Roadkill, page 13
“It’s not the jungle; it’s—”
“You know what I mean. Anyway, how would we pay off the bond?”
“Like I said, we sell the house.”
“Oh, ja? Even you said the Prinsloos struggled for months to sell their place before they went to New Zealand.”
“Australia.”
“Same diffs.”
“We would wait until the market improves and then sell. Seriously, I can see you running a restaurant or tea garden in the bush—”
“Talking about restaurants, what are we going to do about that potjie competition tomorrow? The guy was so pushy about us going. I can’t stand him.”
“I don’t know if we have a choice, now that we’re stuck here for another day. It might take our mind off things for a few hours, don’t you think?”
“Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t.”
“I’m just trying to be positive.”
“I know.”
“And it’s better than sitting around all day, worrying non-stop.”
“S’pose so. But I’m not so sure I want to hang out with all these weird people.” Tarryn took a sip. “This wine’s going straight to my head. Not that I’m complaining; it’s a nice feeling. Anyway, your choice.”
“Could also be the wine, but I’m actually getting into the idea. You know, playing the locals at their own game, and all. You haven’t forgotten the braai party we did for your thirtieth? How we cleaned up?”
“I forgot about that! I even won that bottle of JC Le Roux for the best marinade.”
“Exactly. You and me were a hot team – Mr and Mrs Braai Master. No reason we can’t do it again. Come on, T, with your potjie sauce and my braai skills, we could do some serious damage.” Aldridge took a large gulp of red. “Imagine ending on a high note like that?”
Tarryn stared dreamily out the window. At the empty parking lot. At the orange EXAS GRILL sign flickering above. “I hear what you’re saying, babes. It would be amazing. We’ll be like this Bonnie and Clyde couple riding off into the sunset. I so clean forgot about my thirtieth, but you’re right, we can do this thing.” Her eyes had glazed over.
“What you thinking now?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh yes, you are … I know when you’re scheming.”
“I’m not scheming. I’m just thinking …” Tarryn held up her glass. “To us, Stevie. And to showing these people what we’re made of.”
34
Tertius Smit was in the mood for something romantic – a little sad maybe, but not too sad. He turned to his partner, who was relaxing in his father’s old reading chair.
“How about Richard Clayderman? No? Okay, let me check now.” He chose another album from the shelf under the television and held it up for her to see. “I bet you’ll like Kenny Rogers. He’s from America, just like you.”
Tertius removed the record from the sleeve and wiped it with the blue velvet cloth. He brushed the cloth against his cheek – it took him back to his childhood, to those afternoons with his mom on the couch, listening to her music while a Transvaal storm hammered down outside the window.
He lowered the needle. The sitting room crackled with static.
“May I have this dance, Savanna?” asked Tertius respectfully. He took the faintly surprised look on her face for a “Yes”. He lifted her up from the chair and pulled her close to him. He felt the tension flow from his body. He buried his face in her sparkling fresh hair. It was so pure he could drink it.
Tertius and Savanna swayed gently to the music, lost in the loamy gravel of Kenny’s voice.
Side Two had ended. The evening had flown by, but Tertius felt more awake, more alive than he’d felt in a long time. If it wasn’t a week day, he would stay up the whole night, watch the sun rise over the—
Tearing himself from Savanna’s peachy skin, he lowered her gently onto the couch, walked over to the record player, and lifted the needle.
“What you say we go for a drive to the end of the farm and watch the moon come over the koppie? You wanna do it, Sav?” He was getting into the American accent thing. She naturally thought it a brilliant idea, because according to the label on the box, SAVANNA IS A FOXIE GIRL WHOSE ALWAYS UP TO TRYING NEW THINGS!! “Okay, that’s fantastico. You wait here while I go get the bakkie keys.”
A groom carrying his bride over the threshold, Tertius carried Savanna across the backyard to his Isuzu. She was so amazingly light – much lighter (and shorter, for that matter) than he had expected from the Miss America picture on the website. She was also so feminine. Not like the women at his church.
It was a beautiful evening, the air warm and still, the cicadas already out in force. He leant across and buckled her seat belt; accidents didn’t only happen on tar roads.
Tertius reversed out the gate and dipped the headlights as they passed the granny flat of his tenants Gary Johnson and Bianca – he could never remember her surname, even though they had been living there now for more than three months. The bedroom light was on, the curtain half-open. Just past the cottage he cut a right onto a jeep track and entered the kloof. Tertius glanced across at Savanna; she was staring straight ahead with those wide blue eyes of hers, obviously enjoying the night tour of his farm. He was also enjoying himself – life was so much better when you had someone to share it with. He switched over to diff lock.
“Better hold on, Sav, this last part is a little bit bumpy.”
The Isuzu rumbled and lurched and worked its way slowly up the koppie. According to his research on the subject, women were attracted to confident men who were in control. Tertius felt confident and in control. They crested the top of the koppie; an open patch of grassy ground appeared in the headlights. He switched off the engine and the lights, unbuckled Savanna, and pulled her over to him on the bench seat.
“That’s what I call perfect timing,” he whispered, pointing to the sliver of yellow crescent cutting the dark horizon. “I bet you’ve never seen one of these before? Watch, watch! Here she comes …” The couple gazed in silent awe as the full moon climbed the night sky and washed the maize fields below in silver. “Isn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? My dad brought us here every time there was a full moon. As long as I live, I’ll never stop appreciating it.”
Stifling a yawn, he squeezed his California Babe closer to him and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Stroking her long blonde hair, he couldn’t get over how lovely, silky, and soft it was. She was everything the website had promised. Everything and more.
He imagined Savanna stir sleepily against him. She wasn’t one of those complainer types, but he could tell she was exhausted. Which was understandable, because she’d had a hell of a long journey. What with all the stress and worry collecting her from the post office that morning, he also now felt exhausted.
“Shall we go back?”
As Tertius turned the ignition, he realised there was no going back: he was fast falling for Savanna.
35
“Who the hell’s that now?”
There was one thing Otto Meissner hated more than early arrivals – late arrivals. He flopped over on to his side and peered at the Hisense. “What psycho arrives at this crazy hour?”
“I’ll go,” said Susan Meissner, placing the DH Lawrence on the side table separating the beds, and wrapping her shawl around her.
Meissner pulled his blanket higher. “You sure?”
“Yes, Otto, I’m sure.” She dug her Japanesey numbers from under the bed and padded out the room.
“And tell them we’re not a bus station!” muttered Meissner behind her, before shovelling his bulk deep into the covers.
Susan walked down the passage, praying the knocking hadn’t woken the stressed-out couple from Sasolburg. Ahead, a tall silhouette loomed large through the brown stippled glass. She unlocked the Trelli Slamlock, pulled the top and bottom latches and unlocked the front door. A tanned specimen with chiselled jaw and a sheen of thick black hair combed back towered above her. He was dressed in a denim jacket, black T-shirt, and jeans tucked into leather boots. The smile was sheepish, lopsided and punctuated by an Arnold Schwarzenegger gap between white teeth. A duffel bag hung over his left shoulder. For some strange reason, Susan Meissner couldn’t help but note these myriad details.
“Flip, I’m sorry for arriving in the middle of the night like this. I tried to phone on the road, but by the time I got reception I was already here.”
Susan Meissner pulled the shawl tighter to her body. “Really, it’s not a problem. I’m glad you’ve arrived safe.”
“Me too. It’s good to be here at last.” He extended a hand. A strong tanned hand. “Sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. The name’s Angel. Johnny Angel. I think it must have been your manager I booked with this morning.”
“My husband. Is that all your luggage?”
“Yip. Travelling light.”
“We have you booked in our garden cottage, if that’s okay?”
“At this stage of the night, a bus shelter would be okay.” He laughed. A deep manly laugh. He reached into his jacket pocket. “You want me to pay you now?”
“No, really, you can pay when you check out. Let’s go through the house; it’s quicker.”
Susan Meissner led the way through the lounge and into the kitchen, out the back sliding doors, down the side alley of the house, past the fibreglass plunge pool and washing line, and across Otto’s pride and joy patch of lawn, to Buffalo Suite – in reality less his advertised Luxurious Singles Apartment than reincarnated Verwoerd-era domestic worker’s room attached to the back of the garage.
“Sorry it’s so dark. There’s a step coming up.”
“No worries, I’ve got cat eyes.”
Susan Meissner could well believe it – there was something distinctly lion about him.” Which explained, or didn’t explain the raised hairs on her neck.
“Let me help you there, ma’am.”
“Susan. Thank you. My husband hasn’t yet got around to fixing the lock. Are you here on business?”
“Yep. Industrial cleaning chemicals is my game. Voila! Open Sesame.”
Susan brushed past Johnny Angel and switched on the light. “It’s nothing fancy, but hopefully you’ll be comfortable—”
“Hey, no need to apologise all the time. It’s perfect. So many nice little touches. Even fresh flowers, nogal.”
Susan Meissner felt her face warm. She tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear and turned to leave.
“Well, I hope you have a good night. And … maybe we’ll see you for breakfast in the morning.”
“Don’t you worry, I’m gonna crash like a HiAce on the N1. You’ve been very kind, Susan.”
“Only a pleasure, Mr Angel.”
“Johnny.”
“Sorry, Johnny.”
Johan Engelbrecht latched the door and surveyed the lie of the land. Three-quarter bed with duvet and single pillow in the centre of the room. Toilet and shower through curtain on the right. Four times glass containers marked Tea, Coffee, Sugar, Cremora. Two mugs – one of them chipped – and a stainless-steel milk jug on a tray. A thirty-two-inch TV suspended on a bracket in the corner. Buffalo Suite? It would do for a night or two. Three max. He walked over to the kitchenette counter and switched on the kettle.
Engelbrecht lifted his duffel bag onto the bed, unzipped it, and pulled out his briefcase. He flipped open the lid. The contents included an iPad, his Global Clean Flipfile, a ring-bound black notebook, and his 9mm revolver – so far it hadn’t come to it, but one could never be sure what was waiting around the next corner. Engelbrecht powered up the iPad and opened his Excel spreadsheet. He checked his phone. No missed calls or SMS from Cynthia. The waiting around was sending his brain into overdrive.
He lay back on the bed, his head against the wall, stewing over the facts at hand. He had stumbled upon something earlier at that dodge New Horizons operation – his gut told him as much – but like a bar of Lifebuoy in the bath, he couldn’t get a grip on it. It had been the same old story for weeks now – goose-chasing a trail that went from cold to lukewarm, then back to cold. He had already forgotten how long he’d been chasing the tail of this thing; it was one fat blur with nothing solid to show except a pile of stats and correlations that pointed to a shit stink of note. But no smoking gun or body in the gutter. He scrolled down the spreadsheet; it wasn’t telling him anything new. Little wonder that BEE prick Duminy was getting all heavy with him, threatening to pull the case. The guy was nothing but a messenger boy for the SAPS fat cats sitting in their aircon offices, with their Virgin Active secretaries buzzing around them like flies on shit.
Engelbrecht got up and switched off the kettle. He was no longer lus for coffee. Especially crap instant with Cremora. He turned off the light and stretched out on the bed, breathing deeply, trying to relax. Deep down, lurking somewhere between conscious and subconscious, something was telling him something. His legs twitched restlessly under him. This time it was different. The loose and broken bits – they were starting to form a pattern. He couldn’t yet see it, but he could feel it.
Day 3
36
Truter approached the Brits Municipality building from the west, from the Checkers Hyperama side. A square grey block running seven storeys high, it reminded him of his old hunting grounds at John Vorster Square – cock on block, it was one and the same builder who had squirrelled up the arses of Magnus and PW. Truter spat onto the pavement, expunging the bitter aftertaste that came with memory. The day was fast coming when he would resign from the force and start his own private security business and do things his way. The right way.
He had planned the op well. Like any muni on an early Saturday morning, the place was near deserted. A grizzled Fidelity security guard dozed in the sun on a plastic garden chair near the front entrance. Truter stepped past him and trundled up the stairs to the revolving door, pausing to admire the fine figure reflecting back at him – in its blue church suit and size-fourteen brown Hush Puppies.
Stepping into the foyer, Truter breathed in the combo of Cobra wax, Jeyes fluid, and old sweat – government places all smelled the same. He scanned the board above the abandoned reception desk, mouthing the names as he worked his way down. Midway through the second column, he found what he was looking for: Suite B4. Since when was a normal office no longer good enough for a mayor?
He was taking a fat chance, but it was now or never. For the past twenty-four hours he had been pulled along by a giant invisible magnet, and there was no stopping it now. The Whys and Whats and the connections between recent events were still little more than loose thoughts banging around his head like heavy items in a washing machine. Freddie and Dippies pitching up together at Texas Grill after twenty-five years? Bang! Freddie’s and Jakkals’s and Connie Botes’s name on that insurance form of Ferdie Meyer? Bang! That OPENING SPEECH BY BRITS MAYOR, JAKKALS D VENTER Prestik’d to the window at the Check-In when he went to buy his mom’s groceries? Bang! Although lacking coherent shape or form or causal relation, something deep and primal within Truter had sniffed a rat. And when Clinton Truter sniffed a rat, not even a hosepipe up the backside would get him to let go.
Gripping the official folder he had borrowed from Delport’s desk, he strolled casually down the corridor – like any other upstanding member of the community on official duty – and studied the floor. It was the usual grey linoleum, but not the high gloss like in the old days; this one was lifting at the corners and gatvol. He passed an open office door; a bored face stared back at him from behind its desk. He had reached the end of the corridor. So far, so good. The stairs were to the right.
Arriving at the second floor, he stopped at the window to regroup and catch his breath. His heart was now pumping, his hands cold and clammy. He took in the view over Brits – brown, moth-eaten veld and depressing buildings slowly disappearing back into the earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. It was the law of the universe according to Ross the Toss, his ex-brother-in-law. Enthropy, or something hyperluted like that, was what he called it. That’s what happened when you cut Three Ships with rotgut – you fried your brain.
B1 came up first. Then B2. B4 beckoned ahead. But now a serious problem was heading his way: a dressed-for-a-wedding secretary-looking woman in high heels carrying a pile of papers. Truter retreated back to the window and studied Delport’s folder. Glancing sideways, he sized up the quarry – one of those New South Africa women he’d seen in Joburg, with their fancy cellphones and wallets stuffed with Edgars and Jet Store cards. A white chick would never go to the same trouble to look that good, unless it was her own wedding she was going to – Sharon a case in point.
Truter’s heart pounded as the woman pulled up in front of B4 and started rattling through a bunch of keys. She turned and smiled at him. A lone old lion roaming the drought-ridden plains of Africa, Truter made his move.
“Mevrou, let me help you there!” he said, shimmying across the linoleum and plucking the bunch from her hand, and taking note of the wedding ring and stone the size of a rock.
“Wow, thanks so much.”
“No problemo. You must be the only one here working on a Saturday. You work for the mayor?”
“Just helping out until Mr Venter’s assistant gets back from sick leave.” She spoke like those hot chicks on Days of Our Lives.
“And Mr Venter? Is he not coming in today?”
“As far as I know, he’s attending an official event.”
“Got you.” Truter had manoeuvred himself into position: back to the woman, front facing Venter’s door and the gold plaque square-on. “Okie dokes, let’s see what’s going on here.” Keeping the conversation ticking over like a diesel bakkie on a winter’s morning, he sorted through the bunch, “Let us try M30. Nope! Maybe it’s this one, H18. Nope! Not H18 either.” He inserted M2B. “Voilas!” He unlocked the door and stepped aside. “All yours, madam. Take your time, while I sort out this key mess for you.”
