The Lost Boys of Bird Island: A shocking exposé from within the heart of the NP government

by Mark Minnie

  Next the boy goes into detail about what happened to him just two days earlier. He says he can’t remember much, apart from Uncle Dave approaching him at City Snacks and telling him that two of his friends would like to be ‘entertained’. The man gave him an address on a slip of paper and R320, a tidy sum, which included the taxi fare. The address was a block of holiday apartments, the boy tells me. I know the spot.

  The boy recalls that when he arrived at the apartment, there were two older men there. One was lying on the bed, and the other was in the bathroom, apparently taking a bath. The man in the bathroom instructed the guy on the bed to pour the boy a drink. This guy didn’t seem happy about being told what to do and had muttered, ‘Bliksemse, Ore.’

  When the man went into an adjoining room to fetch the drink, the boy peeked inside the bathroom. There he had caught a glimpse of a man with protruding ears lolling in the tub.

  The boy tells me that he recognised the man in the tub, which made him panic. He considered making a run for it. But how would he escape? And besides, he had already been paid a handsome sum.

  The man who had been lying on the bed returned with a strong alcoholic drink. The boy says he thinks it was brandy and Coke. No one spoke as the child sipped the drink. The man with the jug ears remained in the bath.

  ‘And then I remember nothing,’ the boy says. ‘I promise, sir. It’s a blank. And now I am here in hospital. That’s my story.’

  8

  Lucky break

  I’m trying to attach faces and identities to two perpetrators. The victim – the older brother – says the men don’t use names. Terms of address are reduced to ‘sir’, ‘you’ and ‘uncle’. But these have to be relatively prominent people. They clearly have money. Or connections. Helicopters don’t come cheap.

  My strategy is to start by investigating the scene of the sexual assault at the holiday apartments. Perhaps someone recalls seeing or hearing something the night the boy was there.

  But at the block of flats, I am immediately stumped at reception. I could have guessed it beforehand. Few people use their real names booking into these joints. Signatures are just scrawls in the register.

  The receptionist is a heavily made-up old hand in the business. Her face and body reveal the signs of rapid ageing brought on by years of too much drinking and partying.

  ‘Ja, I was on that particular night, Sergeant. But nothing out of the blue happened on my shift. I clocked off around 6 am. It was only the next night that I heard someone had called an ambulance to take a guest to hospital.’

  Just then I spot a surveillance camera. Are the gods smiling on me?

  ‘Are there any more of those cameras in the building?’ I ask.

  ‘No. That one is for our protection. We take in a lot of money over weekends. Don’t want any criminals here. We don’t like that sort, you know.’

  Yeah, like hell, I think to myself. I know what goes on in this type of establishment.

  ‘So, what about the tape covering the date in question?’

  ‘Ja, it’s running in the machine. We use the same tape all the time. Put it in and then it reaches the end and starts again. Runs for seven days.’

  ‘Good. Find a new tape because I am going to need that one.’

  She’s reluctant but has no choice except to hand it over.

  Back at the office I play the old Beta tape on the video machine. The date and time displayed shows that the recording started a few hours before my witness would have entered the building. Four hours before, to be exact.

  However, the tape is really poor quality. Like the cheap surveillance equipment at the apartment block.

  I squint at the wobbly scene shown on the wobbly tape. It’s difficult to identify any faces. Irritated, I fast-forward to the approximate time the victim would have entered the building.

  I see a figure entering the lobby. This could possibly be my guy. The time is about right if I go according to the boy’s statement. And then the guy’s gone. I squint at the screen for the next fifteen minutes. Nothing. I fast-forward, looking for two figures exiting the building together. Again, nothing.

  The victim doesn’t know when or how he left the apartment. He was clearly drugged or unconscious. The time on the surveillance tape is now 4:30 am.

  Suddenly something catches my eye. Two figures exit the building at exactly 4:33 am. I write this info down. I think these might be the suspects, but I need to be sure. I continue forwarding the tape until the timer gets to 8:00 am. Nothing of interest.

  I realise that the only way I can get anything valuable out of this tape is with some expert assistance. I need a technical whiz-kid. I know exactly who to contact: my friend Terry, who heads the mobile police video unit. He’s a genius in modern technology. I pick up the phone and dial his number.

  ‘Terry, are you in your office at the moment?’

  ‘Yep. As you can hear, I answered the phone,’ he replies sarcastically.

  ‘Wait right there, mate. Don’t move.’

  I grab the tape and rush down the corridor, the smell of those damn toilets still lingering. But I have to pass this way in order to get to Terry’s office. Which also means I have to pass the brigadier’s office.

  My deadline for the report-back has long expired – by more than 24 hours at this point. I am convinced the brigadier is going to chew me up and spit me out.

  His door is open so I can’t avoid him. It appears as if he has anticipated my arrival.

  ‘Afternoon, Max. Come inside, son.’

  Something’s amiss. Why is he being so friendly?

  ‘Um, sir, concerning yesterday, I tried phoning …’

  ‘Not to worry, Max. The old girl let me know how you helped her son. She has the utmost respect for you. Good work so far, lad. Now fill me in on the rest.’

  I relate to the brig in as complete a manner as possible what the hospitalised victim had told me. He’s happy enough with the report-back.

  * * *

  That went surprisingly well, I tell myself after the briefing. I’m not sure why, but I’ll figure it out later. What’s uppermost on my mind is getting to Terry’s office and doing something with the tape.

  Terry has mastered his state-of-the-art equipment and I have always reckoned that he is too smart for the South African police force. He should be working for Apple or for that genius guy in America – I think his name is Bill something.

  Terry is waiting for me. I explain what I need and he puts the tape in one of his gadgets. The time seems to crawl by while he fidgets with various controls. He senses my frustration. I know that the dude is really giving it his best shot. But I am expecting miracles, and that’s not fair. Soon my hopes of a quick breakthrough begin to diminish. Finally, he turns to me and says, ‘That’s the best I can do, Max. The tape has obviously been used over and over again. It’s in terrible condition.’

  I edge him out of his seat and look at the still image in front of me. I can make out two figures exiting the building. The one on the right is closest to the camera. He’s about one pace ahead of the man on the left. Both of their heads are bowed. I can’t make out a distinct profile.

  I’m gutted. I try one last time.

  ‘Can you forward this pic by one frame, Terry? The guy on the right is closest to the security camera. One more frame and he’ll be closer to me on the screen.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Do it,’ I insist.

  Terry fiddles with a knob and then I see it.

  ‘Stop!’ I cry out.

  I move closer to the monitor, desperately looking for something. Anything that will give me a clue to the identities of these suspects. And then I see it.

  ‘Have a look, Terry, and tell me what you see.’

  ‘I’m looking, Max. I’m not sure what you want me to see.’

  ‘The ears, Terry, the ears. The dude on the right has got protruding ears. They look like friggin’ wingnuts.’

  I’m overjoyed. Perhaps this is my lucky break. I g
rab Terry by his regular-shaped ears and land a fat kiss on his bald head.

  9

  Looking for Wingnut

  I scan through hundreds of headshots in the police photo bank looking for someone who might fit the image of the jug-eared man – I’ll call him Wingnut – on the screen. But the search leads me nowhere. I can’t find a match.

  It’s time to change my modus operandi. Stuff this Wingnut for the time being.

  First, I need to pick up Uncle Dave. Although I’ve never met him, I know where to find him. Igor mentioned an address when I interviewed him in my office. The house belongs to a certain Dave Allen. He’ll lead me to Wingnut, I’m sure.

  Dave Allen is well known in police circles. He’s a police reservist, holding the rank of lieutenant. He also heads the police underwater diving unit. In real life he’s a businessman. He runs a guano project on Bird Island. Guano is just a fancy word for bird and bat shit, which makes for a very rich fertiliser because of its high nitrogen, phosphate and potassium content. It is highly sought after and you can make loads of money from it.

  I’m definitely going to pop in on Uncle Dave. But first I call my friend Tommy Bell, the dog handler who assists the diving unit when required. He should know a bit more about the man I want to visit.

  ‘Howzit, Tommy. Max here. I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Shoot, Max.’

  ‘Do you know if Dave Allen has an office in town? I need to talk to him about a minor matter, so to speak. A telephone number will do.’

  ‘Dave’s not in town right now, Max. He’s on the island. I’m expecting him back on Friday. We’re going to do some diving on the weekend. Anything I can help with?’

  ‘No, mate. Not to worry. Nothing serious. It can wait.’

  ‘Anyhow, I’ll give you his phone numbers. Work and home,’ Tommy offers.

  I hang up after jotting down the numbers. I’m feeling irritated. I hate it when an investigation stalls.

  10

  The beacon

  I’m planning to hit Dave Allen’s residence later this afternoon. I got it through the grapevine that he’s returned from Bird Island.

  My regular partner is in Pretoria at this time, so I ask Gordon Lamastra to accompany me. He’s been with our unit for a couple of years now, and he’s reliable and trustworthy. We head for Allen’s house, each driving our own unmarked police-issue vehicle. Gordon has an appointment elsewhere later in the day.

  As we pull into a smallholding containing a free-standing house, my mind is cast back to my childhood. And suddenly I realise I know exactly where I am. I have seen this house before – years ago, when my Hungarian stepfather used to entertain our family with a drive along Schoenmakerskop Road on summer Sunday mornings.

  I remember the outings vividly, but I never enjoyed these rides because I knew how things would go once we got back home. My mom, my two sisters and I simply sat tight-lipped, occupied by our own foreboding thoughts. On those trips the road seemed to be never-ending, stretching for eternity. Maybe my mind was wishing for this to be the case. Bushes lined both sides of the road. I always kept an eye out for this house, which stuck out like a sore thumb among the lush greenery. It was like some kind of beacon, an assurance that the trip was still going to take quite a while. That thought was pleasing, comforting in a way, against the background of my two sisters gnawing their nails while my mom sat nervously in the front seat, her fists tightly clenched.

  After a lengthy straight, the road meanders gently to the left, and then there’s a steep decline that allows one to see the sprawling blue ocean in the distance. Huge waves disintegrate into layers of white foam as they crash into the rocks at the culmination of their journey. I suppose this view would be considered beautiful by most passers-by.

  But to us, it meant a step closer to the halls of pain and misery. For the immigrant bastard that was my stepfather, it was closer to his hour of pleasure. The road eventually culminates in a T-junction. Turn right and you’ll end up in Seaview, another beautiful part of my hometown’s coastline. Turn left and you’re heading back to the city. We always turned left.

  In order to erase the thoughts of what was inevitably going to happen later, I always tried to count the number of fishermen on the rocks below as we made our way along the narrow road back to town. Eventually we’d make a quick stop at a roadhouse, where my stepfather bought ice-cream cones for everyone.

  Heaven forbid, how I hated those ice creams. The look on the Hungarian’s face as he watched us consume those delicacies made me sick. I could see the fear and tension written all over the faces of my mom and sisters. I hated myself at that stage.

  There is nothing worse than being totally incapable of helping others when they so desperately need you to. I was only a child. My two siblings were younger than me. A span of two and four years, respectively, separated us. My mom took the major brunt of the violence – mostly in her attempts to stop the maniac from raining further blows down upon us. Once he started his beatings, there was no way to stop him.

  My biological father was a drunk who abused marijuana. He also laid into my mother, beating her terribly at times. She divorced him when I was six. I never saw him again until I turned eighteen and graduated from the police training college. I duly sent him on his way. I had no feelings for him. He apparently died a drunk.

  Mom swapped him for the Hungarian in the hope of a better life. It never materialised. He had grown up in communist Hungary. During the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, he witnessed the traumatic death of his mother at the hands of Russian troops.

  In his flight to escape arrest by the Commies, he was shot three times in the back. The arsehole survived and was shipped out to South Africa by the International Red Cross. My mom married him after my dad left. The rest is history.

  All of this comes flooding back as we arrive at Uncle Dave’s house – this and so much more. The case I’m working – involving grown men abusing underage boys – touches a deeply painful and still raw nerve for me. It’s not something I talk about, but I think about it a lot. And it haunts me.

  * * *

  It’s 1972. Spring has arrived. I love this time of year. No more winter wind piercing through my flimsy school blazer and thin cotton shirt, biting at my upper body until my skin starts to burn. Purple-bluish-coloured knees sticking out from a pair of short school pants testify to the icy-cold conditions served up during a Port Elizabeth winter. And this discoloration takes place each morning during the daily trek to school. It’s a depressing period for me. But as winter passes, my mood tends to lift.

  A week after my twelfth birthday I am in high spirits. School’s out and I’m enjoying a ten-day holiday before the start of the fourth and final term. I’m sitting on the stoep of the Harper family’s home. They moved into our neighbourhood approximately two months before.

  The kids are twin brothers, Bryce and Mickey, aged seventeen; their younger brother, Ferdie, who’s the same age as me; and their sister, Gina, who is closing in on her fifteenth birthday.

  I’ve got something going for Gina. When I’m in her company, I experience a feeling that is difficult to describe. It’s a ‘make a person feel good’ feeling. A feeling that tells me that girls are good for boys.

  ‘Hey, are you playing or not?’ a kid calls out to me from the back yard of the Harper residence.

  A couple of youngsters from the neighbourhood are involved in a game of cricket. Maintaining my position on the stoep in the presence of Gina, I howl back, ‘I’ll join you guys later.’

  Gina and I are involved in a conversation that I hope will never end. The nature of our discussion is causing me to experience a completely new sort of feeling. A feeling emanating in the area of my groin, and I’m enjoying every glorified moment.

  ‘Well, if you’ve never French-kissed a girl before, then I’ll have to teach you, won’t I?’ is Gina’s reply when I tell her I’ve never done such a thing before.

  Suddenly, I feel wetness in my pants. It’s witho
ut a doubt one of the nicest feelings I’ve ever had. Gina has my full attention now. Bugger the cricket – I don’t want this moment to end.

  She’s wearing a tiny white top and a short skirt from which two long beautiful legs tumble out. I am beside myself with desire. Gina ends what has been an incredible and indelible moment for me by whispering ‘See you tomorrow’ in my ear.

  That night I find it difficult to fall asleep. Gina occupies my thoughts. In spite of enduring a sleepless night – a happy sleepless night, I should say – I’m all cock-a-hoop early the next morning. So much so that I find myself ringing the doorbell of the Harper residence at 9:00 am.

  Ferdie lets me in and leads me to his bedroom. It’s dimly lit. The sun’s rays find it difficult to break through the thick curtains covering the window. The room smells mouldy – same as mine. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s what you get when your folks are part of the lower-income working class. Within seconds, my eyes adapt to the low light. The twins, Bryce and Mickey, are on Ferdie’s double bed along with another guy named Jacques. Jacques is seventeen, the same age as the twins. All three are engaged in a game of play-wrestling on the bed.

  Ferdie and I stand to one side observing the proceedings. My thoughts are elsewhere. I’m dying to ask where Gina is, but I can’t do that right now.

  It’s then that I pick up on something strange. Jacques is lying face down on the bed with Mickey on top of him. Mickey suddenly starts to rub the lower part of his torso against Jacques, immediately following this up with three quick thrusts of his hip. Jacques breaks free, clearly upset at Mickey’s behaviour.

  ‘Are you a fucking moffie or what? Bumping against my arse like that with your dick!’ Jacques yells.

  ‘Yes,’ Mickey throws back with a smile on his face.