Fever

by Deon Meyer

She straightened up slowly, moved forward, closer to the tracks.

  She knelt down beside them.

  I crept up beside her, my eyes still scanning the rough mountain veld around us.

  ‘Boots,’ she said. ‘The same boots as the men who shot . . . The grey men.’

  Chapter 113

  The investigation of my father’s murder: X

  Sofia studied the tracks carefully. ‘They passed here about two hours ago. Three at the most,’ Sofia whispered.

  ‘How do you know?’

  She pointed out the tiny animal tracks that ran over the boot prints. ‘Birds and a lizard. But the outlines of the tracks are still sharp. Remember the wind that was blowing this morning?’

  I couldn’t remember, I hadn’t noticed. But I nodded.

  ‘The wind softens the sharp edges,’ she said, and stood up. ‘Should we follow the path or the tracks?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Nothing has used this path in weeks. But those tracks are fresh.’

  I pointed in the direction that the boot tracks had taken. ‘Then we must go and find them.’

  Within a hundred metres the boots began following an ancient footpath that first turned east, then south.

  Sofia walked with her eyes on the ground, and I tried to see as far ahead as possible. But it was difficult. Around here the Cederberg consisted of layer upon layer of dragon’s-teeth rocks, sometimes you could see for a kilometre, sometimes only thirty metres.

  I spotted something to the left of us, something out of place in this landscape. ‘Look,’ I said. It was a pole. On top of it was a solar panel. With a small battery, and a lot of loose wires.

  ‘The tracks suggest that . . . I think they tried to climb the pole.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Eight.’ No doubt.

  ‘Still two hours ago?’

  She looked again carefully. ‘Yes, about that.’

  We followed the path again until it went down beside a cliff, and sixty metres below we could see a valley. The sun was in our eyes, it was dropping lower, but the little valley seemed deserted. Behind it the Cederberg made one rough fold after the next, up to the impassable peaks further on.

  There was only one way out – follow the footpath to the bottom, and then down the little valley.

  We began to walk again.

  Sofia and I smelled it almost simultaneously, a rare scent: coffee. Percolated or filter coffee, but coffee.

  We immediately squatted down on our haunches.

  ‘Coffee,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes.’ And then: ‘The wind is from that side.’ She pointed south. ‘And I don’t see anything.’

  ‘Maybe they’re on the other side of that fold.’

  ‘Coffee,’ she said. ‘Where do they get coffee?’

  The wind turned, or died down, I’m not sure. The aroma disappeared.

  We walked slowly and carefully down into the valley, then along it, south. The sun set behind the mountain peak in the west, even though it wasn’t yet six o’clock. Suddenly the breeze chilled.

  Her eyes were still on the footpath.

  ‘Are those tracks still two hours old?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, but I could see she felt as uneasy as I did. The coffee aroma had spooked us. It wasn’t strong, but it was unmistakable. It meant they couldn’t be far away.

  A klipspringer leapt away from behind a rock. I jerked my rifle up, had the safety off, ready to shoot. I only just stopped myself in time. The buck ran light-footed down the cliff, stones rattling down the mountainside.

  We dropped to one knee, watched and listened.

  Nothing.

  But it felt as though someone were watching us.

  We moved again. More slowly. There were clouds blowing in from the west, so low we felt we could touch them.

  The valley turned left, south-east. In the growing dusk it was increasingly difficult to see far ahead. The folds of the mountain were now both to the left and to the right of us, rugged, looming and ominous.

  In a muted voice I said, ‘I think we should find a place for the night.’

  She didn’t reply. She was staring intently at the cliff on the right of us. ‘There’s something . . .’

  Movement drew my attention, in the middle of the narrow valley, about three hundred metres away. People running. In step, like soldiers. Six, maybe more. No, definitely more. And they were running straight towards us.

  Sofia and I were both dressed in Defence Force combat fatigues, camouflage in shades of brown and green. I gripped her arm and directed her to the left, to the nearest mountainside. The rocks and clefts were big, light was fading enough for us to hide away here and it would be very hard to find us.

  She followed me, immediately understanding what I wanted. We ran, searching and then I spotted the hollow between two massive rocks. I led her there and we crawled in as deep as we could; she was in the deepest part, and I was in front. I looked towards the entrance, my rifle ready, but unless they knew we were here, unless they could follow our tracks over the rocks, it was unlikely they would find us.

  Just the sound of insects, birds and our breathing.

  We waited. I tried to gauge how long it would take before they passed us.

  The minutes dragged.

  A big black bird flew low over the gap in front of us.

  I heard boots, some crunching on the stones as they ran, but on the other side of the rocks and rises, maybe twelve metres away.

  And then a voice.

  ‘They’re here.’ The call was only just audible to us.

  I shifted backwards, Sofia too, we wanted to be as far into the hole as possible.

  Would they be able to see our tracks?

  They had crossed rocks and stones. It was dusk.

  I doubted it.

  Voices. More than one. The words unclear. But they sounded nearer.

  I heard the safety clip on Sofia’s rifle click very quietly. I did the same with mine.

  I realised we were trapped. It was too late to run now, they were nearby. There was only one entrance, right in front of me. And it was narrow, barely two metres high, not even a metre wide. They would have to stand right in front of the entrance and look carefully if they wanted to see us. And they couldn’t know where we were. They were too far away. At the most they could have seen us disappear behind rocks.

  ‘No, no. Go left,’ I heard the voice of one. Still nearer.

  ‘Nine metres north-east.’

  What was he talking about?

  ‘There, go around there. Halt.’

  Silence.

  Then, the voice calling: ‘We know you’re in there, and we know you’re armed. Come out with your hands in the air and we won’t harm you.’

  Sofia and I pressed close, frozen.

  ‘We know exactly where you are. I’m going to throw a rock . . .’

  A stone, as large as a man’s fist, hit the rock at the entrance to our cleft.

  ‘You are there. We know you are. Now please come out.’

  In that instant I recalled the history recording I had been listening to, the one of the West Coaster Sewes Snijders. He had said: Just like that, in English. Not like South African English, but British. This soldier’s accent was British.

  I didn’t know what to do. I waited.

  Silence.

  ‘All right. I’m going to count to ten. If you don’t come out before I’m done, I’ll throw a grenade where I’ve just thrown that rock.’

  There were at least eight of them.

  ‘One.’

  We didn’t have a chance, if we rushed out shooting . . .

  ‘Two.’

  . . . we might get one or two.

  ‘Three.’

  Maybe three or four, if we were lucky. Even five, because I could shoot.

  ‘Four.’

  I turned my head as far back as I could.

  ‘Five.’

  I wasn’t afraid as I stood there.
My biggest emotion was one of shame and disappointment, that I had let them catch us so easily. What would Sofia think of me? That I was stupid?

  Sofia Bergman

  I remember clearly how I hunkered down behind Nico and thought we weren’t going to get radiation sickness. Because these men lived here somewhere, it was their coffee we smelled. And they didn’t sound sick to me. So we should be okay. If they really wanted us dead, the easiest would be to just toss the hand grenade between the rocks. And they hadn’t done that yet.

  I whispered to Sofia, ‘I’m going to . . .’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘. . . tell them we’re here.’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Okay,’ I whispered.

  ‘Eight!’ he called out there.

  ‘We’re coming out!’ I yelled.

  Chapter 114

  The investigation of my father’s murder: XI

  They were professional. They stood either side of the opening. We walked out, rifles held high over our heads, I looked to the right, where the voice came from, and four of them came from the left and tackled me to the ground. Then Sofia fell on top of me, they pinned her down too. They grabbed our rifles. Jerked mine out of my hand so roughly that the jolt to the knuckle sent pain shooting up my arm.

  The others pushed rifle barrels against us, boots on my back, and I lay pinned to the ground on my belly.

  ‘Search them,’ said the one had called out the countdown. It sounded as if he was the leader. Hands in my pockets, hands turning me over onto my back. Now I could see better. Two of them searched Sofia. There were eight of them, all dressed in the same grey uniforms as the corpse on Sarge X’s pick-up. I didn’t recognise the rifles they carried, they weren’t R4s or R6s.

  One of those who searched Sofia took something out of her shirt pocket. White and square, it looked like a slip of cardboard. He looked at it, frowned, looked at the leader, then back to the object in his hand. He took something off his belt. Clicked it on. A torch.

  I realised they must have electricity, because the only batteries that would still work in a torch were rechargeable ones.

  He shone the torch on the cardboard. Now I could see that it looked like a photograph. He examined it attentively. Then he shone the torch on me, then on the photo, then back on me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked the leader.

  ‘You’d better have a look at this,’ said the one with the torch, walking over to the leader and giving him the photo.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Nico,’ said Sofia.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Shaddup,’ said another grey man and prodded his rifle barrel roughly into my chest.

  ‘It’s your father’s photo,’ she said.

  The grey man pushed the rifle barrel against her chest. ‘I said, shaddup.’

  ‘If you hurt her, I will kill you,’ I said.

  He laughed.

  The leader came closer to me; he had his own torch now that he shone in my face, then at the photo.

  He bent and gestured at the photo, shining the torch on it. ‘Is that you?’

  It was the photograph of Pa and Ma and me. I was ten years old.

  ‘I’ll tell you if you let us go.’ I saw he had a chin microphone extending from his helmet.

  ‘It’s him, sir,’ said the first torch man.

  ‘Is it?’ the leader asked me. ‘It really is better if you tell me.’

  ‘Let her go, and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ he said, more reasonably than I expected.

  He straightened up, walked a short distance away. ‘Tie them up. Blindfold them,’ he told the others. Then he walked further away, and talked to someone else. I only heard the word ‘chopper’.

  We lay side by side on the cold, hard rocks, we were blindfolded and tied up. We heard them talking to each other in muted tones, a stone’s throw away from us. They sounded excited. Probably because they’d captured us. Because I was such a fool.

  But the photo in Sofia’s pocket was inexplicable. ‘Where did you get it?’ I whispered to her, with more urgency than I intended.

  ‘It was your father’s.’

  ‘I know, but where did you find it?’

  ‘In the veld, at Witput.’

  ‘At Witput?’

  ‘Yes. I think it must have fallen out of your father’s pocket when they . . . When they carried him.’

  Fell out of his pocket? Pa kept that photo in his bedroom, in a tin. A tin of expensive chocolates that we found in a supermarket in Nelspruit, only weeks after the chaos of the Fever. We ate the chocolate together, and then Pa put his most valuable possessions in the tin. Three photos – this one, and two others of him and my mother, his ID book and driving licence.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘How much of my father’s stuff was in that farmhouse?’

  ‘At Witput?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing. Just the pencils, and a few big sheets of paper. And his water bottle, and . . . His hat was also lying there.’

  ‘Was there a silver tin?’

  ‘No.’

  I wondered, had Pa felt guilty because I had discovered him with Beryl? And then started carrying Ma’s photograph in his pocket?

  And I felt remorse again for my poor handling of the situation, and an intense desire to have him back again, to beg his forgiveness, to make everything right again.

  But why were the grey men interested in the photograph?

  Did they know Pa?

  And then I heard the helicopter.

  The blindfold was effective, I couldn’t see a thing. It completely covered my eyes, but not my nostrils. In the helicopter I smelled sweat and fuel and the sour tang of vomit. I heard the thunder of the engines and the faint sound of voices on the radio. I felt Sofia’s body against mine; we were sitting on the floor of the helicopter, back to back. And I felt her right hand in my left hand, and I gripped it tight.

  Nothing about the helicopter and the grey men made any sense.

  I tried to think of everything I knew. From the helicopter that Sofia heard that night at the deserted farmhouse – just weeks before the Seven Women encountered a helicopter at Tarkastad. And the helicopters of the people who had chased the West Coasters at Lamberts Bay, and the helicopter that brought my father’s killers.

  And none of it made any sense at all.

  Sofia Bergman

  My mouth was very dry in the helicopter, and I was nauseous. Because they had blindfolded me, because of the movement of the helicopter, and we were tied up, we couldn’t even have a drink of water.

  It suddenly occurred to me that a couple of these eight grey men who had captured us might have been at Witput. That was why they were looking at the photo. Because they recognised Pa. The man they had killed, only days before.

  Then they noticed that I was also in the photo, and put two and two together.

  It might even be the same helicopter. The one that took them to Witput.

  And I thought of the man who talked to Pa over the radio, just before his death. Trunkenpolz/Number One. Things were beginning to add up. In my mind I sifted through everything I knew, and I felt I was close to understanding.

  Maybe Pa had told Trunkenpolz to come and meet him at Witput.

  He knew what Pa looked like.

  Trunkenpolz could have sent the helicopter to Tarkastad, to see what the Marauders were up to.

  How had Trunkenpolz progressed from a guy who arrived in Amanzi in a minibus in order to steal a few guns, to a man who could send helicopters hundreds of kilometres away?

  I was going to kill him.

  The hatred, now that I suspected he was behind it all, was pure and strong, it rose in me, filling me, while the helicopter flew for what felt like for ever.

  Then the pitch and volume of the engines changed, and I could feel us slowing, and then the helicopter began to descend, I felt it in my belly.

  It landed, the engines
were suddenly shut down and the door of the helicopter slid open.

  I could smell the sea, that overwhelmingly powerful aroma. I heard noises. The diesel engine of a lorry. No, two or three of them. And then I could see the glow of sharp lights under the edge of the blindfold.

  Hands helped us up and out. Not the rough handling of the soldiers in the mountain. Hands that were more careful. And voices. One of them was a man’s voice, ordering quietly, ‘No, keep the blindfolds on. But be careful. Bring them to the car.’

  Sofia’s hand slid out of mine, people pushed and steered me, and I let them. I smelled other scents that I couldn’t place. Oil or grease. Fish? The salt of the sea.

  A hand pushed my head down. ‘You need to get in the car, sir. Please bend down. Careful now, lift your right foot, that’s it, okay, now get in.’

  Their hands guided me, I sat in the car, felt the soft leather of the seat, felt someone shift in beside me.

  ‘Sofia?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ I said, like an idiot.

  ‘Me too,’ she said and leaned against me.

  It was in that car, with Sofia pressed against me, that I wrestled with the choice before me for the first time. I was going to kill Trunkenpolz if I got the slightest chance. I didn’t care if they killed me afterwards.

  But what about Sofia?

  I would have to free her first.

  But how?

  I would have to wait and see.

  Chapter 115

  The investigation of my father’s murder: XII

  The smell of the sea was strong when we got out. There was the sound of engines, people calling, people talking, the clang-clang of a hammer on metal. A helicopter flew overhead.

  Hands pulled and directed me, my feet – and those of at least three other people – rang on metal grids under our soles. We turned right, we turned left, right again.

  I felt unsteady on my feet, light-headed.

  Our footsteps sounded hollow. We were in a corridor, but it wasn’t a normal one, something was different.

  Hands pushed me to the left.

  ‘Okay,’ someone said. ‘Take it off.’

  A hand pulled off the blindfold. Three grey men with me, one with the blindfold in his hand. I was in a room. It looked like a flat. There was a table and four chairs, metal cupboards against the wall, a single bed, neatly made. The other three walls were also metal. The floor moved.