Night

by Casey Christie

CHAPTER FIVE

  Sergeant Michael Night of the South African Police Force roused himself to the sound of his old alarm clock sitting next to his bed. It was Saturday 0600. He turned off the alarm clock and instinctively felt for his 9MM Vector that he kept loaded next to his bed below him carefully placed in a shoe for quick arming. He pulled himself out of his bed, made his way over to his bathroom and stumbled into an ice cold shower. Over the years he found that this was the best method for recuperating from an energy draining hangover, like the hangover he had now. Though it wasn’t an alcohol induced hangover, the General and he had hardly drunk a lot the night before. Rather it was what he liked to think of as an overdose-of-violence hangover combined with the massive adrenalin dump felt by men involved in gunfights across the world.

  He had first experienced this type of morning-after effect as a new recruit of the South African Army’s Special Urban Commando Unit or SASUCU over 18 years ago. They were operating alongside the South African Police and providing them with tactical fire support while the SAPF conducted High Visibility National Crime Prevention duties. They had made contact with a group of armed robbers while they were preparing to hit a cash-in-transit vehicle. The fire fight was brief. The highly skilled commandos dominated the poorly trained criminals within seconds by taking higher ground and applying aggression in action that Corporal Michael Night had never before experienced. It was the day that he had made his first confirmed kills, three in fact.

  Although he didn’t remember doing it at the time he had flanked the enemy’s position behind a stolen BMW, that they had planned to use to ram the CIT vehicle off the road, and cut three of the armed robbers down with his 5.56 calibre R4 assault rifle.

  His commanders were pleased with his performance and wrote letters of recommendation for his good work and bravery. The next day he awoke feeling pretty similar to the way he felt today although because that was the first time he felt that way it was more difficult to deal with. Through conversations with fellow commandos and police officers he came to realise it was a pretty common occurrence after killing the enemy or being involved in a fire fight. Many men just put it down to an adrenalin dump that follows the high and extra speed and strength that adrenalin provides.

  Sergeant Night thought a bit more analytically about it and concluded that it stemmed more from the violent and aggressive energy that is generated while in deadly combat. Whatever it was it was a very real occurrence and the debilitating effects could be three fold that of an alcohol hangover – resulting in slower thought processes, slower movement and an overall feeling of exhaustion and sluggishness.

  Sergeant Night gave the effect a name, Violence Over Dose Effect he called it, or VODE, and now he was primed for the morning’s measure that he knew would come after the previous day’s contact with the enemy. He had dealt with VODE many times in his life before.

  He stepped out of the cold shower and prepared himself a strong black coffee with three sugars. He put on a khaki coloured pair of Cargo pants and a plain black V-neck. His shoes were brown hiking boots. He picked up his 9MM and pulled back the slide just enough to see that a round was still in the chamber and placed the weapon in an in-holster in his pants on his right side and beneath his shirt. Safety always off. Like most veteran South African police officers Sergeant Night never engaged the safety mechanism of the state issued Vector, on duty or off. For two reasons. One, the safety catch was stupidly situated on the slide of the weapon and if engaged could easily re-engage once the weapon was cocked and two, in Night’s experience operating as a police officer and bodyguard in South Africa there simply was not enough time to disengage a safety mechanism once contact was made with the enemy.

  He downed the coffee and prepared to leave his small state-subsidised one bedroom single man’s flat at the bottom of the Norwood Police Barracks. Sergeant Night lived a Spartan life and had little desire for material possessions. The only objects he spent a considerable amount of his income on were tactical accessories, instruments that were essential to him performing his duty at optimal levels -- from extra ammunition magazines, flashlights, tactical knives, bullet proof clothing for his Close Protection contracts to private weapons. Under South African law at the time every private citizen was entitled to own and carry three weapons for self-defence. One pistol in each calibre: 9MM, .40 and .45. He went to his safe and took out his state issued 12 gauge shotgun. He left his personal weapons licenced for self-defence inside the safe.

  He had a busy morning ahead of him and planned to end the day sipping on an ice cold Castle Lager sitting in a deck chair looking out over the Vaal River that was about 100KMS out of Johannesburg. First, though, he was going to pay a visit to the Norwood Armoury where he would have the armourer take a look at his state issued shotgun. It had bothered him that it had failed to fire. Usually his shotgun was the most reliable weapon he had, or so he thought. Deeper, though, he wanted to find a mechanical failure with the weapon that would explain the misfire. That would be easier than putting it down to anything supernatural.

  He walked out of the barracks to the back of the station where he parked his pride and joy, a white 6.0 Litre V8 Chevrolet Lumina SS saloon. Hardly a vehicle a man could afford on a Sergeant’s salary but an important part of why he moonlighted as a bodyguard and security contractor. He had fallen asleep the night before, looking forward to the drive to the Vaal. He would be able to open up his girl’s naturally aspirated lungs and take her to her limits, or close to them.

  “In a short while, baby” he said, looking at her affectionately before entering the station.

  “Warrant Officer Van Der Heerden, how are you sir?”

  Speaking in Afrikaans the Warrant Officer answered, “Morning Sergeant. I am fine. What can I do for you?”

  “She had a failure to fire yesterday” and he put his 12 gauge on the counter of the armoury. “First one I have had with her. And as far as I can tell she shouldn’t have misfired – the ammunition looks good too. I was hoping you could have a look and give me a second opinion or perform some ballistic tests on her.”

  “OK Sergeant, leave her with me and I’ll let you know on Monday.”

  “Thanks. Have a good weekend.”

  Sergeant Night turned and walked away thinking to himself what a great conversationalist the Warrant Officer was.

  “Sergeant” called the Warrant Officer.

  “Yes?”

  “They say you saw uSathane last night, is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, thanks.” And the Warrant Officer hurriedly buried his head in some paperwork.

  Sergeant Night sat in his vehicle and started the engine. She growled to life as only a V8 can and then slowly purred as he let her warm up.

  “My baby. How are you this morning, I hope you are in the mood for some speed?” He patted her gently on the dashboard. Just then he noticed a police vehicle pull into the station. He quickly put his phone to his ear and pretended to be speaking to someone. He didn’t want anybody thinking he spoke to his car or was being affectionate. Not Sergeant Night.

  Sergeant Night pulled up to his first destination, Lisa van der Westhuizen’s house. She lived with her parents in a high walled, electric fence-protected three bedroomed house in the suburb of Kensington.

  As he reached the driveway he pulled out a remote Control for the gate, pressed it and reversed in off the street in front of it as he waited for the heavy security barrier to open. He looked in each direction of the road making sure there were no suspicious people or potential hijackers in sight. He and many other South African inhabitants had trained themselves to always be on the lookout for criminals, fully aware of the fact that statistically South Africans were most likely to have a gun stuck in their face and robbed of their vehicle while in a home’s driveway waiting for the gate to open.

  When the entrance was fully open he reversed inside the property behind the six foot high walls and waited for the gateway to fully close once more before t
urning off his vehicle’s engine. The front door to the house opened and he saw Lisa standing there in the opening through the bars of the heavy security gate as she inserted the keys and opened it.

  Then he saw him. An 80KG brandy-brown Boerboel with a black mouth and muzzle. He pushed past Lisa almost knocking her off her feet and came hurtling towards Night.

  “Slow down you bloody great big bastard” shouted Night.

  Alas, it was too late as the massive canine had already left the ground and leaped at Michael Night’s chest.

  He just managed to keep himself on his feet as the animal landed on his upper body while standing on its hind legs. The colossal creature laid its massive tongue all over Night’s face and licked him excitedly.

  “Hello my boy, how are you Wamba, my big boy” said Night affectionately.

  “He has been waiting for you by the door since last night” said Lisa while walking over to greet her man.

  “Ya Lis, he’s as big as a bloody lion but is as soppy as a Chihuahua.”

  The Boerboel is a large South African mastiff dog breed, bred specifically for guarding the homestead. The name Boerboel derives from “boer”, the Afrikaans word for “farmer” and therefore translates into “farmer’s dog” or “boer’s dog”. They are extremely powerful hounds and many stories have been told of Boerboels taking on large predators in defence of a farm. Even challenging lions.

  ---

  Sergeant Night had come across Wamba two years previously while on duty. He was called to a house where dog fighting was reported to take place in Alexandra Township and found the Boerboel tied to a washing line. Next to him lay the carcasses of two other fighting dogs – an American Pit-bull and an English Bull Terrier. The head of the dog-fighting ring who had been arrested earlier by Sergeant Night’s colleagues explained that the dog had been their champion fighter and had never lost a contest.

  “I am going to put it down” said one of the Warrant Officers on scene, taking out his service pistol.

  In accordance with South African Law a Police Officer could legally destroy a dog if he found it to be dangerous and a risk to human life as long as he had the consensus and agreement of two other citizens of legal standing and of age, or one other police officer.

  The Warrant Officer’s crew, a young Constable, nodded his endorsement.

  “You can’t shoot my best dog – do you know how much he’s worth?” said the ring leader. He was of mixed race or more commonly known in South Africa as a “Coloured”. He was tall and thin in his late thirties and was wearing blue overalls and a dirty white soaring hat. He had badly kept teeth and the front two were gold capped. His fingers were covered in fake gold rings. “It’s against my human rights, if you shoot him you’ll affect my livelihood.”

  “Shut your mouth you idiot, you are a piece of rubbish criminal. You don’t have any rights” said the Warrant Officer.

  “Do you know that’s the best dog I’ve ever had! It killed those two just this morning, he fought them one after the other and I made over R5000.00 just off that. Can’t we speak like men, Danie, and work this out?” To “Speak like men” was the commonly used and thinly veiled criminal suggestion for bribe negotiations to take place. He spoke to the Warrant Officer with an over familiarity while using his first name.

  The Warrant Officer looked across at Sergeant Night with embarrassment which quickly turned to anger and walked over to the ring leader and pistol whipped him three times until the criminal was out cold.

  “Piece of shit” muttered Warrant Officer Danie Cronje. “Now I am going to kill this bloody stupid dog.”

  “Wait a minute Warrant. Please just give me a second with him” said Night.

  “Why, it’s crazy, no good as a dog any more – it’s just a killer.”

  Big Constable Shaka interrupted: “He has a way with dogs, Warrant. He’s like the dog whisperer or something.”

  Sergeant Night approached the leashed animal and looking directly into his eyes, started to talk calmly to the dog.

  “Are you fucking nuts! That dog is going to rip your arm off” said the Warrant Officer.

  “No it won’t. I am no threat to him and I am not trying to hurt him.”

  “Look what it did to that American Pit and British Terrier. It’s a fucking monster man! Let me kill it before it murders anything else.”

  “It is a he. And he didn’t murder anything. He just protected himself. Just like any of our own animals would have done.”

  Sergeant Night never broke his calm gaze at the animal, going against the common reasoning of not to stare a male dog in the eyes, and continued to speak peacefully and confidently to him.

  “Don’t worry big guy, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to remove this leash and take you off the line.”

  “You are a fucking madman Night! All those stories about you and the Black Bastards are true. Well whatever, I am taking my suspect out of here and will process him at Sandton Police Station. I am officially handing this scene over to you and you can deal with that monster.” With that, the Warrant Officer lifted the now semi-conscious ring leader to his feet.

  “He’s actually a good man dog” muttered the dazed criminal. “He doesn’t have issues with humans, only other dogs really.”

  “Well that was his job wasn’t it?” said Sergeant Night nonchalantly.

  “Ya, it was his occupation hey Mike, kinda like us, he had to be the biggest baddest dog in the township” said Constable Shaka, his huge smile lighting up his face.

  “Something like that.”

  “Please look after him officer. I might do illegal things and I might fight dogs for a living but I still love that dog” said the criminal.

  “You loved the money this animal made for you, not the dog itself. And yes I will look after him. Not for you but for him. There’s something special about this guy, I can feel it and he deserves to be loved, really loved.”

  “His name’s Tiger by the way” shouted the handcuffed criminal while being pushed into the back of the Warrant Officer’s police vehicle.

  “Tiger, typical cheesy name for somebody to give to a dog like this hey Zulu?”

  “Ya, but they should have called him Lion instead if they wanted to give it a name like that, he’s as big as one hey Mike -- and we are in Africa after all.”

  “You’re right” said Mike, now softly stroking the immense animal.

  Sergeant Night took Tiger home with him that day after a visit to his local vet for a full medical check-up. He knew the Norwood vet well, as he often brought in injured, abandoned and stray dogs that he found while on patrol. He did not have a lead with him so he had to use the makeshift leash that the dog fighters used, a broad metal chain attached to Tiger’s neck by a thick metal collar which cut into his skin. Night had to constantly reassure the massive canine that he had no ill intention toward it. He repeatedly slowed down while guiding the animal from the police vehicle to the vets rooms, allowing for a mutual journey while continually uttering the words, “It’s ok big fella, no one’s going to hurt you, we are just going to see the doctor.” Tiger was yielding for the most part until Sergeant Night gave Constable Zulu the chain to hold while he went inside to let the vet know they were there. The moment Night handed the leash over to Shaka the large animal stood on its two hind legs and placed its front paws on Shaka’s shoulders and let out a deep cautioning growl while staring directly into the Constable’s kind eyes.

  Sergeant Night remembered standing there in awe of the sight. Two giants upright face to face in a stand-off. It was mesmerising. After a few tension filled seconds and to Night’s surprise Shaka started laughing, his white teeth bursting through his wide smile, a long amused laugh. Shaka’s reaction seemed to bemuse the dog as well. Tiger stopped growling, tilted his face to one side as a curious dog does and jumped back to the floor and nonchalantly took up a position next to Shaka’s side.

  “I like this dog!” declared Shaka while grinning broadly and led T
iger into the Veterinary Clinic’s waiting room.

  Sergeant Night recalled how thankful he was that the waiting room was empty and that they could go straight through to see the animal doctor.

  “Most people bring in lost poodles or other lap dogs while you seem to always rescue the dogs most people are afraid to handle” said the vet upon seeing Sergeant Night and his new rescue.

  “Hi Doc, I suppose you are right and it’s because of that fear that these dogs are in the position they are in in the first place. All of my most loyal and loving dogs have always been of the so called ‘fighting’ or guard breeds and why not? They can’t help be what man has created. Anyway a bit of love and care and they are fine.”

  The vet determined that the dog was only two years old at the time and had not had any of his vaccines, which she then administered and apart from the many scars and bite marks on his face and shoulders he was in good health.

  “This is one of the biggest Boerboels I have seen Mike. What’s his name?” asked Veterinary Surgeon Michelle Fisher.

  Fisher was an eccentric English born Vet who reminded Night of a mad animal scientist. She had curly blonde hair and wore round spectacles that seemed at least two sizes too big for her. She was a petite lady standing no more than five foot two inches tall and Night often enjoyed watching her have conversations with the dogs he brought in, she would speak for the animals in the conversations as well.

  “They call him Tiger.”

  “Typical. Are you going to keep it or give him a new title?”

  “Well I am thinking of a new name but one hasn’t come to me yet, you know a name that feels right.”

  “He is an extraordinary dog Mike, unusually over-muscled and he has massive canines, look” said the vet while pulling back the dog’s upper lip. “Reminds me of a dinosaur, a tyrannosaurus or something.”

  “Well I was thinking of King, he has a noble quality about him and could pass for a ‘king of dogs’.”

  “You know ‘rex’ in Tyrannosaurus-Rex actually means King in Latin Mike?”

  “Rex huh, hey Rex, Rexy my boy.”

  The giant dog turned to the Sergeant while sitting on the tiled floor where the vet had examined him -- he had been too large to place on the examination table -- and then swiftly looked away, seemingly in disgust.

  “Don’t think he likes it” said the vet.

  “Right...”

  Constable Shaka had been following this exchange with interest and decided to put in his tuppence worth.

  “You know, Mike, back home in my village there was a story about this wild dog that protected the village people from lions. They say it was a huge brown and black dog and nobody knew where it came from or how it came to live in the village. It wasn’t very friendly to the people of the community but protected them and their livestock from wild animals, lions and hyenas. All it wanted in return was to be fed. Which the village elders turned into a daily ritual, feeding the dog every night before the township people ate. They fed it the best meat from the kill of the day’s hunt. They say it even fought and killed an attacking lion once.”

  “A dog that fought and killed a lion huh? Forgive me if I am little sceptical on that one but one thing is for sure, this dog certainly isn’t getting the best of my meat as much as I may grow to love him. Anyway what’s your point my brother?”

  “Well his name was Wamba. And every time I look at that dog I think of a lion killer, Wamba the lion killer that my grandparents used to tell me about.”

  “Wamba huh. Wamba, look here boy.”

  Tiger turned once more and looked directly at Sergeant Night and let out a deep growl followed by a great bark. And he was no longer Tiger but Wamba the Lion Killer.

  Wamba stayed with Sergeant Night in his state subsidised single man’s flat in the police barracks for just under a year but continued to grow, grow and eat. Sergeant Night trained Wamba alongside some canines that were undergoing drill with dog handler friends of his who were part of the elite South African Police Force’s K-9 element, otherwise known as the Delta Unit. Wamba was one of the most obedient dogs, he delivered the biggest tackle and most powerful bite and completed the fastest obstacle course speeds and for a time it looked like he would qualify as a fully-fledged K-9 Officer at the top of his class. His one failure held him back though and eventually led to him being struck off the course.

  It was his inability to work alongside fellow canines. Twice he had taken down a noisy German Shepherd which counted itself the Alpha Male of the pack and on one occasion had dominated all of the other dogs on the course into an unworkable condition for the day. Sergeant Night remembered the words the lead instructor said to him when he broke the news that Wamba would progress no further.

  “I’m sorry Mike but Wamba has got to go. He’s like a one dog army or something. We all love him and would like nothing more than to graduate the big guy but he actually scares some of the other dogs... and their handlers. If you really want him to be a working dog I can get him operational as a war dog or contractors’ K-9 in Iraq or Afghanistan. He would be brilliant out there. You could just unleash him and watch the terrorists squirm!”

  Night declined the offer and started taking Wamba to Lisa’s place as often as he could as he simply needed to provide him with a bigger property to live in. Fortunately Wamba took an immediate liking to Lisa and it soon became apparent how protective the dog was towards her. Slowly but surely they formed a strong enough relationship so that Night could leave Wamba with her at her parents’ house. It was much larger than the Sergeant’s pad and he felt good about knowing Lisa had a loyal guard dog with her.

  ---

  “Hello my girl.” Night embraced Lisa with a tender but firm hug.

  He held her close and then gave her a long sensual kiss.

  She pulled away blushing.

  “What’s wrong, your parents aren’t here are they?”

  “No they are away in Cape Town for the week.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “Ag nothing babe, you know me I just get embarrassed.”

  Lisa van der Westhuizen was a typically shy Afrikaans girl and was brought up in a strict churchgoing household. The slightest public or spontaneous show of affection would make her blush a bright red. Although in private she was a highly affectionate woman and could hardly keep her hands off her lover.

  She had burnt blonde, almost brown, hair that was straight and rested just below her feminine shoulders, naturally dark tanned skin that most Hollywood babes tried to achieve through sprays or sun beds. High cheekbones, an aquiline nose and round sensual lips concealing bright white teeth. Though rather than flaunt her natural beauty, Night always thought, she tried to play it down. Wearing thick glasses and placing her hair in a clumsy bun while most often wearing very conservative, dated grey and khaki office suits to work she didn’t turn many male heads and if you didn’t know any better one wouldn’t give her a second look.

  It was her voice though that he favoured, her voice that had initially drawn Night to her, over the police radio net. It was low and steady, almost hoarse. It conveyed deep care, tenderness and love, great stability and a gentle authority too. Her home language was Afrikaans, which demanded a semi-coarse delivery and in which she often spoke to Michael while he replied in English. He never asked her to only speak in English as he had always had a fondness for Afrikaans speaking women.

  When he finally met her in person while picking her up to take her out on their first date it was her penetrating eyes that sealed Night’s attraction to her. They were a stunning green that conveyed great compassion.