Roadkill, page 2
4
The midnight-blue Toyota Camry turned right into Rubicon, then swung a sharp left into Nerina Close. The driver cut the engine and coasted the car to a halt. Thirteen was the last house on the street.
Freddie Ferreira remained behind the wheel, surveying the lie of the land. Standard government-sponsored face-brick house built in the ’70s, fronted by stoep and cement strip driveway. Neat flowerbed with white and yellow flowers of some sort, and an Italian statue – lady’s touch. White Ford Sapphire parked under the shade cloth. Mint condition. Two thousand and four to 2006 model – Sunday driver.
Ferreira shifted his focus to the roof and gutters – as his mentor Mr Zeta would have said, the window into a man’s soul. No peeling fascias, gutters and IBR in prime nick, no rust spots from what he could tell.
Processing the data, Ferreira had his profile: not your average New South Africa citizens. These people lived to a financial plan. They lived for the future, not the present. He could just about smell the fear coming off the roof.
Ferreira flipped down the visor and checked his hair. Licked his finger and straightened his eyebrows. Gave his nostrils the all clear. He clicked open the gold-buckled vinyl briefcase on the seat next to him, checked the forms were in the correct order, and snapped the lid shut. The butterflies were kicking in. Same ones as in Angola, before a contact. Just different time and place.
“Nice and slow does it, boytjie. Nice and slow.”
Ferreira stepped from the car and strode up to the gate, pushed it open and marched up to the front door and knocked.
He counted to ten. Footsteps were now coming his way. A shadow appeared behind the brown glass, followed by a chain unbolting. A crack of light escaped through the door, revealing a balding grey-haired man fronting a heavy gut.
“Yes?”
“Good mornings, Mr Scimper!” Ferreira announced. “Fred Ferreira, Titanium Financial Services. Hope I’m not too early?” The crack widened. Ferreira slipped his hand through, which Scimper ignored. Ferreira laughed. “Hell, hope I’ve got the right day? We did say Wednesday, nine o’clock?” The ball was back in the enemy’s court. The man on the other side hesitated.
“I suppose you want to come in?”
“Thanks so much, sir. Beautiful day, don’t you think?” Ferreira squeezed through the doorway.
“We’ll do this in the lounge.”
Scimper led the way down the passage. A bloodhound testing the air, Ferreira noted the trapped odours – burnt chip oil, bacon, Glade air deodoriser (lavender), old dog, ladies perfume. He followed Scimper into the sitting room. A woman was on the couch, knitting something brown.
“My wife, Joan. What did you say your name was again?”
“Ferreira, sir, Fred Ferreira. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Scimper.” Flashing a gold-toothed smile, he walked over to the couch and politely shook the woman’s hand. “Lovely place you people have here. So … how can I say? … Tasteful.” He noted the red flush to the cheeks, the lift of the heavy tits. He pointed at the brown something. “I see you’re very creative. Something for your grandchild?”
“Take a seat,” cut in Scimper. “I don’t have much time.”
Don’t have much time se voet – only a bored white man on government pension would wash his car during the week.
“Yes, of course, sir, I understand fully.”
Ferreira sat down and fiddled nervously with his tie. Scimper remained standing. Oldest trick in the book – top dog, bottom dog.
“Where did you say you were from again?”
“TFS. Titanium Financial Services, sir. I’m just here—”
“Ja, ja, you’re just here to try sell us something, right?’
“Not at all. It’s what we in the business call a courtesy visit.”
“Give me a break.”
Joan Scimper lifted herself from the couch. “Who would like a nice cup of coffee? You must be thirsty after driving all the way from …”
“Witbank. And a coffee would be fantastic.”
“How much sugar?”
“Just three, thanks.”
Brian Scimper waited until his wife had left the room. He pulled up the chair opposite Ferreira, and leant forwards. Classic combat mode. “Okay, pal, don’t give me this nonsense about courtesy visit, blah blah. Before you start with your spiel, let’s get a few things straight, man to man.”
“Sure, Mr Scimper.”
“First of all, you mustn’t think I was born yesterday. I know what you insurance people are all about. You’re like vultures. No, no, let me finish. I’m not saying you’re one of them, but while you’re under my roof, in my house, don’t try pull a fast one over me.” The shock on Ferreira’s face didn’t pass unnoticed. Scimper softened his assault. “I’ve seen every trick in the book, Ferreira. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.” Scimper blew into his hanky, and examined the result. “Okay, I’ve had my say. The stage is all yours, pal.”
“Sir, I appreciate you being honest and all, but can I just say something? I … we at Titanium would never sell you something you don’t need. You have my word on that.”
Scimper settled back into a more comfortable position – aggro township brak exposing its soft underbelly, as the boys liked to describe it. “Okay, that’s good to hear. I’m glad we have an understanding. Now—”
“The other thing I want to say is I personally understand how hard retired people like you and the wife have worked for your money. I’ve been there, Mr Scimper, with my own mom and dad.” Ferreira paused. “I don’t want to get all personal, but my dad lost everything after this new government came into power. Forty years of pension savings down the drain because of the same vultures you mention. You won’t believe it, but this was the reason I first got into the life insurance business.”
Brian Scimper’s face now carried the guilty look of a man who knew he had crossed the line. “Look, I didn’t say you’re one of them …” he mumbled. “Anyways, here comes the coffee.”
Ferreira held up his hands. “No need to explain. I understand hundred per cent where you are coming from. Mrs Scimper, don’t tell me you baked those yourself? I don’t know where you guys find the time.” Helping himself to a crunchie, Ferreira turned back to the man. “But you’re totally right, there are a lot of crooks out there. You can’t drop your guard for a second. Not for one second!” He bit into the crunchie. Margarine, not butter. “Delicious. I could tell you some stories that will make your hair stand on end, but I don’t want to waste your time.”
“Ag, forget it, man, you’ve come all this bladdy way, so we might as well do things proper.”
Ferreira stirred his coffee. He took a slow sip, leaving the client to stew. The man was an open book, with guilt written across his cancerous forehead: guilt for insulting him, guilt for reading him wrong.
“Is there something you want to show me?”
“Sorry, I almost forgot,” laughed Ferreira. He placed his coffee carefully down on the doily and reached for his briefcase, then laid out the brochures and application form. “This is a lovely coffee table.” He stroked the smooth Imbuia grain. “It must be valuable.”
“Probably worth a few rands,” said Brian Scimper, hooking a thumb in his wife’s direction. “Belonged to her old man.”
“Like my own dad used to say, you can’t put value on sentimental things. Don’t you agree, Mrs Scimper? It’s like measuring love in rands and cents.”
“Very true. We must remember that one, Brian.”
“Anyways, to start with, Brian … Sorry, you don’t mind me calling you by your first name?”
“Ja, no, it’s fine.”
“Fantastic. I think you will find this page quite fascinating, what with your mathematical brain and all … Statistics!” whispered Ferreira, injecting magical status into the word. Scimper leant forwards for a closer look; his gut cantilevered over the carpet. “I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to tell you guys a little secret. Everything in the life insurance business is run by statistics. You see these three charts, Brian? These tell us when people will die – whites, blacks, coloureds, Indians, you name it.” Ferreira winked across to the couch. “And you thought only God could do that? I’m just joking, Mrs Scimper. The big brains at head office are constantly punching in information like someone’s race, weight, height, job, where they live, what they eat, if they smoke, things like that. And once all this is punched in, the computer does the rest.”
“Incredible.”
Ferreira tapped the graph. “Take this one, for example. It tells you ninety per cent of retired white males in Gauteng will die before they turn sixty-eight years old!” Ferreira sat back and observed the impact of this rather worrying statistic. According to the file, the guy had just turned sixty-seven. The hook was now so firmly lodged he could allow some play. “I know you won’t believe it, Mrs Scimper, but there are white people in this country who haven’t planned for their family’s financial future. It’s terrible to see what’s going on, especially in the cities. Boy, I could tell you some tragic stories, but I don’t want to contaminate this lovely home with sadness and negativism.”
Judging by their expectant faces, Ferreira could tell Brian and Joan Scimper didn’t have an issue with their house being contaminated by sadness and negativism.
“You sure? What about … you know?”
“She’s fine.”
“There are so many, I hardly know where to start … Okay … So, about a year ago this lady and her three beautiful young kids came into our office to sign some papers for the estate. Seriously tragic stuff, what with the husband dying in a head-on with a taxi on his way home from work … so he could be at his daughter’s birthday. But the problem was, we couldn’t help the lady because her husband had stopped paying his premiums two months before.” Ferreira glanced across at the couch. “Tell me when to stop, Mrs Scimper … Okay, so now a couple of months later the estate is wrapped up, there are debts all over the place, the wife and kids have lost the house, the car – the whole shebang. You maybe want to block your ears, Mrs Scimper, because that’s not the end of it.”
Ferreira sucked in deeply. “Not much later I’m visiting an old client in Roodepoort, and at the robots I check this dirty-looking beggar with her cardboard sign and scruffy kids. Same old New South Africa story, so of course I don’t think much of it. But now wait for it, Brian. Only after I get home and turn on the TV that it hits me like a dum-dum bullet straight between the eyes!”
“What does?” said Brian Scimper. His eyes were glowing.
“The woman and kids with the cardboard sign. One and the same who were in our office a few months before!”
“Oh, liewe Here,” exclaimed Mrs Scimper, holding her hand over her mouth.
At this point, Ferreira stopped, cleared his throat, and continued in a soft whisper. “As long as I live, Mrs Scimper, I’ll never get that picture out my brain.” He cleared his throat again. “People have no idea how important it is to have comprehensive life cover.”
Brian and Joan Scimper sat in stunned silence, contemplating the ghastly horrors of an unplanned future. Ferreira peered over his cup. The man looked drained, a beaten dog. Ferreira had caught him with a left hook. He had him up against the ropes, reeling, with no idea of the financial blood bath happening out in the streets.
“Mrs Scimper, I’m not here to tell your husband what to do. Like I said, this is a courtesy visit. All I can offer is my professional experience in such matters and advise in accordance. But after what I’ve seen, which is not pretty, I have four words of advice to my clients. DDTL. Don’t … Delay … Too … Long! The consequences are too tragic to think about.”
With this, Freddie Ferreira nudged the TFS Life application form in Brian Scimper’s direction.
5
Truter was finally a man at peace with the world. He stood back and admired his work. Supported by the patrol van’s wheel jack, the Police Roadblock sign stood erect and paraat. The orange road cones lined up beautifully. His fold-up chair, lunch tin, pocket Bible, and thermos flask waited patiently under the acacia. Man, nature, and the R434 were at one.
This was where Truter felt closest to his maker. A subject he had in fact recently broached with Delport – the spiritual side of police work. It was like talking to a brick wall, because the guy was clueless when it came to things of a philosophical nature. Same went for the rest of the New South Africa police force.
The earlier gusts had dropped to a light breeze, and the air felt cooler. Clouds were gathering in the distant sky. Further down the tar, a crow was up to its neck in roadkill. Above him, the mossies were chirping in the branches. His police radio crackled in the background. It was altogether pleasant.
Truter coughed up a ball of phlegm, swirled it around his mouth, and launched it into space. He sighed. It was quite magical how his God worked. He ambled over to the acacia and reached into his lunch box.
He chewed slowly, savouring the egg-onion-polony combo. He contemplated the brown landscape, the dust dancing on the breeze, the minibus taxi approaching from twelve o’clock, the black smoke trailing in its wake. The vehicle lolled from side to side, meaning two of two things: fucked shocks and overloaded. Truter settled deeper into the fold-up. The tin coffin hurtled past, chased by a Venter trailer. According to his calcs, it was clocking hundred and forty – not bad for a ninety-something HiAce.
He watched the taxi disappear into the shimmering horizon. There were a million more where it came from, and he had seen enough Jap concertinas in the police yard to know that Nature had its own way of dealing with the problem. Truter reached into the ice-cream box for another egg-onion-polony. He could live off the bladdy things.
His reverie was interrupted by a crackle emerging from the far distance. For a brief moment, he was back in Angola, waking to a Caprivi dawn, the ta-ta-ta of an AK-47 floating across the Cunene. He levered himself from the foldup and stumbled across to the van.
“Now what, Delport?”
“Just checking all okay your side, sir? Over.”
“Of course all is okay, man. Why wouldn’t all be okay?”
“Over.”
“Over what?”
“I was waiting for you to say Over, sir. You didn’t say it. Over.”
The earlier jackhammering in Truter’s brain had returned with a vengeance.
“Jesus, Delport! Are you messing with my head, or what? Over and fucking out!”
Truter slammed the handset back into its holder and wiped the spittle from his chin. What was it about this guy? All okay your side, sir? Didn’t the moegoe have anything better to do with his day? Like fighting crime, for instance. Who did Delport think he was – some headcase in need of a shrink? This was Pretoria all over. Personnel asking him how he was feeling, suggesting he talk to someone about the so-called “Incident” – in inverted commas. Meantime, back at the ranch, they were the ones with the problem, not him.
Even his GP, a so-called educated man, telling him to spend more time in nature. It would be good for his blood pressure and heartburn; it would bring down his cholesterol, blah, blah. He had seen the fax to Sharon’s lawyer. Unresolved post-traumatic stress disorder with physical complications. Big words that meant squat.
Truter returned to the foldup and sat down heavily. He had lost his appetite. Constable Delport probably meant well in his own simple way. For a brief moment, a very brief moment, Truter considered getting back on the radio. He smiled grimly. What a prize doos … Old Delport checking up that his superior was okay. There was a first for everything; this would never have happened in Angola, never mind Benoni Dog Unit.
Feeling calmer, Truter adjusted his Bondiblus and tilted forwards for a better view of the road. A white vehicle towing a caravan was approaching due south – holidaymaker by the looks of it. Holding onto the acacia, Truter pulled himself up. He hitched up his pants and patted his beloved .38. It was time to get back to work.
6
Business at 13 Nerina was moving at a nice pace. A very nice pace, indeed.
“That’s it, you’ve got it, Brian! From your side, only four hundred and eighty rand a month. No strings attached, no small print. Plus, you get all those extra living benefits and rewards.” Ferreira pulled out the photocopy from his flip file. “Joan, you will also find this interesting.” The woman on the couch had long since abandoned her knitting. “Get a load of this. Pens, airtime, stainless-steel pots and pans, free holidays, you name it – that’s what you get when you join our loyalty programme.” He handed the brochure across the coffee table. “In fact, just the other day I bumped into one of our Elite Club members who had come back from a week’s holiday at Lost City. Was apparently out of this world.”
“Are you taking all of this in, Brian?”
“Let me get something straight, Freddie. Are we talking comprehensive here?”
“The full Monty, sir.”
Scimper tugged at his ear. “I have to admit, I’m impressed.”
“And did I mention that free funeral cover is included in the price?”
“You serious?”
“A hundred and ten per cent serious. Peace of mind means everything to us.” Ferreira swivelled in the chair. “Ah, I see you’ve got your eye on those pots and pans, Joan. Nice, hey?” Ferreira swivelled back the other way. “If you don’t mind me saying, Brian, you’re looking a bit confused there. You want me to go through it again?”
“Ja, if you don’t mind.”
Ferreira registered the red glow around Scimper’s ears. “No worries. You have to be an Einstein to understand the complicated formulas. Even I don’t understand them. But basically, Brian, how it works is that Titanium subsidises your monthly premium. Every rand you put in, we, as your investment partner, put in another rand or two. So even the guy who could never afford boutique life insurance before, now suddenly can. It’s what we call a win-win. You get your comprehensive, and we get a happy client.”
The cat was out the bag. Ferreira watched Scimper chase after it.
