by Deon Meyer
'No!'
Someone bent over the motionless figure lying beside me, rolled him over. 'Snake is dead, Inkunzi.'
'Shit. Are you sure?'
'Looks like it.'
'He was a fucking fool... Make sure ...Wait. Where is her pistol?'
The man walked to where our belongings were strewn. 'Over here.'
Inkunzi came closer. 'Give it to me.' He shoved his big Smith & Wesson in his belt, took the other firearm from his assistant. It was my Glock.
'Now why would a lady carry such a gun?'
'It's mine,' I tried to say, my voice hoarse.
'What?'
'It's mine.'
'Good,' said Inkunzi, went to the body of Snake, pressed the barrel to the skull and fired. Blood, fibre, bone spattered. Flea made a high- pitched, frightened mewl. Lourens shouted, bent over, and vomited.
'Now, let's shoot a live one,' said Inkunzi and walked back to Lourens. He stood behind the bowed figure and pressed my Glock against his neck.
'Where is the stuff?' A slight African accent.
'I don't know,' Flea screamed.
'One ...'
'Please!'
'Two ...'
'Take the horns,' she screamed, terrified, shrill.
'I don't want the fucking horns.'
'So what do you want?' I groaned.
'You know very well.'
It made no sense. 'No,' I said, trying to shake my head emphatically. Bad choice.
'You stopped, back there.'
'Because you were following us.'
He inspected the defenceless neck of Lourens le Riche thoughtfully. Pulled the trigger. A shot thundered, Lourens jerked, Flea's cry was primitive. Lourens was still sitting, I realised the significance of the dust exploding from the road surface. A deliberate miss.
One heart-rending cry from Lourens. He threw up again.
Flea wept, her shoulders jerked.
The big man looked over us, one by one. Lourens gasped raggedly, he tried to stop his sobs. Then Inkunzi strolled over to me. 'You threw it in the veld.'
'What?' I asked.
He made a noise, a laugh perhaps, but his lip was split, his nose would be hurting. I took satisfaction from that. 'We know all about it,' he said and bent down, a big palm pressed to my chest.
Concussion does not lend itself to clear thinking. I didn't know what to say. 'Take the lorry,' I said. 'Take everything. Take me too. Leave them. Please.'
'No,' he said in a reasonable tone. 'Just tell me if you threw the stuff in the veld. Where must we look? Over the fence?'
'I wanted to see if you were following us. That's all.'
He thought before he answered. 'You're a pro,' he said. 'I wonder why you are here. All that fire power, the route you took. There's a reason.'
'It's because of the rhinos.'
Another grunting laugh, his face not cooperating.
'The horns are worth a lot of money,' I said.
'Chinese witchcraft,' he said and got up. 'Not my business.'
'What is your business?'
He ignored me, getting up slowly. Head bowed, deep in thought, touching his nose carefully, looking across to one of his henchmen: 'You sure there's nothing?'
'Yes, Inkunzi.'
'Shit.' He took a cloth out of his pocket, wiped my Glock with it, then tossed the weapon down with our stuff. 'We marked the place where they stopped. Three rocks on either side of the road ...'
That's why they had disappeared for a while.
'... Take the men, go look. It must be there.'
'Do we kill them now?'
He looked at me. 'This one. I would like to kill him. But first...'
He went to Flea, pulled her up by her hair. Stood against her. She twisted, but he held her ponytail in an iron grip, pulled her tight against him. He put his damaged mouth to her ear, his left hand stroked her breasts, whispered inaudibly.
She shivered.
He thrust her away, turned around quickly and came back to me. He took the Smith & Wesson out of his belt, came and stood over me with his legs apart, expressionless. Lifted the revolver.
30
To minimise the chances of being killed by a dangerous animal you need to overcome an irrational fear of the unknown, while avoiding irrational fearlessness of what you think you 'know'.
The Basics of Tracking: Dangerous animals
There is a place I go. I found it as a child, a no-man's-land, a refuge. It has protective walls, but it is not a room. Not an open space, but I can see and hear the comforting sea. I am aware of where my body is, the pain faraway and faint, but I am not there. I know my eyes are hard, they say I don't fear my father's beatings, I endure them, because I have slipped away, one step removed. I am quiet, I don't plead, I don't weep, I don't cry out. My faint smile says hit me some more, come on, lay it on me. One day I'll be back. To offload. To dish it out.
I found my place, looked him in the eye as he cocked his gun. Grinned.
He stood like that for a long time, finger on the trigger.
Then he shook his head. 'You are a mad man.' He lowered his gun. 'I know where to find you.' He walked away. 'Let's go,' he shouted.
I didn't move. Just lay there in no-man's-land.
I heard them drag Snake's corpse off somewhere, then their footsteps moved away from us. Car doors slammed. Engines revved, tyres crunched, gravel clipping against the truck, clouds of dust bloomed. I heard them drive off, saw the lights disappear one after the other, until the darkness descended on us like sweet mercy. Flea van Jaarsveld sobbed quietly. One despairing breath tore through Lourens.
I looked up at the stars, watched how they brightened gradually.
The drone of vehicles died away at last.
Then I came back. In my own time. I sat up in the road. Did not see Flea.
I stood up. Sore, shaky on my feet. I walked over to where Lourens had knelt. I found them both there in the dark. She had her arms around him, her hand stroked the back of his head, comforting. He just sat.
I gathered our things. Everything was inside out, strewn across the road. My Glock tossed aside. I found a torch among the scattered belongings, went looking for the MAG. It was gone.
I walked around the Mercedes. Tyres were fine. They had left the cap off the diesel tank. I found it behind the wheel and tried to twist it on. Something was in the way - a long wire, bent double, with a hook on the end. I pulled it out and threw it into the veld.
Inspected the cab. Every compartment with a cover was open. More mess. I tidied up, closed everything. Fetched everything that was outside and packed it all away. Lourens and Flea must have nothing to remind them of what had happened.
The rhinos were unhappy, they jostled and stamped and fidgeted. I looked at my watch. Twenty to two. Between half past one and two I have to inject them again.
I loaded everything that had been outside back into the cab. Went over to Lourens and Flea. They were still sitting like that.
'I'll drive,' I said, quietly. 'We have to go. The rhinos must be injected.'
Flea got up. She pulled Lourens by the shoulder. He got up. They walked to the passenger door. His head was bowed, in a daze.
I got behind the wheel, slammed the door and waited for them. Then I started the engine, struggled with the gears, switched on the lights and pulled slowly away. Concentrated, trying to get the feel of the vehicle, the full extent of its weight. Tried not to blame myself, but unsuccessfully. I should have protected them. I should never have jumped out. I should have jumped out sooner. We should have stopped, called the police. I should have confronted our pursuers, a few hours before, when there were only two or three.
I should have protected them.
I should have started shooting, created chaos.
We were outnumbered. There was only so much I could do, alone.
Why had Diederik sent me along?
I should have protected them.
Thirty kilometres further, Lourens asked in a whisper, 'Do you
have the proper licence, Oom?' his voice was without expression.
'No.'
'I'll be all right soon.'
At Vaalwater, under the bright lights of a petrol station, she clambered over the cages and injected one rhino, and then the other.
Petrol attendants watched us with wary, shifting eyes. There was blood on my face.
I let them fill up with diesel, checked over the truck again. Everything seemed right. I went to the restroom. Saw myself in the mirror, looked bad. One eye swollen, a deep cut on the eyebrow. Flecks of Snake's brain on my ear. I washed thoroughly and for a long time.
In the cafe I bought four litres of Coke, they needed sugar.
Lourens said: 'I will drive.'
'Soon,' I said and made him drink some cola. 'You can navigate.'
At two forty-five, we drove out of town. His voice was emotionless as he gave directions.
I wanted to talk to them. I wanted to tell them fear was not a disgrace. I wanted to explain to them how violence and fear stripped you of your dignity, that you mustn't allow that to happen. I wanted to explain trauma to them, the process, the mechanisms to fight it. Like revenge.
I couldn't find the words.
Eventually Lourens fished out his CDs from a compartment. He chose one and pushed it into the player, turned up the volume. I looked at the cover. Arsis. We are the Nightmare.
Death metal washed over us, surreal, otherworldly, until there was room for nothing else.
When the CD had played through, the silence was heavy, like lead. Then Lourens said, 'Oom, I'm all right now.'
'I'll drive until just before Rustenburg. Try to sleep a little. There's still a long road ahead.'
He hesitated before saying: 'OK.'
'Do you want a cushion?' Flea asked.
'No, thanks. You should try to sleep too.'
There was a bond between them now.
'I'm sorry,' I said.
'It wasn't your fault.'
I didn't reply.
'There was nothing you could have done, Oom.'
I wanted to believe him. They were too many.
'What were they after?' Flea asked, of no one in particular.
'I don't know.'
She turned to me. 'Are you sure?'
'No,' Lourens stopped her. 'Oom Diederik only asked him to come along yesterday.'
'Why?'
That was the question.
'I will find out,' I said. Diederik Brand had the answer. The old bastard. Black Swan of the Bo-Karoo. 'I will find out.'
They slept, for two hours.
I understood the process Lourens was working through. The closeness of death, the shock of a first confrontation with brutality. The inability to understand or accept that people were capable of such violence. That the world really was a place where the most violent ruled. I was eight years old when my father began to beat me. To punish my mother for her unfaithfulness. A child learns more quickly, adapts more easily if he knows no other life. But Lourens was the product of a stable, loving family that had given him self worth and pride, love and respect for others.
That had all been snatched away.
Seventy kilometres before Rustenburg the sun came up, angled from the left, so that I had to fold down the sun visor. Lourens woke up.
'How do you feel?' I asked.
'Better, thank you, Oom. Ready to drive.' There was a false note to his enthusiasm.
I stopped and got out. Throbbing headache, left eye swollen shut, aching body, but hopefully the worst of the damage was a cracked rib. In front of the truck Lourens put a hand on my arm. 'Oom, there's nothing we could have done.'
I looked at him, saw the earnest expression. I merely nodded.
As we pulled away, Flea woke up with a start, checked her watch and picked up the map. 'Ventersdorp,' she said. 'At six o'clock I must inject them again.'
I made him stop at a garage in Rustenburg so we could use the restrooms. I wanted to see if there was blood in my urine.
There was none. Flea emerged from the cafe with two brown paper bags. When we drove out again she took out a packet of painkillers for me, sandwiches, coffee and Coke. She plied Lourens with food and drink. There was a determined air about her, an inner strength.
I felt I had been wrong about her.
Lourens turned on the radio. We listened to the news on RSG, all the troubles of the country and the world, self-inflicted, without exception. Annus horribilis.
He stopped at twenty to six. They clambered onto the back, she with her medical bag. He helped her to sedate the animals. I stood beside the Mercedes, superfluous, and watched a tractor plough rows in a field.
Just before we got going, Nicola phoned. 'We are behind schedule ...' said Lourens. 'I guess about seven o'clock tonight. No, no ... just a bit tired ...We're OK.'
Which we probably were. No use talking about last night's events.
Beyond Hartebeesfontein, Lourens's silence grew too much for her. She said: 'Tell me about the Bo-Karoo,' her voice was as intimate and soft as a lover's. He took a deep breath before replying, at first just cursorily polite. She kept on questioning him. About his family, about himself. That was her strategy. A good one. Lourens's voice gradually gained momentum, a painfully slow return to who he was. He was still young, I thought. And tough. Maybe he would find his way back home.
The painkillers made me drowsy. I fought sleep, using my frustration, my anger as a counter. Diederik Brand. I looked forward to seeing him again. And Inkunzi. I would go and find him. I would make him kneel with the Glock against the back of his head. Strip him of his self respect, as he had done to Lourens, pull the trigger, watch his body jerk in terror. Give him a taste of death.
My cellphone woke me. Body sore and aching, I felt for it in my pocket, pressed the wrong button, the ringing suddenly stopped.
'Where are we?' The dashboard clock said it was 08.41.
'Coming up to Hertzogville. You had a good sleep, Oom.'
Lemmer, the ever-vigilant bodyguard.
I pressed the keys of my phone to see who had called. Jeanette. I called her back.
'How are things going?' she asked, full of her usual morning fire and spirit.
'We are making progress.' I would tell her everything later, when I was alone.
'Your friend Diederik hasn't paid yet.'
'He is not my friend.'
'I thought you were all friends out there in the boondocks.'
'I will see him tonight. He is going to pay.'
'What gives me the idea that this trip isn't all you dreamed it would be?'
'I'll call you tonight.'
'Lemmer, is everything all right?'
'It will be.'
She caught on quickly. 'You can't talk. Is there something I should be worrying about?'
'No.'
'Call me when you can,' her voice was uneasy.
She didn't let anyone mess with her people.
31
Virtually all conceivable actions leave distinctive markings, which may make it possible for the tracker to reconstruct the animal's activities.
The Art of Tracking: Spoor interpretation
Lourens thawed. He said to Flea: 'You love rhinos.'
A shrug of her shoulders said 'not necessarily'. 'The Hook Lip is endangered.'
'The who clip?'
'The Hook Lip. That's the real name of the black rhino. The white rhino is the Square Lip, if you look you can see the difference clearly.'
'How endangered?'
'In 1970 there were 65,000, in 1993 there were only 2,000 left.'
'In the world?'
She nodded. 'Ninety-six per cent murdered.'
'Jissie. And now?'
'About 3,700.'
'OK,' said Lourens. 'I get it.' Then: 'It's for the horns? Because the Chinese believe the horns make you ... fertile ...'
'No, that's a myth. They believe it helps for fever. Most of the horns get ground up for that. About a third are carved. For ornaments. And dagge
r handles. In Yemen and Oman a dagger with a rhino horn handle is a big status symbol.'
'But numbers are rising again?'
She snorted, indignant. 'Not for long. Last year they shot thirty-six black rhino in our own national parks, another fifty in private game reserves ...'
'Who did?'
'Thieves. Poachers. Everyone is in on the game, white and black. In the Congo and Zim the slaughter is on a much bigger scale, because nobody cares, nobody stops them. Last year they caught four men in Zim who confessed to killing eighteen rhinos. The police just let them go-'
'That's why you are helping with this trip?'
She nodded. 'You'll see. If these two survive ... It will make a big difference.'
Diederik Brand was hiding behind that. The Noble Deed. With his charm and acts of conservation. But there was a snake in the grass.
What had Inkunzi and his gang been looking for?
A wire with a hook in the diesel tank? Just tell me if you threw the stuff in the veld. Where must we look? Over the fence?
They had searched the truck. Our belongings. Something small enough to be hidden in a sports bag, light enough to throw over a fence?
You're a pro. I wonder why you are here. And that fire power, the route you took. There's a reason.
Diederik had organised the so-called 'pro'. Provided the MAG and, most likely, prescribed the route, with the lame excuse of 'avoiding weighbridges'.
I asked Flea: 'How much does a rhino horn weigh?'
'About three kilos.'
Easy enough to throw a bag of rhino horns into the veld. But he'd said Chinese witchcraft. Not my business. He could have been lying deliberately, in case we didn't know what he was talking about.
'Ehrlichmann. What do you know about him?'
'He used to be a game ranger.'
'Who has to survive as a safari guide in a country where tourism doesn't happen any more. Was he there when you loaded?'
'He was in charge of it.' She got my drift. 'Do you think he ...'
'Who else was there?'
She thought about it. 'Just the workers. And the drivers.'
'You saw the whole loading process?'
'Not everything. I was busy with the rhinos.'
Lourens and I had been there for the transfer to the Mercedes. The only things that had been moved from one lorry to the other had been the two cages.