In a chair, drawn up to the above mentioned desk, sits a man. Impossibly still. The desk and double window are covered in blood and gore. Already brown with age.
In his limp hand hangs a revolver.
This is the house of Wouter Bredekamp. He is a man with a dark secret. He is not the only one. But this secret will stay his forever.
It will be another few days before his putrefying corpse is discovered.
This is a strange day in the normally uneventful town of Coffee. Three terrible things have happened. Unfortunately they are all connected.
There’s a serpent in the small-town Eden of Coffee.
But it’s not what you think.
Part One
The Vanished, the Suicide and the Mannequins
Vengeance is mine, and retribution. In due time their foot will slip; for the day of their calamity is near. And the impending things are hastening upon them
Deuteronomy 32:35
One
‘So, you’re from Bloemfontein then?’
‘Uh-huh.’
The burly South African Police Sergeant towered over the reedy and bespectacled Constable whose sharp Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke.
‘Well, as long as you shout Vrystaat and not Province or Northern-Transvaal,’ Sergeant Lubbe said, referring to some of the country’s provincial rugby teams, ‘you should be fine.’
‘Oh hell,’ Constable van der Merwe said, guffawing loudly, ‘only an idiot would shout for Northern-Transvaal.’
Rugby.
Together with the church (the Calvinist Dutch Reformed church to be specific) and the state, rugby completed the trifecta that dominated and defined life as a modern-day Afrikaner in the beleaguered state of Apartheid South Africa.
‘Ja. You keep thinking like that and you’ll be oraait.’
All right.
‘So what made you decide to apply for a posting in Coffee?’ The Sergeant shielded his eyes from the sharp glare off an approaching police sedan’s windshield. Although winter mornings and evenings could get helluva cold in Coffee, the days themselves were hot and sunny.
‘Well, uh, I wanted to serve a small community, you know, Sarge,’ the Constable said, lying.
‘I hope you didn’t come here expecting an easy ride.’ Lubbe watched as Major Bismarck climbed from the passenger seat of the police sedan. Both men stood to attention and nodded curtly as the station commander of Coffee marched past them, oblivious to their presence.
‘Oh no, no ... of course not, Sarge,’ van der Merwe said, lying.
‘Watch the lawn there, Constable.’
‘Oh, sjeez ... sorry, Sarge.’ The Constable lifted his gangly legs in the air and made a great show of stepping away from the immaculately manicured lawn of number forty-five, Kruger Street. He looked at the beautiful and shiny-white Cape Dutch mansion of Doctor De Wet Bismarck. ‘So, Sarge, the boys tell me we got ourselves a missing person case.’
‘That’s correct, Constable.’
Van der Merwe stared at the house. ‘Sjeez, who would’ve thought we’d get a missing person case on my first day.’
‘Don’t jump to any conclusions, van der Merwe,’ Lubbe said, casting a stern eye at the Constable. ‘That’s the first principle of investigation.’ He cleared his throat authoritatively. ‘Besides, they’re not so rare. We get quite a few of those each year.’ He nodded his head to his left, indicating the area beyond the Cape Dutch house. ‘Mostly from the township ... you know.’
Van der Merwe chuckled. ‘Ja ... the blêddie kaffirs?’
‘The official police appellation, Constable, is Non-White,’ Lubbe said with stern reproach. Even in Apartheid South Africa there was a measure of political correctness. Van der Merwe blushed, sufficiently reprimanded. ‘Most of these cases turn out to be false alarms however. You know, the usual. Binge drinking. Family disputes. Fathers trying to escape their familial duties. That sort of thing.’
Silence.
Van der Merwe nodded. ‘So ...?’
‘The missing person is the chief’s niece, Michelle Bismarck.’ Van der Merwe nodded with the appropriate gravity. ‘Though ... like I said, at this stage it’s too soon to draw any conclusions.’ Lubbe cleared his throat, casting a surreptitious eye at the Bismarck house. ‘Unfortunately, Michelle has a bit of a ... a reputation,’ he said. ‘And that’s putting it politely.’
Van der Merwe grinned lewdly. ‘And if you weren’t being polite, huh Sarge?’ He elbowed his superior gently in the midriff.
‘You’re being very familiar on your first day on the job, aren’t you ... van der Merwe.’
The Constable stood to stiff attention. ‘Sorry, Sergeant. Sincere apologies.’
Sergeant Lubbe nodded, narrowing his eyes with admonishment as he stared down at his subordinate. ‘Hmmm.’ Van der Merwe glared self-consciously at the manicured lawn. ‘In any case,’ Lubbe said, leaning forward with conspiratorial subtlety, his erstwhile reprimand forgotten. ‘She’s a ... a bit of a wild one, you could say. Gave the Doc a hard time while she was growing up. Expelled from Coffee High School ... as well as Luckhoff High. She ended up attending school in Bloemfontein, stayed in a school hostel over there.’ Lubbe looked over his shoulder. ‘Didn’t help much. Got into all sorts of trouble. There’s even a rumour the Doc had to help her out with a little ... situation.’ The Sergeant cradled his arms in front of his abdomen and swung it to and fro. ‘Know what I mean?’
Van der Merwe looked on with incomprehension until the light dawned in his eye. ‘Bliksem!’ His eyes grew large as he contemplated the rumoured medical procedure – something that was highly illegal in 80’s South Africa. ‘You’re not serious, Sarge.’
Lubbe watched his eager subordinate. ‘You would do well not to get involved in all sorts of rumour mongering, Constable,’ Lubbe said sagely. ‘Don’t go spreading unfounded gossip.’ Van der Merwe nodded with excitement.
For a moment the two police officers stood in the sun, basking in shared conspiracy.
‘In any case, this whole thing is just a courtesy call,’ Lubbe said, indicating the two police vans, the sedan and the half a dozen policemen on the street and inside the house. ‘Since Michelle was in Bloemfontein at the time of her ... disappearance, the case will be handed over to a Bloem unit of detectives.’ He watched van der Merwe from the corner of his eye. ‘If it’s even a case at all. If you ask me, our little wild child is probably holed up in some ducktail’s caravan, getting high on Dagga.’
Marijuana.
Van der Merwe nodded. He looked over at the Bismarck house. ‘Shame. Poor Doctor Bismarck.’
Two
‘Alte.’ Major Dawid Bismarck, station commander of the town of Coffee, nodded a curt greeting to his sister-in-law.
‘Dawid.’ Alte Bismarck did not meet his gaze, her eyes cast down towards the deep mahogany floor of her dining room.
Major Dawid Bismarck turned towards his brother, seated at the heavy stinkwood dining room table. The policeman stared at his brother mutely, sharp angular features riding a thick moustache hiding thin pursed lips. Behind his omnipresent Ray-Ban sunglasses Major Bismarck’s expression was intractable, indecipherable. Cold, surly and taciturn. ‘De Wet.’
Doctor De Wet Bismarck looked up, irritable and impatient. ‘Can we get this over with, Dawid?’
Major Bismarck glanced over at Alte Bismarck. Her face was pinched into a tight mask of anxiety. ‘Of course.’ Doctor Bismarck tapped an ill-tempered rhythm on the dining room table. ‘I just need to take a preliminary statement. The division in Bloemfontein will be handling the investigation.’
Silence.
‘Well, what do you need to know?’ Doctor Bismarck exhaled in sharp irritation. He was certainly the better looking of the two brothers. His neatly trimmed auburn hair and soft clean-shaven features gave him a “nice boy next door” appearance.
‘When last did you hear from Michelle?’
‘I ... we never speak.’ He pointed in the vague direction o
f his apprehensive wife. ‘She usually communicates with Alte.’
Major Bismarck turned to his distraught sister-in-law. ‘Alte?’
She glanced up at the tall policeman. ‘We speak about twice a week.’ She wrung her hands, fidgeting anxiously. ‘The last time we spoke was about four days ago. I haven’t heard from her since. That in itself is not so unusual ...’ She averted her eyes. ‘Except that she missed two days of work.’
‘And that’s why you think something is ... wrong?’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘This time.’
‘Oh please. For God’s sake.’ The Doc slammed a palm down on the mahogany surface. ‘How many jobs has she lost because of her whoring and boozing?’
Alte shot her husband a look of recrimination. ‘It’s not just me,’ she said, frowning at him. ‘Linda is ... just as worried.’
‘Linda is your sister in Bloemfontein, right?’
‘Yes. Michelle has been staying with her for the last few weeks. She last saw Michelle on Friday. That’s the same day I spoke to her.’ Alte Bismarck bit her upper lip. ‘She went out with friends that night and ... and she hasn’t been back since.’
‘I tell you now, she’s off in some township shebeen (tavern) getting pissed and conceiving some labourer’s bastard child.’ De Wet Bismarck’s attractive face was contorted into an ugly grimace of malevolence.
‘De Wet!’ Alte Bismarck looked at her husband with outrage. ‘If you took the time to speak to her ... you would realise things have been different the last few months. Your daughter has grown up.’ De Wet snorted with derision. Alte turned to Dawid Bismarck. ‘Linda agrees. Michelle has turned over a new leaf.’ She gave her husband a pointed stare. ‘She’s a new person. People can change, you know.’
‘You know what.’ Doc Bismarck stood up. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I have patients to see.’ He stomped out of the room. ‘I can’t believe I’ve wasted so much of my bloody time with this ... bullshit!’
In her dark corner, Alte Bismarck broke into tears, sobbing quietly.
Major Bismarck stood for a while in the frigid room. Silent. Impassive. ‘I will alert the Bloemfontein authorities immediately.’ He turned and walked away.
Outside, a police Inspector approached Bismarck. ‘Sir, we got a situation at the cemetery.’
Bismarck stared at the police officer, betraying nothing behind his Ray Bans.
Three
The police cruiser and the bright yellow van pulled up outside the wrought iron gates of the B.J Vorster Cemetery (named after the National Party leader who had been incarcerated here during World War II following subversive activities as part of the Ossewa Brandwag). Bismarck stepped from the Toyota Corolla and with long determined strides entered the grounds of the graveyard, heading for a cluster of policemen. Fast on his heels were Sergeant Lubbe and the rookie, Constable van der Merwe. Upon seeing the police chief, one of the officers detached himself and hurried over towards his approaching superior. He met Bismarck a few yards from where his colleagues stood. ‘Sir, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve never seen anything like this.’ Bismarck said nothing, never once decreasing his resolute pace. There was good reason for his grim determination.
They followed a path through dozens of grave sites. People, long dead. Long absorbed by the cold embrace of an undiscriminating earth. Memories of people. Mute witnesses to fresh horrors.
The group of policemen parted to allow their boss a place between them. Bismarck stared at the tombstone, a look of distaste hardening his jaw. Then he looked down.
They all stood, silent.
‘Dear God. What is the world coming to?’
They all stood. Around the hole. Six-feet deep. A grave. Freshly excavated.
The policemen stared into the grave, dumbfounded.
‘Who would do something like this?’
Silence.
They stared, stunned, into the dark depths of the grave. At the bottom of the grave, veiled in darkness, lay a prostate figure.
‘Is that –?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a mannequin.’
Silence.
‘What in God’s name is happening to the world?’
Bismarck leaned forward to obtain a clearer view. ‘Get that goddamned thing out of there.’
Two of the police officers stared uncertainly at each other. Sighing, one of them carefully lowered himself into the dark pit with the other’s help. A few seconds later he hoisted the mannequin to the surface.
Several of the officers inhaled sharply.
It was a mannequin. Yes.
Or what remained of one.
The retail dummy had been viciously mutilated. The right leg had been torn off just below the knee. The left arm had been hacked off. A part of the abdomen was missing.
When the mannequin was turned over, the policemen received a further shock.
Crude and garish make-up had been viciously applied to the dummy’s head. Thick smears of lipstick covered its mouth, chin and nose. Bright blue eye-shadow coated the eyes. Dark crude smudges. Black mascara stained the lower forehead above the eyes. Embedded in the mannequin’s cranium was a rusty steak knife.
‘What kind of sick joke is this?’
The kids of today. It’s all the violence on TV.’
‘It’s that talking car. It’s satanic.’
Major Bismarck was a stone-faced monolith behind his shades.
Constable van der Merwe elevated himself on his toes to get a better look from behind the circle of policemen. ‘Hey look, sir.’ He pointed at the tombstone.
J.R. BISMARCK. DEARLY DEPARTED FATHER AND HUSBAND. 1901 – 1979.
‘Isn’t this your father’s grave, sir?’ Van der Merwe asked.
‘Shut up, Constable.’ Bismarck turned and walked away. ‘Destroy that damned thing.’ The graveyard cops looked after him. ‘And cover that fucking grave.’
Four
For the next two weeks, in the rural enclave of Coffee, life went on. If by life, of course, you mean a community rocked by a mysterious disappearance and a bizarre gravesite desecration. Because try as he might, Bismarck couldn’t delay the inevitable and the word quickly got out. For the next few days, teens from across the area made macabre pilgrimages to the grave of Johannes Rudolf Bismarck, erstwhile father to De Wet and Dawid Bismarck and loving husband (we are told) to Anna-Mart Bismarck, now interred next to her husband – whose grave remained empty ... although filled once again with cold earth.
But a policeman’s work is never done. As was soon discovered when Magda Mohapi, tired but loyal domestic worker travelled to the house of Wouter Bredekamp for her Thursday work duties. There – to her great horror – she found the bloated and rotting corpse of her dead employer in his rancid study. She ran from the house screaming and promptly relocated to Welkom, on the OFS goldfields, to go and live with her sister. The body was hurriedly dispatched to the OFS capital where it would become the Bloemfontein pathologist’s problem.
So, despite a series of truly bizarre intrusions into the parochial community of Coffee, life ... well, went on.
The two Bloemfontein detectives assigned to the missing person’s case of Michelle Anna-Mart Bismarck made little headway. Initial interviews and other avenues of investigation yielded nothing. In addition, the poor missing girl’s prior history of indiscretions hardly fuelled their investigative ardour. Two weeks later they were starting to admit to each other that maybe Michelle hadn’t so much vanished as simply ... relocated. They never said it openly but certainly started forming a conclusion. Maybe the wild Bismarck girl simply didn’t want to be found.
Alte Bismarck’s anxiety and sorrow, on the other hand, increased with each new day. She and her sister communicated several times a day. Two visits to Bloemfontein did nothing to dispel her growing disquiet. As for Doctor De Wet Bismarck, he busied himself healing the sick and unwell of Coffee and the surrounding towns. Some called him stoic in his commitment to carry on with daily life despite the mysterious disappear
ance of his only daughter. Others used less flattering names.
Although the disappearance of Michelle Bismarck was troubling to many, there were many more who wondered if the wild child of Coffee wasn’t holed up somewhere with yet another bad boy, enjoying life while her poor mother was withering with grief. Yet others, more attuned to the currents of people and things, were facing a growing trepidation; a dark intuition that told them a shadowy thing had indeed boiled to the surface, right in their midst, and that this was only the beginning. They sensed
(correctly)
that dark days were ahead.
It was only these more ... intuitive people who realised that the events of the last few weeks were all inextricably linked.
Before we move on to the next crucial chapter in our dark story, we must first pay a visit to the official notice board of the Dutch Reformed Church (known by the Afrikaans abbreviation of NG amongst the people of Coffee). This is where we encounter a completely overlooked footnote to the sinister saga that was busy unfolding.
In a town called Coffee.
On the morning after Major Bismarck’s visit to his brother’s house, Tannie Martie Malherbe eagerly hurried to the NG (Nederduits Gereformeerde) church notice board. She was eager to pin a promotional flyer to the board advertising a special price on her famed koeksisters (a sweet and syrupy Malay delicacy that Afrikaner tannies like Mrs Malherbe had made their own). In a few weeks it would be the quarterly NG church Bazaar and cheap imitations from all over the district would be flooding the local koeksister market. Tannie Martie was hoping to sell at least another dozen or so batches before that time. Imagine her indignation when she discovered the greater part of the notice board crammed with an A4 poster that seemed to serve no use whatsoever. The poster contained a close-up picture of a young girl. Underneath, in large Times New Roman script, a single word.
The Man in the Wind Page 2