Rotten Peaches

by Lisa de Nikolits

  I lock the safe and move the bookcase back into place and replace the books on the shelves.

  Maybe it is stupid of me to stay. But I have had enough of being the victim. I let Dirk fuck me over and steal from me. I let Theresa pretend to be my friend and she fucked me over. Rosie and Betty took what half of what was left of my money and Betty abandoned me. Everyone has left me. I have nowhere left to go. This is my home. And if they are coming for me, then so be it but I will be ready. I have five hours before nightfall. Best I get busy.

  38.

  I SIT IN THE DARK, WAITING. The whole world is utterly silent. It’s the middle of the night and there isn’t a sound to be heard. If they come, they will enter via the kitchen because it is the easiest access point and then they will hunt me down in the house, me, a trapped rabbit quivering with fear, knowing I am about to die.

  I am inside the servants’ quarters. I am not in Isaac’s room but one belonging to the children. The toys and clothes are old and broken and in bad shape and I wonder what it must have been like to live in those rooms, to look over at the main house and know there was all that luxury inside, all that unfairly distributed luxury that could so easily be taken. And wouldn’t anyone deserve to take it, after years of servitude, injustice, and inequality? But the farm belongs to me, and before me, it belonged to my father, and his father before him. This is our land too.

  I sit there, pondering the ethics of the thing and I hope that nothing will happen. I hope that the night will pass peacefully and I will get the locksmith over in the morning and all of this will have been for nothing.

  But you know that’s not the case, cookie. You know how it goes. You haven’t had your head in the sand all this time. The black government is urging the people to take back the land, the land that was theirs to begin with. It’s not stealing if it was yours to begin with. And Isaac will have told them about Madam, at the farm, all alone. Even if he didn’t mean to, he will have told. He will have told Elsie and she would have told everyone. You’re a sitting duck.

  “It’s our house too,” I say, and my voice is fierce in my head. “You’ve had this land forever. It’s our home.”

  Then you must defend it and live with the consequences.

  There are always consequences. This I know. I rub my hand over my face. I am tired. The rage is still there but my body is worn out by my preparations. I shake out two Bennies from an old exam stash I found in my room and I swallow them with some bottled water. I cannot let myself drift off, not for second.

  They finally come. It’s just after one a.m. Their shadows ease around the corner of the house and in spite of my preparations, my throat closes and I push back against the wall, hard. Breathe. You think your heart will burst with fear but it won’t. Just breathe. There you go, breathe, in, out, in. This is real. This is happening. There are three men. They open the kitchen door and slip inside exactly as I predicted they would. But before they vanish into the darkness of the house, the security lights throw a spotlight on their faces. To my horror, Isaac is one of the men. Isaac. Yet another vicious betrayal in my life. Isaac is the smallest of the men, and he is the oldest. I don’t recognize the other two. They are in their mid-thirties, strangers to me. Their faces are bare, they hadn’t even worn balaclavas; they planned to kill me. My mind is scrambling. I was so stupid to stay here. What was I thinking? That I was Rambo or Schwarzenegger? Maybe I should abandon my foolish, foolhardy plan and hide? Perhaps they will believe I have left. I had hidden the car, so they could easily believe that I had gone. But just then my Bennies kick in and my red rage returns and I stand up. Fuck this. I won’t take this lying down. I won’t be a sitting duck or a quivering rabbit, accepting my fate.

  A sense of righteous justice washes over me and I feel powerful, purposeful. I have come this far and I will see my plan through. I listened to Pa and I thought it all out. If I don’t stick to my plan, then I will be killed and if not killed, then caught and raped until there is nothing left of me.

  I wonder how many of them have guns. I know the law. If I shoot them inside the house, it’s a manslaughter charge for me, regardless of the fact that they are in my house with the premeditated intent to rape and kill me.

  I creep silently across the sandy backyard, duck underneath the empty washing lines and slip inside the kitchen door. I tiptoe down the hallway and strain to hear where the men are. I’m satisfied to note that they’re exactly where I thought they would be. They’re in Pa’s bedroom, and their torches are sweeping back and forth. They are searching for me.

  I swing into the bedroom, flip the light switch and aim my gun. The men turn towards me, shocked, off guard, blinking in the unexpected light. I shoot two of them in quick succession, one after the other, in the chest and head, with perfect aim and precision. They are both too surprised to do anything and they drop to the floor.

  I turn to Isaac. He is pleading for his life. He’s on his knees now, holding his hands high and he’s crying.

  “Easy for you to beg me now, Isaac,” I tell him. ‘You planned to kill me.”

  “Please, please Madam, don’t—”

  And I hesitate for a moment. This is Isaac, after all. I’ve known him my whole life. He was a young man when I was a child. He used to put the wheelbarrow in the shade of a tree on a hot day, and he’d fill it with water, for me to sit in. He helped me with my pony when I was learning to ride, and he led me around, while I clung to the saddle. He watched me grow from a toddler into a young woman, and then he helped me dig the graves for my mother and my father. I had always liked and trusted Isaac. I lower my gun slightly and he sees my doubt. He immediately takes advantage. He grabs the hammer that he had dropped and he swings it at me wildly. He catches me hard on the thigh and I wince at the white-hot pain.

  I’m bent over, trying to breathe through the burn, and Isaac raises the hammer above his head, using both hands this time. I jump back, out of reach, and he swings at the air.

  “You were going to kill me,” I say. “Me, Isaac, after all these years.” And he looks at me with hatred and lunges for me, and I shoot him in the heart. He drops to the floor.

  “For fok’s sake, Isaac,” I say. “You gave me no choice. ”

  During my preparations, I had moved Pa’s bed against the furthermost wall and I had stripped it down. I had lined the carpet with half a dozen plastic tarps and I had been worried that the plastic underfoot would alert the men that something was up, but they never noticed. My thigh burns where Isaac hit me and I touch it gingerly. But I can’t think about it now, I have to get busy.

  I step over the men, favouring my good leg and I open a door that leads out to a side patio. This was my father’s favourite place to take breakfast, with a view of the mountains to the west and a cool breeze coming off the veldt grasses.

  I had driven the small farm truck, the bakkie, right up to the patio door and left the tailgate open. I had put a small trestle table top into the back and I drag that to the edge of the tailgate to serve as a ramp. I limp back into the room, roll the first man up in his own tarp and drag him onto the back of the bakkie. I pull him onto the ramp so he’s half way into the bed of the truck. The bakkie is a simple, old model, not like the modern-day SUVs that stand five feet off the ground, which makes my job easier. I climb into the back and pull the man the whole way inside. I do the same with the second man and the same with Isaac.

  The men are heavy, except for Isaac who is skin and bone, but I’m fired up with adrenalin and the plastic slides fairly easily across the carpet and up into the back of the bakkie. I forget about my bruised leg as I grunt and swear and tug and pull.

  I gather up the men’s knives, their bag with duct tape and rope, Isaac’s hammer, a steel pipe, and a crowbar. I gather everything, put it into the bag and throw it in the back of the bakkie.

  I turn the light off in the bedroom, close the patio door and drive off, relieved it’s still dark. I
look at my watch. It’s 1:45 a.m. The sun will rise at 5:41 a.m. I will make it back in good time. The bakkie has half a tank of gas and I hope it will be enough to get me where I want to go and back home again, without having to stop and fill up. It’s the one thing I forgot to do, fill the van up with petrol.

  I drive west for over an hour. I change gears and grind up a steep mountainside and the engine strains. I pull over at a lookout where tour busses bring camera-happy tourists to admire the view. I reverse and back the bakkie up to edge of the lookout. The rocky crevice at the bottom of the mountain is home to nothing but scrub, rocks, and stunted trees.

  I open the back and, one by one, I empty the bodies out of their tarps and roll them off the mountainside. They tumble out of view in the blink of an eye and fall to a place where no one will ever find them again. I hear a terrible thumping sound as the bodies bounce off the mountain, a gruesome, heavy sound I will never forget.

  “If you ever need to,” my father had told me, “this is a good place to get rid of evidence of any kind. Never admit to a crime. I’m telling you my girl, if they come after me in my own home, I will take them out. What, me, stand trial for defending myself and my family in my own home? I don’t think so. This is where I would throw away the rubbish that would kill me and take the things I have worked for my whole life. And if you ever need to, you do the same. And how come they wouldn’t go to prison, hey? They would get off with a warning, wander the streets and kill again, while my life and my family’s life would be ruined. No way. You remember this, if you ever need to, okay?”

  I remember, oh yes, I remember. I take the bag with the knife, the crowbar, the hammer, and their other tools, and put it in the middle of the tarps that I have stacked. I roll the tarps tightly and secure them with the duct tape they brought to cover my screams while they killed me. I use half a roll on the tarps, and I kneel on the bundle while I do it, squashing it until it’s no bigger than the size of a large rock. I throw that off the mountain too. I remove the silencer from the Glock and throw it, and the gun, as far as I can.

  All the adrenalin is gone. The Bennies are long gone. I’m shaking with exhaustion and fear and a cold sweat runs down my body, making me shiver. My clothes stick to my body as if I got caught in a winter storm. My leg burns and to make matters worse, a screaming headache has taken up residence in my skull. Nothing like the one that knocked me out cold but, nevertheless, the pain is brutal.

  The doctor gave me a bottle of pills when I was in hospital but they are back at the farm. There’s nothing I can do except put one foot in front of the other and try to get back home in one piece. But there’s still evidence I have to get rid of, my clothes and my gloves, all of which are covered in gunshot residue and the bloody back spatter from Isaac.

  I peel those wet clothes off me, tugging and yanking as they catch around my head and ankles, and change into a clean tracksuit. I bundle up the soiled clothes and put them into the back of the bakkie. And now it’s time to start heading home.

  I ease in behind the wheel and hold my head in my hands. I just need a moment. I press my palms against my temples, praying the pain will ease. I dig my thumbs into my forehead. I can’t afford to pass out now. I hold my breath, which seems to ease the pain slightly. I check the time. It’s four-fifteen a.m. The drive and clean up has taken me longer than I figured it would. I turn the key in the ignition and adjust the heat to high.

  I drive slowly, hunched over the steering wheel like an old woman hanging on for dear life. I stop at an abandoned petrol station and I get lucky, there’s a rusty oil drum half-full of rubbish around the back. I dump the bundle of clothing into it and throw in a few lit matches, making sure the clothes catch fire. If anyone sees the smoke, they’ll assume the fire was lit by some vagrant for warmth.

  I get back into the bakkie and focus on the gas tank and the road ahead of me. The gas tank level looks horribly low. I try not to watch the needle as it dips and bobs. I follow the white line in the middle of the road as if it’s a lifesaving trail. I moan softly and tears spill down my face. It hurts to cry, the pain cranks up several notches but I have to let the tears come. My bruised leg throbs where Isaac took the hammer to it, adding to the agony.

  It takes me an hour and a half to get home and when I finally turn into my driveway, I can see the start of dawn’s fiery crimson ascent edging over the horizon. And I am lucky. The red light of the reserve tank comes on just as I turn into the farm road. That was too close for comfort.

  I drive the bakkie behind the garage and park it. It’s an old white Nissan model, not worth much at all, but it helped save my life tonight. I pat it in thanks. Then, I go and check the room where I killed the men. I crawl around on the carpet and find the cartridge cases, accounting for all six rounds.

  I check outside the patio side door where I parked the bakkie to load the men and I can’t see anything out of place there.

  I go back to the bakkie, and hose off the truckbed, with my thumb pressed against the open valve to create as strong a spray as I can. There are a few small leaks in the hose and I’m soon soaked and shivering again. The African veldt doesn’t retain its heat at night and I can’t imagine ever feeling warm again. My head is blisteringly painful, my eyes are mere slits and I can hardly see. My breath makes a strange sound, like the rhythmic pant of a dying dog we had before the vet had to put him down. I’m driven by sheer force of will and the sound of my father’s voice, he is urging me to see this thing through, he tells me what to do. I retrieve the unused rifle from the servants’ quarters and lock it in the glass cabinet of my father’s study.

  I lock the kitchen door and I crawl back to my room. I shed my wet clothes and rub my body dry with a towel. I’d love to take a shower but the pain is overwhelming. I pull on a pair of pajamas. My movements are slowing down, like a wound-up toy that is coming to a stuttering halt. I don’t have much left. I scrabble through my handbag to find my headache meds, emptying the contents onto the floor in desperation. I find the vial and struggle to get it open, damn childproof lids. I chew on two tablets and haul myself onto my bed. A dirty bomb is exploding in my skull. Is it possible to die from such agony? I pass out without even pulling a blanket over me or closing the curtains.

  I wake in a hot sweat with my heart banging like an African drum in my chest. I spring upright. What happened? I can’t remember anything, but I know that something happened, something terrible. What was it? I am in my old room at the farm. Why am I there? And then it comes back to me. I see myself sitting on the bed, looking at my duvet cover, and then Isaac appears and I nearly mistake him for an intruder. And then I do shoot Isaac, along with two other men. My thoughts fly around like frantic birds, whirling and seizing fragments as the events of the whole night come back to me. I touch my thigh and wince. I pull my pajama bottoms down and the bruise is godawful, the skin is red and tender, and the bone feels bruised. But the skin is not broken, for which I am grateful. What is the time? I have to get the locksmith in to fix the safe room.

  I scrabble around on the floor and find my phone. It’s after lunch time. I need to get moving. My pajama top is stuck to me like glue. I’m drenched in sweat from a bad dream that I can’t remember and from sleeping with the hot sun shining down on me.

  I have a quick shower and get into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Calm down Bernice, calm down. You arrived yesterday, last night passed without incident but you need that safety door fixed. That’s your story, there’s nothing more to it.

  I drive into town and find the locksmith. I tell him I’ll pay him double if he can fix the door today and he says he’ll come by in a couple of hours.

  I find a coffee shop in town. I order a Farmer’s Breakfast with eggs, bacon, toast, grilled tomatoes, grilled mushrooms, sausages and hash browns, with lots of coffee to wash it down. But the minute I finish eating, I rush to the toilet and throw it all back up, my stomach rejecting the rich food and the grease.
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br />   I can still smell the spilled blood and the acrid sweat that rose from the men’s skin as they died. I lean over the cool toilet, hugging the bowl. You’ll have to live with the consequences, Pa had said. He’s right. I have to get my act together. I wash my face and hands and go out and pay, buying a bottle of cold water that helps settle my stomach.

  I wonder when Elsie will start to worry about Isaac and when she’ll alert the cops. I stop by the police station to tell them I am home at the farm.

  “Just you Mevrou?” the sergeant asks and I nod.

  “You’re hooked up to the farmers’ radio?” he asks and I shake my head.

  “Not yet. I’ll need to let them know I’m back.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “Late yesterday evening.”

  “And it’s just you there?”

  “Ja. Like I said, just me.” I don’t tell him that Isaac was there when I arrived. It’s better if I say Isaac wasn’t there, that I never saw him. “I know how to look after myself.”

  “You’re taking a big chance. A bit stupid if you ask me. Stoksiel alleen, all by yourself. But it’s up to you.”

  I am careful not to limp when I leave the police station. I walk out with a careful, even stride although the pain is fierce.

  I stop to buy a few supplies for the night ahead and when I get home, the locksmith is waiting for me, smoking a cigarette. He installs a shiny new lock and bolt on the safe room door and I get him to do the front door, the kitchen door and the patio door too. He grumbles at the extra work but I tell him I’ll pay him double which cheers him up.