The Prey

by Tony Park

  Kylie had been through a hell of a lot with Cameron in the short time she had been in South Africa. Nothing in Australia in her work or life experience could have prepared her for what she had seen and done in Africa. She realised, too, that Cameron had been trying to explain this to her and Jan for months, and that perhaps they should have let him persist with his efforts to winkle out the zama zamas by force, using hired guns. She had seen for herself the full extent of the violence underground; she squeezed her eyes tight for a moment to try and block out the memory of pulling a trigger herself, and the sickening, if justifiable, results. She opened her eyes again and forced herself to take a deep breath – good and bad memories of this place would stay with her for the rest of her life. As she moved to the departure gate door she heard an alarm beeping behind her.

  ‘Wait! I’m coming!’

  Cameron had set off the metal detector. He had gone back and was pulling off his steel-capped miner’s boots and dumping them on the X-ray conveyor. He came through again and collected his boots, carry-on travel bag and his laptop. He hopped as he struggled to get his right boot back on.

  ‘He’s with me,’ Kylie said, rolling her eyes at the ground attendant. The woman smiled and Kylie went back to Cameron and zipped his laptop into its bag and shouldered it.

  ‘I can manage,’ he said.

  ‘Not from what I can see. I didn’t think you were going to make it.’ They walked briskly to the door and Cameron showed his boarding pass. They were the last of the queue of people walking across the tarmac to the Airlink jet.

  ‘I got a seat next to you so we can talk on the aircraft,’ he said as they climbed the stairs.

  ‘I called Chris and told him to come in your place,’ Kylie said. ‘I’ll try and text him before we take off.’

  Cameron smiled. ‘Relax. I called him already on my way to the airport. I knew you’d default to him.’

  She didn’t like being countermanded, but she was pleased, all the same, that he was here.

  They found their seats and Cameron’s phone chirped.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, cupping his hand over the phone and ducking his head below the level of the seat in front of him. Kylie saw the flight attendant’s annoyed look.

  ‘I can’t talk. We’re about to take off,’ Cameron whispered into the phone. ‘Jess is fine where she is. That was the plan – for her to stay with Mandy while I’m away.’

  Kylie slid the in-flight magazine from the seat pocket in front of her and flipped through it, pretending not to listen.

  ‘No. I can’t tell you not to see her, Tania. Yes, you’re right, she’s your daughter, but … OK, OK. But it might take some time. I’ll be home in four days, all right?’

  ‘Cameron,’ Kylie hissed. The flight attendant was eyeballing them and marching down the aisle of the aircraft.

  ‘Sir, will you please switch off your cellphone now?’

  He held up one finger. ‘Got to go. Sheesh, you can use the mine bakkie, all right? I sold your car. Why? Do you have to ask why, Tania?’

  ‘Sir …’

  ‘Ag,’ he fumed. He stabbed the end-call button with his thumb.

  Cameron laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. Kylie knew it was none of her business, but she was dying to ask him what had gone on between him and his wife that morning.

  The jet took off and Kylie looked out at the patchwork of crops of green citrus and macadamia trees spread over rolling hills below. Off to their right was the uninterrupted wilderness of the Kruger National Park. Kylie thought about the animals down there, and remembered, with a tingle, the closeness of the elephants and lions on Tertia Venter’s game reserve. Except, she reminded herself, it was no longer Tertia’s farm. It belonged to the people who had lived on the land before the whites had arrived in South Africa. Didn’t that give them the right to decide what was going to happen to the land? Wasn’t it better to have a mine that would employ hundreds of locals directly, and benefit thousands in the community indirectly, than locking up the bush as the private domain of one crazy woman and her rich, mostly foreign clientele?

  ‘Do white South Africans think animals are more important than people?’ she said to Cameron as the flight levelled off.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘You’re talking about the Lion Plains project.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He tried to rub the tiredness from his bloodshot eyes and yawned. ‘Tourism is a big part of this country’s economy, and so is mining. When the two collide you’re going to upset people. Tertia’s game farm isn’t just about protecting animals and birds and the bush, it also provides employment for the local community.’

  ‘But not as many as the mine will employ.’

  He shrugged. ‘There’s a shortage of skills here, just as there is in your country. Who’s to say Global Resources can find or train enough skilled people from Hazyview or Mkhulu or any of the other towns near Lion Plains to run a mine? We probably can’t. If you talk about the wider community – South Africa – yes, then a mine will employ more people than a game farm, but you’re also talking about our natural heritage here. That part of South Africa, the greater Kruger Park, is precious to many people.’

  ‘You sound like you’re not in favour of the Lion Plains mine,’ she said.

  The flight attendant handed them brown paper bags of food.

  Cameron ignored his. ‘No one’s ever asked me if I’m in favour of it. I’ve been appointed head of new project development in Africa, but I wasn’t part of the decision-making process for Lion Plains.’

  He had a point. ‘So, are you?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  He was toying with her, but she hadn’t really considered the ethics behind mining on Lion Plains. On paper, back in Australia, it had looked like a no-brainer. Every time they tried to develop a new mine, anywhere in the world, someone found an environmental reason to oppose it. In Australia it might be the remote possibility of the contamination of ground water; in South America it might be a threat to a rare type of mountain grass; in Papua New Guinea, the bird of paradise. They had known from the outset that Tertia would fight the mine, but the local people – the traditional owners – were practically begging for the mine. She’d thought that in a battle between people and animals, people would, should, always win. She needed to know, however, if Cameron was on board with their development strategy in Africa, and if he had the balls to stay the course. The fight with Tertia was far from over. ‘Yes, it matters,’ she said.

  ‘Then no.’

  ‘You don’t think we should be mining on Lion Plains?’

  ‘No.’

  She opened her bag and took out a packet of potato chips and opened them. It wasn’t healthy, but nor was being shot at by illegal miners underground. This country was driving her crazy. Cameron had made no secret of the fact that he didn’t want to be moved into his new role and would rather stay in Barberton running his bloody mine. Was he being deliberately anti the coalmine in the hope that she or Jan would move him back to his old job? If that was the case, he was out of luck. Jan had told her, before she left Australia, that if Cameron didn’t take the ‘promotion’, then they would have to let him go.

  ‘You’ve been there, Kylie,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen the place.’

  She knew what he was getting at, and she tried to tell herself to think like a businesswoman and not like a tourist.

  He swivelled a little in his seat to make eye contact with her; she stared straight ahead. ‘I saw your face when you saw your first elephant, your first lion. I know what this place, this country, the African bush, does to people. You have to be made of stone for it not to get to you.’

  *

  Colonel Sindisiwe Radebe took the key from the policeman who had accompanied her to the holding cells and then dismissed the man. When he was out of sight she opened the steel door. Wellington looked up at her smiled.

  ‘In here? You might wake my neighbours in the next cell.’

&nb
sp; ‘This is no time for joking,’ she said. ‘You were lucky I was able to get to you first. If you’d been taken into custody by those hicks at Mkhulu they would have beaten you to a pulp – they hate poachers there.’

  ‘You’re the only game I want to catch.’

  She waved a hand at him and tried not to smile. ‘Stop that. McMurtrie called me this morning. He was on his way to Livingstone with the woman. He wanted to know when you were appearing before the court and what I had charged you with.’

  Wellington ran a hand over his scalp and yawned. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘The truth – that the business of the police is none of his business, but I can’t hold him off forever. He will run to the National Prosecuting Authority, if he hasn’t already. He is away for four days.’

  Wellington was silent for a few seconds. He looked up at her from his hard prison bed. ‘McMurtrie and Hamilton want revenge for the men who were killed. That is understandable, but the mine belongs to me now and I’m not going to give it back. Their testimony alone, even without Correia, is enough to put me away for a long time.’

  Sindisiwe leaned against the concrete door frame. ‘If something were to happen to them there would be no case against you, no witnesses. I am certain Correia is back in Mozambique now.’

  He nodded. ‘I agree. Mohammed will be eager for production to get back to full swing. We should be taking full advantage of the mine’s closure. All I need is a couple of days, my baby, and things will be back to how they were.’

  Sindisiwe shivered when she looked into his eyes, and couldn’t tell if it was desire for this man and his promise of gold, or fear, or a mix of both. ‘Come. Get your things.’

  Wellington got up and followed her out of the cell.

  *

  The road heading north from Maputo, the EN 1, had been rebuilt with money from South Africa and was in good condition. Luis sat in the rear seat of the chapa, sandwiched between a woman with an ample posterior and a skinny young man who coughed continually into a soiled handkerchief.

  Luis kept to himself and tried not to think about Miriam, whom he had buried yesterday. It was stifling inside the minibus taxi and opening the windows merely contributed to the heat; to do so was like opening the door on a blast furnace, so the sensible passengers kept the tinted glass closed.

  When the taxi stopped in a petrol station for fuel and a break Luis took out his cellphone and dialled a man he had known from their shared time as illegal miners at Eureka. The man, a Swazi, answered and after the exchange of greetings Luis told him he needed some information.

  ‘Anything, Luis. I still have not forgotten how you pulled me free of the rockfall. I might have died when the rest of the tunnel collapsed.’

  ‘I need to know about Wellington. He was picked up by the police. Have you read anything in the newspapers or heard on the radio about him being charged?’

  ‘No,’ said the miner. ‘In fact, the opposite. One of the guys told me he saw him in Barberton just this morning. Do you want me to get word to the Lion? We will need you in the mine, Luis.’

  ‘No, no,’ Luis said hurriedly. ‘If you meant what you said, that you are grateful to me for saving your life, then you will please not mention this conversation to Wellington. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course, Luis. You can count on me keeping quiet.’

  Luis ended the call. The Swazi was a good man, but most zama zamas would sell their sister to curry favour with Wellington or to earn a few extra rand, which was one and the same thing. Luis knew he should warn Cameron, if he hadn’t already heard, that Wellington was on the loose again. He called the former mine manager, but his phone went through to a voicemail message advising he was in Zambia for four days. Luis was about to leave a message, but then his phone cut out and a message on the screen told him he had exceeded his available credit. The chapa driver beeped his horn and Luis climbed in as the side door was being slid shut.

  The colours of his homeland were richer than the dull tones of South Africa. Here the sun burned brighter, the sea shone bluer and the fronds were the green of precious stones. After the months he had spent underground he still found it hard to be in the harsh light of day. He closed his eyes as the minibus resumed its journey, but sleep would not come to him.

  The driver slowed once again, signifying they were approaching a village.

  Luis looked out the window and saw the bare branches of dead trees festooned with plastic bags full of cashew nuts. This told him they were coming into Macia, a town famed for its cashew plantations. Luis focused his mind on Wellington, and how he would pay for the murder of Miriam. In the early afternoon the bus crossed the wide verdant floodplain of the Limpopo River on a raised bund and the bridge that led into the coastal town of Xai Xai.

  The driver crawled through the crowded main street and turned into the bus station near the markets. Luis had further to go, to reach his son, but he had other business to deal with first. He left the chapa and walked to the police station.

  Xai Xai was busier and more prosperous than he remembered. Indeed, the whole country seemed to be booming compared to his last visit five years earlier. When he’d held a legitimate job in the mines he would come and go to Mozambique every Christmas holiday, but when he had lost his job and his work permit and joined the ranks of the illegal miners he could no longer cross the border legally at will.

  The old colonial buildings were freshly whitewashed and the streets swept. There were more stores than he remembered and people sipped coffee and smoked cigarettes outside sidewalk cafes. The cars that hooted and stopped and started were newer and the people looked better fed than they had in the years of privation during and after the civil war. A first-time visitor to this bustling town would have to search hard to find a bullet pockmark in one of the few unpainted buildings to prove there had ever been a war here, or that close to a million people had died.

  Luis found the police station and walked in. A female officer sat behind the charge counter, reading a Portuguese gossip magazine. If she heard him enter, she didn’t look up.

  ‘Bom dia,’ he said. She looked at him over the top of the page she was reading. ‘I am looking for Capitao Alfredo Simango,’ he continued in Portuguese.

  ‘What business do you have with the capitao?’

  ‘I am his cousin. It is family business.’ He was pleased – at least Alfredo was here. In a letter, Miriam had mentioned that she had seen his cousin in their home town, Inhambane, when he was investigating a case. She had mentioned that Alfredo had told her that he was being moved from Vilanculos to Xai Xai, though he had given no dates.

  The officer raised her eyebrows, asked him his name and picked up a telephone handset that might have weighed fifteen kilograms given the effort she exerted to call her superior. ‘Sit,’ she said to him after she finished the call, and pointed to a wooden bench by the wall.

  Luis saw the grubby marks of sweaty heads on the fly-specked wall and kept his back straight. Alfredo emerged from a doorway down the corridor a few minutes later wiping greasy fingers on a paper serviette. The two cousins greeted each other, shook hands, and Alfredo invited him into his office.

  ‘My cousin, I thought you were in South Africa working in the mines. The last time I saw your wife she told me how successful you were.’

  Just the mention of Miriam brought back the pain. ‘I was. But my wife, that is why I am here to see you, Alfredo. She is dead.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. Killed by a man in South Africa. I want this man.’

  Alfredo rocked back in his chair and folded his hands across his policeman’s belly. ‘What do the South African police say of this matter?’

  Luis thought his cousin was basically a good man, although Miriam had mentioned in her letter Alfredo was driving a new Land Cruiser and Luis knew such a vehicle would be beyond a police captain’s honest wage. It had been said, when he had worked in Vilanculos, that he had turned a blind eye, if not actually participated in, the
smuggling of goods into Mozambique that had been seized by pirates in the Indian Ocean. ‘What do the South Africans care of the death of a poor woman from Mozambique?’

  Alfredo nodded his understanding at the flimsy excuse.

  ‘Besides,’ Luis continued, ‘I am sure the murderer is in Mozambique.’

  ‘He is one of us?’

  Luis shook his head. ‘Zimbabwean.’

  ‘Criminals, all of them.’

  ‘I have a cellphone number for him, Alfredo. I was hoping you would have the resources to find the name and address of the owner. The government requires everyone who buys a phone or sim card to register their name and address.’

  Alfredo nodded. Luis slid across a grubby corner of a piece of paper, with the number written on it. Alfredo studied it. ‘It is irregular, if it is not part of a formal investigation, but it can be done. There will be costs – not for me, cousin, but for the people who will find this information for me. I hope you understand.’

  Luis reached into his pocket and pulled out ten hundred-rand notes. He placed his palm down flat on the scratched desktop and Alfredo covered his hand. ‘I am sorry for your loss, Luis. I will find the owner of this phone for you, but then what do you want me to do?’

  Luis freed his hand from under his cousin’s, but held his gaze. ‘Nothing. I will do the rest.’

  *

  Wellington could have, at a pinch, contacted some people he knew in Lusaka, the Zambian capital, who, in turn, could have found someone local in Livingstone to do the job, but it was not in his nature to trust people he did not know, or to miss out on the chance of a kill.

  He could not take the same flight as Hamilton and McMurtrie in case they recognised him. Instead, as he lay in the grass behind a granite boulder on the slope above Cameron McMurtrie’s home, he used his iPhone to book a flight from Johannesburg to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, on South African Airways for later that day.