The Lost Boys of Bird Island: A shocking exposé from within the heart of the NP government

by Mark Minnie

  It appears as if Mickey has derived some sort of pleasure out of this. His expression of contentment verifies this impression. Jacques turns his back and leaves the room. He enunciates his final exit from the house by banging the front door shut. The sound reverberates throughout the premises. I’m stunned, but the three Harper brothers don’t seem the least concerned.

  The noise of the slamming door brings the brothers’ stepmother to the bedroom. She’s a young woman – pretty, but sad. She’s always sad; I’m not sure why. At that moment, all she does is glare at us. Then she leaves the room.

  Then Gina enters. My spirits lift instantly. Her long, blonde hair is wet. She must have just got out of the bath. Our eyes meet and I get the impression that she’s glad to see me.

  I’m feeling uncomfortable in the room, so I suggest to Ferdie that we go play some cricket in the back yard. He agrees. There’s no need to invite Mickey or Bryce for a game. They never play any sport with the boys in the neighbourhood.

  By the time Gina emerges from the house, Ferdie and I are well into the game. The sight of her gives me the courage to suggest a break. Ferdie agrees and disappears into the house. Gina’s wearing a tight-fitting white V-neck shirt, no bra. I can’t hide the bulge of excitement pressing against my shorts.

  She signals for me to follow her, and we go into the basement. It’s dark and damp inside, but I don’t care. Six cement pillars support the weight of the house above. Gina leans against one. I walk up to her and press my body against hers.

  ‘You need to roll your tongue against mine,’ she whispers in my ear.

  No need for me to reply. I just follow her lead. Never before have I experienced such a wonderful, warm, intensely satisfying feeling.

  ‘We can do it again tomorrow,’ she says afterwards.

  I’m really looking forward to it. She pulls me closer and I kiss her again.

  Suddenly, my world of intense pleasure comes to an abrupt halt. The twins catch Gina and I French-kissing. They came into the basement without the two of us noticing.

  ‘What the fuck is happening here?’ Bryce yells.

  ‘Fuck outa here, Gina. Right now!’ Mickey screams in a high-pitched voice.

  Gina’s off in a whiff. I’m left alone with the twins. And I’m nervous as hell.

  ‘So, you’re trying to fuck our sister, aren’t you? You’re a little prick,’ Mickey says scornfully.

  ‘No, Mickey. It’s not like that,’ is all that I can offer in return.

  ‘Don’t fucking lie to us. We saw what you were doing, you little cunt,’ he blurts out angrily.

  I’m hoping that they’re going to turn this into a joke where we all walk away laughing. But not so.

  ‘Pull the little prick’s pants down. Let’s see what happened,’ Bryce orders.

  Mickey proceeds to pull down my pants as well as underwear to below my knees. Two seventeen-year old guys making a mockery of me. Suddenly, without any provocation from my side, their mood changes to one of violence.

  Mickey strikes me across the face with a flat hand. It stuns me somewhat. Thereafter, he immediately places me in a head grip and starts choking the life out of me. With gasping breath, I plead with him to stop.

  ‘It’s all a mistake, a mistake,’ I desperately cry out.

  Then Bryce joins the fray. I feel many hands around my body, trying to hold me still. I’m not sure what their intentions are. If their aim is to beat me up, why aren’t they raining blows on my face and body?

  It’s more like a wrestling match between them and me. But I’m fighting for my life. These dudes are serious. Gasping for air, I feel the energy being slowly drained from my body. My lungs are on fire. Eventually, one of them manages to clamp my head and neck between his knees, holding my limp arms still at the same time. I’m staring at the ground. The other twin removes what’s left of my short pants and underwear from the lower half of my body.

  ‘We’re going to fuck you silly now, you little cunt,’ the twin who’s occupying a position behind me states breathlessly.

  What happens next causes me to cry out to God for help, begging him to make them stop. It feels like the lower half of my torso is being ripped apart. The twins take it upon themselves to switch positions, holding my limp carcass in the air. I can bear this no longer. I call out to God again to help me. Thankfully, he answers my prayers. I slip into a world of darkness. No more fear. No more pain. Complete nothingness.

  I am not sure how long this all lasts. But the resurgence of a searing pain rouses me from unconsciousness.

  I’m alone, thank the Lord. Spread out on the cold basement floor with the lower part of my body unclothed. My neck aches like hell, but that’s nothing in comparison to the feeling in my lower torso. I’m burning up, as if red-hot flames are licking away at my exposed skin.

  I scratch around and retrieve my torn and damaged pants and underwear. I need to cover my body. I’m finding it difficult to walk. I hobble painfully out of the basement and exit the back yard via a small gate giving access to a lane. It’s raining. What appear to be purple droplets of rain lash out at me as I struggle to find my way home.

  I tell no one what has happened, fearing that if I do my stepfather will knock the hell out of me for allowing this to happen. Even when someone else in the neighbourhood complained about the twins to his parents, who rushed to the cops who then came to question my parents, I kept quiet.

  I was terrified of being tagged a moffie. Kids are cruel. That stigma would not wash off easily.

  I never found out how the investigation ended. The twins’ father murdered the stepmother a short while later. He was arrested and released on bail. That’s when he and his children moved out of the neighbourhood. The newspaper carried an article many months later, stating that the father had been acquitted on the murder charge because the stepmother died of a heart attack. Some years after that, I heard that one twin had undergone a sex-change operation, paid for by one of the richest men in town.

  Back then I was too young to understand the legal implications of what I had experienced. I blamed myself for the attack, believing that what I was doing with Gina provoked the twins into teaching me a lesson. I’ve lived with this secret for a long, long time.

  Memories of that incident in the Harpers’ basement often churned in my mind on those long drives with my stepfather. It intensified my hatred of him, and my wish that he was dead.

  Nevertheless, the beatings continued. My mom eventually divorced my stepfather after all the kids had left the house. He killed himself a short while later. The bastard jumped off a chair with one end of a rope secured around his neck and the other end tied to a roof beam. He wasn’t mourned, especially not by me.

  11

  Arresting Uncle Dave

  Gordon’s rapping on the window of my car brings me back to reality. Uncle Dave is the current occupier of the house that I regarded as my ‘beacon’ so many years ago.

  In the garden, I see four teenagers hosing down wetsuits. They’re bare-chested, sporting well-toned upper bodies. You need to be fit for the sport of underwater diving,

  I knock on the front door, with Gordon standing next to me. As the door opens I recognise my suspect, Dave Allen. I’ve seen his mug often enough in the newspaper. He’s a good-looking man, in the mould of a young Clint Eastwood, with longish brown hair atop a head sporting a smooth and handsome clean-shaven face.

  He has broad shoulders and a muscular chest, with both arms displaying a decent set of biceps. This dude is an athlete, make no mistake. I’m sure that there’s a rippling six-pack beneath the T-shirt. This is the type of guy women swoon over. They’d love him to place his shoes beneath their beds.

  Dave Allen is a cult figure in our hometown. He hobnobs with the crème de la crème of society. He discovered the wrecks of the Sacramento and the Doddington just off the South African coastline a few years ago, and donated some cannons, muskets and ammunition to the local museum. He’s highly respected by many. But not by me. />
  I introduce Gordon and myself, displaying the search warrant at the same time. The warrant has been issued by the brigadier. It’s all legal, but I’ve kept it close. I did not fancy applying for the warrant through the office of the senior public prosecutor. Dave Allen has fingers in many pies. Any leak whatsoever and my investigation would most likely be scuppered.

  I tell Allen what he needs to know, and that’s all. We’re here to search for pornography and pornographic-related material. He’s immediately up in arms.

  ‘I’m a lieutenant in the South African Police,’ he protests. ‘And right now I have guests. This is a most inopportune time. Can you please return later?’

  He’s pulling the rank card, but it’s a wasted effort. He’s a reservist lieutenant, an honorary appointment. I’m a fully fledged cop vested with genuine power and authority, although I’m only a sergeant. I’m his senior in this situation, and I am sure to let him know that.

  ‘You’ll have to get rid of your guests,’ I tell him, ‘because I’m executing this warrant immediately. If anything untoward is found on your property, I will be obliged to arrest everyone present. The choice is yours.’

  I follow him into the house, determined not to let him out of my sight. Allen’s house guests are two young effeminate boys. They immediately sense that something’s up and take off like a shot. It must have been my refusal to return their smiles.

  As I had advised Gordon, I expect that the porn is somewhere in his bedroom. My witness had vouched for this from his hospital bed. So I play a little game with Uncle Dave. We search the lounge first. Nothing. Then the kitchen. Nothing. The bathroom turns up blank as well. But as I edge closer to his bedroom, I notice he is visibly nervous.

  Finally, we go into the bedroom. By now, Uncle Dave is a wreck. Gordon and I are old hands at this sort of search, but we’re coming up with absolute zilch. Not a single porn magazine or video anywhere. I return to the wardrobe. I’ve already checked it, inside out as well as top to bottom. I climb back on the chair to check the top shelf once again. Then my eye catches something I must have missed before: an indentation to the left and right of the wardrobe’s top panel. I call for a torch. Gordon obliges. And Uncle Dave is now very jittery.

  Situated below each indentation are two miniature handles. I tug at both of them simultaneously. Pain shoots through my broken pinkie but there’s no stopping me.

  The entire top panel of the wardrobe lifts. I’m close, I know. The pain in my finger is forgotten. The panel rises 90 degrees, revealing a hidden compartment. And there it is: a pile of pornographic literature, gay magazines and videos filling the compartment to the hilt. Everything appears to be of a homosexual nature.

  ‘Bingo,’ I say, winking at Gordon.

  The suspect calmly sits down on the bed and states resignedly, ‘Okay, you’ve got me.’

  This angers me. Got you, you piece of shit? Is that what you think? Got you for possession of pornographic material? Big deal. Your shock is still coming. I don’t only have you, I’m going to fucking bury you, I think to myself. If only I could say it out loud.

  Uncle Dave has now adopted a smug attitude. Possession of porn does not carry a hefty sentence. It’ll be a small fine, that’s all. And he knows it. His smugness prompts in me an urge to drive my fist through his chest. Fuck him – I’m going to bring him down to earth.

  Forcing myself to remain calm, I haul out the case docket that I’ve been concealing under my shirt.

  ‘Mr Dave Allen, I’m arresting you for the possession of pornographic material, which is filed as charge 1. I’m also arresting you for allegedly committing sexual offences with minor persons, to wit, boys under the age of nineteen, also commonly known as statutory rape. This will be filed as charge 2. You have the right to remain silent or you can choose to make a statement. Should you wish to make a statement, it will be taken down in writing and may be used as evidence against you. Do you understand?’

  He’s utterly bewildered, unable to accept that his little private world has been infiltrated by the long arm of the law. He’s untouchable, or so he thought, with friends in very high places.

  ‘Sergeant Lamastra, please secure the suspect in accordance with police regulations.’

  Gordon handcuffs Uncle Dave’s hands behind his back while I hastily gather all the evidence from the hidden compartment. We march him outside to my vehicle. His protégés are now standing close by. Their supposed hero has taken a massive fall. I’m enjoying the humiliation he’s enduring and I consider my feelings justified. This one is for me and all the other children these fuckers prey on.

  We wrap up the arrest earlier than expected. Gordon still has time on his hands and agrees to follow us to the cop shop. I proceed to the Louis le Grange Square police station, Gordon in tow.

  Dave Allen is seated next to me. He’s not so smug any more. In fact, he’s displaying signs of defeat. There is an aura of hopelessness about him now. He’s definitely not comfortable with his hands cuffed behind his back, but I don’t give a shit.

  Almost immediately he starts to talk. In fact, he begins to sing like a canary. He makes astonishing revelations. But he’s careful. At first, he refuses to mention any names. He’s trying to place the major part of the blame at the feet of nameless people. Nameless, powerful men.

  But what he’s telling me means nothing. He needs to put it in writing with an accompanying signature. I simply ignore him.

  And then he drops a bombshell: he mentions a name. And not just any name, but the name of a very powerful cabinet minister. I’m taken aback, but I’m careful to conceal my shock. Then he names two more cabinet ministers. He threatens to open the whole can of worms.

  Is this guy for real?

  He’s clearly not prepared to take the fall on his own. I continue with the silent treatment, confident that, come tomorrow afternoon, he will have revealed the identities of all the perpetrators involved. My refusal to respond to his allegations is having a telling effect. It’s not long before he drops another bombshell.

  He offers me a bribe to make everything disappear: R100 000, to be exact. This is a lot of money in my world. I think about it. I could settle the bond on my house and still have a huge chunk of change. Or I could resign from the force and open a pub. Bernie and I in collusion – it’s a nice thought. But I don’t answer.

  A silence ensues as we complete the rest of the journey to the cop shop. I take Allen’s fingerprints on the prescribed form. He refuses to make a statement. I thought as much. Anyway, I prefer it this way.

  I want to let him hang himself, figuratively speaking, so I adopt an appropriate strategy. I release him on a J-127, an official warning to appear in Court 15 of New Law Courts the following day, no later than 9 am. I suspect that he’s going to contact his cohorts, thereby setting the cat among the pigeons. Nervous people tend to rattle, and when they rattle, they make mistakes. Plenty of them.

  Allen declines an offer to be taken home. Instead, he asks to make a phone call. I refer him to the charge office sergeant.

  As for me, I’m feeling good. The game is in play and the odds are in my favour. I decide to hide out for a while at John MacDonald’s place. John is a motor mechanic by trade who recently joined our unit as a reservist. But first I have to call and make sure he’s home. I pull over next to a public phone booth and dial his number. He answers.

  ‘Hey, John, what are you up to?’ I ask.

  ‘Howzit, Max. Got a fire going. Bring a bottle. I’ve got plenty of meat.’

  ‘Brilliant, mate. See you in a jiffy.’

  I dart across the road to a bottle store and pick up a bottle of J&B before heading to John’s place. As I pull into his driveway, I’m greeted by the smell of burning doringhout. The fire is going great guns. This is going to be a great night, I say to myself. John is a jovial character whose face takes on a reddish tint once the liquor starts to talk. And I can see that it’s already talking. No problem. It may be early in the evening, but John is capable of dr
inking through until the next morning. Not that this session will last that long. I have to pick Bernie up at 10 pm.

  I watch as the fire slowly devours the doringhout as John feeds the flames. My whisky glass, lovingly grasped in my good hand, is filled to the brim with ice and soda. I’m feeling relaxed and satisfied by the day’s work.

  Suddenly my pager buzzes, ruining the moment. I don’t recognise the number. John gives me a nod, allowing me to use his home phone. I place the call, which is answered after two rings.

  ‘Kabega Park Police Station, Constable Rudy speaking. How may I help you?’

  I know Rudy.

  ‘Rudy, it’s Max here. What’s up?’

  ‘Max, we’ve got problems with that suspect of yours – Dave Allen. The complainant called us to say he’s been harassing her. We had to remove him from her house. He wants her to drop the charges.’

  Uncle Dave’s cohorts have told him to do this. They’re panicking. Just as I thought.

  ‘Is he there with you, Rudy?’

  ‘Yes, Max.’

  ‘Put him on the line.’

  Dave Allen takes the phone.

  ‘Sergeant, I’m just trying to fix things, that’s all. Meant no harm, really,’ he pleads pathetically .

  ‘Well, you’re doing your cause no good. Those cops want to arrest you right now for interfering with witnesses.’

  I sketch the current state of affairs for him.

  ‘Listen, tomorrow’s procedure in court will only be a formality,’ I explain. ‘The prosecutor is going to remand the case, giving you an opportunity to appoint an attorney. You will have plenty of time to find legal counsel, or to come to speak to me. I need you to recall what you said in my car – something about you not being the only person involved. If you want to talk to me in an honest manner, maybe we can strike a deal. You could possibly turn state witness if there are bigger fish involved. I’m not promising you anything, but that is a possibility. Now go home, Mr Allen. Give it a rest.’

  I hang up. Back at the fire John knows not to pry too much.