enough nicotine in him to keep his cardiovascular system in a state of semi-permanent overdrive. Horse-racing guides and betting tickets litter the rest of his desk.
‘Always take your time, don’t you, Max?’
My initials are ‘MAD’, so someone conveniently added the ‘Max’. My colleagues love calling me Mad Max.
I ignore the brigadier’s cheap shot. Besides, the pain in my finger is killing me. He barely looks up at me while handing me a piece of paper.
His demeanour confirms my suspicions. The fool has clearly lost a huge chunk of his salary on the ponies. Now he’s intent on recovering some of his losses, throwing good money after bad. He’s annoyed that the process has been interrupted.
A phone number is scrawled on the slip of paper. It’s a local exchange.
‘Phone this woman,’ the brigadier says. ‘She’s a member of my church. Her son has got some info for you. That’s all.’
What the fuck! So now I’m just being used? He’s clearly abusing his status as a senior police officer to do favours for his congregation. I’m an undercover narcotics agent, not a babysitter for some religious do-gooder who wants to tell me stories about petty dope-smoking going on at a local school. But I keep this to myself – I know all too well not to disappoint the brigadier. As I turn to leave, the smell of tobacco now so overwhelming I feel quite queasy, he calls out: ‘And, Max, I want feedback by this afternoon. No stories.’
Fuck off, I mumble to myself.
Back in my office, I dial the number immediately. A woman answers in Afrikaans. I speak it fluently. She agrees to see me within an hour. At least my headache is starting to subside. The pressure’s probably off because the brigadier clearly has no inkling of the previous night’s shenanigans. I’m feeling more relaxed, off the hook for now, but my finger is aching.
About an hour later a portly woman enters my office followed by a scrawny dark-skinned youngster. The kid is visibly distraught and his mother is clearly extremely anxious. He doesn’t look like a dope-smoking delinquent or a dealer. What am I in for?
In that moment, I have no idea that what this boy is about to tell me will change my life forever.
2
The interview
I can tell this is going to be a long day. The kid’s mother insists on speaking English. She’s not making sense; she’s repeating things, hesitating, searching for the right words to tell the story. It’s driving me up the wall. The office chair she sits in creaks each time she moves.
My patience is wearing thin. I wonder why she insists on speaking English. Perhaps she’s just being polite because I greeted her in my mother tongue? I tell her to relax, breathe and speak her own language. This seems to offer her some respite.
‘My son is only fourteen,’ she says, glancing in his direction. ‘His name is Igor.’
The boy is leaning back in his chair, hands clenched, eyes fixed on the floor. I notice his knuckles are white, drained of blood. He’s obviously very uncomfortable.
Ten minutes into the engagement all I have extracted are the name and age of her son. The familiar odour of cheap musk perfume mixed with perspiration begins to permeate the room. It’s not doing my hangover any favours. There are beads of sweat, glistening like small diamonds, on the woman’s top lip, all of this offset by garish red lipstick.
I look at the kid again. This time he holds my gaze and I sense an opening, but I have to act swiftly. He’s the one with the story, and if I don’t move now I know I will end up with nothing.
But first I have to get his mother out of my office. The more I look at the boy, the more it feels like he is offering me a glimpse into his troubled soul. He’s clearly desperate for someone to listen to his story and help him out of his misery. Having his mother there is not helping. I decide to be direct. I stand up and make eye contact with her.
‘Please follow me,’ I say.
‘But, my son …’
‘He stays here.’
I turn to the boy and say, ‘You’ll be fine.’ I can tell he is relieved.
I escort his mother out of the office, a trail of nauseating body fragrance following in her wake. In the passage, I can tell she is confused, but she doesn’t ask any questions or resist. I’m grateful for not having to offer an explanation. I take a crumpled note out of my pocket. The distinct green colour assures me it’s only R10.
‘Have a cup of coffee in the cafeteria downstairs,’ I say to her as I hand her the money.
She wobbles off slightly perturbed, but content with the fact that coffee is on me.
Back in my office I offer the boy a soda from the miniature bar fridge. He accepts, hesitantly.
‘Listen, Igor, I know there is something that you want to tell me, but you’re afraid. I want you to know that whatever gets said in this office will remain between you and me. You need to trust me, son.’
The boy sucks at his straw, glancing up at me. Then his mouth begins to quiver and tears roll down his cheeks. He looks away, embarrassed. This boy, I can tell, is in bad shape.
‘It’s about my older brother, sir,’ Igor says. ‘They hurt him.’
‘Where’s your brother now?’
‘In hospital, sir.’
I am fully engaged until a sudden stabbing ache in my swollen pinkie dis
tracts me, reminding me of yesterday’s events in the bar. Odd that my finger should act up now, just as the boy is opening up.
3
The day before
I’m watching as my old school-friend George is about to hustle R200, a lot of money, off a rookie pool player in the bar. The bet started at R100, and of course George allows the stooge to win the first game by a wide margin.
In the second game, George deviously appears to make a lucky comeback and just edges it. It’s the final game now in this best-out-of-three contest. The rookie’s now feeling confident and he raises the bet. I already know the outcome. It’s a foregone conclusion. People who know George are wise enough not to take him on in a game of pool.
George is over 1,8 metres tall and lanky. There is not an ounce of fat on him. And he’s a hustler by nature. He’s always enjoyed taking money off people through bets he knows he can’t lose.
My pool-shark friend is the owner of the bar. The rookie pool player must be from out of town. We’ve never seen him in here before. George proceeds to whip him in the final game. The newcomer hands over the money and gulps down the remainder of his beer, seemingly accepting defeat.
George shoots me a wry smile. He’s done this more times than I’ve eaten breakfast in my entire life. As the loser exits the bar, George quips loudly, ‘Lessons available on Tuesday and Thursday evenings!’ The loser is clearly not amused.
I order another drink from Bernadine, George’s new bar lady. She’s only been working here for a month and already Bernie and I are having what is known as a ‘scene’. It started two weeks ago.
I’ve always had a weakness for a woman behind a bar, particularly when she is as gorgeous as Bernie. And Bernie likes me. She’s comfortable with my drinking habits and I am more than comfortable with her line of work. The bar’s empty apart from George, Bernie and me. Mind you, it is only 3:30 in the afternoon.
Bernie and I settle into a game of rummy – a card game I find interesting enough not to bore me. She wins the first hand, as well as the second, the third and the fourth. I’m thoroughly charmed by her cute giggle every time she’s victorious.
‘You’re cheating, aren’t you?’ I tease.
‘You’re just a sore loser, Max,’ she replies, sashaying off.
Glancing out the window, I notice the sun has set. It is amazing how time flies inside a bar, especially when you’re having fun. I’m in my happy place. The booze has relaxed me and I’m feeling good. So much so that in that instant I feel perfectly happy with my lot in life. I have a job, money in my pocket and a woman whose company I enjoy.
George emerges from his tiny office, eyes red and flaky. It’s obvious that he’s been sleeping. Bernie’s shift ends at midnight and I’m more than happy to wait.
Suddenly, the guy who lost the pool game returns, this time accompanied by two mates. I’ve never seen these guys before.
One of the two is built like a brick shithouse, and he’s ugly as sin. His lack of neck makes him look like his head has been plonked onto his shoulders. His face is scarred, warrior marks from a lifetime of brawls. He sidles up and occupies the seat beside me.
His mate, who sits next to him, is a tall spindly lad. His build matches George’s. I have learned never to underestimate scrawny guys. Those long arms and legs can deliver a devastating blow. We call guys like this ‘one-punch mechanics’ because they can knock your lights out with one well-aimed shot.
The rookie loser positions himself at the far end of the bar. It’s obvious that these guys are not here to drink or play pool. They mean business. George glances in my direction and his expression reveals that he too has picked up on the bristling aggression in the air. We’re ready and waiting.
The loser orders a round of drinks for him and his mates. Bernie is completely oblivious to any hint of what is about to unfold.
I immediately reckon that I will need to neutralise the guy who poses the most dangerous threat – a tactic I learned from my karate instructor. I decide it will have to be the ox sitting next to me. My eye falls on an ashtray on the bar. It’s within reach. I’m calculating all the odds now. George is behind the bar, directly opposite the loser.
Bernie, still oblivious to all the testosterone radiating around the bar, serves them their drinks and proceeds to ring the sale. She returns to the loser and hands him his change.
‘Hey, I gave you R50,’ the rookie says. ‘You’ve given me change for R20. Where’s the rest?’
Ooh, shit’s starting quicker than I thought. I’m ready and so is George.
‘Impossible – you gave me a R20 note,’ Bernie replies.
George winks at me and slowly makes his way to the till. Now we all know George never keeps R50 notes in the cash register. The currency value is too large and impractical for use in the bar. When he does get bigger notes he stashes them in the office.
‘No fifties in here, mate. Don’t keep them in the till,’ George says. He sidles up to the loser, maintaining his position on the opposite side of the bar. ‘You must have made a mistake, pal,’ he adds.
This clearly does not go down well. Suddenly the loser takes a wild swing at George, missing him by a wide mark. It’s time to get involved. I know I need to act decisively; otherwise George and I are in for a hell of a beating.
My adrenalin is pumping as I reach for the ashtray and drive it into the ox’s face, breaking his nose on impact. I can hear the crunch of the cartilage. But all it seems to do is knock him off the bar stool. He’s still standing, though a bit groggy, and shaking his head from side to side as if he’s trying to clear his head. He is not going to go down easily, I realise.
I follow up my first blow with a kick to his stomach. This is immediately followed by the delightful sound of air escaping from his gut, which prompts me to go in for the knockout blow. That rendered, he staggers backwards, opening up a perfect distance for a sucker of a punch, which I deliver to the side of his head. He collapses, out cold.
I turn to see how George is faring. Fine, by the look of things. George has also knocked out the loser, albeit through the choking method.
The lanky lad has armed himself with a pool cue. This guy is clearly going to fight to the bitter end, something I am not particularly relishing.
Just then four uniformed cops barge into the pub. They are a comforting sight. I wonder who invited them, I think to myself.
Turns out it was Bernie. When the brawl started, she rushed into the street and ran slap bang into the cops out on a foot patrol. At that point, I don’t feel like tackling the last man standing. And luckily for me, the cops don’t recognise me.
The ox and the loser regain their senses. The ox’s face resembles a piece of raw mashed-up meat. There’s no hint of a nose. The cops try to find out what’s going on, and in true South African fashion the troublemakers refuse to press charges. They’ve taken their hiding like men. The cops escort them out of the bar.
I have no doubt we’ll be seeing these guys again in the not-too-distant future. They will return, seeking revenge. It’s the South African way, the Port Elizabeth way. I suddenly feel an excruciating pain shoot through the pinkie of my right hand. It looks broken. Ah well, maybe I can just patch it up and see how it goes. In the meantime, a few painkillers will do the trick.
4
The interview continued
Igor says someone has hurt his brother. That’s how he has ended up in hospital.
‘Who hurt your brother?’ I ask.
‘Moffies, sir.’
Moffie is a derogatory South African term used to belittle homosexual men. It’s the 1980s, and words like homosexual and paedophile are virtually interchangeable, regardless of the fact that the majority of paedophiles happen to be heterosexual men.
But the boy’s reply intrigues me. I’m keen to find out more, but I’m also careful not to push him too much. I can see he is less fraught and much more comfortable talking now that his mother is out of the room.
I decide to record the interv
iew, realising that what he may choose to tell me about his brother will be hearsay evidence and inadmissible in court. Still, I’ll keep the recording for reference.
And then he tells me. The story tumbles out of him. His older brother has been sexually assaulted, viciously so, and has been taken to hospital for the wounds to be treated.
I don’t stop him while he speaks. Later, after he has offloaded the burden, I’ll try to get something concrete out of him – that is, the evidence he can attest to personally. The things he saw and witnessed with his own eyes.
The boy is somewhat calmer after telling his story. I try to find out exactly what he knows.
‘Son, have you seen moffies doing things to or with your brother on any other occasions? That’s what I need to know.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve seen moffies doing things with my brother as well as with other boys.’
‘What kind of things, Igor?’
‘You know, sir. Moffie sex things.’
‘That means you must have been there as well.’
‘I was, sir. The moffies paid me money. Just like they paid the other boys. Sometimes they like to take two boys at a time. One uncle with two boys or two uncles with two boys. It all depends. Sometimes many boys with three or four uncles.’
Holy smoke! This is serious. I feel a surge of anger but suppress it. I encourage the boy to continue.
‘Now that’s what I want you to tell me, son. Things that happened to other boys in your presence and things that happened to you. Even better is if other boys saw what was happening to you. Got it?’
‘Yes, sir. I have to think. I have to try and remember.’
‘No problem. Take your time. More soda?’
He accepts without hesitating. I switch off the tape recorder. It’s now time to find his mother. I don’t want her barging in and disrupting the flow.
I find her seated at the far end of the cafeteria. A coffee cup rests on the table in front of her. Closer inspection reveals the cup is almost empty. Time for a refill. I leave her with enough money to cover three more servings. She doesn’t argue when I ask her to stay put for a while longer.
