Roadkill, page 3
“It’s all quite fascinating, but …”
“But?”
“I mean, what’s really in it for you guys?”
Ferreira’s phone was vibrating in his pocket. “Sorry, Brian, you mind if I grab this one? An old client of mine.”
Ferreira walked through to the dining room, over to the window – he registered the backyard with Portapool. “This better be important, china, I’m in the middle of a sell … Are you pulling my chain? … I don’t believe what I’m hearing, Dippies. You swear you aren’t bullshitting? … Okay, I believe you, but have you told him yet? … Well, you better do it pronto, china, or he’s gonna strip his moer big time.” Ferreira glanced back across the room. “Listen, I have to go. We’ll connect later for a Blackie somewhere.”
Ferreira walked back into the living room. Sat down. Grinned. Focussed.
“Sorry about that. What was I saying now? Oh, ja … Brian, our mission at Titanium is to remove the obstacles standing between you and genuine comprehensive life cover. Like I tell all my clients, whites in the New South Africa also deserve peace of mind, not just the ANC fat cats and their buddies. I’m sure you agree?”
“Hundred per cent, Freddie. This government is out to destroy the white man. After all we did for them.” Scimper’s wife nodded in the background.
“And that is why we must stand together – ons moet saam staan – and come up with tailormade solutions that fit your needs. You can just initial there and there, Brian. Don’t worry about all that stuff on the back; it’s just a formality to keep the lawyers happy.”
“You sure?” said Scimper, his hand hesitating above the page. Ferreira chuckled.
“Trust me, Brian, nobody ever reads this page, not even us. It’s basically mumbo jumbo talk for Titanium being the other beneficiary because of the subsidy thing, and the terms and conditions for the loyalty prizes. Nothing to worry about there, Joan, you’ll be getting your pots and pans in no time.”
“It all sounds so fantastic.”
“It is fantastic.” Ferreira reached across and gently prised the form from Scimper’s hand. “Brian, as long as you’ve initialled and signed the last page, I say we’re A for Away!”
7
Sergeant Clinton Truter, SAPS Edendal, North West Province, stepped boldly into the road and flagged down the approaching Toyota Fortuner. Forced to take sudden evasive action, the caravan snaked back and forth like a wounded puffadder, eventually straightened, and came to a shuddering halt in a cloud of gravel and dust fifty metres down the road.
Truter smiled in grim satisfaction, confident he had established an early psychological edge. The prey was aware of the hunter’s presence, but still unsure of his intentions – a good sign. Truter shifted into stalk mode, a tried-and-tested SAPS tactic when approaching skittish criminals. Moving slowly, he brought his body in line with the driver’s rear-view mirror, folded his arms, and rocked back and forth on his heels – “marinating” was the technical term for it. There was still no sign of life from the Fortuner, bettering the odds for a clean kill. Experience had taught Truter things could get messy if the prey made a sudden attempt to climb out the vehicle.
One hand resting on the butt of his revolver, Truter approached the caravan. Raw animal instinct had now taken over where Homo sapiens left off. He was a lion stalking a wounded wildebeest separated from its herd. He was Clint Eastwood in Dirty Larry. He was Arnold whatsisname in Total Recall. His cyborg brain was crunching through the data. “FS” registration – hadn’t his ex shacked up with a dumb poes from the Free State after the divorce? Maybe Fortuner boy and him were related. Truter studied the back of the caravan – a Jurgens 401 – nice one, pal. White Fortuner 2.4 GLS. A moffie four by two. Bought second-hand or new? Both ways, it must have cost a packet – meaning, Fortuner boy had cash to blow. Personally, he wouldn’t have gone for white.
Processing these pertinent facts, Truter had his profile. This was going to be easier than shaking a meercat from a tree.
He could now see himself in the extended side mirrors. He admired his bulging thighs. His forearms looked pumped as all hell. The Bondiblus had been a good buy. He shifted his mind to the task at hand. Besides attempted murder, there wasn’t much to pin on Fortuner boy; he had his bases well covered. New tyres all round, not a scratch in sight, no point even checking the licences. Hell, there was even a double reflector strip running down the side of the caravan. Not that any of this deterred Truter, because he considered himself a man of great imagination.
Sidling up to the driver’s window, he took a step back and locked into Engage – legs apart, knees slightly bent, right hand resting loosely on gun. You couldn’t take any chances in these troubled times.
Still fairly confident this was another of those routine Arrive Alive campaigns the minister rolled out every year in the interests of holiday road safety, Steve Aldridge rolled down the window. Visible policing, they called it. He had no problem with that; it meant the police were doing their job. In his mind, taxpayer money well spent and a small price to pay for the minor inconvenience.
“Morning, officer,” Aldridge said, attempting the delicate balance between white-on-white familiarity and respect for an officer of the law.
There was neither response nor movement from the tower of vacuum-packed meat behind the sunglasses. Uneasiness replaced quiet confidence.
“Ask him what’s wrong,” whispered Tarryn.
Aldridge cleared the lump from his throat. “Is there a problem, officer?”
“Sir, please step out from the vehicle,” growled the police officer. It was the dangerous low growl of a pit bull.
Startled by the menacing tone, Aldridge remained stuck to his seat.
“I will repeat, sir. Remove yourself from the said vehicle.”
“Steven, you better do as he says.”
“Ja, no, of course,” said Aldridge, fumbling with the belt buckle. “They must be checking for unlicensed weapons and aren’t taking any chances.” This rationale for the officer’s threatening tone lent a measure of reassurance to the situation. After all, the South African Police Services were there to serve and protect law-abiding people like him and Tarryn.
Aldridge climbed out the Fortuner and came face to shoulder with the police officer. Removed from the safety of his vehicle, it was now all too apparent what he was dealing with: a dangerous animal. He didn’t have a good feeling about this. Not a good feeling at all.
“Sir, turn around and face the vehicle. Thank you. Now place your hands up on the roof and open your legs.”
Aldridge wasn’t sure he had heard right. “Excuse me?”
“Now! Wider, sir!” Barely able to support his own weight, Aldridge spread his jellied legs. A rough hand explored the inside of his thighs and calves, his stomach and his chest. “No concealed weapons, sir?” The voice contained disappointment. “You can turn around.”
Aldridge turned. His head was reeling. “I’m not a criminal, if that’s—”
“Not a criminal? You call driving like a psycho not a criminal?”
“What? I can’t believe this—”
The police officer raised an open paw to the sky. The effect was instant and powerful. For a second the world returned to absolute silence. Almost tranquil.
“Sir, luister carefully.” A finger thicker than a Russian sausage pressed into Aldridge’s chest. “Don’t you have respect for the law of this country?” Prod. “Don’t you know there is innocent women and children walking the streets?” Prod. “Don’t you—” Tarryn, rising from the passenger side of the Camry, had diverted the officer’s attention. “Lady, please remain seated in the vehicle!” he bellowed.
“Okay, okay, but at least you can tell us what’s going on? We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Step back into the vehicle, lady!” the officer ordered. “You don’t want this husband of yours to be in more trouble than he already is. He is your husband?” he asked, as if hoping to add immoral offences to the growing list.
“I can’t believe this … Of course he’s my husband!”
“Please, just do what he says, Tarryn. It’s all a big misunderstanding.”
“You be a good wife and do like your husband says. You feeling more relaxed now, Meneer?” enquired the officer in an altogether more pleasant tone. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a Bic and the remains of a charge book. “There is one thing I have learnt, and that is people never learn.” He flipped through the pages. “No matter how hard we try to show you people right from wrong, you never listen. Must I tell you why? It’s because people have lost respect for each other in this New South Africa. It’s not like the old days. Nowadays everyone’s in it for themselves. There’s no gemeenskap. How do you call it in English? … Ja, community spirit. There’s no community spirit.” The police officer sucked on his pen, formulating his thoughts. “You think my job is easy, sir? You think I like standing here in the sun, risking my life, facing down hardened criminals day after day? These modern ones think nothing of pulling a gun and shooting you in the face. They have fokol respect for life. You understand what I’m saying?” Too dazed to reply, Aldridge nodded weakly. “Don’t move, Meneer.” The policeman walked to the front of the Fortuner and noted down the licence plate details. “Us white men have to work together. Ons moet saamwerk.” He ambled back to Aldridge. “Don’t look so worried, I’m not here to make kak for you. I can see you are going on a holiday, you with your caravan and your nice wifey in there. So this one time I will be easy on you. I will forget you attempted grievous bodily harm to a police officer. What you say about that?”
“Thank you,” whispered Aldridge. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem.” The officer hesitated, as if reconsidering this act of supreme generosity. Then, without further hesitation, he tore the page from his charge book, crushed it into a ball, and tucked it into Aldridge’s Old Khaki pocket. “There you go, sir. You and your wife must drive safe now, because there’s crazy people out there.”
8
“What a flipping bastard!”
“You shouldn’t swear like that.”
Aldridge glanced nervously into the side mirror. So far still nothing. He was rattled. Seriously rattled. It was just a matter of time before the white police van gave chase. Like in that movie, Hitchhiker – except, this was for real.
“I don’t care. He is a bastard. Who does he think he is, treating us like common criminals? I don’t know how you could just stand there and take his abuse.”
“What did you expect me to do, Tarryn? You could see for yourself the guy meant business. Jeepers, he had his hand on his gun the whole time. You didn’t see that, did you now?” As if Aldridge didn’t have enough on his plate without his own wife turning against him. She had no idea what he was dealing with back there; he’d spent enough holidays in Kruger to recognise the eyes of a predator.
“Why us? Why not someone who deserves it?”
“I don’t know … These guys must face danger every day. He probably thought we were acting suspicious or something …”
Aldridge trailed off. None of it made sense, no matter how he looked at it. The South African Police Services were there to serve and protect. That’s what they were paid to do. That’s why he paid his taxes. A black cop treating a white man badly he could maybe understand, but a white cop treating a white guy this way? He must have had his reasons.
“Listen to yourself trying to defend him! He picked on us because we were a soft target. Finish and klaar.”
Last time Aldridge had seen Tarryn worked up like this was when that idiot had driven into them outside the mall in Vanderbijlpark and claimed it was their fault.
“Maybe we should try calm down?”
“And maybe the police should go after the real criminals? Like that taxi and trailer overtaking us on the white line. That’s who they should be pulling over, not us.”
Aldridge stole another glance into the side mirror – he was tempting Fate, but he couldn’t help it. By now the cop would have radioed his buddies up ahead. This was what came of taking leave before year-end. Tarryn’s hand pressed into his thigh, giving it her trademark rub-and-squeeze.
“You’re right, babes, let’s just forget it. Why should we let some sadist spoil our holiday? What you say?”
“I agree.” Aldridge dropped the visor. Women were much better at handling these things; they saw the world differently, more from a distance. “You notice how the landscape’s changing? It’s already getting more hilly and pretty.” Sure, Africa had its problems – poverty, overpopulation, Aids, crime, Ebola, the Corona virus, wars everywhere and all that – but it was still an amazing continent. At least South Africa didn’t have ISIS. “Won’t you pass me my sunglasses cloth from the cubbyhole? This sun is hitting me straight in the eyes.”
“Sure. You want me to clean them for you?”
“That’ll be good.”
Fourteen minutes had passed and still no flashing blue light or roadblock. By now he would have caught up with them.
“Here you go. Nice and clean.”
“Thanks … What?”
“You look like that cop on TV.”
“Who?”
“I’m trying to think. Flip, it’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“You mean CHIPS? John Baker and Eric Estrada. I used to love that programme—”
“Excuse me, I’m not that old. No, not CHIPS … Don Johnson! That’s who you look like.”
“You really think so?”
“Would I say it if I didn’t mean it? Remember how we used to watch it at your mom and dad’s place, before we got our own TV. What was it called again?”
“Miami Vice.”
“Of course! This stress is causing me to lose my memory.” Tarryn flipped down her visor and pouted. “What you think of my new lipstick? It’s called ‘Summer Rouge’.”
“I like it.”
“Me too. Talking of memory, did you hear about Pierre’s mom being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and all? Sandra told me.”
“You serious? That’s terrible.”
“Worse than terrible – it’s tragic. It sounds like she’ll end up moving in with them. That, or they have to put her in a home. If I was them, I would go for that option.”
“I would feel bad putting my mom in a home.”
“You say that now, babes, but imagine the kids seeing their gran like that. It’s not fair on them. Not to mention dangerous.”
“Why dangerous? Geez, this sun’s seriously bad. I can hardly see.”
“Well, if you stop and think about it, it’s scary what could happen. For instance, imagine Pierre and Sandy are out having supper somewhere, like they need to spend quality time together. Pierre’s mom in the meanwhile decides she’s hungry and switches on the stove. Next thing, because of the Alzheimer’s she forgets about it and the house catches on fire. Just the thought gives me the grils. Especially with those Trellidors all over the—Shit, what was that loud bang!”
Gripping hard onto the steering wheel, Aldridge pumped the brakes. “We must have hit something!”
“Sounds like it’s scraping on the tar, Steve. You better stop. There’s an open place just up ahead there.”
Aldridge eased the Fortuner off the road and brought it to an uneasy standstill. He stared wide-eyed at the road ahead. He felt the blood draining fast from his face.
“This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.”
“You better go see what’s wrong, Stevie.”
Aldridge unclicked his seatbelt and climbed out. His back suddenly felt stiff and sore, his body a lead weight. He walked slowly towards the front of the Fortuner, bracing for the worst. He looked down. Lifted his arms in despair. Below him, the Fortuner’s fender dangled like the leg of a landmine victim. Oily water was pooling fast around the shattered mess – a steaming stain on the parched earth. Tarryn’s shadow appeared alongside.
“Oh, shit!
“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”
“Now, what do we do?”
Aldridge rolled his head from side to side, trying to stave off a storm cloud of despair. He squatted down, took hold of the mangled fender, lifted it to one side. He peered underneath.
“We must have hit something big. The radiator’s totally buckled.”
“What, like an animal?”
“Must have been a buck. Tarryn, the water’s pouring out.”
“I can’t believe this is happening, babes. Shit, shit, shit!”
First the cop. Now this. It was a nightmare coming true. Aldridge pulled himself to his feet. His head felt woozy. He stared into the threatening African void. This was what came of taking leave.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“We’ll make a plan, Steve. Do you think we can make it to the next town?”
Aldridge took a deep breath. “Only if we can stop the leak.”
“How far do we have to go?”
“Must be at least twenty kays. I’ll have to check on the map.”
“What about the spoiler?”
“Fender.”
“Spoiler, fender, whatever. Can you fix it?”
“I’m not sure. I can try tie it with some line from the Fold-Away.” Aldridge sucked in air, then dropped to his hands and knees for a calmer assessment. “I can actually see the hole … I could try plug it … We have that five-litre water in the back … It might just get us to the next town.”
“You really think so?”
Aldridge sat up, dusting himself off. “I don’t know, but maybe I can make a plan with this.” He suddenly felt up for the challenge. He would show Tarryn what he could do. “But we better get something to catch the last bit of water.”
“I’ve got that empty feta tub we can use?”
“That’ll work.”
“And how about a Crème Soda while I’m at it?”
“Now you’re talking my language.”
“You’ve got some grass in your hair … Here, let me help you.”
