The Man in the Wind

by Vernon W. Baumann

  WHY?

  Filled with the firm conviction that bored teens from the town were playing a practical joke – and unshakeably convinced that her koeksister advert was of far greater importance anyway – she hurriedly tore the poster from the notice board ... after making sure no-one witnessed her little indiscretion, of course. If tannie Martie had taken more time to actually study the bizarre poster she would have realised the picture featured the missing Bismarck girl. Another cursory glance would have revealed to her that the girl in the photograph was in great distress indeed. And that (barely visible at the bottom of the picture) her hands were bound.

  But tannie Martie didn’t do any of these things. She was far too concerned with the cutthroat realities of the koeksister business. On her way out, she neatly dumped the crumpled-up poster into a dustbin.

  Keep South Africa beautiful.

  She was, after all, an upstanding citizen.

  Sad. Unfortunate. That she did this.

  Maybe more lives would have been spared.

  About two weeks after the disappearance of Michelle Bismarck the unthinkable happened.

  Five

  Manie Botha was a good boy.

  He loved life. He loved his parents. And he loved the town of Coffee. Not necessarily in that order.

  Manie Botha was also a good son. If the first part of that year was anything to go by he was going to be at the top of his grade ten class. There was no reason to assume he wouldn’t be head-boy two years from then. Just like his father. Manie didn’t only excel at school. Although he was one of the youngest players he had been nominated as the captain of Coffee High School’s under-eighteen cricket team. No mean feat as the cricket team had for quite some time been the town’s pride and joy. The rugby team was, unfortunately, a different story (not discussed in polite society). In addition to his achievements on the cricket pitch, Manie was also a star tennis player. This was more of an extra-curricular activity as the size of Coffee’s only (white) high school prohibited it from offering tennis as a sport. It didn’t matter though. With the dedication and drive that characterised all of the men of his family, Manie had already progressed so far with his extra-curricular tennis that he wanted to try-out for OFS colours before the end of the year. Who knows ... there’s every reason to suspect he would have passed the try-outs with flying colours.

  It’s difficult to say. Because Friday, the thirteenth of June, nineteen-eighty-six ... was his last day on earth.

  Manie spent the afternoon playing a game of tennis with his best friend, Fred van der Merwe – no relation to our rookie constable. Although Manie was by far the best player of the two, Fred won that Friday’s game in straight sets. Manie seemed distracted and depressed. Fred couldn’t understand why. There was more than enough reason to be excited, after all. Trudie Gerber was hosting a party at her house that night. After much old-fashioned courting (there is no other kind in a place like Coffee) Fred had managed to secure the affections of Miss Gerber. They were officially going “steady” and that night would be their first evening spent together. The possibilities of some sort of physical intimacy (and by that we mean an innocent kiss or two and nothing else) was virtually certain. Manie was invited too. So, yes. There was much reason to be excited. Who cared that it was Friday the thirteenth?

  So why was Manie so upset?

  The last few months had been an exciting time for Manie Botha. School was going well. His sporting activities were going according to plan. And in a few months it would be his eighteenth birthday. Who knew what wonderful gifts his wealthy parents would materialise this time. It’s after all not every day the son of the Mayor of Coffee turns eighteen.

  But there was yet another reason why the previous few months had been an exciting time. You see, Manie had also been seeing someone. But unlike his more demure friend, Manie’s relationship had gone a whole lot further than just a few innocent kisses.

  Who was this mysterious girl that Manie had been seeing for the last few months?

  Fred had tried on more than once occasion to get the “dirt” from his friend. But without success. Try as he might, Manie simply wouldn’t tell his best friend who the enigmatic love interest was. ‘I can’t tell anyone. It’s someone my father wouldn’t approve of,’ was all that Manie revealed time and time again.

  ‘I’m not your father,’ Fred would say. ‘Come on, tell me.’

  ‘If you paid more attention to your serve rather than my love life, maybe your game would actually improve.’

  ‘You’re not dating a meid from the township, are you?’

  Meid.

  An extremely derogatory Afrikaans name for a black woman.

  ‘I don’t date my friends’ mothers.’ The reciprocal insult would be followed by a particularly vicious serve that invariably added yet another point to Manie’s score.

  You see, Manie wasn’t being particularly truthful. It wasn’t only his father (or his mother for that matter) who would disprove of his mysterious girlfriend. If the secret got out ... well, let’s just say the community of Coffee would be shocked to its very core.

  Because just like everyone else in Coffee (it seemed), Manie was harbouring a dark secret. It’s no wonder then he revealed nothing. To no-one.

  Could this be the reason why Manie was so despondent on that fateful Friday? Fred certainly couldn’t understand why his friend’s mood was so dark on that day. Especially considering the sketchy details Manie had been providing him over the last few months.

  Whatever the case, the two friends had agreed to meet at Trudie Gerber’s party later that night. After the game the friends parted ways. Fred went to his modest house in the south-western part of town. A shower. A light meal. And a lazy early evening on the couch watching an episode of Airwolf his mom had recorded on the old Sony Betamax. And Manie? He told Fred he was going to meet a friend. Who was this mysterious friend? Fred had no idea. It was yet another relationship that he kept secret from Fred. What the hell was Manie’s case?

  Fred went home. While Manie walked away.

  And disappeared into the dark gaping maw of the world.

  Never to be seen again.

  Later that night Fred arrived at Trudie’s party. Reeking of his father’s Brut. The evening was everything he had hoped for. And those innocent kisses? Well, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell – so to speak – but let’s just say Fred was more than satisfied. Maybe it was because of this that Fred only started missing his friend much later that night. Sure. He knew Manie was off to see his mysterious friend – cue Twilight Zone music – but was it so difficult to tear himself away from his new friend and join his best bud at the party of the year? Seriously.

  That night, Fred went home without having seen his friend at all.

  At the Botha house, Manie’s mother and father were none the wiser. As far as they were concerned, Manie was sleeping over at Fred’s place – an arrangement that had been made several weeks before.

  When the morning sun swept the bucolic landscape of Coffee the next morning no-one was the wiser concerning Manie’s mysterious disappearance. However, when the fiery orb rolled across its zenith and there was still no word from their – generally – responsible son, Carol-Ann Botha (Manie’s mother) became concerned. After a call to Fred’s house revealed her son wasn’t there and that Fred hadn’t seen him the previous evening either, her concern exploded into full-blown anxiety. This simply wasn’t like her son. When several dozen calls to numbers across Coffee produced nothing her anxiety became outright panic.

  Being the mayor’s son, Major Bismarck was immediately contacted and search parties were organised that same afternoon. Being a small town where everyone knew everyone else, virtually the entire town became involved in the extensive search. Further alerts were sent to police stations across the region.

  Immediately an unpleasant suspicion began to grow in the hearts of the good people of Coffee. At first no-one spoke about it openly. But that didn’t prevent it from growing like wild fire.
And when the afternoon became evening and the evening rolled into the bitterly cold morning hours, the suspicion had acquired a permanent home in the minds of the search volunteers and the other residents of Coffee.

  Could it be ... could it possibly be ... that the disappearance of Manie Botha was somehow linked to the earlier disappearance of Michelle Bismarck? And was it then at all possible that “wild child” Michelle was not holed up in some drug den, once again derelict and AWOL? Could it be possible that some singular dark force was responsible for the disappearance of two of Coffee’s most privileged offspring? At first the realisation was only spoken of in hushed tones, in isolated clusters. But as the sun rose over that Sunday morning, the hushed tones were being replaced by open speculation ... and wild “rumour mongering”.

  Yes. Indeed. What if the disappearances were linked?

  It was a realisation that sank a cold dagger into the hearts of Coffee’s residents.

  And then of course, something else happened. Something which pushed the dagger even deeper. And twisted it. Violently.

  That next morning the first shift of the search party – Major Bismarck is nothing if not a consummate organiser – was busy heading home. Around breakfast tables the second group of volunteers were getting ready for the day’s activities. It was Sunday. On Sunday nothing happens in Coffee. Only church, of course. The NG church to be specific. (The Afrikaans language hardly contains any translations of Catholic terms simply because there aren’t any Afrikaans Catholics – that’s how thoroughly protestant the Afrikaner nation is.) All the businesses are closed and the pace gets even more sedentary – if that is at all possible. After church people disperse to their houses – or those of extended families – for the legendary Sunday roast. This Sunday would be different, however.

  It was still a quiet Coffee Sunday though. And, on that morning, when Hannes van der Walt, team leader of the second volunteer shift drove through the early morning streets of Coffee, not a soul stirred the landscape. Which must have made his horrendous discovery all the more eerie – and sinister.

  The second shift was supposed to meet at the Caltex garage on De Beers Street. That morning Hannes drove through the quiet streets of Coffee in his ’83 Toyota Hilux, sharing the general mood of disquiet that had settled over the town the previous day. He lived slightly outside of town, on a wreck-strewn smallholding to the east of Coffee. As he entered De Beers Street, the main street of Coffee, his mind was on the day’s activities. And the strange events of the last two weeks.

  Which was why he only saw it well past the OK Bazaars Supermarket.

  Hannes braked hard. And immediately jumped from his bakkie (pick-up).

  ‘Dear God.’

  Hannes clambered back into the cabin of his Hilux, his face ashen. And raced towards the house of Coffee’s police chief.

  About fifteen minutes later – everywhere in Coffee is a five minute drive – Dawid Bismarck and Mayor Lloyd Botha were standing in De Beers Street, in front of the OK Bazaars Supermarket. By now others from the morning volunteer shift had come across the spectacle. About half a dozen cars were parked along this stretch of De Beers. About two dozen people had now gathered in Coffee’s main street. Watching with stunned disbelief.

  All the business premises at the southern tip of Coffee had been covered with posters. Every conceivable available space on every wall and every window had been pasted with posters. The entire southern CBD of Coffee had become one giant notice board. Whatever had happened at the NG notice board two weeks before wasn’t going to happen again.

  The people of Coffee stared in mute shock.

  There were at least two thousand posters. Two thousand copies of the same poster.

  The A4 posters featured a blurry photograph of Manie Botha. From his tortured expression it was clear he was obviously in extreme distress. Large terror-stricken eyes stared at the people of Coffee. At the bottom of the photograph his hands were visible. They were tightly bound.

  Underneath, in large Times New Roman letters, the single word:

  WHY?

  A mute horror drifted across the people on Coffee’s main street.

  ‘No-one must find out about this.’ Mayor Lloyd Botha turned to Dawid Bismarck as he spoke. His hushed tones barely concealed his rage. Next to him the station commander remained stony behind his dark shades. He nodded in mute agreement. Mayor Botha stepped forward. And addressed the people from the second volunteer shift. ‘Vat af hierdie fokken kak.’

  Take down this fucking shit.

  He turned and glared at the station commander. For a moment the two men stood. Sharing an unspeakable truth. Then the mayor turned and climbed into his Mercedes Benz. Dawid Bismarck remained on the sidewalk. Sharp angular features casting shadows across his face. He stood looking at the volunteers as they slowly started taking down the shocking posters. Behind his Ray Bans he was an immovable wall, betraying no emotion whatsoever.

  Six

  The volunteers quickly set about taking down the offensive posters. Major Dawid Bismarck revoked the alerts sent to the region’s police stations, informing them that the matter had been “resolved”. The search parties were cancelled.

  It seemed as if the mayor’s enigmatic command that ‘no-one should find out’ was about to be flawlessly executed.

  That was until a completely serendipitous event changed everything.

  On that same Sunday morning that the Coffee volunteers were hard at work tearing down the mysterious posters, Jan Treurnicht came rolling down the R48 heading back to Bloemfontein. He had spent the weekend hunting at a Luckhoff game-farm and his Leyland Land Rover was packed with strips of Kudu meat that he intended to turn into Biltong – another famous South African delicacy known as beef jerky in other parts of the world. Noting that his gas-guzzling 4x4 was low on diesel, Treurnicht decided to enter the town of Coffee and head for the petrol station. Catching sight of the posters may have produced no consequences at all. Except for the fact that he was the Orange Free State Minister for Safety and Security. As he passed the giant tin coffee-pot he noticed that a large group of people were milling around in the street. He pulled up alongside the group of Coffee residents and watched with perplexed curiosity as they were going about their mysterious activities.

  ‘Dagsê,’ he greeted jovially.

  Good day.

  One of the elder residents detached himself and walked towards the Land Rover, guarded and suspicious. He shifted his hand clutching a crumpled-up poster slightly behind his back. ‘Dagsê,’ he said, returning the greeting.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ The minister asked, smiling politely.

  The elderly man looked over his shoulder and back again. ‘Why don’t you just be on your way, friend? This doesn’t concern you.’

  The minister’s smile vanished. He pulled the latch of his door and stepped from the Land Rover. ‘I tell you what, friend. My name is Jan Treurnicht and I’m the Minister for Safety and Security. And maybe you haven’t noticed ... but there’s a national state of emergency.’ He pointed at the group of people, all who had stopped working to witness the growing spectacle. ‘So why don’t you tell me exactly what the hell is going on here or I will have every single one of you detained under the Public Security Act.’

  There was silence as the citizens from Coffee stared at the bigwig from the OFS capital. If Bismarck or Botha had been there with their vastly superior political skills ... things may have turned out differently. The volunteers gathered there that day were anything but experienced in the shady art of politics however.

  A portly man with a balding pate stepped forward. ‘Sir.’ He looked with uncertainty at the others. ‘Two youngsters from Coffee have disappeared in the last few weeks.’

  The minister looked on with astonishment. ‘In the last few weeks? What in God’s name are you talking about, man?’ He glared at the group. ‘Have our Bloemfontein offices been informed?’ The group exchanged puzzled glances. The minister cursed softly. ‘Jy praat van blank
e kinders wat vermis is?’

  Are these white kids that are missing?

  The elderly volunteer looked at his colleague next to him. He nodded slowly.

  ‘Good God, man. Were you really hoping to deal with this thing on your own?’ He pointed in the vague direction from where he had come. ‘Do you know what de dônner is happening out there? It’s a state of emergency, gentlemen. Our country is under attack from all sides.’ He looked up the street. ‘Where’s the nearest phone?’

  The portly man pointed at the Caltex garage up the street. ‘You can phone from the office, sir.’ The minister cast one last reproving look at the men then climbed into his Land Rover and raced towards the petrol station. One frenzied call led to another and another. And another. Eventually the phone in the residence of the National Commissioner of the South African Police began to ring.

  Meanwhile, to the north-west of the town something bizarre yet strangely familiar had happened. No-one had yet noticed. But another grave site had just been desecrated.

  Seven

  In the heart of Pretoria, at number seventy Church Street to be precise, is located the Pretoria Murder and Robbery Unit. Situated right next door is the historic Paul Kruger House Museum. If you happened to be admiring the former house of one of South Africa’s most famous – and pugilistic – historical figures on the morning of the seventeenth of June, you may have heard the insistent ringing of a telephone coming from the building’s western wing.

  It was one of those desert-beige government-issue telephones with a large round dial. Like a cockroach it is designed to survive a nuclear war. Like a cockroach you simply can’t ignore it once it catches your attention. From the hallway that connects this corner office to all the others on the third floor, a tall man with pale features entered the office. He had a pleasant open face and a shock of thick black hair neatly gelled into place. In his hand was a mug of coffee which he placed on the ample desk. He grabbed the phone. ‘Captain Shaun Hertzog.’ His eyes narrowed as he listened to the speaker on the other side. ‘Hm-huh. Hm-huh.’ He paused. ‘I see. Yes, of course, sir.’ He listened intently. ‘Yes. Right away.’ Behind (Detective) Captain Shaun Hertzog another man entered. Their appearances couldn’t have been more different. Lieutenant Jools van Sant had a youthful freckled face framed by black horn-rimmed glasses and a thick unruly bush of curly hair that resembled a red 70’s afro. He was sipping on a coffee as he entered the office, looking at Hertzog with narrowed eyes. Not taking his eyes from his superior officer, Detective Jools van Sant seated himself at one of three desks in the small office. ‘Absolutely. You have my word, sir.’ Jools caught the other Hertzog’s eye. He lifted a palm up to the ceiling. Hertzog nodded in grim confirmation of their wordless communication. ‘I’ll get it organised. Thank you, sir.’ And with that he ended the call.