Dark Intent

by Brian Reeve

  Dhlamini gave a watery smile, a little reassured, but Inkatha atrocities were still an ugly scar. He was weak at heart and admired the three men, wishing he had their nerve. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’d rather die than see my children dismembered and put to death in front of me.’

  Ngubane smiled. ‘They’ll never find us.’ He knew Dhlamini had little courage, but the man was loyal and he had his purpose. He addressed the other two. ‘Tomorrow we’ll visit Shozi. Now let’s sleep.’

  Chapter 14

  Near Moses Shozi’s house

  When the first hint of dawn revealed the disarray of ramshackle dwellings that formed Malakazi township the three guerillas left Dhlamini’s room for the undergrowth that bordered the settlement. In fifteen minutes they reached Mrs Mkhize’s house and passed quietly, noting the broken door and blackened earth around which the killings had occurred two evenings before. Even at the early hour they saw others pushing along the narrow paths of the grassland to the nearest road where they could pick up the bus to the city.

  After three kilometres Ngubane, his round shoulders like those of a roosting crow, went off the path, calling a halt.

  ‘The house is in the next valley,’ he said adjusting a ten-inch knife he carried at his waist. ‘Meet here at noon.’

  They were a third of the way up a hill on a path that soon descended through grey head-high boulders and thorn trees. About to split up Nofomela and Ngwenya inched forwards then stopped as Ngubane spoke again. ‘We’re being followed. Keep to the path.’ Casually he ambled off, winding down to where the track disappeared.

  When they passed the bend the guerillas went from the trail into the grass among the rocks. For a while no one appeared, then with infinite care a figure emerged, a black youth, barefooted and clad in a dirty shirt and shorts to his knees. In his hand he held a stick and a thin bush knife poked from his belt, the blade crudely fashioned out of a piece of mild steel, ground so it was cardboard thin.

  For a while the youth concentrated ahead then he turned his attention to the immediate trail, combing for tracks. Unsure, he slid out the knife, the movements of his head sharp and truncated, apprehensive.

  Ngubane came from the grass, a black spider, and the youth pivoted pathetically, waving the blade like a twig. But he was too late and the guerilla deflected the metal, jerking the youth round and embracing his neck, forcing his arm against his windpipe until he choked.

  ‘Who’re you from?’ said Ngubane. He reduced the grip and waited, then again took up the slack, unsheathing his blade and resting the edge on the scrawny neck.

  ‘I was told to follow you.’ The youth spat onto the track, scowling as Nofomela and Ngwenya came from the rocks. He was a Zulu and though unnerved by the blade on his jugular he reminded himself that Xhosas, especially men of the ANC, were beneath contempt. He stretched his neck to ease some of the pressure caused by the guerilla’s arm but Ngubane drew him closer, the first drops of blood smearing the steel. ‘Who’s your master?’ he said.

  The youth spluttered, gritting his teeth and arching his swollen lips over his gums. ‘He’ll kill me,’ he gurgled, watching the others advance.

  ‘Then you must leave the area,’ chipped in Nofomela, his pupils like cannon holes. ‘It’s your master or us.’

  The youth considered his options. If he refused he was convinced he’d be destroyed. ‘I work for Moses Shozi,’ he said faintly. ‘He told me to follow you, find out where you go.’

  ‘How long have you been tailing us?’ Ngubane altered the position of the knife.

  ‘Since yesterday morning in Malakazi,’ said the youth.

  Ngubane thought over the previous day. Most had been spent in Dhlamini’s room. The youth couldn’t have learned anything but he would have seen the mayor. Dropping his arm he shunted the knife to his other hand, clasping it cleanly and switching the blade back to the neck.

  The youth jumped vigorously against the weak hold, pulling strongly as the tip of the knife nicked him below the ear. Like a hare running for its life he dodged to the side of Nofomela and into the grass, his knees pumping high, hurdling rocks in his path.

  Dispelling amazement at the youth’s boldness Ngubane chased after him, cursing loudly at his carelessness and jostling his comrades to make way. He held the knife like a sword, pointing it ahead, the curved Bowie blade glinting as it reflected rays from the rising sun. In several giant strides he had caught up and he lunged repeatedly, feeling a thrill as the tip drew blots of blood that were absorbed by the youth’s shirt. The Zulu shook each time the steel punctured his skin, his spent breath a shrill whistle and he leaned his body over as he ran, trying to evade the incisions that were slowly bringing him down.

  Metres from the track Ngubane came abreast, finding his victim’s collar with his long fingers. The youth cried as Ngubane yanked him to a stop, rotating the weapon and slipping it under his neck. With a rising jerk Ngubane sliced it in, navigating the tempered steel through arteries and thin muscle, noting how the young arms flailed insipidly as the blood spurted out in a jet.

  Ngubane held him as he died then dropped him onto the hill. Flaring his mouth he turned victoriously as his colleagues came up. ‘Hide the corpse,’ he said, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘He chose the wrong master.’ He poked the knife into the earth and cleaned the blade, removing the final traces of blood with tufts of grass.

  They took the body further from the trail and laid it between the rocks, rearranging the grass to form a grave. They left the scene, losing one another as they went on their different routes to Shozi’s house.

  Chapter 15

  Moses Shozi’s house

  Ngubane’s route to their destination was the shortest and he arrived first, approaching through thick bush that lay alongside the stream. The house was nearly 300 metres away on level ground, and he peered at the curtained window of the upstairs room where he expected Shozi to be fast asleep.

  For an hour he rested on the bank of the stream, every now and again checking the buildings. Then like an alien in a deserted land a tall man left the rear quarters and strolled to the house. He disappeared and a little later Ngubane saw the curtains of the room drawn and a man appear. He had never seen Shozi before but the heavy figure could only be the gangster and he craned his neck to get a better view. For a while Shozi stretched in the window, luxuriating in the tender warmth of dawn and then he had gone.

  Ngubane leant on a tree, the picture of the man he had come to hate fuelling his resolve to see him dead. He had what he wanted, confirmation that Shozi was at home.

  Over the next half-hour other men emerged from the quarters. Ngubane counted twelve and they sat on mats in a circle round a big pot of porridge one of them had carried from a detached outhouse, chatting noisily as they helped themselves. When they finished they were joined by the tall man, who came from the house. For a few minutes he spoke rapidly, periodically pointing over the hills in the direction of Umbali, a large township further up the Edendale Valley. After clearing their remains they returned to their rooms and a little later five of them headed for the grass.

  For most of the morning Ngubane watched the house from his position on the bank. The remaining guards stayed in their quarters and there was no sign of Shozi or the tall man, who he assumed was the gangster’s lieutenant. At a quarter to twelve he left the bank and took a circuitous route round the kopje and between the rocks that bordered the stream further up. He finally rejoined the path from Malakazi and steadily made his way to the spot where he had agreed to meet the others. He stayed near the track until they arrived then the three hid themselves in the bush, eating a meal of dried meat and bread, stuffing the food into their mouths between brief accounts of the morning’s work. From their vantage points behind the outhouse Nofomela and Ngwenya had not seen Shozi and became exited when they heard of his presence.

  ‘We must take a chance he is still there and kill him tonight.’ Ngubane scratched the bristle on his cheek, his belly full. ‘There isn’t tim
e to get the guns from Umbali and we don’t need them.’ He went to a small sapling and urinated against it, grossly splashing the yellow liquid up and down the thin stem.

  Startled by the statement Nofomela and Ngwenya appraised his narrow back. Ngwenya was the first to speak. ‘How can we kill him without guns?’ he asked, frowning. ‘His men are never far.’

  Nofomela nodded. ‘We can have Kalashnikovs by tomorrow. We must wait.’

  Ngubane fastened the buttons on his fly, shaking his head. ‘We might have to wait hours, days, for a decent shot. When Shozi doesn’t hear from the youth he’ll go crazy and come looking for us. He’ll take in Dhlamini, torture his family and then kill them. It would’ve been different if he didn’t know about us but he does.’

  ‘We’ll have to enter the house,’ said Nofomela, mindful of the way Zulus treated their captives. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘There’s no alternative,’ said Ngubane grimly. He gazed down the hill to the valley, welcoming the unremitting breeze. ‘I’ll do it alone. I’m the only one with a knife.’ He grinned, a straight line. ‘But first we must get our things from Dhlamini’s room. From now on we live in the bush. The flames of hell will seek vengeance when Shozi dies.’

  Chapter 16

  Moses Shozi’s house

  As the three guerillas left for Malakazi, Moses Shozi reclined contentedly in the lounge of his house, replenished by a fill of low-grade stewing steak and a vegetable mash. Setlaba, his large angular frame equally recharged by the meal, lingered dutifully nearby.

  ‘The boy should’ve shown by now,’ said Shozi irritably. ‘It was a simple job.’ He scowled, bowing his head in thought.

  Setlaba was pleased when Shozi’s anger was elsewhere, when an accusing finger could not be directed at him. ‘He’ll be back,’ he said sagely. ‘Movements of men like that are as unpredictable as a woman’s love.’

  Shozi propped a cushion behind him, clearing phlegm with an angry cough. ‘Where’re the men?’

  ‘I sent some to Umbali. The rest are cleaning the rooms.’

  ‘During the night I want one of them behind the house,’ said Shozi after a while. ‘Not knowing exactly where these guerillas are makes me nervous. Their type never lies down.’

  ‘They’re scum,’ said Setlaba. ‘The ANC military arm, Umkhonto we Sizwe, is finished.’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Shozi. ‘Some of them haven’t got what they want. Mass conflict on our natural territory between us and the Xhosa has subsided from the exchanges a year ago, but elements in their military are as virulent as ever. If these men succeed they’ll have what is ours by birth.’

  Chapter 17

  Moses Shozi’s house

  In the early afternoon with the sun past its peak the three guerillas reached the room in Malakazi. They gathered their bedrolls and spare clothing and were again in the bush retracing their steps to Shozi’s house. When they reached a point near where the youth lay in his grave they left the trail and settled.

  ‘After Shozi’s dead we’ll hole up here,’ said Ngubane, lying on a bed he had shaped for himself. ‘When the dust is no more, we’ll go to Umbali for the guns.’

  Nofomela and Ngwenya also spread themselves out on the earth after clearing patches in the grass and they were soon asleep, shaded from the sun by the leafy branches of a tree. They slept soundly until the late evening then built a low fire from dry sticks and roasted a chicken they had caught in the township.

  Shortly after eleven o’clock they cleared the site, scattering the fire and stuffing their belongings under the rocks. They resumed their journey, keeping to the track for most of the way until they began their descent into the gangster’s valley.

  There were no lights on in the house and quarters as they came from beyond the kopje and to the bank of the stream. Ngubane studied the house while he toyed idly with the hilt of his knife. Then he went into the grass followed shortly by the others at intervals. When he was in line with the house he parted from his comrades and ran up to the end wall, stopping flat on the roughened surface. He held back a minute before feeling himself along to the corner. Diagonally across the yard he saw Ngwenya appear from the bush next to the quarters and then closer, over a bit, Nofomela.

  Cautiously he looked round, squinting to penetrate the dark more easily, and could see the outline of a porch. He was about to move when Nofomela waved urgently, pointing ahead. Signalling that he had seen him Ngubane looked into the shadow, meticulously taking in every inch. He saw nothing and went carefully down the wall. He was beginning to think Nofomela had gone mad when he saw a man squatting next to a voluminous earthen pot, his head hanging so his chin touched his chest.

  Ngubane watched the figure for a while. He thought about trying elsewhere but decided the guard was still a threat. He was five metres away and he judged how quickly he could cover the distance. For seconds he stood poised then he went in, unsheathing the knife. He was nearly on the squatting figure when the man came awake, reflexively grabbing for a stick leaning on the wall. But the Zulu was not fast enough and Ngubane bowled the weapon to the ground, stabbing with his knife, the steel sinking unhindered into the soft gut.

  The guard’s eyes bulged as the knife went in to the hilt. His expression was vacant, staring helplessly at the quarters, mutely calling his friends to his aid. Ngubane sliced the knife through the stomach wall, smothering his hand hard over the mouth to stifle sound. He drew out the knife and stabbed again, rotating the blade, then quickly extracted it as the dying man collapsed at his feet, the blood flowing from the mutilation onto the stone slabs.

  Wiping the knife on the man’s shirt Ngubane studied the door. When the steel was clean he moved to it, testing the handle on the varnished wood. It held fast. There was a lock and he wondered if there was an internal latch. He went to the corpse and dug into the pockets of the baggy shorts. Stifling a triumphant cry he removed a key and went to the door, eagerly inserting it. It went in unhindered and was the right one.

  As if walking on broken glass, he went through the kitchen and into the lounge. Visibility was poor, external light mostly shut out by heavy drapes on the windows. The luminous hands of his watch showed twenty to twelve and he thought of the dead man. At some point the guard would be changed.

  He saw the stairs and after assimilating the dark went to them and began his ascent. On the first floor he calmed himself before going to the room that was sure to harbour the gangster. There was only quiet and he eased the door inwards, slipping through until he was just inside. Near the window he made out a wide bed and he listened, hoping to catch the breathing of Shozi deep in sleep. His heart pounded and he pulled up the knife, changing his grip, certain now that the gangster was there for he could see the shape of a body lying on the bed.

  Ngubane went nearer and then the room was bathed in the light of a table lamp. Standing, encased in a sneer, was Shozi, his Webley pointed at Ngubane’s heart. ‘You took your time,’ he said, lazily. ‘I saw you killing my guard. He must have been asleep.’

  The taunt penetrated Ngubane like the sting from a wasp but he kept his attention on the gangster.

  ‘You’re one of the guerillas,’ continued Shozi, looking at Ngubane as if he was a leper. ‘I thought you’d come sooner or later. You must have killed the youth.’ He removed the sheet from a pile of blankets and grinned wickedly. ‘I knew you’d use a knife. That must have looked tempting. I suppose your comrades are outside. They’ll die as well.’

  ‘No’ said Ngubane. ‘You will die. It will be the end of a heinous reign. The house is surrounded.’

  Shozi blinked, a hint of doubt, and Ngubane took his chance. Lifting the knife with the craft of a juggler and taking the end of the blade he threw it with a scream. ‘Die you monster.’

  The knife spun lethally in the crisp air and for a second Ngubane felt victory was his. But Shozi was already going down, all the while keeping the gun unerringly on his foe. The knife flew by and certain of the guerilla’s death he fired. The slug
hit Ngubane above the heart, driving him back like a stickman caught in a wind, his body corkscrewing in a contortion of flying arms and gangling legs. He landed on his hip, expecting the second shot and acutely conscious he had to keep moving. He rolled and came to his feet.

  At the second shot Ngubane leapt like a running deer as the bullet cut into his calf. He got to the door, projecting himself through onto the landing. Excited voices out the back spurred him on and he hopped and skipped to the stairs, blood inseminating his clothes, a powerful dye.

  Incensed that the guerilla did not go down, Shozi shouted with rage, the thought of his enemy escaping too much to bear. He sprinted through the door, yelling for his men, threatening them with a cruel death if they failed to stop the man who had dared think he could take his life.

  Ngubane half-fell half-slid down the narrow flight of stairs, clutching the balustrade for support, expecting Shozi’s men to burst through the kitchen at any second and block his path. He felt naked without a weapon and longed for a cold Kalashnikov in his hands. When he reached the ground floor he turned from the kitchen hoping he could get out through the front. In several hops he was at the curtain covering the French windows and he drew it aside, relieved when he saw the dark night. Grabbing an iron ornamental cow he smashed it into the glass, breaking the membrane into shards that rocketed away. Behind him he heard the guards enter the kitchen, driven on by the screeching gangster above and he lurched through the glass onto the porch. Partly crippled he went across the slate into the grass that came up to the house, doubling over, knowing the men would soon be on him if they could get sight of him.

  Moments later Shozi appeared on the porch firing wildly at a figure he could not see, cajoling like a trooper and commanding the men behind him to take to the grass.