

AN

EXAMINED

LIFE

RAUL

AURORA

Copyright © 2017 by Raul Aurora

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

raulaurora@outlook.com

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Acknowledgments

Heartfelt thanks to my family and girlfriend for their support.

My brother Ron for his time, advice, and willingness to read through the manuscript.

Former colleague Bente Boa for her gentle reminders.

An unexamined life is not worth living—Plato

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# Prologue

I was born of the winds of the southern hemisphere nearly eight decades ago, though at times it seems over a century has passed me. Now I lie in wait for the final journey, which never seems to begin. Old and cynical, barely getting through the days, lonely and desolate, more scared than scarred, I wait for the Devil himself to come and get me.

Sitting on my porch, smoking my pipe, sipping sour whiskey, the untouched bread growing harder, the soup colder—cold as the blood flowing through my veins—I sit out my days, waiting for the final call, the last dimension. For it is only in dying that I shall ever be delivered from my sins, which, though few and far in between, remain, as I am sure—Unforgiven.

A fly treads the back of my hand, skin as dry and leathery as the sun-scorched earth of Africa—the land where I was born and shall die. I make no attempt to drive it away. I do not feel it, quite unlike when I was younger, my skin grown too old and too thick for such sensitivity. My chiseled face is weather-beaten, badly. But my hair, though dusty & gray, manage to retain their strength. Hair that was once flaunted with every strand detailed to near perfection is raffishly brushed back now. However, strong and thickset they remain, unwilling to wither away, akin to my unvanquishable will to evade death for as long as it takes me to settle the score. It's been long enough, I wonder at times. Perhaps even a bit too long. I know I should have died many times over, a long time ago.

Hatred has kept me alive. Hatred—absolute and pure. It has nourished my soul and kept me, giving God—or perhaps the Devil—reason enough to keep me alive. Hatred towards the hypocrites, too corrupt and greedy to dwell honestly as they went about committing larceny and chicanery, robbing the innocent of earnest labor, snatching their every single shred of sanity. For those in whose lexicon there exist no words as mercy or humanity. One by one I have toppled them over, and bit by bit I have crushed them under. It has been I, well, at times, behind their decline. And for all I have done, I retain not an ounce of remorse. Guilt for punishment rendered to the wicked makes the righteous weak, blurring their vision, detaching from them the very sense of righteousness.

And even though all my life I strived to walk this rugged path, at times I had to stray to commit hideous crimes. Crimes that remain justified, at least in my eyes if not in God's. As I relive them over countless times, I fervently hope they do not weigh against me when I am finally gone. For at the end that is all that matters. If anything ever matters at all.

My Afrikaner maid interrupts my wavering thoughts. "Your supper has gone cold, again," she says.

It takes me a while to come back to this world, and all I can manage is a blunt groan, my hand dismally waving her to take it away. My appetite is gone. That's another thing that goes away with time. Just like your hopes and your dreams.

I slide my glass over, hoping for it to be poured with another generous shot of whiskey. The maid gives me a familiar look, her broad face, usually wearing a smile, looks down at me with a frown. A frown I have grown accustomed to. A frown filled not so much with disapproval as the disappointment. Her lips gently part as though trying to say something, but all they let out is a sigh.

"I better put the bottle away," she says, pouring me one last drink.

Slowly rocking in my chair while puffing on the tobacco grown on my own estate, I think of what I am about to do. Surely, my dear departed wife, who watches over me from the heavens above, will understand. So too will my living kin and grandson—a child still raw in the ways of the world, and who views me as a living legend, someone from an old, waning generation. At times, I do feel a survivor, but not the lone for there still exists another man for whom my heart continues to beat.

Not with affection, but contempt and disdain. The man whose deeds have stained my soul so that it won't wash away. The only way lies in killing him, slowly. Giving him a taste of his own medicine. Watching him die. Feel every shed drop of his blood cleanse my soul, heal me from the insides.

I load my rifle. It is time.

### PART I

### SEEDS OF SORROW

# Chapter 1

Braving a perilous journey across the raging Atlantic, the Shaws first stepped foot onto the shores of Africa at Cape Town in 1900. The British Empire stood at its zenith, stretching from India to the Far East, and from South Africa all the way north to Gibraltar. Trade was luxuriating throughout Africa, resulting in a bitter scramble amongst the European powers.

Rewards for plundering and exploitation were through the roof, and so was the demand for the ruffians and crooks who could execute it with precision. Although the natives did provide sufficient labor—bonded or otherwise—a huge gap of men, who could tame these beasts and put them to use, was felt. The council board of South Africa expressed this to the British Empire, who responded with trademarked swiftness. Every prison and dirty street of England was scourged for any and every able-bodied crook, who were then gang-pressed and sailed down to Africa, where they were promised a chance to start over. Start over they did.

In the melee that ensued, gangs, thugs of all sorts, and con-men flourished. The 'Dark Continent' was a land of opportunity. The mere requisites being that you had to be white and willing to get your hands dirty. Any black man trying to carve himself a career in this line of work was sent to rot in the mines or prison—places he was destined for anyway. Hence, to save themselves the trouble, they lined up quietly, every day, to get beaten and abused by their masters. Rapes and murders were common. Africa was a fine place to live in; plenty of the sunshine, exotic food, deluxe housing, and a booming trade. Belle-Epoque for the whites. The blacks, on the other hand, could dig mines and choke on the dust, their only perk in common with the whites being 'plenty of sunshine.' Most of them were homeless.

No state can hope to be able to govern itself by solely relying on the crooks. Crooks, too, need governing, especially the white crooks. This splendid work was conducted by a different set of crooks, the sophisticated ones. Too educated and too smart to make a living by breaking-leg, they shared nothing in common with their fellow white man, except for the ambition of having a finger in every pie, no matter how dirty or bent. They came in the form of politicians, civil servants, administrators, businessmen, lawyers, and bankers. Neither did they mingle with the masses, nor did they frequent public houses. They wore wigs and traveled with chauffeurs. They possessed various degrees and titles and legitimized their professions by giving them fancy names. They established institutes, banks, companies, and most importantly, government. They designed bridges, railroads, and ports. Using the black man for a guinea pig, they made significant advances in medicine and science. They were the pioneers in Africa, the men responsible for what this great continent today is—fed up and hungry.

Tightly squeezed between the two layers of society, the white society, of course, there existed a third layer of conscientious people, hard working and honest. Craig Shaw, an employee of a rapidly expanding tax firm, was another of this thin crust. Taking home a decent paycheck, handsome, single, and still only twenty-five, he stood pretty much pleased with life and the direction in which it was headed. Though not in particular favor for the treatment reserved for the blacks—or the whites who got out of line—he didn't let it bother him. Having had struggled out of the lower rungs of society, he kept lofty goals, determined to achieve the better things life had to offer—a private office, a larger house, lots of servants, a pretty wife, and beautiful children. So, like most, he looked the other way, continuing to live in bliss. A bliss which was soon to be shattered beyond his worst nightmares.

On a hot summer afternoon in 1931, after a rather sumptuous lunch party, Shaw made his way on foot to the largest fine wine store in town. His firm had had a very profitable quarter, and Shaw, who had earned accolades for his contribution was being upped, significantly. It was time to celebrate.

Just as he turned into a back alley, a shortcut that was to save him a few minutes, he saw a sight so hideous and repulsive, it made him stop dead in his tracks. Never in his life had he felt more repugnance.

Three whites set about mercilessly beating a black. Outnumbered and overpowered, the black man, somehow, seemed unaffected by his misery as he struggled to break free, despair and a sense of extreme urgency oozing out through his protuberant eyes. Ordinarily, there was no way he could have even stood the beating, but something seemed to be giving him inhuman strength, severely testing the skills of the thugs. For a few yards away stood another white man, holding a little, black girl, barely thirteen or fourteen, and apparently the black man's daughter.

The white man's hand wrapped the girl's mouth, while the left fumbled and squeezed her budding bosom from above her sweat drenched clothes. A desperate plea accompanied her muffled screams, with a nemesis in her eyes that something dreadful was about to follow. Struggling and squirming in the monster's grasp, she looked towards her father with the false hope that he would somehow overpower these men, and rescue her from her agony, which turned into instant horror as she felt the hairy hand grope its way down to below her waist, violating and humiliating her modesty. She squirmed her legs tight as the hand of the devil reached her bare thighs, lifting the hem of her skirt, forcing its way between her legs, rendering all her deterrent efforts futile.

All this occurred rather quickly, but to Shaw, who stared in disbelief, it seemed as if an eternity had passed him. An eternity through which he felt an array of emotions, an array of very conflicting emotions. Emotions felt by altruistic warriors, who, despite knowledge of certain death charge into battle, and emotions felt by selfish cowards, who time and again turn a blind eye to the atrocities suffered by others, for they do not possess what it takes to stand up to anyone or anything—courage. Courage, a sense of revolutionary rebellion, a touch of insanity, and knowledge of the fact that your life will never be the same again. Whether he possessed such courage, he did not know, but he was about to find out.

Obviously, he had two choices—intervene or turn around. Although the latter was not easy for any righteous man, it undoubtedly was the sensible one. Its only consequence would be a guilty conscience, one that would fade away with the passage of time. But the very thought of the former caused his palms to sweat and his legs shake. His future flashed before his eyes. A future full of pain and suffering inflicted upon him by the very man holding the girl. The face was unmistakable. Neil O'Sullivan.

Sullivan, underpin of the society of organized crime, remained no run of the mill gangster. And if his ruthless methods provoked fear in people's hearts, then his fascinating past did conjure up a certain awe as well. Before boarding a ship for Africa, he had been an escapee from a Belfast prison, navigating his way to Cornwall, all alone in a ten-footer Mackinaw, across the choppy Celtic Sea in the freezing winters of the northern latitudes. And depending on which version you heard, he either carried no compass, or it got washed overboard. Whichever was true, one thing was for certain, you messed about with Sullivan at your own peril. Standing over six feet tall, with a cruelly handsome face, and lush, wavy hair, he imposed an intimidating presence. He dressed like a business tycoon and swore like a sailor. The bigger criminals respected him, and the smaller ones revered him. The police steered well clear of him. His generosity with the ladies of pleasure and their managers had made him a living god in the brothels and gambling dens of Cape Town. To top it all off, he was on the firm's secret payroll and just happened to be conducting its business, even though the methods seemed unnecessarily harsh.

Although most of the firm's clientele were wealthy and white, they were not the only people to whom it extended its services. Trapped in the never ending cycle of greed, it deployed a broad range of tactics to grow wealthier, one of them being usury, lending to the blacks at ridiculous rates via one of its many daughter firms. When they couldn't pay back, which often was the case, it would then seize all they possessed, which, unsurprisingly, never turned out to be enough. Having done so, it would then demand the remainder. Desperate to pay off their ever increasing debt, the poor souls would toil their lives away in one of the mines or other enterprises that vested the interests of the firm, thus, allowing it to sit back and enjoy yet another fruit of someone else's labor.

The diminutive black man in front of Shaw was just another of those fools, who had gotten his feet stuck in the spider's carefully woven trap. His arrears were long overdue, and he had gone absconding. When even the law had failed to locate him, it was decided that enough was enough. Sullivan had been summoned.

"Leave it to me," he had growled. "I know where to look for these rats. In the sewers."

Surely enough, not before long, the trap had been laid, and the rat caught.

Shaw was well aware that interfering in Sullivan's business did not warrant a bright future. A loss of job and being hunted down by Sullivan were not the only guarantees to follow such a plucky act, but also rejection in society, the inability to secure work, and constant trouble with the authorities. Of course, all this, provided he let you live that long.

All this trouble to save a black, who perhaps had good reason to get beaten up and even see his daughter get molested, maybe even raped. If he could cheat the firm, a white establishment, how much more his kind had he scammed? And even if there was no justifiable cause for all this to be happening, it certainly was no reason for Shaw to get involved.

Oftentimes, man makes decisions based solely on impulse, logically incomprehensible. One such was made by Craig Shaw on a hot summer afternoon in 1931, the very same day his life had taken a giant leap towards realizing his dreams. Now, he was challenging the very dream, openly. A decision that would flip his life over and shake it so violently, he would wish that he never was born. He swung into action. The brave fool.

# Chapter 2

As Sullivan tugged on the girl's panties, nearly ripping them apart, a sharp pain flashed through his torso, followed, almost immediately, by the sickening crack of a breaking bone. Sneaking in from behind, Shaw had thrown all his weight behind the punch that had broken the Irishman's ribs.

Having grown up in a rough neighborhood, Shaw remained no stranger to street fights. Acutely aware of the rules of urban combat, he applied them perfectly. Rule number one—strike when least expected. Rule number two—never stand back and admire your shot. Strike again!

Shaw's second punch caught Sullivan right on the nose, causing blood to splash, and his low-aimed kick made the gangster go down without a word.

Meanwhile, having broken loose, the little girl lunged at one of her father's assailants. Akin to a young hyena, hurt and wounded, withal determined to survive, she bit into his face with such brute force that the man cried out in pain. Finally managing to squirm free, and with rapidly increasing hopes of survival, the black man, too, wasted little time. Sullivan down and their colleague on the wrong side of the receiving end, the remaining two thugs, resembled sheep, who had lost their shepherd. Shaw was the wolf coming to get them. One fled right away, going as fast as his legs would carry him. The other offered little in the form of resistance, soon following suit.

The girl, who by now had managed to make a bloody mess of the man's face, turned her attention towards her violator. Her teeth red with blood, she raced to the edge of the street, snatching a loose stone from the sidewalk. Filled with rage and longing for revenge, she then almost succeeded in an act that would qualify as an intent to murder in any court. Raising the stone above her head using both her hands, she walked over to Sullivan, standing over him, before hurling the massive stone at his head with Herculean strength.

Shaw's eyes squeezed shut, his face grimacing at the thought of what was to become of the Irishman's good looks. However, the former inmate, now lying in the street, spotted the missile in the nick of time, dodging it, but not before it had found some contact with the top of his crown, causing an instantaneous trickle of blood to flow out and stain his collar.

Her savage like thirst for the blood of the man, who had forever made an impression upon her, remaining unquenched, the girl reached for the weapon again, only this time with what seemed an intent of smashing it repeatedly over Sullivan's face. But her conquest remained unattempted for her father grabbed her midway through it, firmly locking her in his grasp, calming her down, whispering soothing words in her ear. After an unsuccessful struggle, she finally relented, wrapping her arms around him, their bodies trembling in unison, gasping for breath.

Temporarily relieved, the accountant assessed the situation. Sullivan and the other man were down, but wouldn't be for long. Squatting by the side of the alley, he tried to recover from the physical exertions of the scrap, perhaps even mental. The adrenaline rush was quickly fading with a cold reality taking its place. The high was gone. Now there would be hell to pay.

His nostrils were filled with the stench of fear, coming right from him. His mind squirmed with thoughts of the repercussions his incongruous behavior would inevitably bring about. Terror flashed before his eyes, and in those maddening moments, during which he struggled to come to grips with what had just transpired, Shaw cursed just about everybody and everything he could think of.

He cursed himself for taking the shortcut, cursed the champagne that had blunted his analytical edge. Had only lunch lasted longer, or had he ate slower, or more. He cursed the waiter for bringing him his coffee so promptly. Those bloody, snobbish British waiters, so conceited and pompous, serving the upper echelons of society had made them think they were a part of it. Shaw's mind was shaken, and his emotional responses desperately looked for relief, and someone to blame. He blamed everyone he could, but most of all he blamed God. He blamed God for giving him courage that never failed to do the right thing. All throughout his childhood, he had struggled to stand shoulder to shoulder with his own people, had struggled to educate himself, and on days, had even struggled for three square meals. Now, when he had finally left his past behind to achieve a distant dream, here he was, again, blowing it all away in the spur of the moment. He found himself dropping back into the deep, dark abyss he had only crawled out of. Jostling with the underworld was no little offense, but doing that to save a couple of blacks was unpardonable, even unheard of.

Convinced that he had pioneered a field which would have no followers, Shaw tried to think of what was to be done next. The two men, who had managed to get away would be soon meeting with the rest of their lot, assembling enough bodies to teach the whore-son a lesson he would not forget.

Shaw didn't want to die, but compared to the treatment Sullivan rendered to his enemies, death seemed an enviable option. A quick and painless one at that. But he knew that it wasn't coming. Sullivan would roast him over a slow fire before tearing his limbs apart. There was only one way out. Disappear, forever.

But where could he go, and what would he do there? Having lived his entire life in Cape Town, Shaw knew of no other place. Besides, what was to stop Sullivan from finding him there? No, fleeing to another city was no good. He had to flee the very country. Best if he could get on a ship and head out. Any destination would do. But how long until the first ship out? Hours, days, weeks? Till then he would have to hide, and there was no place he could. Docks, streets, hotels, and inns, were all within Sullivan's reach, and no one would risk incurring the Irishman's wrath.

Shaw panicked. The walls were rapidly closing in, and with each passing second, his situation was getting desperate. Then, suddenly, he saw a light at the end of the tunnel. Albeit a faint one, but it was there. An insane thought occurred to him, but after all that had transgressed, he had serious doubts regarding his ability to adjudicate between the sane and insane. He made up his mind, hastily, for there seemed no other way out. It was a last resort, and his only one. Only one of them could live. Sullivan or he.

In that gut-wrenching moment, when the whole of Africa seemed too small to run and hide in, Shaw proceeded to do something he never thought he could. His entire system of moral checks collapsed as he walked over to Sullivan, feeling the Irishman's ankles for a knife. It was customary for thugs to wear one on their bodies. One never knew when one's life could be cut short for want of a concealed knife.

The leather sheath was hand stitched and seemed well used, much like the blade itself. Sliding it out, Shaw wrapped his palm around the handle and readied himself. Not possessing the stomach for savagery, he planned to thrust it deep, finishing the job in one go.

However, just as he raised his arm, a hand wrapped around his wrist, easing away the knife. He half turned in horror, expecting the worst, only to see the face of the black man whose life he had just saved. His head shook, saying no, but there was no mistaking the look in his eye. It wasn't Shaw that was to take Sullivan's life, but he. Shaw could very well live with that.

Moving Shaw aside, the black man knelt beside Sullivan, spitting words of venom. In return, the Irishman, half unconscious, solemnly stared at the sky, barely moving a muscle. The girl watched from a few feet away, her father's blood stained shirt draped over her shoulders as though trying to make up for her nearly lost modesty. A strange serenity came over her face, but her eyes still wanted blood.

"The game is over, Sullivan," the black man hissed. "But before you die, I want you to take a look at the little girl you touched and know that it was her father that avenged her. I want to hear you beg for mercy, you bastard, beg. Beg for me to spare your life so it may be known that the mighty Neil O'Sullivan begged before a black man just as he died."

Saying that the black man chopped off Sullivan's little finger, causing him to scream. Picking it up, he then dangled it over the Irishman's face, while laughing cruelly.

"Open your eyes, Sullivan!" he commanded, and Sullivan slowly opened them. He wanted the ordeal to be over. The black man had other plans.

"You have strong hands, Sullivan," the black man went on, "A man's hands. But you are no man, just a coward, who preys on little girls. Therefore, before I kill you, I shall chop off your fingers one at a time, the very fingers that felt my daughter. Then I will chop off your hands, the very hands that held her. And then I will carve out a part of your body, the very part you use to pleasure whores. And when I am done, I will tear your heart out and feed it to the dogs. So, be prepared for the long haul, Sullivan, the longest of your life, for by the time this is finished even the Celtic sea will seem like paradise."

Shaw, who stood a yard away, could not quite believe his eyes and ears. Indeed, the black cretin had lost his mind for even though still alone, there was no telling when Sullivan's men could return. Time was of the essence.

The cretin, however, disregarding, seemed to be enjoying his newly acquired role of life-taker, with no apparent intentions of speeding up the process. Just as he was on the verge of chopping off another finger, Shaw grabbed him from behind, causing him to look up with bewilderment.

"What do you think you are doing?" Shaw shouted out loud. "Finish him and let's get out!"

The black man didn't welcome the interruption. "Sir," he said, "I am in no hurry to finish him. He must suffer for what he has done." There was a childish stubbornness in his eyes. That, along with the icy cold reply infuriated Shaw, who, from the corner of his eye, saw the girl, nodding in agreement with her father.

Shaw tried to talk sense into him. "Someone could arrive at any minute. Then it is you and I that shall suffer," he said, but to no effect.

Brushing the warning aside, the black man replied, "Sir, I am grateful for what you have done. This debt I owe you, which I cannot repay. But you have to let me do this or I will never be able to look into my daughter's eyes, again. I must avenge her. You are free to go."

The girl kept nodding along, and Shaw flew into a rage. He couldn't believe how stupid these people were. Surely, Sullivan must have had more heart than they did brain. Little wonder they were third-grade citizens in their own country.

Grabbing the man by his undershirt, Shaw screamed to his face, "Free to go? Where to? Your stinky, little hut? Don't you see that if this man lives, I will never be free, ever?"

The man glared, shouting back, "He shall not live!"

"Then finish him or give me the knife." Saying that Shaw reached to grab the knife, and a tussle ensued.

Somewhere amidst that tussle, he heard the girl cry out for her father. After that, he dove for cover.

# Chapter 3

As many of his admirers will tell you, it is not to God the credit for making men equal goes to, but to Samuel Colt. Born with a rare genius for explosives, his obsession with firearms began when his grandfather presented him with a flintlock pistol. Although a formidable weapon, its need to be reloaded and cocked after every shot did little to appease the boy. No, young Samuel desired something which could fire at least five times before going through all the trouble. After numerous experiments, a fire accidentally started by him in the year 1830, cut short his schooling, forcing his father to send him to be a sailor. On a voyage to India, young Samuel came up with a wooden model of the very first revolver. Impressed, his father decided to finance him to build a rifle and a pistol. The former worked, but the latter exploded when fired. Fed up, Christopher Colt declined to lend his son any more money. The son, however, never gave up, and four years later was issued a United States patent for the first revolver ever produced.

Success, however, did not come quickly to Colt. His first venture during an economic crisis was ill-timed, and his second bore ill fortune when Congress did not support his plans of making underwater mines for the American navy. It finally took another Samuel, this one of Texas, to change the fortunes of Samuel of Connecticut. Witnessing the effectiveness of the Colt revolver firsthand, when his fifteen man unit defeated a Comanche force of more than seventy men, Captain Samuel Walker of the Texas Rangers met with Samuel Colt in 1847. Over a cup of coffee, the two men discussed some of the modifications the enthusiastic captain desired; six rounds instead of the five, force lethal enough to kill a man with a single shot, and faster reloading. If Colt would incorporate these, the captain promised a large order. Although Colt would die before he let anyone else dictate his gun designs, his dearth of money meant that he had to concede to the captains' demands, who, immediately placed an order of a thousand revolvers. At last, the Colt Firearm Manufacturing Company was in business.

In the succeeding years, along with perfecting his revolvers, Colt also honed his business skills. No more the brash and reckless manufacturer, he had little trouble securing large orders for armed forces across the world. Pioneering the use of art and celebrity endorsements to sell products, and clubbing them along with the more conventional methods of bribery, threats, and monopoly, Colt buried the competition, deep. So cunning was his ploy, that he would approach the head of a feuding state, telling him that his opponent's army was equipped with Colt revolvers. In his zeal to provide his officers and their men with the latest in firearm technology, the head of state would then place larger orders with Colt, unaware that the sly fox had similarly played his counterpart. Colt's book on marketing techniques was thick, which included presenting dignitaries with limited edition revolvers, whose butts would be studded with gems. Later on, he manufactured some very sought after guns with his full signature engraved on the barrel.

The shots that killed the black man were fired from one such limited edition masterpiece of the Colt factory. Two shots in rapid succession shot by a man with broken ribs and a missing finger. Accurate shots. Shots fired to kill, not maim. They pierced the black man's back, penetrating his rib cage before lodging in his lungs. Time froze, and his mouth hung open wide, while his facial features contracted, giving away the feelings of a man to whom life had not only never dealt a decent hand but had also always placed him at a table whose ante he could barely afford. It had been too unkind, too hard, and in the end, too short. And just when it seemed that his day had finally arrived, it had once again portrayed its cruelty by calling time. There would be no avenging his daughter, his family, or anyone who had suffered. In a flash, it was all over.

From time to time, the mind and heart combine to produce a potent force, wherein thoughts need not be spoken or written, just felt. As the black man fell, Shaw could read his thoughts as though reading from a book. Frustration, sorrow, and anger. But most of all, disappointment.

"Why did you have to interfere you silly, white man?" they appeared to say. "Where did the courage that made you help two poor souls go when you needed it the most? Just as you took the final step, you faltered, your soul grasping onto thin air, searching for something to latch on to. Finding nothing, it crashed into a dark place that dwells in every man's bosom—fear. Fear of the future, of one's very own, selfish future."

Meanwhile, Shaw, as if talking back to the dying man, generated his own thoughts. "See what you have done, you fool," his thoughts said. "Your mindless quest for blood has gotten you some, your very own. Your lack of judgment and barbaric decision making have gotten you killed. Had you only let me finish him off, you would still be alive, albeit unavenged, but alive you would be. But no, you had to have it your way, despite me risking everything. Tell me, if you could, would you not go back to change it all?"

Eyes locked with Shaw's, still communicating, the black man turned as he went down in what seemed a last ditch attempt at getting even. Maybe, just maybe, he could still drive the blade through Sullivan.

The sound of the third shot brought Shaw back to reality. It was not only him, who had been reading the black man's thoughts. Sullivan had read them too, and perfectly. Taking aim, he had promptly fired, again. The knife fell harmlessly, while the body, with all its weight, crashed onto him, the intense pain causing him to very nearly pass out. Darkness enveloped his eyes, but he knew he couldn't allow himself to faint. Not yet, anyway, for there still were the white stranger and black girl to kill.

Shaw remained crouched on the ground, a few feet from Sullivan, who was buried under the weight of the dead body, the girl clinging to it as she wailed and mourned the loss of her last living relative. The Irishman's rapidly diminishing reserves of energy made any movement a huge struggle, giving Shaw just about enough time to recover and reevaluate.

The gun was buried somewhere between them and reaching it was not going to be easy. The knife remained Shaw's only option. But there was not any time for that now for something else had come up. He heard voices. Turning around, he saw his fears realized. Two white men made their way towards them, hands reaching for their pistols. A shot whizzed dangerously past his ear, deafening him. Grabbing the girl, he darted to the end of the street, fervently hoping a bullet would not get him. Once there, he rounded the corner, beyond the range of the flying bullets.

Seeing their target get away, the two men abandoned the pursuit, going back to help Sullivan. Meanwhile, Shaw kept running and praying as he had never before. "Please, God, may no one else have heard the shots. Please, may I not run into any of Sullivan's men. Please, do not let me die so young. And please, shut this girl up."

He muzzled her bawling with his palm, making it past the block, into another deserted alley, without drawing any further attention.

"Shut up, for God's sake. Shut up!" he shouted, trying to shake her out of her trance.

When she didn't, he threatened, "Shut up, or I will leave you here, and his men will come and get you. Do you understand?"

The threat worked, and the girl instantly went silent, knowing very well that the white stranger remained her only hope. And she was determined to live longer than her father.

Shaw kept thinking hard about what to do next. Where to go? What to do? Should he run or should he hide? What about the girl? Taking her with him presented a substantial risk. Maybe he should just leave her to meet her own fate. But having risked so much, it made no sense to leave her now. Only the devil knew what they would do to her when they found her. She ought to be having some family. Nevertheless, sending her to them was no use as that was the first place Sullivan would look. Oh, God, what had he gotten himself into?

"Where do you live?" he asked the girl after a while.

Fighting to hold back her tears, the girl just looked at him blankly. Shaw repeated the question.

"In a town, two hours from here," came the barely audible reply. She was trembling. Shaw held her.

"Where is your family?" he asked.

"Dead. My father was my only family."

The answer hit him hard, and he was overcome by the grief in her life. No parents, no family, and no future.

"What's your name?" he asked in a much softer voice.

"Abri," came the even softer reply.

"How old are you, Abri?"

"Fourteen, according to my father."

"Listen, Abri, we don't have a lot of time. We need to do something right away, or we, too, shall be dead. Can you think of anyone who would be willing to take you in?"

She shook her head, and Shaw sighed. The situation was only getting grimmer.

They stood there for a few more moments, feeling desolate. Suddenly, still amongst the tears, the girl blurted out, "I think it's not safe to hide here. We have to keep moving. You go ahead, and I will follow you from a distance."

Shaw was taken aback! Unlike her father, she was wise beyond her years, and despite state of affairs, showed an uncanny ability of being able to focus on the immediate. Unable to grasp at words, Shaw only shook his head to indicate that he agreed. Having had caught their breath, they started moving, just like she had suggested.

Shaw went first. He took off his jacket and straightened his shirt, adjusting his hair with his pocket comb, hoping those thugs hadn't seen him long enough to recognize his face. His feet moved as quickly as they could without arousing suspicion, and he stayed in the shadows, eyes darting in all directions, scanning everything that moved. Fortunately, the dry heat was keeping everyone indoors, and the streets were mostly empty. Far behind him, Abri followed. She had crossed the street over to the other side. Smart girl!

Shaw's current plan was to put as much distance as he possibly could between themselves and the alley where all the action had occurred. Then he would think of what to do next.

# Chapter 4

Sullivan sat up straight, holding his ribs. Wounded but alive, he had been rescued from underneath the corpse by the two white strangers. Blood clotted the back of his head, and his chest burned with pain. The cut off finger bled profusely. Still, his mind, although reeling from the shock, worked with clairvoyance. Overpowered and almost murdered, he had survived the day. Now, he was about to avenge this utter humiliation.

He looked at the black man lying a few feet away. The eyes were wide open with disbelief as though still trying to comprehend what had happened. I shot you, you bastard. That's what happened. A smirk came across his face. Desperate to gain back lost pride, he formulated plans in his head. He did not know who that young, white man had been. But finding out would prove no hurdle. Sullivan had a lot of money, with which he had bought a lot of friends in high places. He would drop everything, and sweep the streets for the man, who had become a thorn in his rose. No stone would be left unturned in the hunt for the man living on borrowed time. No one messed about with Sullivan and lived to see another day. Absolutely no one.

Someone waved a hand across his face, and he heard a voice. "Are you alright?" one of the strangers asked.

Sullivan managed to nod, but no words came out. Everything was turning dreamlike. Sounds traveled slower, images were blurred. Sweat seeped into his eyes. Licking the corner of his mouth with his tongue, he tasted a familiar mixture of his own sweat and blood. And even for such a cold blooded killer, the blood still felt warm, but the sweat was cold. Cold from the fright he had just lived through.

"I am Neil Sullivan," he managed to say.

"We know who you are," came the reply. "We are trying to revive your man."

"To hell with him. Get me out of here, now."

The stranger warned Sullivan that his injuries looked severe, and was of the opinion that they ought to fetch a doctor. But Sullivan was in no mood to listen, vehemently shaking his head from side to side. The stranger persisted. This further irritated Sullivan, causing him to have a severe impulse to slap the stranger. Somehow, he didn't. Sullivan was a hated man, and it was imperative he got out of this vulnerable position and back to base. The pain was worsening, and he knew he was slipping. Realizing that the two strangers remained his only hope, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a thick wad of cash.

"Here, now get going," he said, handing it over.

The money had the desired effect. The bills were new and fresh and oozed with the smell of success. They made the man's head swirl, and he instantly let go of the fuss, shouting out to his partner, asking him to fetch the truck.

The partner, who in the meantime had managed to revive the other gangster, seemed puzzled.

"What for, Riaan?" he asked. "Let's get them inside and fetch a doctor."

"No time for that, now," came the snappy reply. "We need to get Mr. Sullivan back home."

Unaware of the deal that had just transpired, the partner tried to reason further, even approaching Sullivan with the intent of trying to persuade him. However, he was halted in his tracks by the man with a thick wad of cash in his pocket.

"Listen, Pieter," said the man with the cash, coldly, in a voice loud enough for Sullivan to hear, "Mr. Sullivan is rewarding me to follow orders. Maybe, if you showed a bit of co-operation, he will reward you, too." His tone made it apparent that he was unwilling to share his new found gains, and that Sullivan ought to cough up separately for the partner.

Pieter scratched his head. "Rewarding you with what?" he inquired, his confused facial expressions turning into pure delight the moment he caught a glimpse of the money Riaan was flashing.

"How much do you reckon that is?" he eagerly asked.

"Not enough if you keep up with your nonsense," came the sharp reply.

Hearing that, he immediately sprang into action. He had gotten the message.

The truck that was to transport Sullivan was a rickety, crew cabin, flatbed, with paint peeling off in several places. Sullivan would not wish his worst enemy to ride in such a shoddy machine, but he was hardly in a position to make demands. Anything would do right now. Thankfully the engine cranked at the first go.

As the Irishman stood up, the pain augmented, becoming unbearable, causing him to very nearly pass out. His already broken rib cage buckled in further, and he felt bones churning. Luckily, the two men caught him just in time.

"Mr. Sullivan! Mr. Sullivan!" Pieter panicked, lashing out at Riaan. "You fool," he said, "I told you to let a doctor check him. But you never listen. And don't you dare flash me that money again, because if something happens to him, his men will bury us alive along with that black fellow."

It never comes easily to perturb a man with a pocket full of cash. Pieter was just about to find that out.

"Calm down," came the cool reply. "The situation is bad enough without you having to start. Look, I will hold him. Meanwhile, you fetch the door."

Pieter did as he was told, leaving Sullivan dangling in Riaan's arms, the sheer weight nearly dragging both of them to the ground.

The other thug, who by now had sufficiently recovered, rushed to their aid.

"Boss, are you alright, boss?" he asked, worriedly, before angrily looking towards Riaan. "What have you done? Let me handle him," he shouted, attempting to tussle Sullivan away from the stranger.

His efforts were quelled by a stinging response. "By the look of it, you couldn't handle a fairy, right now. So, may I suggest that you let me follow your boss's instructions, while you think up an excuse for such a shoddy performance. And while you're at it, may I further suggest that you give us a hand instead of making things more difficult."

Insult just added to injury, the thick-headed thug glared at the wise ass. The wise ass, knowing that this was his moment, looked back unafraid. Realizing that reconciliation remained the only available avenue, the thug stopped glaring and started helping.

Laying Sullivan on the back seat, the three men then popped in the front. Riaan took the wheel. As he maneuvered out, his thoughts were on a new truck, his mind already spending the easy money he had just earned.

Sullivan lay facing the roof, eyes half shut. He noticed the sagging top-liner, and the buildings' rooftops as they passed. The seat material felt coarse, and the jolts were unbearable. The men in the front argued the quickest route. Then there was another bump, and he felt nauseous. He closed his eyes, only to open them days later.

As they neared their destination, Riaan sounded the horn to warn the louts guarding Sullivan's front door—probably because that's all they were good for—to move away. However, no sooner had he brought the vehicle to a halt that it got mobbed by the overeager crowd, desperate to whisk away their boss as though he was in danger of getting bushwhacked, their adept execution of pushing and shoving violently rocking the truck.

Very well aware that the only danger Sullivan faced was getting manhandled by the wackos outside, with no clues of his injuries, Riaan tried to talk some sense into them. But it was of no use. Their leader lay senseless, and their determination to ensure that he was dealt no further harm was marked by a tenacious unwillingness to yield, which only made it more difficult for him and Pieter to finish the job.

"The man has cracked ribs and a head injury. He needs to be lifted correctly," Riaan said out loud.

"Shut up, or it is you that shall need correct lifting," came an aggressive reply from someone waving a gun, and he instantly stopped talking.

Meanwhile, the thug with the bitten off face, who was seated between them, grew restless.

"Open the door," he commanded.

"You open it," Riaan replied. Having just been threatened, there was no way he was going to do that.

"Move over, then."

"Try the other side. It's easier without the wheel coming in the way."

Managing to swap seats with Pieter, the thug finally got out, although, one or two of his co-workers didn't seem too impressed by his methods. But, then, neither was he with theirs and he let it be known to them. Finished, he managed to get some order, and the truck finally stopped shaking.

"Someone, go fetch the doctor, and the rest of you, get the hell out of the way," he roared.

For someone who was struggling to get out of the truck a few seconds ago, the sudden change in tone and attitude came as a surprise to the men inside. Obviously, he was way higher up than they had assumed. However, there still remained a few rebels.

"Townsend told us to attend to the boss in case he showed up here," one of the rebels argued and was unwisely joined by another.

This caused the thug to defiantly glare at them. Sensing that the situation was getting out of hand, the rest of the crowd cautiously backed away from the two idiots. When it became evident that no further support was coming, the two idiots sheepishly pulled back, too.

The rebellion quelled, he then turned his attention towards Riaan and Pieter. "Get out and help me carry him inside," he said.

Hearing that, they quickly got out, positioning themselves for the best medical lift Sullivan would ever receive.

"And you two," the thug said, waving a finger at the former mutineers. "Take the boss's car, and fetch Dr. Bailey, right away."

Akin to obedient school children, the two, foot soldiers promptly jumped into Sullivan's Rolls Royce 40/50 phantom. Only three thousand five hundred such were ever built. Sullivan surely had great taste.

A few minutes later, Sullivan was on his bed, and efforts to revive him were in full swing, with all lay methods known to mankind being put to the test. Cold water was sprinkled on his face, and when there was no response, his face was sponged with a wet towel. Someone suggested that putting his feet up would help the blood flow, so, a pillow was placed under his knees. Nothing happened, but the advice, almost all of it devoid of any sound medical explanation, kept pouring forth, always being met with an opposing statement by someone, who knew exactly what was to be done.

"In my opinion, that pillow should be under his head," someone said.

"And to my mind, you should be quiet. That could exert significant strain on the neck."

"We should make him smell something pungent and foul. That ought to revive him."

"Go and stand next to him, then."

There was isolated laughter.

Fed up, the thug-in-charge told them to get lost. It was best to wait for Bailey than try anything foolish.

# Chapter 5

Miles away, in the other part of town, Shaw made his way home, a crude plan running through his head. The gravity of the situation, having fully sunk in, he knew fleeing right away remained his only option. Hiding amongst his own, he had a slim chance of survival. Someone would inevitably turn him in. Besides, he did not want to put at risk the lives of people he knew. He had to get away, change his name, his identity, the way he dressed, and his entire life. For that, he needed to get in touch with someone who knew of or could arrange for such things. He needed a professional. A man, accustomed to evading death with cold calculation. A man who could stand all alone in the world yet remains unperturbed. A man who could point to him the way forward—Hendrik Claasen.

Shaw's first stop was the grocery store, a hundred yards from his house. An old couple had run the store for longer than they cared to keep in mind, and for a pence sold you bread, eggs, and the latest word on the street. Housewives could often be seen there, chatting the afternoon away, and the men would stop to purchase a pack of cigarettes on their way to work, and a quart of whiskey on their way back home. There was a room at the back with an antique radio, a table, and an assortment of chairs, where the old man often held illegal poker games that went on late into the night. The kids came and went at all times, buying candies and biscuits displayed in the large, glass jars. Someone needed a bar of soap, someone a toothbrush, and the gamblers always more whiskey. Besides being a place of business, the store was a gossip hub with the old couple doing a magnificent job of keeping the rumor mill going. If Shaw had had any visitors, they were bound to know. It had been over a couple of hours since the incident, and he was not taking chances.

The store was relatively quiet. The old man looked up from the daily paper he was reading for the second time.

"Hello, Craig. You are early today," he said.

Not sensing anything unusual, Shaw played it cool. "Was having trouble digesting my lunch," he lied.

This amused the old man, and he immediately set the paper down. A sure sign that he was ready to launch into another of his tall tales.

"Yes, that one always works. Why even your landlord uses it all the time. In fact, he has used it so many times that his boss genuinely believes that he suffers from constant indigestion. Not a pleasant thing to suffer from even if imaginary, you know what I mean?" Saying that the store owner burst out laughing.

Shaw managed to chuckle along.

"So, tell me, Craig," the old man went on, with even more amusement, "Is your indigestion real or imaginary?"

"It is real," Shaw replied, before quickly adding, "But only a slight one."

Hearing that, the old man's face suddenly grew serious. "You should take some rest, you know," he preached from his perch behind the counter. "It is no good working as hard as you do. Give yourself a break."

Yes, thought Shaw, and chat the rest of my life away like you. Better get going before the old nutter found something else to talk about.

"Right you are," he said, reaching into his pocket for some change. "That's why I came back early. I just stopped by for some bread." Known for visiting only when he needed something, Shaw was forced into buying that loaf. Well, at least it would come in handy, he thought.

After a quick goodbye, he carefully made his way towards his house, making one final check with his neighbor. The last thing he wanted was a nasty surprise waiting for him behind his own door.

The widower, who occupied the adjacent house was in his usual position—strewn about in a rickety chair on the patio. Though as old as the store owner, he shared none of his traits. On the contrary, he spoke only when spoken to and seldom left the house. He trimmed the garden only when it resembled a rain forest, and dusted the house only when breathing got difficult. He had once been a chef in one of the city's finer hotels. But after his had wife succumbed to a tropical disease, whose origins remained unknown, he gave up the job, locking himself in. Somehow, he tolerated Shaw.

"Afternoon, sir. Not cooking another of your mouth-watering dishes today?" Shaw asked with a forced grin.

Not thrilled with the interruption, the neighbor menacingly gazed back.

Knowing that he had trodden into uncharted territory without so much as a compass, Shaw knew he had to retreat, and quickly. The old neighbor had cussed people before, and Shaw did not want his name to be added to that list.

Adjusting his grin, he tried again. "I wanted to find out whether I have had any visitors today."

The neighbor's gaze grew menacingly stronger, and when he opened his mouth, Shaw expected the worst.

Mercifully, he spared him. "Not today," he said, "Last week a young lady inquired as to your whereabouts, but I told you that, didn't I?"

Relief flooded Shaw's face. Acknowledging the old neighbor, he literally ran towards the door. Once inside, he flung open a small bag, well-worn from days gone by, when he along with his girlfriend would take long trips around the country. They would have only just about enough money for train tickets, cheap rooms, and food. But the trips had been totally worth. However, as luck would have had it, the girlfriend's father, suspicious of his daughter's increasingly consistent absences, hired a private eye to investigate. Not pleased upon learning who his daughter was spending time with, he forbade her from seeing him anymore. In the meantime, Shaw had had some unpleasant visitors, who had made it very clear that any further attempts of meeting the girl would result in a lot of broken bones and no career.

Heartbroken, but knowing that her father was crazy enough to carry out the threat, they decided to play it smart and part ways, but not before vowing to rekindle their love once Shaw had broken out and attained a good position. They dreamed of traveling first class and staying in the best hotels. Keeping his promise, Shaw finished his education and secured a good job. However, the father remained unimpressed. In his eyes, someone like Shaw could never be good enough, no matter how hard he tried. Hence, the first class train tickets remained in-purchased, and their promise unfulfilled.

But he did not miss her much, though. Or so he thought. More friends than lovers, a mutual attraction of unplanned adventures had drawn them together. Little did he realize that less than a few years after their last meeting, they stood mere hours away from embarking upon the journey of their lives. A journey that would change everything. For the better or worse.

Throwing in bare essentials and some cash, Shaw zipped the bag and slammed the door. He stood before the house, pausing, soaking in what surely were to be his last moments there. Having moved in under two years ago, he had already developed an affinity towards it. In his spare time, he had painted the walls, the smell of fresh paint still lingering in his memory. He had toiled in the garden and had made the flowers bloom. He savored the memories he knew he would cherish forever. He smelt the air, and it felt like home. He was transported to a different time when life was simple and beautiful—yesterday. Any ordinary man would have already given up hope by now. Craig Shaw was anything but that. He had never prayed for lighter burdens, only for a broader back. Had never begged for anything, always earned it. And in an hour such as this, when most men would have been overwhelmed by the seemingly infinite darkness engulfing their lives with rapid speed, Shaw once again chose to see the soft glow in the far off distance. He took a deep breath and turned around. It was time to go!

# Chapter 6

Dr. Bailey was engrossed, writing a medical paper when he heard tires screech outside. That very morning, he had returned from yet another trip to Robben Island, where he had noticed a type of infection that seemed to have no prior record. Treating the hale and hearty of the city might have earned him a comfortable living, but his real ambition lay in getting to make a name for himself, much like Sir Ronald Ross or Sir William Bowman. He wished to be remembered after he was gone. To achieve that legacy, he was always visiting godforsaken places, looking for diseases he could find miracle cures for, and Robben Island happened to be the closest and most accessible.

Robben Island is a tiny, oval shaped island, five miles west of Cape Town. In those days, it was a formidable prison, even holding three future presidents including Mandela. It contained all sorts of political prisoners, mutineers, rebels, and lepers. Life was tough, and food always in short supply, making the miserable conditions perfect for the spread and eventual discovery of new diseases. Possibly, even cures. Bailey knew that if there was a place which could make a name for him, it had to be Robben Island.

The assistant softly tapped the door, violating Bailey's instructions. "Pardon me, doctor," she said, "But one of your patients has taken ill. His aides are here, insisting that you come at once."

Bailey grew nettled. Great! That was all he needed. Another of his imbecile patients to suffer a fall after drinking too much or catch a mild cold exposing their bodies by wearing too little. Then one of their many 'aides' would come rushing by, as though a mass epidemic had broken out. Bailey was tired of these half-cocked emergencies, which seemed to be popping with increasing frequency as his patients grew older and richer, but none the wiser. He longed for real medical work, something he had not done in a very long time as he had been too busy minting money.

"And what do we have now?" he asked, his voice rising with every syllable, "A sprained ankle, an alcohol overdose or a fungus infection?"

Not wanting to get him started, the assistant kept it short. "Sullivan's men are here. I told them that you did not wish to be disturbed, but they aren't exactly the polite types."

The very mention of the name rang like heroin to an addict, and the doctor forgot all about the paper. If Sullivan was involved, then things had to be nasty, and secretly, the doctor hoped for the worst—a drive-by shooting, several bullet wounds, a few slain bodies in a bloody gang war, perhaps. His head reeled with the listless possibilities, and he had to grip the edges of his desk to keep himself steady. With the eyes of a boy who had just been told that he was finally getting his much anticipated new bike, he asked, "S...S...Sullivan? Wh...wh...what happened?"

"I don't know, doctor. They won't tell me," the assistant replied. "All they said was that they needed you to get to his house, right away. They have even brought his car."

Hearing that, the doctor immediately rushed towards the window to peek out. It was true, indeed! There sat the shiny Rolls Royce, parked in a fashion that seemed to depict a quick get away, its engine still running, thickly chested men waiting, impatiently.

Bailey savored the moment. His last real emergency had been when Sullivan, a not so powerful gangster then, had killed a very high-ranking member of a rival gang. The high-ranking member had a mistress, with whom he had shared a lot of closely guarded secrets, secrets that should never have been revealed to anyone, let alone a Delilah. She had gotten introduced to Sullivan through a friend of a friend, and the Luxuria had proven irresistible. After a few passionate moments in the theater's washroom, while the play had neared the climax, she had slipped him the address and the time. Soon, the Irishman had started seeing her, and she could never have enough. Her addiction to the drug named Sullivan had been instantaneous, and something that would eventually prove fatal.

Sullivan, knowing that he had uncovered a gold mine, studied her body like a navigator studying a map. He learned its responses to different stimuli, leaving her begging for more and more after every rapturous orgasm. Slowly, she started passing onto him her lover's gang's operational secrets. She told him stuff so sensitive, only a handful of very privileged men knew about. Sullivan started using this information to his advantage, and his prowess expanded rapidly.

Meanwhile, the high-ranking gangster got suspicious, and one day, while exiting her house, left a back window open. Kissing her goodbye, he got into his car and drove it to the next block. Once there, he sneaked back into the house through the open window. While she washed up, he tiptoed and hid in the closet. Soon, he heard a car come to a halt outside, and he crawled out of the closet to see Sullivan enter. He then crawled back inside from where he heard her moan again and again for over two hours as she cursed his name, calling him a fat bastard, mocking him for telling her secrets in the vain hope of impressing her with them. Through the louvers, he caught glimpses of their bodies move up and down in unison, and was enveloped with rage.

Although he intended on killing them both, he could not risk going one-on-one with Sullivan. When the Irishman was gone for about thirty minutes, he crept out, approaching her stealthily. The glass she was drinking from slipped from her hand and shattered when she saw him. She could see it in his eyes. He knew everything and had seen everything. His face, red with rage, terrified her. She had wanted to scream, but all that came out was a mere whimper.

The slap across her face was so hard that it broke her jaw, flinging her onto the floor. He then picked her by her hair, hitting her again and again, till her face became unrecognizable. When she did not move, he removed his silenced revolver, and shot her, right between the legs.

Exhilarated, he watched her bleed and lit up, the nicotine soothing his veins like an after-sex cigarette. Fixing himself a drink, he sat down facing the corpse. Somewhere during his fourth drink, he felt hot tears roll down his cheeks and wept uncontrollably. He had loved her truly, and she had betrayed him. But he did not weep for long, though, for he knew that neither could feelings be given too much room nor be allowed to stay for too long. There was work to do. Extinguishing the cigarette, he flushed down the contents of the ashtray and wiped the house clean. Retrieving the shell casing from amidst the shattered glass, he emptied the contents of the refrigerator—his latest gift for her—stuffing her body in it. He then squeegeed the blood and mopped the floor. Everything finished, he went up to the balcony, where he hung her red brassiere on the drying line, before exiting through the back door. He would return the following day to finish off what he had started. His secret was safe till then. Nobody was going to miss the bitch tonight.

The following afternoon, Sullivan finished his business early and drove to the woman's house. He slowed down as he passed it, looking up towards the balcony. What he saw confused him. Instead of a white, there hung a red brassiere on the drying line. How could that have happened, he thought? She had never gotten it wrong before. Was this another one of her kinky jokes? Just like leaving a brassiere to indicate to him that it was safe to visit her, though he had suggested something more impalpable. Well, if it was a joke, he certainly was not amused. Parking a few rows down the lane, the Irishman walked up to her house. The last thing he needed was captivating the interest of a nosy neighbor.

# Chapter 7

Inside, the fat killer heaved a sigh of relief. The previous day, he had heard the woman mention the arrangement as she had kissed Sullivan goodbye, and he was glad to have gotten it right. The bitch might have toyed with his emotions, but in the end, it had all drawn up in his favor, proving another chance at pleasing his superiors, enabling him to move higher up the hierarchy. His superiors had approved of his plan to eliminate Sullivan, who like a pest was rapidly destroying the harvest. Of course, they hadn't the slightest clue as to who had let the pest in, in the first place, and he wanted to let it stay that way.

To ensure that everything went smoothly, he had brought with him three of their best men. Two sharpshooters and a getaway driver. The shooters hid with him inside, while the getaway driver waited in a car parked at the end of the street. The plan was to take Sullivan by surprise, right when his thoughts would be flooded with fantasy, and his guard would be down. It is impatience that saved the Irishman, that day. Impatience, and a garden hose.

As Sullivan walked, he observed the house. Sometimes, she would leave the door ajar, peeping from behind it as she awaited him. However, that day, the door was firmly shut, with her nowhere in sight. That was a good thing, for she was in for a severe tongue lashing after that kinky stunt. Looking around, he found everything normal. She always did her gardening before lunch, and the wet grass indicated just that. What Sullivan didn't know was that the killer knew this too, and had gotten the lawn hosed down before assuming his position.

Sullivan was a few feet from the door when it flew open, and a fat man dressed in black and gripping a pistol appeared. Suddenly, his senses came alive. He now understood the reason behind the wrong color of the brassiere. He was tantamount to a sitting duck!

As he saw the trigger get squeezed, and heard the bullet propel from its firing chamber, his arms automatically outstretched in midair as he struggled at maintaining balance, falling to the ground. He had tripped over the garden hose, the bullet only managing to graze his right arm!

Despondent, and fuming at his man for carelessly flinging the garden hose across the walkway instead of coiling it away, the fat killer fired again. But he was too late. The agile Irishman, quickly recovering, lunged himself forward like a battering ram, sweeping the shooter off his feet, the bullet missing his head by mere inches, lodging into a tree trunk, where it stayed until getting discovered by law enforcement agents. As they both fell through the door and onto the floor, Sullivan grabbed the shooter, wrapping the fat body over his own. Then, in a flash, he removed his Colt from its holster, shooting the two men waiting for him behind the door.

For the two sharpshooters, who were caught completely off-guard, things had severely gone south in the last few seconds. First had been when their sap-headed boss had jumped the gun, trying to kill Sullivan much earlier than they had meticulously planned to. Second, when they saw his fat body draped over Sullivan's, shielding the Irishman, making it impossible for them to take a shot.

Two rounds each for the two sharpshooters and the final two pumped into the fat man's head. Writhing out, Sullivan escaped through the very window the dead man had previously used to enter and kill the woman.

The man waiting in the getaway car had heard the shots, but from his position, it was hard to ascertain what was going on. He had seen Sullivan walking up to the house, but besides that, he remained clueless. Parking close to the house had not been an option for them, for they had not wanted to put off the prey. At first, he had assumed that the plan had gone through, but when he did not see his accomplices for a whole minute, he knew something was wrong.

Meanwhile, Sullivan managed to commandeer a car, which had been just pulling over. Convincing the driver to allow him to have it hadn't proved a challenge. Tires smoked as he sped off, his pursuer hot on his heels. The wound stung, but he didn't let that interfere with his driving. He was a born survivor.

The pursuit of the lion proved fatal for the hunter for he led him straight to his den, where he got mauled like a rabbit. More than twenty rounds were pumped into the getaway driver's car with such fury that for a second, even a fly would have found the place too small to hide in.

Enraged, Sullivan retaliated, and an old fashioned gang war erupted that ended not before blood flowed like water in the streets. Sullivan had only been grazed by a bullet in the right shoulder. He was lucky for a flesh wound in the left side of the body often proves mortal. However, some of his trusted men were in need of the critical attention of someone who knew how to hold his mouth shut. Bailey's name was thrown in, and his then not so plush office had been gate-crashed in a similar manner by men in no mood to take no for an answer. They had explained the situation, telling the doctor that he had five minutes to get his things ready, before driving him at breakneck speed, halfway across town. The doctor had worked miracles that day, and the men had healed. The fee Bailey received from Sullivan for services rendered, transformed his fortunes. He moved into a new clinic and began treating only the wealthy, charging them outrageous sums of money. Sullivan had been his ticket out of mediocrity. And here he was, again, more than five years later, like a Godsend angel.

The doctor felt dizzy. Another huge payoff from Sullivan and he could give up his practice, altogether, fully devoting his time to research. Knowing the drill, he quickly readied his bag, before rushing out to greet the harbingers of good news.

"How bad is it?" he asked, with dreamy eyes.

"The boss is unconscious," came the reply.

The boss! This time it happened to be their boss. Sullivan, himself! The doctor wanted to pump his fists in the air!

The dash from the clinic to Sullivan's house did not take long. Neither was it meant to. These men weren't exactly law abiding drivers even on their best days, let alone when their boss lay unconscious. Even before the Rolls could come to a complete halt, eager hands unlatched the door and grabbed the doctor, hauling him through the front door, into a well-decorated living room, and up a grand staircase.

The first things Bailey noticed upon entering the bedroom were the golden cross and chain that Sullivan wore, dangling by the bedpost. Strange, how even such men believed in a higher power or at least portrayed. Bailey himself attended church every Sunday. Not because he was devout, but because society demanded that all rich men worship or at least pretend to worship a God whose teaching they seldom adhered to. So, like many, he too dragged himself to church every week, hoping the priest would spare them the trumpery and keep it short, so they could get on with their Sabbath routine of drinking, gambling, and betting on horses. To hell with the commandments, and to hell with the priests, who made them feel like convicted felons.

The next things the doctor noticed, though they should have been the first, were the bloodstained shirt and the motionless body. Coming back from his thoughts, he got to work, checking Sullivan's airway, breath, and blood circulation—the base of any diagnosis. Confirming that Sullivan was very much alive, the doctor carried on further.

The tensed crowd, meanwhile, spread to all corners of the house, waiting and smoking. Pieter and Riaan remained alongside them, staring gloomily at the floor while listening to their loud-mouthed opinions.

Inside, the doctor stayed busy. Having not had the need to work so hard in recent times, he quickly tired, emerging from the bedside after an hour and a half. Doing so, he was immediately joined by the underboss, who did a lot of questioning. The doctor answered best he could, remaining cautious as to what he said, careful not to make any promises of miracle recoveries. The underboss might have been more polished than Sullivan, but was just as ruthless, nonetheless.

There was no telling when Sullivan would open his eyes, or whether he would remember what had happened. That being said, the situation was not life threatening, and their leader would survive. The diagnosis was broken ribs, a mangled finger, and a severe concussion. That's all there was in it as of now.

The underboss, James Townsend, Sullivan's confidant and former Belfast inmate, nodded, slowly. Standing as tall as Sullivan, with bright, blue eyes, and short, curly, brown hair, he struggled to fathom the need for his fellow Irishman to personally involve himself in such lowly matters. Well, besides his arrant hatred of the blacks. Townsend had seen this day coming a long time ago, even warning Sullivan on several occasions against the consequences of too much hate. They were running a gang, not the government, which in his opinion could be run by any fool. Besides, Sullivan was the boss, not a filthy foot soldier. Managing the most rapidly emerging underworld corporation of the city required all the help it could get. And by tormenting the blacks, they had not only lost an ally, albeit a frail one but had also created an enemy they could have done without. It was not that he liked the blacks. Personally, he probably hated them more than Sullivan, but he kept the hatred in check, not getting involved in anything more than was necessary. Alas, Sullivan never heeded his advice. Look where it had led to now. Losing face and getting humiliated in the street by a little, black girl, and a brave but stupid, young man. Townsend crushed the cigarette butt under his heel and summoned everyone. Craig Shaw was a dead man.

# Chapter 8

Shaw reached the rendezvous, yet another deserted alley near the market. Unable to spot Abri, he began to worry. After five minutes, his worry turned to panic, and he feared the worst, his mind imagining all sorts of possibilities, every passing second leaving him feeling more and more apprehensive about his own situation. Could it be that they had already found her? It wasn't unlikely. Had they had, they surely knew of this place by now. Abri might have been a tough, little girl, but she still was a little girl, and under concerted pressure, little girls didn't hold out for long. The thought of him being assailable left him feeling exposed and extremely vulnerable. Only then did it occur to him that he should have exercised a bit more caution. But the tense scenario had caused him to miss out on details that he just couldn't afford to miss out on. Details that could get him killed.

Abri appeared out of nowhere from the dark, long shadows. The sun was nearing the horizon, and the uncongenial, after-dark environment of the city meant that they had to make the best use of whatever precious daylight still remained. You had me anxious for a few moments," Shaw said, sounding relieved.

"Sorry," she replied. "I just wanted to make sure no one was following you." Her voice was steady and composed, and she definitely was keeping her wits about her. The grief and rage still showed on her face, but she wasn't letting it affect her decision making. Shaw's confidence grew. The girl could prove a major ally. In a situation like this, he certainly could do with all the help.

"What next?" she inquired.

"We need to change your appearance. Take this money and buy yourself new clothes from a black store, and get your hair cut short. And hurry. Meet me in an hour at this new location." He then was on his way, once again.

After a fifteen minute walk, Shaw neared a large house, grotesquely large, screaming wealth as though trying to cover up for some emotional insecurities of its owner. He held back as he approached it. Ducking behind the garden hedge, he scanned the property. It was where his former girlfriend lived. Her family owned three cars, and there stood just the one in the driveway, its chauffeur dozing at the wheel. Shaw was in luck. The car was hers. A Ford Model-A—the latest gift to her from her wealthy father.

Seeing no one else, Shaw decided to take his chance. Hunkered down, he started moving, intending to sneak behind the car and get into the house through the side door. But his plan was thwarted, when the chauffeur suddenly awoke, spotting him.

"Hey, you, stop!" cried the alarmed chauffeur. "What do you think you are doing?"

Shaw froze, cursing under his breath. He knew he had to think quickly, or the game was over. Pretending to tie his shoelace, he waited for the chauffeur to approach. Meanwhile, he thought hard.

The chauffeur quickly raced to the spot, and standing over him, repeated the question, rather nastily this time, in a tone reserved for a petty thief caught in the act.

In response, Shaw rose slowly, looking visibly offended, feigning anger along with the expression of someone unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a manner, especially by a lowly chauffeur.

"I was tying my shoelace," he mustered authoritatively, his voice rising with every word, feigning insult.

The trick worked. The chauffeur, seeing the expensive clothes that Shaw had thrown on before leaving his house, and hearing the authoritative tone, quickly retreated. Clearly, he had gotten it wrong. His face turned red with embarrassment, and he instantly blabbered an apology. "I do beg your forgiveness, sir," he said. "I apparently mistook you for someone else."

Maintaining an aloof image, Shaw dismissed him with a wave of the hand and headed straight for the door, the front one this time. There was only one way of doing this now.

The chauffeur, still embarrassed and desperate to make up, followed at a distance. "Do forgive me, again, sir, but I am afraid that Mr. Therond is not in at the moment," he said, referring to his employer.

That was terrific news! Shaw tried hard to hold back a smile. "I know that," he said, still playing the aloof, authoritative, young man. "My business lies with his daughter, Miss Sara Therond."

"Oh, I, see. Yes, sir, of course, sir. Miss Therond is in. Do you wish for me to inform her of your arrival?"

"No, thank you," Shaw replied, hoping the idiot would shut up and go away. He had enough to worry about, already.

"Of course, sir. And if I may once again beg your forgiveness for what just transgressed."

"Think of it no more."

The chauffeur bowed, backing away, relieved. He might have been a trusted employee of Mr. Therond, but that was no excuse for treating one of his daughter's guests like that.

The door was opened by Sara's black maid Dikedeli, and if she was surprised to see Shaw standing there, she certainly did not let it show. The idiot chauffeur was beaming from the background, his ears straining to catch every word. She had seen Shaw before and knew all about him and Sara, but he had never shown up at the front door like that. Usually, he had waited across the street, hidden. Something definitely had to be up for him to make such a bold appearance, especially after all these years.

Deciding to play along, she asked, "Good evening, sir. Are you here for Mr. Therond?"

"No, just the charming Miss Therond," Shaw replied, feeling like a pompous twit. Where had that come from?

"Of course, sir. I shall let her know of your arrival at once, Mr....?"

"Nichols," he lied.

Nichols! So, this was an unauthorized and dangerous visit, indeed.

Showing him in, and slamming the door rather hard as though reminding the chauffeur to mind his own business, she dashed up the stairs.

"Sara!" she exclaimed, barging into her mistress's room.

"Who was that at the door?" Sara asked, looking up.

The maid caught her breath before replying, "You will not believe it if I told you."

That did little to impress Sara. Dikedeli had a habit of getting carried away from time to time, exaggerating even the dullest of events. "Hmm.... Is it the prince of my dreams?" she asked, amused.

"He very well could be."

That caused Sara to sit up and notice. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"It's Craig," Dikedeli replied.

"Craig?"

"Yes, Craig."

"Craig who?"

"What? What do you mean Craig who? Craig Shaw."

"Craig Shaw!" Sara exclaimed with fright. The very thought of him inside the house passed through her body like an electric jolt, yet at the same time sending a rush of blood to her head. This better not be a joke.

"Don't fool around, Dikedeli," she said. It's not funny.

"I am not fooling around, Sara. He really is here, all dressed up, and calling himself a Mr. Nichols."

"Nichols? Why would he do that?" It was all very sudden and confusing.

"I don't know, Sara. But something is very wrong. I can sense it. You better hurry."

With that, Sara Therond rushed out of her room, and down the stairs.

# Chapter 9

The moment her eyes fell upon him, her legs went wobbly, and she thought she would fall. It had been years since she had last seen him and his very sight caused her to tear from the insides. Gone were the long hair, casual clothes, and an unkempt beard, replaced by an immaculately dressed gentleman, who seemed in charge of his own destiny. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

She wanted to say something, but there was a frog in her throat. All she managed was calling out his name, incoherently.

"Craig," she said.

Hearing her voice, he turned around to face her. "It's been a long time," he answered.

The deep, manly voice caused something in her to stir. She wanted to run to him, be held by him, feel her body crush and dissolve in his strong embrace. Time surely might have passed, but her love for him hadn't changed, and never would. She fervently hoped he felt the same.

"Sorry to drop in like that, but it was extremely urgent, and I had no choice," he went on, and she emerged from her wandering thoughts, managing to shake her head to say it was quite alright.

"Listen," he said, "For old time's sake, I need a favor."

"Sure, Craig! Anything." Her voice was much steadier, now.

Swearing her to secrecy, Shaw quickly described to her what had happened. They might not have been able to rekindle their love, but he knew that he had her trust forever. Some things never changed.

When he was done, she needed to sit down and hold her head in her hands for it spun like a top. On the one hand, she could understand why he had done what he had done. He had always been the strong and righteous kind, even if that meant losing his head at times, but on the other hand, she just couldn't get to grips with the fact that it was all over, now. Some part of her had secretly clung onto the hope that, somehow, someday, they could and would still make it together, and that hope had just been crushed and tossed aside. That was it. Her dream was over before it had even begun. He was going, and never again would she be able to see him. She wanted to go to her room, bolt the door, and cry forever. She would remain there, safe in her private sanctuary, never coming out. Slowly, after several minutes, she looked up, again, her eyes red with sorrow. She wanted to kiss him, wanted to hug him for one last time, but knew doing so would only weaken her. She had to be tough for his sake.

"At least you came to say goodbye, at least you remembered me," she said.

"Well, I did wait across the street for you, like before, but you never appeared. So, I had to pop in," Shaw replied, trying to humor her, causing her to laugh and cry at the same time.

Whether she crashed into his arms deliberately or he pulled her, she did not know, she did not care. All she knew was that once there, there was no getting out. It was like the warmth of a thousand suns after a long, dark, and frozen winter, his arms offering her an unparalleled sense of security.

He did his best to not get lost in the moment. Every minute that passed was his loss and Sullivan's gain.

Abruptly breaking the embrace, he said, "I need to go now, Sara. Tell your uncle Hendrik that I shall contact him when I reach Pretoria."

"Take me with you," she blurted out.

"You know that's not possible," he replied, softly.

"It is," she insisted.

He shook his head. "No, it is much too risky. Besides, I will come in contact with you once things improve."

She knew that was a lie. When would things improve? Would they ever? And even if they did, she knew that he never would contact her, again. No, he would never do anything he feared might bring her harm. Neither would her uncle divulge any information. Not in a hundred years. She knew them both and knew them well. They were both of the same molds, the only difference being one had scaled dizzying heights while the other had only started his ascent.

Like any true lover refusing to acknowledge the fact that the end was near, she longed for things to become magically alright. She had never given up on him, and even after many a tear-filled night, she had never believed it to be over. Her love for him was a candle that the cold, fierce wind had not been able to blow out. Then this storm, as though everything was conspiring against her. But nothing in the world could kill her love for him.

Strangely, she somehow felt inspired. Something was very different. Probably it was the fact that the man she loved was a real man, a strong soldier, genuine, righteous, and kind, who'd fight till the very end, and then some. A tear rolled down her cheek as clarity dawned upon her. Fate was finally bringing them together, albeit throwing in a very cruel twist. She had two choices. Play the victim or the victor. She chose the latter. For she had had enough of life in her golden cage, like a songbird trapped inside. She had always believed for him to be the man that possessed the key, but for some unknown reason, he had refused to set her free. It was only then she realized that freedom wasn't handed over for nothing. It had to be taken. If she wished to soar the skies, she needed to break free. And she decided to soar. There was no stopping her now. Her mind was made up.

He did not relent, of course, and after a lengthy discussion stood to head for the door, pausing momentarily to look into her eyes. She did not meet his gaze. With a heavy heart, he dragged his feet, inching away. It seemed to take forever, every step heavier and harder than the last. Once there, he stopped, staring point blank at the wooden structure, thinking of what she had just said. A songbird, who longed to be free, and the man that never let her out. What was he really afraid of, he asked himself? Suddenly, it hit him that there was nothing to fear, for he had lost it all. Everything he had until a few hours ago – a job, future, a standing in society, everything was gone. Just like that, blown away like dust. Those were the very things he had struggled to achieve, but the more he achieved them, the more he had seemed to not have wanted them at all. Perhaps that was the reason he had taken the plunge into the unknown, had done what he had done. He had grown tired of everything. How much longer could he walk through life pretending as if everything was alright, working alongside people whose ethics he despised, making deals that were immoral, breaking his own rules to suit the firm's, and living in a society whose very beliefs made him sick? How much longer, he asked himself?

He remembered how he had once believed in all things simple and beautiful. But somewhere along the way, that belief had vanished. Somewhere along the road from boyhood to manhood, Craig Shaw had compromised with himself and his beliefs. He had sold himself short so that he could be judged a sound man by others, so that he could fit into society. That might have achieved him the things he thought would make him happy, but the more he walked down that road, the more lost he got. He was afraid of dying, but he was already dead.

Today, after a long time, he had felt alive, again, felt his hands had been washed clean. The burden was gone, his shoulders were light, his steps no longer restrained by the chains he had been wearing for so long.

She was right. This was their last chance. Be fearful or be brave.

# Chapter 10

The Ford Model A, with a four cylinder, three-liter engine that churned out forty horsepower, was one of a kind and had catapulted Ford to the leading automaker in the world. It boasted a top speed of sixty-five miles an hour. To make life easier, it had a fuel gauge, and the needle indicated a full tank. Sara's father had paid over two thousand dollars for the machine, including transshipment from the United States, and Shaw felt that it had been money well spent, although, he doubted Mr. Therond would hold the same view once he learned what is was being used for and by whom.

Shaw drove it straight to the rendezvous, where a nervous looking Abri jumped into the back seat, sitting down low so as not to be seen. Waiting for Shaw to show up, she had survived a scare, when a short, white man with a heavy paunch had glared at her, very nearly causing her to run. His eyes, from under his bushy eyebrows, had looked at her suspiciously, scanning her as though she was the first black person they had ever come across. Abri, liking neither his stare nor his vibes, had kept her head down and had kept on walking, pretending to be as normal as she could. Eventually, the man had left her alone, and she had quickly changed her focus and started admiring her new outfit. Anything that would keep her mind from getting sucked into a whirlpool of negativity. If only her friends could see her now, she thought. She wondered whether she would see them again, and that caused her to feel very lonely, and her thoughts slipped to her father, lying dead in the street, wondering what must have happened to him. The trauma was back to haunt her. Her father had been the only one she had, and now that he was gone, she shuddered at the thought of what was to become of her. Shaw was a good man, but how long could he take care of her? Soon, he, too, would be gone. Then, she was on her own.

After a quiet exit from Cape Town at blistering speed, the three of them got talking. It was understood that keeping a low profile, and talking to as few people as possible, remained crucial. Every word spoken to every stranger made it easier for Sullivan to sniff them out. The road to Pretoria was long and filled with dangers, and they still needed to notify Hendrik Claasen. Shaw decided to do that the first thing in the morning. They still had a while. For now, they discussed their cover story.

Shaw was a married man, who was being accompanied by his wife and her maid servant on a short business trip that had shown up quite unexpectedly. That would explain why they were so scarcely packed. Abri's age was raised to sixteen, and since they were affluent enough to be able to afford servants and cars, Shaw was expected to come up with an alternate, suitable profession. After spending time with the firm's clientele, he could certainly bluff his way through that one.

They covered childhoods, marriage, anniversaries, business, address, family, relatives, and friends. They then went through the details again and again, till every lie was memorized and everyone's story matched. The last thing they needed was to fumble at a critical moment. A slip is all it would take for Sullivan.

They had been silent for some time, when Sara spoke out, "Craig, we are not wearing any wedding rings."

Without getting his eyes off the road, Shaw reached into his pocket, pulling out a ring.

Astonished, Sara asked, "This is mine?"

He nodded.

"When did you purchase it?"

"A long time ago."

"And you kept it all these years?"

A nod, again.

She extended her finger, and he slipped it on. It fit perfectly. She held it up and admired it.

"How about you?" she asked. "I'm sorry, but I can't quite surprise you in the same manner."

With that, he pulled out another, a much simpler one, passed onto him by his father. Sara took it from him and put it on his finger. Married while on the run!

The talk soon shifted back to more pressing concerns. Shaw was worried that Mr. Therond, Sara's father, would blow their cover. But Sara was confident he wouldn't. As mean as he was, he still loved her. Moreover, he loved his social stature more and would die before revealing to anyone that his daughter was on the run with a man, who in a single, screwball moment, had taken on the underworld. He was just too smart and just too scared to drag his own name through the dirt. And even if anyone did enquire as to his daughter's whereabouts, she was sure that he could come up with a convincing story. Shaw agreed on that one. Lying and deceiving did come naturally to the man, after all.

However, there still existed a problem of him trying to locate them on his own, something he would definitely try. Shaw decided to cross that bridge when they came to it.

Mentally exhausted, Sara and Abri soon went silent, sinking back into their seats, welcoming the break. Shaw, meanwhile, kept the pedal firmly pressed against the floor, his mind racing with thoughts. He worried about things such as food, gas, and accommodation. They had exited the city and were reaching Southern Paarl, a small, scenic town roughly forty miles northeast of Cape Town, known for the fruits which come out of it. He had been there before and was familiar with the layout. Worcester lay straight ahead, Wellington to the left. It was nearing supper time, and they were starving.

By the time Shaw slowed the car outside a swish restaurant, the sun had already disappeared, and the street lamps were burning amber. A valet approached them. Seeing him, Shaw instinctively stepped on the gas, boggling his co-passengers, not to mention the valet.

"What happened?'' Sara asked.

"We'll stop at another place," he replied.

"What was wrong with that one?"

"Did you notice all the cars and the valet? Obviously, it caters exclusively to the upper class, and I didn't want to attract any attention."

Sara agreed, congratulating him on his incisive thinking. But in the future, could he please think of such things beforehand?

Peeved, he continued to drive, until they found a deserted looking, mid-sized eatery. They got out and stretched their limbs. There seemed not a soul in sight. Slowly, they made their way inside to discover that they were the only guests. They had a black section at the rear, and Abri made her way there.

A frail, old woman greeted them, and Sara asked directions to the washroom. Upon her return, she found Craig occupying the table placed closest to the exit. The older woman was making small talk with him, and he was desperately trying to avoid it, at the same time being careful not to come out as rude. Aware that small town folk loved only a few things more than a good old-fashioned chat, he kept to the point, reconstructing the lie they had cooked up in the car. He told her that he was headed to Loeriesfontein, a tiny town north of there. Having had never been there herself, the woman couldn't offer much advice, except that it was said to be beautiful that time of the year. She then went on to tell them that they made a marvelous couple, a compliment they both accepted graciously. Just wait till you hear the truth, Shaw muttered to himself.

Shaw ordered a whiskey, and then another.

"Do you intend on getting drunk?" Sara asked, and he stopped ordering.

By the time the food arrived, the whiskey was having an effect, and Shaw started to relax. Not a bad thing, considering how the day had gone. He had intruded in someone else's business, almost got shot, re-discovered his love for Sara, and now was on the run with her. And here they were. Forty miles from home, holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes, and Sullivan hadn't a clue. It made him want to order a full bottle.

The meat was chewy, and the meal on the whole less than satisfactory. No wonder the place had so few customers. But they ate without a fuss, and as quickly as they could. Sleep and an early start the next morning were a top priority.

The bill settled, they thanked the mother-daughter pair who ran the place thoroughly, as thoroughly as one could for chewy meat and a hastily thrown together meal, before asking them if they knew of a suitable place where they could retire for the night. The pair, of course, knew just the place a few miles away and pointed this way and that. Shaw listened intently, knowing very well that was the last place he was going. It was all an act. He was shaking off the trail, buying time, just in case they happened to get traced to the diner. He had already decided to stay at the same place he had once used before. It had been discreet, the staff hadn't asked too many questions, and there was a garage nearby where he could park. The Ford was a head turner, and he was already toying with the idea of replacing it with something subtle.

He dropped off Sara and Abri a little distance away from the motel, before going and parking the car in the garage. He didn't want the receptionist to wonder why a couple, who drove such a fancy car, wanted to check into a motel more suited to people constrained by things such as budgets.

The girl at the reception warmly greeted him, which struck him odd, for the last time there had been no such formalities. Probably it was due to the fact he dressed better, and the girl wanted to make a good impression of the motel.

"I believe my wife just checked in a few minutes ago. A Mrs. Lewis,'' he asked. They were the Lewises now. Tomorrow they would be something else.

"Just up the stairs and the third room to your left,'' the receptionist replied with a smile.

Craig thanked the girl and went upstairs.

"Where is Abri?" he inquired, once inside the room.

"I managed to convince the receptionist to allow her room downstairs,'' Sara replied.

Satisfied, he dropped to the couch and quickly slumbered away. He needed the sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another long day.

# Chapter 11

It was nearing midnight. Sara and Craig were sleeping soundly. However, for every man employed full-time by Sullivan, it was turning out to be another kind of night. They were all wide awake, and hard at work. Back at base, the mood remained somber, and the thick cigarette smoke, hanging in the air, did little to assist matters. Sullivan was still to open his eyes, and Townsend grew anxious. The groundwork had already been done. The black man's body, chopped to a butcher's envy, had been disposed of in separate sewers across the city, the rats screeching their gratitude as the pieces had fallen down the manholes. But there continued to be no sign of Shaw or the black girl. It was likely that they were holed together, somewhere. But where? All trains and buses had been watched. The boy's friend list was short, and they, too, hadn't a clue to as to his whereabouts. Neither did his neighbors nor did his employers. All hotels and inns had been searched, and the word put out. Craig Shaw had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, yet hours had passed with no news. It seemed that for once they had finally met their match.

Townsend was well aware that they had to get to Shaw, and soon. The more the delay, the greater the risk of news leaking out. And that was the last thing that he wanted. The minute it became common knowledge that their leader, the face of their syndicate, had been so bitterly humiliated by a boy of twenty-five, confidence would plunge, affecting not just their future but their very present, throwing into upheaval years of hard work and planning. Regular day-to-day activity that constituted the majority of their business would sharply decline, making dealers wary about dealing with them any longer. Their dominion would be severely challenged, providing the perfect platform for rival gangs to strike a blow from which it could prove impossible to recover. The power struggle amongst gangs was at its peak, with limited business avenues providing zero room for error. Plus, their group primarily comprised of the Irish, who, when compared to the English and Afrikaners, were in the stark minority. In the underworld, image mattered more than reality. It was everything. Only if people feared you, did they ever respect you. Soil that image, and that fear, that respect were down the drain. For good.

The underboss noticed the weariness of the men, and from experience, knew that tired men tended to make more mistakes, missing out on minute details, placing severe restraints on resources. But there seemed nothing he could do. The matter was slipping out of hand. Frustrated, he went out to get some fresh air, where he overheard one of the men telling the others a strange incident that not only seemed out of place but, also, rather annoying at a time like this. Turning around to take a look at the idiot, he saw a short, fat man, with a full paunch and bushy eyebrows, who narrated to a small gathering of how, earlier that day, he had frightened a little, black girl by glaring at her. She had been spotted in a predominantly white neighborhood, and that had ticked him off quite badly. The gathering snickered and sneered when they heard the story, and there were remarks.

Townsend decided to go back inside before he heard anything more that came from those humps. Joining the underworld was hardly a lucrative career, and recruiting intelligent people was elusive enough. It was not as though they could go in for university campus interviews or print newspaper advertisements. Nearly all the men Townsend had to work with were astonishingly dumb, their only assets being their ruthlessness and an alarming lack of morals. He had already stashed away enough money, and one day, soon, planned to travel to another country, where he would live out the rest of his days in peace. He was tired of working with men whose intelligent quotient could be compared to that of a mule's.

Back in Ireland, his father had been a renowned Irish scholar, and Townsend had been raised in a house stacked with thick books. He was all set to follow in his father's footsteps, but things had gone wrong. The British were occupying Ireland and had thrown him into prison, locking him away on a false charge. It was here that he first met Sullivan, and the two became instant friends. Sullivan planned an escape and had asked him to come along, but Townsend had refused, saying he just wanted to get out and get back to his studies. They wished each other luck, and Sullivan bid him goodbye.

After a fifteen month tenure, he returned home, only to discover that it had been bombed, with his family buried somewhere underneath. Devastated, he went to the English captain's house, who had ordered the demolition, shooting him dead with his own rifle. He then sneaked onto the first ferry across to Liverpool, where he met up with his older brother, who helped him secure a post as an underwriter's assistant. Under an assumed name, he lived in Liverpool for six months, while the search for him went on back home. When he learned that Sullivan had headed south to Cape Town, he followed suit, convincing his older brother to accompany him. Upon his arrival in South Africa, he met up with his former prison inmate, helping him to penetrate the underworld and rise through the ranks.

But the city that once breathed life into him was slowly killing him, now. It had been over ten years since he had either seen home or his brother and in those ten years, he had made too many enemies and no friends at all. Fortunately, unlike most men in his profession, he had married well. His brother, upon landing, had gone separate ways, and now lived in a town far away. Townsend knew that time and luck were both running out, and if he did not make a move soon, it was he, who would be lying unconscious, or worse, dead. He was not raised to live such a life, only forced, and now that he had the resources, he wanted to call it a day. He would go somewhere they did not recognize his face and complete his long over-due studies.

Emerging from his thoughts, Townsend started walking back. The man was still talking in an irritating voice when Townsend stopped in his tracks. It finally struck him. A point so fine that it had slipped his mind without so much as a thought. All along, the answer had been staring at him right in the face, and he had failed to see it.

Townsend called out to the man, who bounced along quickly. "This girl you were talking about," the underboss questioned, "When did you see her?''

The man raised his bushy eyebrows for a second and said, "Today evening. Must have been close to five o'clock."

Five o'clock, thought Townsend, when they had still been unsure of what exactly had taken place, and were figuring out the mess.

"Tell me," the big, Irish scholar went on, "Isn't this place that you describe close to that Therond's house?"

The man rubbed his chin, contemplating. "Well," he said, "Now that you mention it, it indeed is less than a mile from there if I can do the math right."

Townsend did not believe in the man's math one bit, but knew that it was very close, indeed. He recollected as to how a few years ago, a man named Samuel Therond had made discreet inquiries to scare away some punk, who allegedly had been troubling his daughter. Townsend, at first, had ignored the request, dismissing it as ridiculous. They were serious businessmen, not cheap thugs for hire. Threatening lovers away? Had life come to this? However, Sullivan, who had wanted leverage over Therond, had repeatedly reminded him about it. In the end, the underboss had been compelled to assign the lowly matter to some foot soldiers. A few weeks later, during a serious discussion regarding whether or not to press ahead in a deal that involved entanglement with Therond, one of the men had remarked something about as to how Therond had made it big by marrying rich but was denying an accounts student the same privilege. Some of the assemblies had found it funny, but for Townsend, who had told them to shut up. The accounts student had been none other than Craig Shaw.

# Chapter 12

The chauffeur, who earlier during the day, had spoken to a man pretending to be a certain Mr. Nichols, lay fast asleep when he heard knocking on his door. When it didn't die down, his thoughts at once went towards those insolent kids from across the street, who thought it funny to knock on peoples' doors in the middle of the night and then run away. Having been a victim of their pranks before, he had completely stopped bothering. Seeing his increasingly indifferent attitude, the kids had opted to stay away from his house, allowing him undisturbed sleep for nearly a month. But it now seemed that those brats were at it, again. Only this time he swore to teach them a lesson.

Grabbing a thick cane, and moving in the dark, he went towards the door, waiting for the knocking, which inevitably came seconds later. He wanted to catch them by surprise. Flinging the door wide open, he swung the cane with all his might at the silhouettes, which oddly seemed a little too large to be those of children. The silhouettes ducked for cover, and he heard the sound of holsters being unbuckled, and pistols being cocked.

"Don't make a move,'' a thick voice commanded, and the chauffeur dropped the cane at once, instinctively putting his hands up.

"Please, don't shoot," he pleaded, "I mistook you'll for some street urchins." No sooner did he state that, that thick arms caught him, covering his mouth. "Shut up, or your tongue will be pulled out," he got warned.

He nodded, shutting up, and the men let go of him.

"Put on a goddamn light here, we can hardly see a thing."

A wicker lamp was lit, and the chauffeur found himself staring into the faces of three strangers. He did not know who these strangers were or what they wanted, but it was apparent that they were not to be messed with.

"Anyone else at home?" their leader inquired.

"Just my wife," the chauffeur meekly replied.

"We don't want to wake her up, do we? But we will if we think you are lying or trying to keep anything from us. Understand?"

The chauffeur nodded.

"Good," one of them went on, "Now, tell me, you work for Samuel Therond, right?"

"Yes, I do." The reply had been quick. "I am his family's chauffeur."

The three faces watched him carefully. After a few minutes, when they stepped out, they knew that the man had been assigned by Therond not just to drive his daughter around, but to also keep reporting to him her every activity, every place she visited, and everyone she met with. Besides that, they also knew that the very evening, the daughter had driven away with a young man fitting the description of Shaw, taking with them the Ford Model A, which, according to the last check, was nowhere to be seen in or around the Therond residence. They also knew a lot of other information. The Sullivan gang was working at maximum capacity, displaying some of the qualities that had propelled them to the top. Sullivan, if conscious, would have been proud.

Therond employed two full-time chauffeurs, and the team paid the second a visit, avoiding all the drama that had occurred upon the visit to the first. However, interviewing this man proved rather challenging, and he had a lot of questions of his own as well. He wanted to find out who they were and why were they questioning him. Was Mr. Therond in any sort of trouble?

"It's in the best interests of your employer,'' they kept assuring and reassuring him.

As he was questioned further and further, it became evident as to why he hadn't been assigned to chauffeur the daughter. The man was incredibly decent and would have hardly suited the role. Therond had cleverly picked the other driver—the yes man.

The decent chauffeur had driven Mr. and Mrs. Therond to a private party that evening and had dropped them back at night after dinner. Besides that, he knew of nothing.

"One last thing," Sullivan's man, asked, "Did Mr. Therond mention anything about his daughter on the way back home?"

The chauffeur hesitated, again, but the men remained patient, offering, even more, assurances that he was doing his employer and his family a great favor by helping them out in a silent, heroic way. The silent hero!

After a minute, the chauffeur finally revealed that Mr. Therond had been in a foul mood as his daughter had failed to show up that evening, and Mrs. Therond had been unable to fathom why.

The men knew enough and got up to leave. But at the last minute, the chauffeur had made things difficult.

"I am afraid," he said, "But I will have to inform Mr. Therond as to regarding all of this. My conscience won't let me stay silent. I have a duty towards him, after all."

The men were out of patience. Townsend was waiting, and they had no time to spare. They shifted tactics expeditiously.

"That is correct," said their leader, "But before you do that, may we remind you of your duty towards your family as well, who are currently visiting relatives in East London? We know when they left, and we are aware when they will arrive back. So, the next time your conscience bothers you, try thinking of them.''

And with that, they were gone.

In the meantime, James Townsend sat in Sullivan's room, observing the doctor, and the motionless body that he worked upon. The underboss had had little sleep the previous night, and his mood was extremely irritable. Who was he more furious at, his old prison mate or the young accountant, he could not decide. Both had acted the fools, adding to his misery.

The doctor worked in silence, and that was a good thing for Townsend hated people who blabbered unnecessarily.

The underboss crossed his legs and closed his eyes. So, he thought, after knocking Sullivan out, Craig Shaw had returned home, hastily packed, and then paid his former girlfriend a visit. Then they had both ran away in her car. It was still unclear as to whether or not the black girl was with them, but most likely she was. She had to. Anyway, that wasn't a concern. He would find them sooner rather than later. There were not many Ford Model As in South Africa, and the car was bound to be spotted at several locations. What struck him strange was that they still had to hear from Therond. The man had been uncharacteristically quiet about the whole thing, even though it was evident that he too had been equally stung by surprise as anyone. Usually, he would have thrown a fit, and acted right away, calling everyone he could think of. But there had been nothing from him. Nothing at all. Neither was he aiding them, nor tracking them. All this despite the knowledge that his daughter was playing with fire, and would soon be engulfed by the massive fireball it was developing into. Still, nothing. It seemed that the old cat had gotten so struck down by the fear and shock that it had paralyzed him. The mere thought of such ghastly news leaking out and destroying his reputation, overnight, ought to have scared him stiff. Townsend knew the likes of Therond, and he knew how they thought and functioned. That surely had to be it. There was no other plausible explanation.

However, all been said, there existed a remote possibility that Sara Therond and Craig Shaw had not run away together. Maybe they had just gone for a ride, and Sara had not agreed to his plan, and instead of returning home, was staying over with a friend, someone who could be her shoulder to cry on for the night. That would explain Therond's inactivity. But the odds on that one were stacked too high. Townsend knew what couples in love did, for he too had once been in love. They stuck it out and defied the odds, staring death in the eye, vowing to either make it through or perish in the very attempt. Precisely what Craig Shaw and Sara Therond were doing at the moment—in a big, flashy car.

# Chapter 13

Hours after reading the note left behind by their daughter, Samuel Therond still struggled to absorb the shock. It seemed too horrifying to be true. His first reaction had been the rage, followed by total denial. But as the cold reality had crept in, he had found himself unable to comprehend his thoughts. He was struck motionless, unable to think or react. His wife wept uncontrollably, cursing him over and over again, blaming him for pushing their daughter too far, and now onto this.

Martha Therond was sick of her husband and the way he had turned out to be. Gutless, spineless, and greedy as a pig. Forever bowing to the wishes of people stronger than him, forever afraid he might be ousted from their powerful company. What he could never see is that he never belonged amongst them, and would be tossed aside like an old dog once they were finished with him.

Having had fallen for him over thirty years ago, she was bitterly disappointed with her decision to marry him. He had wooed her, and she had been too dreamy eyed, brushing aside her brother's concerns, who had seen through him as though he were made of glass. Martha Therond scathed her husband with her words that night, who just sat there, listening to the charges, very well aware that he was guilty as hell, and it was all coming back to him, now.

Some of the words his wife had used to describe him that night had provoked anger, but he did not dare to say a thing. She might have been his wife, but the trust and respect had been lost a long time ago. Moreover, her family and brother remained hugely influential and could have him kicked into the street without so much as moving a muscle if they so wished. That terrified him for he was a cowardly man.

Nevertheless, her every word had rung with truth. All the decisions Samuel Therond had made in his life had been selfish and self-centered. All those times when he had used his power to squash people, and their dreams, flashed before his eyes. Sara had wept for days and weeks when he had forbidden her to meet Craig, dismissing her love as a youthful infatuation.

"The boy is rubbish, Martha," he had told her upon confrontation, "He has no family and is from the streets. Do you think we should let Sara mingle with such filth?''

What he couldn't see then and what he knew now was the fact that it had never been infatuation, to begin with. Having recognized that her father would never reconcile, his daughter had kept her head down, and left it to fate, which did not disappoint.

The truth was that he had been intimidated by Shaw. He had hated his courage, his confidence, his fearlessness. Like him, Shaw had had humble beginnings, but even then the boy was full of life. His struggles had failed to break him, life had been unable to conquer him. The more Samuel Therond had got to know him, the angrier he had felt with himself. Hence, to hide his own insecurities, he had tried to push him down so he could feel good about himself.

But the day of reckoning had arrived. His delicate world had collapsed. His daughter had made a statement of intent. Now it was up to him. Either support her or watch her perish. That day he took a decision he never believed he would have the courage for. He decided to finally acknowledge his shortcomings, and recognize Shaw for the man he was. He might have been a smaller man than Shaw, but he need not make himself even smaller.

Martha Therond had never seen her husband shed a single tear, but those few hours had changed it all. Despite all those years, she was still ready to forgive him. Everybody learns their lesson, one way or another.

After Samuel Therond had regained his composure, he decided to put to use his skills, which he had honed over decades, to ensure the survival of his daughter. He discussed his plan with his wife, who noticed that how for the very first time, he was actually open to suggestions.

Therond came up with several proposals. However, all of them were rebuffed by a distinct question his wife asked him over and over. Could he trust them completely? No, he couldn't. Could he trust them completely? No, he couldn't. Over, and over, and over. The same question, the same reply. It was such a shame, Therond thought to himself. He had lived in Cape Town for nearly all his life, but even then, he did not know a single soul he could place complete trust in. Was his life any use at all? At times, he wondered if there was any difference between Sullivan and himself.

In the end, they were left with just the one option, and as much as he hated it, he had no other resort. His daughter's life was at stake, and to protect it, he was willing to do anything. He picked up the mouthpiece and dialed to a man located over eight hundred and fifty miles away. Former Lieutenant Hendrik Claasen, Martha Therond's brother, and the most powerful man in Pretoria

Hendrik Claasen was asleep and deeply. He did not appreciate the wake-up call and appreciated it even less when he heard Samuel Therond's voice through the receiver. Pretoria was far away from Cape Town, but even that did nothing to stop him from hearing of the tricks his monkey minded brother-in-law was often performing in the coastal city. Whatever it was about this time, it could wait until the morning. Cursing, he hung up.

When it rang again, he resisted the urge of smashing the damn thing to bits. This Samuel Therond surely had some nerve. He picked it up, ready to blast a wide assortment of clapper claw down the mouthpiece. However, it was his sister this time, making him wonder as to what she was doing up so late. Her voice seemed strained with anxiety, and for a minute, Claasen thought that the line had gone bad. That was until he heard what she had to say. Hearing it, he told her to hang up. He had a call to place.

Unlike Claasen, the insomniac was struggling to sleep. "Hello," he said in a gruff voice that Claasen instantly recognized. In his line of work, the insomniac was accustomed to late calls, but not from as far as Pretoria, and never this late.

"Why does trouble follow the thirteen?" the voice on the other end asked, the very question sending shock signals through his body, causing him to jump up straight. The insomniac stared in disbelief at the receiver, wondering whether it was all a dream or reality. Never in a decade had anyone posed him that question.

"Because it dares not get in front of them," he replied, slowly. It was a secret code. The answer matched. It was safe to talk.

The insomniac listened carefully, and when the caller was done, he immediately got dressed. There was work to be done. Every second was precious. No more than nine minutes later, he made his way to his jeep and got into the seat. He lived on a hill, and he let the vehicle roll silently down the slope. Once there, he gunned the engine to life.

Dawid Meerhof considered his options as he aimlessly drove through the silent streets of Cape Town. Driving like this helped him think, particularly in cases such as these, where instincts took the front seat instead of facts and information. The caller from Pretoria had given him a difficult job, but then, he was no stranger to difficulties. To his neighbors and friends, he was a successful fisheries owner. He did not look ex-military, and that was all right with him. Corporal Dawid Meerhof had not left the force with memories to cherish.

More than fifteen years ago, a young Dawid Meerhof had been part of an infantry platoon on a reconnaissance mission into German South-West Africa, now known as Namibia. It was supposed to be a simple operation, and for many, including Meerhof himself, was their first ever real-time mission.

"Just get in, take a look, and get the hell out," their commander had ordered.

The plan had been simple and straightforward. There was only one problem. The Germans had known that they were coming. The platoon lost five men on the first day, and three more on the second. At that rate, it was evident that they stood no chance. Their officer-in-charge, then second lieutenant Hendrik Claasen, decided to ditch their plan and went radio silent. They went way off track, and for over forty days survived ambushes, land mines, starvation, and being eaten alive as prey. Forty days and forty nights in hell they called it. Once safe, they vowed to put a bullet in the head of the man responsible for betraying them and eventually did. Just thirteen of the original thirty survived, but the bond that grew between them would last forever. After the war, Meerhof, with some help from Claasen's wealthy family, moved to Cape Town, where he bought a fishing boat and expanded his business. The remaining decided to stick close to each other, with almost everybody in or around Pretoria and Johannesburg. He often missed them. It was high time he paid them a visit.

If the couple had escaped by car, then they ought to have taken the highway that led to Paarl and then further onto Wellington. Bigger cities offered more avenues of laying flat and avoiding attention. Craig and Sara ought to have been thinking that. Well, they'd better had, he thought to himself as he switched gears and headed to Paarl.

# Chapter 14

Shaw rose early. It was not yet five. He had been asleep for close to six hours. Gently splitting the curtain, he scanned the street. There was no one. He woke up Sara. Their day had begun.

Going down, he settled the bill and tipped the bellhop, who found the tip to be unusually large for someone who hardly was carrying any bags. Anyway, he was not complaining. He could certainly use the money. The Springboks bad run of form had cost him in a series of bad bets.

Not everybody shared Shaw's enthusiasm for being an early bird, and that included the garage owner. It took Shaw nearly fifteen minutes to wake him up, and once up, he could not locate the keys to the garage.

"I could have sworn I left them right here,'' he kept saying while scratching his rear. Every time he spoke, a barrage of foul smells escaped his mouth, very nearly suffocating Shaw. Fed up, Shaw headed out towards the gate, only to find it unlocked and ajar. Terrified, he rushed inside, with his heart in his mouth. Thankfully, the car still stood there, untouched, the garage's lock and key lying right on top of its hood. The drunken fool had forgotten to lock up the previous night.

The garage owner found his drunken lapse along with Shaw's panic and subsequent relief quite amusing.

"Now, I remember," he said, between his laughter, "I did mean to lock up, but seems I forgot all about it. Good thing no one borrowed it during the night, eh?''

Yes, thought Shaw, and it would be another good thing if I knocked your head off for being so absent minded, but for your bile breath which keeps me from getting within ten feet of you. He quickly paid the man and was climbing into the car when the man wanted to find out where he was rushing to so early in the day.

"Loeriesfontein,'' Shaw replied, hoping he would not be asked any further questions.

Hearing that, the man went aghast. "Loeriesfontein!'' he repeated.

Shaw held his breath, waiting for the germs to fly. "Yes, Loeriesfontein," he said when it seemed safe to breathe again. "Why, what's wrong?"

"That's over two hundred miles away, and the road's so worn, you might as well get out and walk.''

Shaw shrugged. "That's alright," he replied. "I am a fan of adventure, anyway."

The statement appeared to have had a dramatic effect on the garage owner. "Well," he said in a booming voice, "Then fear not for the road to Loeriesfontein will surely provide you with just that, much more than you or this fancy little contraption of yours can handle.'' And with that he was off, mumbling something to himself.

With him gone, Shaw maneuvered the vehicle out and picking up Sara and Abri, hit the road right away. It was still dark, and if the coast remained clear, they would grab a bite to eat in Worcester and try to contact Claasen to tell him to prepare for some unexpected company.

"How far is that, Mr. Shaw?'' Abri wanted to know.

"Mr. Lewis," Shaw corrected her.

"Ah, yes, sorry. How far is that, Mr. Lewis?"

"Thirty miles according to my map."

The Insomniac pulled into Paarl, just as the sun was creeping out. The former corporal had been pushing the jeep to the limit, but even with the pedal depressed all the way, it was a slight match against the Ford. A newspaper stand was opening up, and he bought a copy of Die Burger. It was for appearances alone. He didn't intend to read a word. Leaving his jeep parked, he chose to walk. As the sun rose higher, his mind grew tired, and he felt sleepy. Serious doubts plagued him. The hunch that seemed to have been so strong only hours ago was gone. Suddenly, he pictured himself standing in front of Claasen, looking the fool, the young niece's body resting in a coffin nearby. He envisioned Sullivan's men laugh and make wisecracks about him. The idiot, who went to Paarl looking for the young couple, they said, mocking him and laughing. Dawid Meerhof snapped himself out of the vision and entered a restaurant. Loneliness was a dangerous companion.

The waitress greeted him, and he ordered ham, toast, and coffee. It was still early, and he was all alone. Serving him in a few minutes, the young waitress seemed to have nothing much to do, occupying a corner as she browsed through a fashion magazine.

"Seems to be a slow morning,'' he said to her.

She looked up. "Most people rise late on the weekends,'' she said.

"That is true,'' he said, nodding.

"You're not from around here, are you?'' she asked.

That caused him to smile. "How did you guess that?"

"I have never seen you here before. Besides, it's not a big place."

"You seem to have a keen eye," Meerhof replied, the tone hinting flattery.

"It's not that hard when you live in a small town."

"Still, it's much better than can be expected from most. Trust me, in my line of work, I can spot a keen observer from a casual one." Even more flattery.

"Which line of work are you in?" she asked, curious.

Looking around as though to make sure no one was snooping, Meerhof quickly flashed her a fake identity, one of several he carried. "Special Detective. South African Police. S.A.P.," he said.

The girl's interest suddenly grew. How often did one encounter a Special Detective on a slow morning? Never. At least not in Paarl.

"Looking for someone here?'' she asked.

With as much suspense as he could muster, Meerhof replied, "A young couple. Driving an exotic, American car."

"Is it stolen?"

Meerhof vigorously shook his head, seemingly disappointed by her assessment. As if they assigned special detectives of the S.A.P. to investigate petty thefts.

"Much worse," he said, taking a sip of the coffee. "Someone wants to kill them."

The girl threw aside the magazine. "That's terrible. Why?"

Meerhof then launched into a lengthy description of how an old man, after discovering that he was being cheated, had been killed by his business associate. The old man's son, the only witness, had gotten away in the nick of time and fled with his wife. The associate was looking for them. The Special Detective was to find them before he did. Justice needed to prevail, and it was his job to make sure of that.

The tale had its effect, and the young waitress grew livid with the greedy and unscrupulous business associate. Anything she could do to help to ensure the innocent couple's safety?

Sure, she could. The 'detective' wanted to know if she had any friends who might have seen a Ford in Paarl the previous night. The young waitress said she would be back after a few minutes.

She returned moments later, with a teenaged boy, presumably her brother. An imported car had indeed been spotted last night. He and his friends had admired it as it had rolled by. They had hoped to admire it better during the day, but it was now gone. Meerhof stood up, thanking them both profusely, lauding them with praise for the great role they had just played in making their country a safer place. Never, in all his years as a detective, had he ever come across such youthful enthusiasm. But there was one more thing they needed to do. Keep all of this to themselves. No one should know that the S.A.P. had already sprung into action. They nodded their heads. The detective need not fret. They were about to tell no one.

The garage could have easily accommodated two cars, three if you squeezed them real tight. It was unlocked, and Meerhof chose to enter. It was a simple garage, with a tinned roof and a small workbench.

"Looking for something?'' a voice called from behind. Meerhof turned around. The man was unkempt, and a toothpick dangled from the corner of his mouth, teeth chewing on what seemed to be the remains of his breakfast.

He flashed his ID. "South African Police,'' he said.

The man remained unimpressed. "So?" he asked.

That this was going to prove a tough nut to crack, remained evident, and Meerhof needed to tread carefully. He was not a real cop and could do really nothing if he was ordered to get lost.

"You hire your garage to private car owners?" the 'detective' asked.

"I might," came the arrogant reply.

"I heard an imported car parked here last night."

"Was it stolen?"

"No."

"That's settled then. You can get going. The car wasn't stolen, and neither was anything from the garage. And even if anything were, I certainly wouldn't call the police to investigate.'' He said the word police like they were a bunch of thieves. Meerhof couldn't disagree with that.

"I don't blame you,'' he said, catching the garage owner by surprise.

"So, you agree?" asked the bewildered owner.

"Oh, most certainly," Meerhof replied, gazing into the distance, seemingly disappointed by the actions of some colleagues that had caused a blot on the entire force. Then, as though suddenly emerging from his thoughts, he said, "But only when applied to a certain few. Not all of us are like that. No, sir, some of us do stand by our pledge."

Meerhof's impassioned act did little to move the garage owner, who spat the toothpick out. "Huh!" he said, "And you want me to assume you belong amongst the latter?"

Meerhof chuckled. "Well, I shall let you be the judge of that,'' he said.

The garage owner observed him for a few more minutes. "Why are you interested in the car?" he finally asked to which Meerhof repeated the story. The man listened intently. "Well, now that you mention it, something definitely did strike out as odd in his behavior," he said referring to Shaw.

"Did you get a name?" Meerhof asked.

The man shook his head. In his line of work, the fewer the names, the better. Meerhof then wished to know whether he had managed to extract any information out of the young man. The garage owner shook his head again, saying, "Nothing much, other than that he planned on driving to Loeriesfontein."

"Loeriesfontein," Meerhof said, sounding surprised. "Are you sure?"

"That's what he said. I told him he would kill himself trying to get there, but the fellow sounded pretty confident about the whole thing. Even said he liked adventures."

"Anyone else with him? Did you see the wife?"

"Now, why would he bring the wife to a garage?" the man asked in a tone that made Meerhof seem like an idiot. "To show her what it looks like? I expect she waited for him somewhere outside.''

Thanking him, the insomniac walked back to his jeep in a daze. Loeriesfontein? Why would Shaw be going to Loeriesfontein? It did not make sense.

# Chapter 15

Sullivan's men were no insomniacs. Their love for long hours of uninterrupted sleep lay as profound as their love for a lot of things their lifestyle afforded them. That morning, they felt as tired and as sleepy as the ex-corporal, as they hunted the man behind their current state. Most of them had been awake for over twenty-four hours, and that had made them cranky. Colorful language and threats formed the majority of their investigation as they searched high and wide for the Ford Model A or anyone who had seen the damned thing. All their contacts in and around Cape Town had been alerted, but so far nothing had been reported. Teams had been sent to all the nearing towns and Townsend had summoned everyone he could.

The three-man team in Paarl had had it. They were tired, dirty, and smelled foul. For two hours they had hassled just about everybody in the little town, only to learn nothing. The trail had gone cold. Well, at least as far as Paarl was concerned. Clearly, Shaw hadn't been there, and there was nothing more to investigate.

"I told you. He would never have come here,'' one of them preached in perfect hindsight.

"How could you have been so sure?"

"Because a brain separates me from you."

The third man told them to knock it off and suggested grabbing a bite. They were hungry.

"Shouldn't we first report to Townsend?'' one of them asked.

"Yes, but then we will get more orders and will not be able to eat. However, if we eat now and call later, it will look like we were still searching."

Agreeing, they headed to an eatery.

"Oh, look!" one of them remarked to the other as they were getting seated. "Your recent love affair is here. Still showing a lot of cleavage, I see."

The man looked around. "Good, that's all I needed,'' he said.

"What does she do now?'' the first man went on.

"She is an escort."

"What the hell is that?"

"It's a name for a high-class hooker."

"High class and overpriced," the third man interjected, and they all chuckled.

The escort, hearing the commotion, started walking up to them.

"Here she comes,'' somebody warned.

"What are you all doing here?" she asked, rudely.

They all intensely studied her cleavage before one of them replied, "We heard that escorts in Paarl were showing plenty of cleavage, and thought we'd check it out."

That caused laughter.

"Shit smelling jerks," she commented, before walking away.

"Ask her if she's seen it," one of them said to the other when she was gone.

"How could she have seen it? She must have been conducting business last night."

"Unless Shaw was one of her customers." They all laughed again, harder.

However, the man urged him, and he reluctantly went up to her. When he returned, they had to leave just as their breakfast arrived.

They met with the valet, who had seen the Ford drive away without stopping.

"Yes, like I said it seemed imported and rare,'' he told them.

They then asked him from where they could place a call.

Back in Cape Town, Townsend tried to relax, which, given the circumstances, seemed impossible. His cigarette pack was finished and had left him with a splitting headache. He cursed the tobacco companies and checked his watch. It was eight o'clock, and Shaw was yet to be located. Nobody had seen the man, the girls or the car. He had started to suspect Therond of sheltering them, and an hour earlier, had very nearly made up his mind to pay him a nasty visit. The phone rang.

"Speak," he barked into the mouthpiece.

It was the lot from Paarl. Their message was short. He slammed the receiver and got into the Rolls Royce, making it to Paarl within under an hour. When he saw his men, he pulled over, asking for a cigarette. He smoked it leaning against the hot, metallic hood of the car. A lady carrying a baby walked by. It was the time he too had children, he thought. His wife was pestering him. Besides, children were better than the crude lot he had to work alongside.

"How many of you all came here?" he asked after a while.

"Seven. Three of us remained in Paarl. The other four have gone up to Wellington and Stellenbosch."

Townsend had been puffing heavily, and the cigarette was soon gone, turned into smoke and ash. He threw the butt away. "One man, stay behind and dig for more," he said. "The other two, meet with the rest and keep looking. I want you all to concentrate on Worcester."

The men nodded and were off. Townsend went to get some breakfast.

Thirty miles away in Worcester, the Ford was back on the open road, heading as fast as it could towards Pretoria. The meal had been hasty. But there had been little choice.

The day was warming up, but Shaw faced cold reality. He had survived yesterday, but he needed to survive today and a thousand tomorrows. There were no guarantees, neither short term nor long. Sullivan would never stop looking, and one day might just get lucky. At moments, his agreeing to take Sara along had begun to seem a huge mistake. But he could not turn back the clock. What was done was done. All he could do was face the future. He hoped Sullivan's injuries were severe enough to succumb him to death. But that was just wishful thinking. The Irishman was a cold killer. And Shaw knew he needed to become even colder to survive.

In stark contrast, Sara felt quite certain and confident. Even on the run, she felt better than she had twenty-four hours ago when she had sat in her golden cage. She realized it was a big ask to outwit the Sullivan enterprise forever, but one that could be achieved. They must have been dangerous and influential, but they weren't God. She looked radiant and bright, her face showing no hint, no strain that under it lay a woman attempting to elude Neil Sullivan's powerful army.

Back in Paarl, the soldiers of that powerful army didn't feel all that powerful. More tired and hungrier, they kept arguing and bickering amongst themselves. There were sharp comments. It was high time they took a break. They could continue with the chase later.

"This time when I sit down, I don't want to get up until I am done eating,'' one of them said.

The other agreed. "Just make sure we don't bump into another one of your past love affairs."

The third remained concerned. "What if Townsend sees us? He could end up having us for breakfast."

"To hell with him. He must be eating somewhere."

Decided, they scurried back to the eatery. Shaw gained just a little more time to slip away.

An hour later, after stuffing themselves from stomach to mouth, they felt much better. The hunger had subsided, but all that heavy food had left them feeling, even more, sleepier than before. They lit up, and one of them came up with a plan.

"Now," he said, "Townsend has ordered one of us to stay back in Paarl, right?''

The other two nodded their heads, and he went on, "So, one of us can stay behind and catch some sleep. I mean, come on, we know he isn't here. What's the point keeping our eyes from shutting, then?"

The idea seemed brilliant, and a riot ensued. The man who had given the idea thought that he deserved to stay behind, while the other two thought he deserved to go straight to hell. They finally decided to flip a coin, and the blessed man went to find a room, while the remaining two, headed on towards Worcester.

While the coin was being flipped, Townsend was nearing Worcester. His breakfast had been hasty, too, and he planned to have Shaw for lunch. Combing the town, he remained unable to spot Shaw or the fools he had sent to find him. He hit the highway and kept driving. The sun was going to be at its zenith in a few hours, making it nearly thirty hours without sleep for him. But sleep was not something he could afford where he was going. He was going east.

# Chapter 16

The Insomniac felt wide awake as he drove recklessly to Loeriesfontein. Besides killing, the army had trained him in several arts, staying focused through prolonged periods of sleep deprivation being one of them. The corporal was seasoned in both. But over a two-hour drive, from Paarl, he had yet to see anything. The highway was deserted and potholed, his jeep bounced and creaked, and he kept wondering if he was on the right path. When he saw a little shed by the roadside with a homemade sign that said GARAGE, he pulled over. The radiator needed water. Besides, an isolated roadside stop on a deserted highway ought to have spotted the Ford. If it had ever passed that way, that is. Doubts started emerging again. He got out.

The proprietor was a black, and Meerhof knew he would need to be really convincing to get any information out of him. The man seemed nice and talkative and was happy to top up the radiator. He provided additional services, too. Drinking water, gas, minor repairs, meals, and a bathroom. Meerhof needed to use the bathroom. When he came out, the colored man offered him a drink of water from a small, earthen jar, still widely used in rural Africa, but getting rarer by the day in the cities. Gulping it down, the former corporal asked for more. Eventually, he was welcomed inside and offered a seat on a makeshift chair. He sat down, grateful. The man seemed friendlier than he had previously thought, and hopefully, getting information wouldn't prove much of a task. The man asked him his name. He was a little smaller than Meerhof but leaner.

"Banes," Meerhof lied.

"Banes?" the man asked, raising his eyebrows. "You look like an Afrikaner to me. Banes is British, isn't it?"

"Welsh," Meerhof corrected him. "My mother was an Afrikaner, my father, Welsh. I get that all the time." If only he had had a penny for every time, he had used that line.

The man shrugged. "You white people never stop differentiating, do you, even amongst yourselves?"

Meerhof couldn't agree more. The whites were screwed up.

"So, where you headed to, Mr. Banes?" the man asked.

"Loeriesfontein," Mr. Banes replied as though it was an immensely popular destination, and that it made perfect sense to go there, all alone in a jeep, over a poorly maintained road.

The man studied him for a minute, then burst out laughing, while rapidly yelling something to his wife in the other room in a language Meerhof didn't understand.

"My wife wishes to know why you want to go there?" he said, catching his breath. His big white teeth poked out as he spoke.

"An old friend has asked me."

That caused the man to laugh even louder, and his wife joined him, too. Meerhof could not see her, but apparently, she could hear them speak.

"Who is this friend, Mr. Banes?" the man asked, between bouts of laughter, and Meerhof decided not to answer, fearing that the man's little boy, who had just popped in from the adjoining room, would join in as well.

After a while, when the laughter died down, he asked, "Why, what's the problem?"

"Mr. Banes, no one ever travels this road. The only sane way to get to Loeriesfontein is by train. There never was a proper road."

That was news to him. "Why ever not?"

"Maybe because there just aren't many people getting called over by their old friends to Loeriesfontein."

The man and his wife thought the reply was witty and roared with laughter. Meerhof just sat there, feeling a fool.

"Come on, now, Mr. Banes," the black man continued, "Do tell us the real reason you want to get till there."

The question had been abrupt and had ended the laughter. Suddenly, everything went reticent. The man might have been acting the clown, but it was all a facade. Meerhof's lie had been detected, and he knew it. The corporal was on a deserted highway, in the middle of nowhere, facing a conniving, cunning man. Over the drive, he had had grave doubts as to whether Sara and Craig had been that way. If they had, they surely must have seen the garage. Had they stopped there? There was a fair chance. Had they taken this man into their confidence? They very well could have. Especially, if they had the little, black girl along. She must have been a great influence. They must have warned him about potential pursuers. And Meerhof had made himself a prime suspect. He had stumbled through every word, and his lie had been caught naked. He needed to rectify his errors, and now. The atmosphere grew thick with tension. The insomniac reached for his pocket pistol, but before he could do so, there was a click behind him. It sounded familiar. Meerhof froze, turning his head, slowly, only to find himself staring straight down the barrel of a shotgun. His own! A black woman held it, the man's wife, her steady grip and the look in her eyes a sure sign of confirmation that she had used stuff like that before. The corporal turned his head back around, even more slowly this time.

Before using the washroom, the ex-corporal had noticed the man's little son playing around the jeep. He hadn't paid much attention to it. It was the very nature of boys, little and old, to get fascinated and inquisitive about automobiles. However, in hindsight, it hadn't seemed like innocent play at all. It was evident that the little boy had been trained by his father to sniff out secret compartments in cars. And anybody who could train a child to do such things was a very dangerous man, indeed. The shotgun was large and not easy to hide, but even then he had hidden it well. Or at least he thought he had. Only a professional could have sniffed that one out. And he was dealing with a professional here. His thoughts immediately went to his handgun. Did they have that as well? As if on cue, the black man pointed it at him. Yes, they surely had. A barrel in front of him, a double barrel behind. He in the middle, with a small pocket gun he dares not reach for. The day was going from bad to worse. Meerhof cursed the little boy. The sneaky pest.

"So, Mr. Banes," the man began, "Or whatever the hell your real name is. Let's try this, again. First things, first. Name, please. The real one this time or I won't think before blowing your head off."

That was no empty threat. "Meerhof," the corporal instantaneously replied. "Dawid Meerhof."

"Meerhof, yes," the man seemed satisfied. "That sounds more like it. The minute I saw you I knew you were no Banes. Now, what is your business here?"

"I am looking for a couple, accompanied by a young, black girl, traveling by car."

"They headed to Loeriesfontein?"

"That's what I last heard."

"Why?"

"Why what? Why am I looking for them or why are they headed there?"

"Why both."

Meerhof took a short breath, ready to answer. The man gently tilted his head, a non-voluntary sign that indicated he was now ready to carefully analyze the tale Meerhof was going to spin, and decide whether it was believable or not. If it were not credible, Meerhof knew what was coming. These people didn't mess about.

"Their lives are in danger. I have been asked to get to them before someone else does. This morning I heard they were headed to Loeriesfontein."

"Why are their lives in danger?"

"Messed with the wrong people."

"Who?"

"Neil Sullivan."

That caused the man to laugh, again. Meerhof looked for a chance to spring, but the gun lay flat, steady. There was another click from behind his head. The woman had loaded the second barrel as well. She hadn't appreciated the joke and didn't seem to agree with her husband's heartiness either. She commented sharply, asking him to shut up.

Nevertheless, the man laughed for some more time. Meerhof kept a serious look on his face. He hadn't come to amuse. Time was running out. Claasen lay in wait.

"How exactly did they manage to mess with Sullivan?" the man asked once he stopped laughing.

Meerhof told him, the man's eyes growing wickedly narrow as he spoke. By the time he finished, they were so thin, he thought he was dead. The gun seemed to have moved closer to his head, somehow.

Then the wife suddenly spoke, and there was a weighty argument between them both of which the corporal didn't understand a word. He didn't think about springing, again. There was no point. Even arguing, their aim hadn't moved so much as in inch from his head. Besides, his pocket pistol had to be reached for, cocked, and then shot, twice, whereas they only had to shoot, once. He toyed with the idea, anyway. It was better than trying to figure out whether they would give him a proper burial or not.

"You better be speaking the truth, Meerhof," the man said, angrily. It was evident he had been on the receiving end of the argument.

"I am."

"Why you? Out of all the people, why send you?"

"I served under the girl's uncle in the war. I have his trust."

The man studied his face for what seemed like an eternity, looking for the slight flinch, the slightest hint that he was lying. Then, suddenly, the gun moved. Mercifully, it went down, Meerhof trying his best to hide the momentary fear he had just suffered.

The woman, too, lowered the gun, handing it back to Meerhof. Laying a proper look on her for the first time, she looked as dangerous as her husband. Obviously, this was no garage, but a watch tower, a sort of outpost for some undercover, black activity. Mechanics didn't teach their sons to fish out stash boxes or their wives to kill.

"We mistook you for a mine labor contractor," the man said.

Yes, that made sense. And had the truth not been convincing enough, they would have shot him just as well. A lone man, with a fake name, traveling in a rugged jeep with hidden guns. Meerhof had dangerously flirted with death. God only knew what they would have done to his body. Probably casually flung it out in plain sight. There was no need to worry. Hardly anyone ever made it that way, and the vultures and hyenas wouldn't allow it to last more than a few hours, anyway.

"They haven't been here," he continued, "Nobody has. Someone has played you."

Meerhof felt a bolt from the blue. That somebody had been none other than Shaw, and by doing so, had unknowingly thrust his own head deeper into the lion's den. All along the way from Paarl, the ex-corporal had clung on to hope like straws. He should have listened to his instincts. Without him, the young couple stood no chance, had no hope. Claasen's face flashed before his eyes again, looking down on him, severely disappointed. It had an unforgiving look. The man had done everything for Meerhof, but in return, Meerhof had been unable to return the only favor ever asked, had failed to deliver when it had mattered the most. He saw the coffins of the young couple, and a sudden urge of shooting himself overcame him. Corporal Dawid Meerhof was transported back to the war. A war from which he wished he had never returned.

# Chapter 17

Shaw had been driving for five hours straight. Sara and Abri dozed. They were less than an hour from Beaufort West. It held a well-established railroad, and once again, Shaw found himself tinkering with the idea of abandoning the car and hopping onto the train. A herd of Springbok was blocking the road up ahead, and he started slowing down, coming to a complete halt, the change of inertia waking up Sara.

Sara kept her eyes fixed on the gazelle until they had moved out. Once the car picked up speed, she turned towards Shaw, and said, "Do you remember the last time we saw Springbok?"

Shaw nodded, realizing that it had been a very long time ago. He hadn't left Cape Town in years.

"Are we stopping at Beaufort West?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, "We need gas. Besides, I am thinking of ditching the car and taking the train. It will be much faster that way."

Sara didn't agree. "I don't think that will be wise, Craig," she said. "In the car, we can choose where we want to go, but inside the train, we are restricted to a few stations. They can find us easily.''

She was right on that one. The car allowed freedom, whereas the train provided safety in numbers. It was easy getting to them on the train, but the open road didn't offer much more in safety either. Also, the car stood out like a sore thumb, leaving behind a wide trail that could be readily traced. He was confident that having unsuccessfully searched the city, Sullivan's men would have spread out far and wide. They could lie waiting for them ahead. In fact, he was sure Paarl had been reached to as well and hoped that his Loeriesfontein tale had bought him a little more time, just enough to allow him to slip through the crack. At the very least, he wanted to swap cars, but Beaufort West was hardly the place to provide a quick opportunity for such things. But it could certainly provide a healthy lunch. He was famished.

James Townsend also saw the Springbok like Sara and Craig, but not with the same fondness. He honked loudly, hardly slowing down, scaring the herd as he blazed past them. It was a quarter past three, and he had driven non-stop from Worcester. Soonest he pulled into Beaufort West, he headed straight for the commercial center.

The railroad had reached Beaufort West in the late nineteenth century, putting the place on the map. The town was relatively young, poised for growth, and had attracted investors from all over. A few years ago, Sullivan had sent Townsend up there to seek opportunity. Railroad certainly was big business. Really, really big. Hence, to ensure they got a fair shot at it, Townsend had made a grand entry, with a trunk full of cash, and serious intent. But it had seemed that folk at Beaufort West didn't take kindly to grand gestures. In not so many words, he had been advised to try his hand at subtlety. It had taken him months just to penetrate the surface, finally managing to make a few friends. Friends that had been notified about the possible arrival of a Ford Model A. Friends that could make all the difference.

He pulled over in front of a nondescript building that served as the office of the firm which assisted the Sullivan gang in laundering their ill-earned money, investing it into legitimate avenues. He got out. The street was deserted. Most of the businesses were shut. It was a weekend. Townsend hated the weekends. His profession required him to work hardest during them.

A sole receptionist occupied the front desk. She recognized him, and her look said it all. The firm was upmarket, posh, and discreet. They didn't like to be associated with Sullivan, Townsend or any of their kind. And they liked it even lesser, when their kind openly strode up to their office, in plain view of everyone, as though it was an entirely normal thing to do. But they were glad to take their money.

"Sorry, we are closed for business," she said.

"I am here to see your boss," Townsend replied.

"Being a Saturday, he is not in. He'll be back on Monday."

Townsend began to get impatient. He puffed his cheeks, blowing out air. He very well knew the bastard was holed inside, with the door locked. He wanted to kick it down, but he couldn't. Not with the circumstances. Not otherwise, also. He was about to say something to her when the door unlocked with a click, and a man in a business suit appeared. It was the manager, whose job was to manage everything apart from the financial side of the firm. Cash transfer, security, armed guards, and dealing with the likes of Townsend. He was much like Townsend himself, but with a stamp that made him legal. The Irishman walked over.

"Mr. Townsend," the man began as they sat down, "I do apologize for the shoddy welcome, but your notice was rather short."

The second-in-command acknowledged the lie. Even with a six months notice, the welcome would have been equally shoddy.

The jerk went on, "As soon as we received your message, I immediately informed the firm's partners, who asked me to rush to your assistance."

Townsend acknowledged the second lie. The mention of his very name in the boardroom must have caused a fist fight among the partners. Nobody in their right minds crossed the divide to save a drowning client, lest they are pulled into the quicksand as well. They wanted something out of it, and they would get it all.

"Mr. Townsend, an imported car did arrive into town this very afternoon, the description of its passengers matching to what you provided us with. A young couple, and a teenage black maid, or at least that's the impression they are giving."

Townsend sighed with relief. It was almost over.

"After lunch, and re-fueling, they headed east onto the road towards Bloemfontein, although, I doubt they will make it till there before tomorrow. It's over three hundred miles away. An eight-hour drive. Furthermore, I have engaged the services of a professional to follow them. He shall keep reporting as and when."

Townsend absorbed all of this. So, they had hired a hitman of sorts. That would guarantee no direct involvement. They could very well have held them in Beaufort West itself, but they weren't going to defecate where they ate. No, they were going to put as much distance as they possibly could between themselves and this mess.

"Now, Mr. Townsend," the manager asked, "What are to be the further instructions for this man?"

Townsend hadn't thought about that. He would be completely content for someone to put a bullet through their heads and deal with the burial, too. He didn't want any more of it. He wanted to turn around for Cape Town, go home, and sleep. But that was easier said than done. Sullivan would want Shaw to watch him die and would make a hue and cry if he wasn't handed over to him alive. He would ask Townsend a million questions, questions the second-in-command neither possessed the will nor the energy to answer. However, one thing remained certain. Sara Therond wasn't to so much as getting a scratch on her. She had nothing to do with any of this, and he did not want collateral damage. They had suffered enough losses already. Besides, he could very well use her as a trump card in influencing Samuel Therond his way.

"Tell him that I want the man and the black girl alive, but their well-being is not of much concern." Then he leaned forward, and said, "But tell your man that if so much as a hair on the head of the white girl is harmed, I, myself, will rip him apart."

The manager nodded. "That shall be done," he said.

Townsend started getting up, but the man gestured for him to stay seated. He wasn't done. There was more.

"One last thing, Mr. Townsend," he said.

Townsend knew what was coming. Money. Could these people never wait? The man, however, shook his head. It just wasn't about the money. It was much more. The partners had laid this dirty job at his feet, and he chose his next words carefully. He might have had the upper hand for the moment, but only a thin line separated him from the likes of Townsend. There was no telling when this line shifted, blown away like sand in the wind.

"Mr. Townsend," he began, clearing his throat, "My superiors have asked me to remind you of your syndicate's money invested with us."

Townsend noticed how he hid behind the word superiors.

"After a fee deduction, the principle is to be returned to you," he continued, visibly nervous, "And forgive me for putting it this way, Mr. Townsend, but no further dealings with Mr. Sullivan or yourself are to be permitted. This is the last deal."

The words made Townsend grow furious. He wanted to drive to Cape Town, and strangle Sullivan. His fellow Irishman had cost him a very expensive deal. The first nail in the coffin had been hammered home.

"What about the interest?" he asked, looking straight at the manager.

The manager looked back, and slowly replied, "This, Mr. Townsend, is the interest."

# Chapter 18

Having managed to not have killed himself, Dawid Meerhof remained desperate to compensate for lost time. His hunch said that the Sullivan gang had not yet caught up with Sara and Shaw, but after the morning's incident, he had stopped trusting himself altogether. The black man had shown him a short cut which bypassed Wellington and Paarl, putting him directly on the road to Worcester. According to the man, it would save close to an hour, but with the recklessness that Meerhof drove, it remained apparent that he wanted to change that into two. He had pushed the jeep so much that it had begun creaking like an old wagon, and once this was done, would demand massive overhauls. Meerhof didn't care. He could afford to fix it, sell it as scrap or even dump it into the ocean. What he could not afford was letting anyone else getting to the couple before him. A milestone by the side of the road indicated that at current speed, Beaufort West lay more than an hour's drive away. He had no clue as to whether or not the Ford Model A had gone to Beaufort West. It was another hunch. This one better be right, he thought. Anyway, once there, he would call Claasen to find out as to whether he had any clue where the devil they were.

Sullivan's men reached Beaufort West just after their boss had left. It was as though, somehow, they were constantly managing to miss him. Well, it wasn't their fault. The Rolls he was driving was much faster. As soon as they pulled into the town, a man called out to them. He was big and muscular, and when he leaned against the driver's window, the car careened over to one side.

"You all with Townsend?'' he asked in a gruff voice.

The men looked at each other. "Who wants to know?" one of them said back.

The man did not get offended by the rude tone. He just scratched his unruly beard, saying, "If you are, then he wants you all to head to Bloemfontein. He shall meet you all there."

The men looked at one another, again, before one of them grumbled. "That's just great," he said. "The way this is going, we might just end up driving all the way to Johannesburg."

The rest of them joined him in his moaning, cursing and swearing loudly. This Shaw was turning out to be as slippery as an eel. The previous night, when they had all been gathered at their boss's house, they had had a very different idea of him in their heads. They had envisioned capturing him in the streets, hiding like a rat. Not in their wildest imaginations had they ever thought it would be quite the opposite, with him driving around in an imported car with a pretty girl, openly defying them, while they chased him from pillar to post. Cape Town, Paarl, Worcester, Beaufort West, and now Bloemfontein. God only knew where all he would lead them to. They were sleepy, tired and hungry. And the car needed gas.

"Right then," said the driver to the big man, "Thanks for the update. Now, if you don't mind, could you kindly point me towards a gas station."

Hearing that, the big man signaled someone over, and another man, this one much smaller and wearing plain coveralls, approached the car. Once there, he started opening the fuel cap.

"What in God's name is he doing?" the driver protested.

"Refueling," came the gruff reply.

The fuel cap undone, the man stuck a funnel into the filling pipe, and from a canister, started pouring gasoline into the tank. He then asked them to pop the hood, before topping the radiator with water, smoke billowing from it as he did so. Sullivan's men watched in astonishment.

When he was done, the driver spoke, "Thank you so much for your hospitality. I didn't know Beaufort West welcomed visitors with such warmth. Now, if you may further extend me the courtesy and point me towards a restaurant. Unless, of course, you have already arranged for my supper to be delivered to me in a similar manner."

The man took his weight off the window, and the car went back up, straight, its shocks squeaking, as though grateful for the relief.

"All restaurants in town are closed," he said. "You will find one on the highway."

That made no sense. "Listen, fellow," the driver said, "We are hungry. Which way to the closest restaurant?"

"I told you," came the aggressive answer, "All restaurants in town are closed. Now get going. Do not stop here on the way back."

The driver and his colleagues glared at the man, who glared back. He was a giant, and although, he didn't seem armed, he surely had to have had help close by. That would explain his cocky behavior and arrogance. They wanted to draw their weapons, but it was not worth the risk. Still glaring, the driver started the car and began moving away.

Shaw contemplated a straight drive to Bloemfontein. That would mean reaching around midnight. Sara did not agree. She'd rather Shaw rested, and they made an early start, again. They had come quite far, and she was certain that Sullivan would not have caught up to them as yet. They still had time. Besides, her uncle had already been notified via telegram. Surely, he would meet them half way through. There was no fearing anyone once they were with Hendrik Claasen.

Shaw did not doubt that either. His first meeting with Claasen had left him feeling unnerved in his presence. His blue eyes had a strange hue about them, as though they could look straight through you. His manner had been extremely controlled, while his demeanor had screamed self-made. There was nothing pretentious about him, neither his air of confidence nor the way he warmly extended himself towards everyone. Yet, Shaw had felt unnerved. It seemed some mystical powers were operating inside of him that caused him to fear nothing and no one. It was as though nothing could touch him, nothing could break him, nothing could so much as to cause a dent in the man.

They would be in Colesberg by nightfall. From there, Pretoria lay thirteen hours away. It was finally coming within touching distance. Just a day more. Yes, they could break in Colesberg, and make an early start in the morning, just as Sara had suggested.

Sara waited for the reply. She could see his brow curled up in a frown, and from experience, knew that he was hard at the thought, and did not wish to be disturbed.

After a while, he said, "We stop in Colesberg. We get some rest, and tomorrow, head straight for Pretoria. I remember reading there was a hotel there in Colesberg."

She smiled and told him that she loved him. He said he loved her back. She rested her head on his shoulder and commented on how beautiful the wild country looked. He noticed the sun nearly at the horizon. The climate got drier as they headed east. The westerlies were losing moisture as they covered more land. Then, suddenly, there was a silvery gleam in his rear view mirror. It lasted less than a second. Nevertheless, it wasn't the first time he had seen it. He pushed down on the pedal, harder.

# Chapter 19

While the couple had eaten their lunch, the hitman had patiently waited outside. Then, he had discreetly followed them in a silver sedan. They had been driving for over three hours, and he did his best not to get seen. It was a constant juggling act. The terrain was flat. He could not allow the Ford out of sight, yet could not venture close enough. He remained calm. Sitting tight was the name of the game. The rewards would be tremendous.

He had no orders to kill, but there was a fair chance of that happening. That's the reason he had taken the job. He loved to kill. There was something exotic about it. Dead bodies fascinated him. They were his passion. And he always followed his passion.

As a boy, he had always remained aloof and different. No one had understood him, not even his parents. His father had beaten him regularly, labeling him dimwitted and clumsy. He'd often cry alone, afraid and lonely, terrified his father would beat him more if he ever found out. The only thing he had liked doing was hanging around the pond close by to where they had lived, watching the frogs and snakes living in it. Then, one day, his father had discovered his sealed jars of dead frogs and snakes. He still carried scars from the beating that day.

Things had changed when he had turned thirteen. A seventeen-year-old girl, working as help on his father's farm, had caught his eye. One day, when she had been all alone, he had sneaked up on her, striking her head with a ball peen hammer, killing her instantly. He had then dragged her body into the bushes and sat there, watching it as it lay motionless, its lifelessness giving him a sort of calm he could not explain. Then when it had turned dark, he had run back home to fetch his horse. Wrapping the body in a gunny sack, he had flung it onto the animal's back and rode for the train tracks. After an hour of waiting, it had surely arrived. It was already pitch dark by then. By the time the train operator had noticed anything, it had been just too late. The body was obliterated.

The first time he had killed a couple happened to be while they had been at it. While the woman had moaned, he had silently picked the lock. The room had been dimly lit. She had been on top, partially covered with a blanket. He had used a silenced pistol. At first, the man below her did not understand as to why she had stopped moving. The weight of her body sagging onto him, he must've suspected that she had climaxed. But surely, the blood ought to have made him realize that something was amiss. The hitman had smiled, a sick joke going through his mind. Did the man think that he had just had a virgin? But virgins didn't bleed so much, did they? He had wanted to laugh at the hilarious scenario that he had created. That's when the man had looked up, forcing him to end the joke prematurely. But as he had sat to admire his work, he had noticed something was very different. There was a whole new surge of feelings inside. It was perfect. A masculine and feminine object combined to represent the highest form of creation. He had wanted it to stay like that forever. He lit a cigarette, puffing hard. For the first time ever in his life, he had understood art. Understood it deeply, and appreciated his ability at creating it. He had been transformed. He had become an artist!

Since then, he had gone out of his way to look for jobs that had included killing couples, charging the least amount of fee he could without arousing suspicion. The silenced pistol had been replaced with a fine steel wire. Blood polluted the scene and had no place in art. The sight of Sara and Shaw had sent a rush of blood to his head. This would be his masterpiece.

Townsend was a hundred miles behind the silver sedan. His cheeks were flush with anger. The meeting at Beaufort West had been as humiliating as a backhanded slap across the face. He drove with fury, tightly gripping the wheel. Anyway, he did not care, he told himself over and over. It was Sullivan's problem. Soon, he would be gone far, far away, and Sullivan could deal with the Beaufort West firm by himself.

The car carrying Sullivan's men trailed Townsend by ten miles, and the distance kept increasing. But the men inside neither knew nor seemed to care. In case questioned for their tardiness, they could come up with several perfectly plausible excuses. Flat tire, radiator overheating, engine misfiring, a choked exhaust, the list was almost endless. The man at the wheel drove in no great hurry, and that drew no complaints in return. That's because everyone besides him lay asleep, snoring. He got caught himself, drifting away at times, bumping his head onto the steering. He tried to get someone else to drive, but they couldn't be bothered. Fed up, he kept going. The next service station and that was it. He was pulling over, and not getting behind the wheel, anymore. Enough was enough. Someone at the back snored as though he hadn't slept in a week, and that made him feel drowsier. He decided to catch a quick drift, again. There was no danger. The road was open, and even if he did veer off track, he'd know. Anyway, it was just a quick one. He'd open his eyes before he even knew it. Saying that to himself, he let his eyes shut. When he did open them, it was to a thunderous jolt, accompanied by the deafening sound of metal getting crushed. His head bumped the roof, while his chest got flung onto the wheel. The vehicle came to a halt. They had collided with a tree!

His co-passengers cried out in pain and shock, none of them exactly sure as to what had happened. Then the tree started to move, very slowly at first, but rapidly gaining momentum. When it became evident that it was going to fall and crush them right under, they screamed in horror. However, it narrowly missed the roof of the car. When it finally rested on the ground, a few feet away, and it seemed that they were in no more immediate danger, they finally managed to breathe, gasping. That's when a shrill hissing sound started to emerge from the deformed engine bay as smoke leaked out of from under it. That caused them to panic, and they scrambled out of the vehicle as fast as they could, tripping over one another till they were a safe distance away. From there they watched the smoke slowly disappear, and the hissing sound died away. When it became apparent that nothing was going to catch fire, explode, or fall from the sky, they started tending to the minor injuries they had received, while cursing each other. Someone rubbed his shoulder, someone rubbed his knee, and the driver rubbed the area of his skull that had gone smack against the roof while listening to the abuse which was now being redirected towards him.

"Why did you fall asleep?" one of the geniuses enquired.

"That's because I was sleepy," he informed the genius.

"Why did you keep driving if you were that sleepy?" the man who had been riding shotgun, asked.

One hand still massaging his skull, the other pointing angrily towards the man who had asked him that silly question, he replied, "I did ask you to drive, you moron, but you were busy sleeping as well."

"Then you should have woken me up."

Hearing that made the driver angrier. "I did, but you refused to get up, sleeping like a baby. All of you. Someone at the back snored so loudly, it drowned out the noise from the engine."

When the finger pointing died down, which unsurprisingly coincided with their knocks feeling a whole lot better, they went to inspect the car. One look and it was obvious that the engine had breathed its last, and they were lucky to have walked away with nothing more than a few scratches and bruises, but there was a mutual feeling that luck was only going to take them that far. Resigned, they all went and sat down on the side of the highway. Hopefully, another vehicle would pass their way soon.

# Chapter 20

Dawid Meerhof remained the last member of the entourage trailing Shaw, and with every passing minute did all he could to help change that. The same welcoming party that had greeted Sullivan's men received him in the very same manner. The huge man waved for Meerhof to stop.

"You also with Townsend?" he asked, blowing smoke in the ex-corporal's face, a lit cigar stuck between his thick fingers, the very size of them making the cigar seem puny in comparison.

Meerhof looked at him, slowly nodding his head. The man looked a bit unconvinced by the reluctant response. Nevertheless, he signaled to someone, who came at once and started pouring fuel into the jeep.

The big man continued, "Now, since you look much more dignified than those churls, who passed through here before, I will keep it short."

Meerhof listened, intently.

"Your boss, Townsend, has asked you all to head to Bloemfontein. Well, in that direction, anyway. Also, we don't want you to stop in this town on your way back. As far as you lot are concerned, Beaufort West is off limits, forever."

Meerhof greeted the news with relief and horror. He was behind, but at least he was on the right track.

"If you don't mind," the ex-corporal asked, "How far ahead is that Ford?"

The big man fished for his pocket watch, and looking at it, replied, "They left here at about three o clock. It's close to six now. At a top speed that would put them around a hundred and fifty miles ahead of you."

A hundred and fifty miles! That was a near disaster.

"What time did Townsend and the other men leave?" Meerhof further questioned.

The big man noticed how the man in the jeep had referred to Townsend as if he were his good pal. Obviously, this fellow must be pretty high up in the gang's hierarchy. But that meant nothing to him. He wasn't scared of gangs, especially not of those that were from a place three hundred miles from home.

"Townsend left about quarter to five," he replied. The others a little after him. If you hurry, you could catch up with them."

Meerhof did not wait for the man to finish the sentence. Townsend and his men had nearly fifty miles on him, which was much worse than he had feared. He still had to learn about the mentally unstable hitman.

More than three hundred miles to the east, Hendrik Claasen remained worried sick as he rode shotgun in a car that headed fast as it could towards Bloemfontein. Receiving his sister's message, he and his old platoon had immediately sprung into action. Five vehicles, carrying two men each, had headed westwards with a plan that would comb the towns of Orkney, Kroonstad, Bloemfontein, Kimberley and Welkom. Furthermore, every car was loaded with an M1921 Thompson sub-machine gun, two hand pistols, and enough rounds to decimate the entire Sullivan gang and everyone associated with them. One man had been stationed behind in Pretoria which now acted as headquarters. Each unit was to report back twice a day. Nothing was left to chance. The former platoon was hell bent on finding Sara Therond alive, and if lucky, a few members of the Sullivan gang, too.

Only a few hours ago, Pretoria had received a telegram that Claasen's niece was on the road to Bloemfontein. She was perfectly safe and sound. However, there had been no word from Meerhof yet, and that was making the former lieutenant extremely anxious. He did not doubt Meerhof. The former corporal was tough as nails and had never shown fear. Not in war, not in life. Nevertheless, hours had flown by without hearing from him. Claasen did not doubt his former army mate's efficiency, but he did not doubt the Sullivan gang's ability as well. James Townsend ought to have been heading the hunt now, and what he had heard about him did nothing to ease the worry.

Meerhof saw the wreck and the men waving for him to stop. He counted five of them, and from the manner of their waves, he instantly knew who they were. He unbuttoned his holster. The morning had taught him a thing or two about precautions. As he got closer, he saw that the men had their guns drawn. Apparently, they intended to hijack the jeep. The former corporal cocked his gun. The opportunity was a godsend, and he'd be damned if he didn't make full use of it.

"You all men with Townsend?" he asked as he rolled to a halt.

The question and authority baffled them. It was the second time that day they had been asked the same question. Was it that obvious?

"We are," came the curt reply. "Who the hell are you?" They'd be damned if they let someone else frighten them again like the big fellow at Beaufort West had. Being on the receiving end of insults wasn't one of their strengths.

"A friend," Meerhof said, before quickly adding, "What happened to the car?" It was pivotal to keep them distracted. He might have been confident in taking them out, but there were still five of them, and he was just the one.

Hearing that, the man, who had been driving the car when it had crashed, spoke first, before anyone else could. He had had enough of the blame for one day. "Nothing," he said, angrily, "We did not like the color, so we crashed it. Now, you also headed to Bloemfontein?"

"I am," Meerhof replied. "Squeeze yourselves in."

The men, still uncertain, looked at each other, wondering whether or not to agree to the offer. They had intended to nab the vehicle, but this fellow obviously seemed to know about everything. Shrugging, they lowered their weapons, getting ready to climb inside. None amongst them was in the slightest of moods to drive, anyway. Let this fellow, whoever he was, drive. At the very least, they could doze without worrying about crashing.

It was exactly what Meerhof had been waiting for. The moment they dropped their guard, he reached for his gun, putting one bullet in every man. It had been easy. He was an expert. Besides, the jeep was open, there were no obstructions, and he had been as fast as lightning. Then, instead of reloading and re-firing, he hit the gas pedal, getting out of there in no time, avoiding the risk of getting shot back at. In any case, the objective had been achieved. Shot men were not going to prove a hindrance, alive or dead.

# Chapter 21

At seven thirty in the evening, after completing a journey just short of two hundred miles from Beaufort West, the Ford Model A reached Colesberg, pulling into its solitary hotel. Shaw was tired and looking forward to a dinner and a good night's sleep. There had been no more silver gleams in his rear-view mirror, and there seemed nothing to worry about.

A bellhop came to his assistance. Shaw held a large note between his fingers. "Know of any other places to park?" he asked. The parking lot was small and open, and anyone looking for the Ford Model A had only to lay a casual glance across it.

The bellhop saw the note and stopped. Colesberg wasn't a big town. But being bang in the center of Beaufort West and Bloemfontein, it remained a popular stopover for all kinds. The hotel, although small, was always nearly full. And not all folk liked to be seen. He took the note. "Sure," he said, pocketing it.

The bellhop took the keys and got in. Firing the ignition, he maneuvered the car to the back of the building, wedging it tight in a spot between the storage shed wall and a tree, before squeezing himself out.

Shaw checked it out for himself. The location was concealed and out of sight. The wall was tall. He was satisfied. He tipped the bellhop another large note. In case a silver car showed up, he wanted to be notified at once.

"Sure," said the bellhop, again.

Being a weekend, the hotel served dinner later than usual, allowing Sara and Craig to enjoy a hot meal. In two days of running from Sullivan, they had yet to come across anything that might have indicated danger. Save for the strange silver gleam that had twice appeared in his rear view mirror, like the mist across the distant oceans. There had seemed something very peculiar and mysterious about it, akin to a sea monster, briefly popping his head out of the water, before once again disappearing down under. Usually, a car, traveling at the same speed would have stayed in the rear view mirror for a longer duration, whereas one moving at a slower speed would not have appeared in it at all. Nevertheless, it had appeared, and twice, disappearing even before he had been able to blink. It could all have been a coincidence. The country was flat and rocky. The sun's rays refracted and got bent as they passed through the different heat layers above the surface of the earth, causing far off objects to be seen momentarily. It was the same phenomenon that, at times, caused ships below the horizon to appear as though they were floating in the sky. Also, his scared mind that had made him run so far and so fast was now playing tricks. Seeing no pursuer, it had been baffled, giving undue importance to insignificant events, trying to justify its own fear and haste. The two days had been extremely stressful. He was tired. All the traveling, driving and worrying had dehydrated him. He ordered wine. It was time to take it easier. Anyhow, Hendrik Claasen ought to have been on his way to them already.

That night, Craig Shaw went to bed convinced that everything was normal. A conviction that couldn't have been further from the truth. Five more men had lost their lives. Samuel Therond had had a change of heart so profound, it had moved even his wife. Over two dozen sleep deprived men actively searched for him. Every law enforcement agency from Pretoria to Bloemfontein had been placed on high alert. Cape Town's biggest gangster still lay unconscious. Townsend had been ousted from the Beaufort West railroad business. And down the hallway, a very sick hitman was taking out a steel wire from his bag. Yet, Shaw and his girlfriend slept like they had the night before. Soundly, and oblivious to the truth.

The hitman smoked a cigarette as he lay in wait two doors down from Shaw's. The hotel room was tastefully done, and very much to his liking. Its best feature was the bedside lamps. They had been switched on when he had entered inside, and he had taken an instant fondness for them. They were a work of art in themselves and would add significant beauty to his masterpiece, illuminating it perfectly. A warm, cozy bed, two dead bodies, and soft light falling upon them. It was perfect. He was on a high.

He had watched the Ford turn into Colesberg. Tailing it had been strenuous and had required him to exert extreme caution. On a lonely highway in the bush lands, it was no small feat. He felt sure he had done well save for a couple of times when he had had to choose between risking exposure or falling too far behind than was professionally acceptable. He doubted if Shaw had spotted him out those couple of times. After all, he had had two girls to amuse himself with. A smile escaped his lips. He knew he was losing his mind. Anyway, he wasn't the one to leave things to chance. He had waited on the highway, while Shaw had checked into the hotel. Then, under cover of darkness, he had driven up to the public office, where he had picked the lock, parking inside the gates. No one was going there until Monday. Plus, he had nothing to be concerned about. The car was stolen and untraceable. He had driven with gloves on. Then, grabbing his bag, he had walked back to the hotel. During dinner, he had sat a table away from them, admiring them carefully. He had never done that before. He knew he was taking unacceptable risks. But he couldn't help it. This couple had him flat, smack.

Dinner had been excellent, and he had ordered an expensive wine, confessing to the waiter that he was looking forward to something special. After dinner, he had seen Shaw go and check the parking lot. The kid was smart, and that's why had parked the Ford behind the building. Nothing escaped the hitman's attention. He was a pro.

After the meal, he had walked to the reception. He needed to make a call to inform his family about his safe arrival. They would be concerned for him. The receptionist had smiled and had led him behind the desk to a tiny room. It had a door for privacy. The hitman was grateful.

The call was engaged instantly. "Hello, dear. It is me," the hitman had yelled for the benefit of anyone listening. "I got here an hour ago, and everything is fine."

"About time you called," the voice at the other end had replied.

The hitman had then lowered his tone. "I have them in sight. They are staying at the hotel in Colesberg."

"Everyone is wanted alive," the voice had informed. "Very much alive, especially the white girl. Your orders are to capture and deliver."

To the hitman, the message had been like a blade through the heart. He had felt agony and pain, and a sudden urge to strangle the man at the other end. The barbarian.

"Where do you want delivery?" he had hissed into the mouthpiece.

"A man is headed your way. James Townsend. Must have heard the name. Meet him. He will tell you what you need to know."

Then the line had gone dead.

Walking back to his room had proven a challenge. Professionals did not get emotionally attached to their targets, he had kept telling himself. But the more he had said that, the more that had felt like a lie. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. Was he to just let it pass him by? Once inside, he had wanted to cry. He had never cried. Not since he was thirteen. He washed his face and composed himself. Maybe Townsend would change his mind. Otherwise, he would change it for him.

# Chapter 22

James Townsend reached Colesberg at half past nine, but it wasn't until ten o'clock that he entered the hotel. He had not seen the Ford parked outside. Nor had anybody been waiting for him there. After driving around town, searching for a telephone in vain, he decided to head back to the hotel and use theirs, leaving the Rolls right at the entrance. Just as he headed for the reception, he thought he saw a man give him a slight nod. He turned his head to take a good look at this man, who looked back at him with expectancy.

"Good evening, sir" the receptionist greeted. "How may I assist you?"

Townsend noticed that the man had stopped looking, however, still stood within hearing range.

"I'd like a room for the night, please," he said, changing his mind. He didn't want to make that call, anymore.

"Certainly, sir. May I get your details?"

To that Townsend produced an identity that classified him as an executive. He was one, after all. Running a gang as large as Sullivan's was no cakewalk, which besides providing him with ample opportunity to test out his executive skills, also sharply tested his man-management skills, for half the men under him couldn't so much as spell their names right. A handful of such men should have made it to this backward, little town by now, and he could only wonder where in hell they were. Furious at their lackadaisical performance, he wished them all dead, owing to a terrible accident on the road. That would save him the trouble of chewing them out when they did finally get there. Little did he realize that his wish had already come to fruition.

He dropped his keys on the table. "My car is outside," he said. "Please arrange for someone to have it cleaned and refueled by breakfast. Also, I know it is late, but I still hope to be provided with a meal and a drink."

The receptionist wasn't certain how to respond. It was a big ask. The kitchen was locked, and the chef was gone. But she didn't let it be known to the seemingly affluent guest. A hotelier's job revolves around keeping guests from all walks of life happy. With some, that's easier said than done. In any hotel, receptionists are the first point of contact, and it is important to make a good impression. It is usually there that the guest makes up his or her mind as to whether or not return in the future. More guests meant more revenue, which meant higher pay.

"I am sure we can arrange for something," she said, taking the keys. "But I am afraid it will be billed considerably higher."

Townsend waved it off like he didn't care. Back in Cape Town, his lunch would have cost him more than his entire stay there. Having had stayed in several hotels, the Irishman remained well aware of the fact that if the guests were willing to pay, the hoteliers would gladly pluck out the stars from the sky for them. No rule or regulation was unbendable. In the end, it always boiled down to money. He placed some notes on the table and looked around. The man, who had nodded to him moments ago, was nowhere to be seen. Townsend fervently hoped that it indeed had been the man engaged by the Beaufort West firm, and not some idiot, who had trouble sleeping at night.

The idiot, who did have trouble sleeping at night, would have had no trouble sleeping for an entire decade if he only could. Running into Sullivan's men meant that at least one obstacle had been removed. That had left him with Townsend, which wasn't that bad, after all. Only twelve hours ago, everything had looked over, and he had very nearly committed suicide. However, thanks to the couple's intelligence and caution, they were still hanging in there, and their chances of survival seemed a whole lot better. Sure, they were still pitted against Townsend, but a Townsend, who was tired and without backup. Meerhof could certainly deal with that. However, he would soon be proven wrong, completely.

The ex-corporal reached Colesberg just before eleven in the night and did not need an invitation to pull into the hotel. A Rolls Royce stood parked outside in plain view. He went and parked next to it. The Ford wasn't to be seen, but he would worry about that later. Right now, he was ecstatic upon finally catching up with the Irishman.

Meerhof carefully tucked his pistols and made sure the shotgun remained well hidden. He would get it only if necessary. On the way in, he was surprised to smell food being cooked and the kitchen still operational. Curious to find out who was eating so late, he peeked through the glass door. Townsend! He wanted to go and give him a hug.

The manager approached him, asking, "Excuse me, sir. Do you wish to stay with us?"

"I most certainly do," Meerhof replied with a broad smile. "Also, seeing that you are still serving, I hope to get a meal."

The manager thought that for a moment. Now that he had opened the kitchen for one, it was only fair to provide the newly arrived guest with a meal as well.

"Of course," he said. "But there are only limited items available and at a substantially higher rate."

"That is fine by me," said Meerhof, still smiling as he walked into the dining room, picking a table close to the man, who ate alone.

The manager looked at the receptionist and shrugged. Something definitely was up. How often did you get two people showing up so late, without reservations, and apparently traveling with a lot of money, but not a single piece of luggage, not even a handbag?

"Good evening!" Meerhof warmly greeted the other guest as he sat down.

Chewing, Townsend looked at him.

"You too seemed to have just arrived," the former corporal went on, "And I think it is a fantastic decision by the management to accommodate us so late. What an elegant hotel. It is these little things that count, you know."

Townsend acknowledged the nonsense with an indifferent nod. He wasn't interested in the hotel's elegance or anything the stranger had to say.

Meerhof took the hint. "You don't seem to be in the best of moods to talk," he said. "Therefore, I'll leave you alone."

Townsend soon finished, and left for his room, wondering whether to call Bailey and ask regarding Sullivan. Better not, he thought. He'd call in the morning to see how the situation stood. If his boss were up, he'd tell him that he was bringing the two people he had already made acquaintances with. And if by any chance Sullivan was dead, he'd stop the Rolls Royce in the middle of nowhere, make Shaw and the black girl kneel by the side of the road, and shoot them in the back without so much as taking the trouble of getting out. Then, he'd drive on towards Cape Town and go home. Perhaps on the way, he would stop by at Beaufort West and teach a few employees of the firm some lessons. But that was for the morning. Right now, he had other things to worry about. Like the man, who had nodded at him when he had first entered but was now nowhere in sight. The Irishman made for his room. Hopefully, he would come there, soon.

The air smelled of cigarette smoke. But he had not smoked. The minute Townsend opened the door and flicked on the switch, he reached for his weapon. It was the man.

"Relax," said the hitman, nonchalantly. "I am on your side."

Townsend noticed that he sat down on a chair, two cigarette butts lay in the ashtray placed on the table in front of him, a cigarette pack, and a gun lying next to it. His legs were crossed, his hands folded in front of him, the fingers touching each other. Seated like that, he could have been conducting business in an office.

"How did you get inside?" Townsend asked.

"I have my ways," came the calm reply.

"The couple is here?"

A nod.

Townsend walked up to him and took the opposite chair. He put his gun down, fishing for a cigarette from the pack lying on the table. The hitman instantly reached into his breast pocket and produced a match.

"Where are they?" Townsend asked, inhaling.

"Down the hall."

"Right, then," he said. "This is what I want you to do. I want you to take the boy and the black girl alive. The white girl, leave her to me."

The hitman handled the disappointment much better than he had previously thought, even managing to keep a straight face. His situation resembled the lover, who had caught his partner cheating but still kept telling himself that she really loved him.

"What if they cause difficulties?" he asked, instantly regretting his words. Such a ridiculous question would have raised significant doubts as to his abilities in Townsend's mind.

Townsend edged closer to the hitman, before spitting the words in his face. "Then manage them," he said. From where had the fools in Beaufort West hired this clown?

# Chapter 23

While the hitman had been exiting Townsend's room, Meerhof was at the counter, completing formalities, sparing no effort in letting the receptionist know how much he had appreciated the late dinner. The receptionist, who, after dealing with an icy guest in Townsend, indeed welcomed the warm manner. The business had been so good that their little hotel was nearly full. Meerhof was lucky to be having their last vacant room. How prudent of him to have shot those five men on the road then, he thought. It had indeed saved him the trouble of sleeping in the jeep.

The lady kept asking questions, and Meerhof kept replying, giving vague answers. When she asked him his name, he froze. The ease with which the black man had spotted his lie flashed before his eyes, and he envisioned the receptionist smiling, viciously. Soon, she would commence laughing hysterically. The manager, hearing the commotion, would pop his head out, and ask her the matter. The minute the name Banes was mentioned, he too would join her in the laughter. Very soon, the whole hotel would know. They would all round him up. Sullivan, Townsend, the manager, the receptionist, mocking and insulting him for expecting them to believe he was a Banes. Claasen would be bitterly disappointed and would join them in torturing him. Banes, Banes, the fool, Banes. Why not go all the way and give himself a black man's name? Meerhof snapped back to reality. The receptionist was waiting for a reply. After this was over, he was going on an extended holiday.

"Banes," he said, swallowing.

Meerhof lay flat on the floor next to his door, the thick carpet and a pillow the only things giving him comfort. His body ached from the drive, but he did not dare to fall asleep. Townsend's door lay mere five yards away, and lying there, the ex-corporal could hear every sound, in case the Irishman sprung into action. He planned to kill Townsend much before that, but right now was too soon. The manager was still busy, squaring up the kitchen, and the receptionist was still at her desk. Soon, they would retire, and the fun would begin. He would eliminate the underboss, and flee with the targets, who would have trouble believing how close they had come to death. They would take the Rolls and head straight to Pretoria. He would rest in the back. Shaw could drive. Lord knew he had had enough rest, already. Meerhof's body ached even more. He planned a long, deep sleep soon. All he had to do was wait a little longer. Good things came with patience.

For the hitman, however, patience had worn out. He was torn. The pain was becoming unbearable and making him mad. On one hand, lay his professionalism, and on the other, the chance of a lifetime. Townsend's words had broken his heart. People like Townsend did not understand him. In fact, no one did, no one ever would. They were the harsh and coarse types. Whereas he was an artist, an admirer of art, the truest and highest of all epiphanies. He hadn't taken on the job for money. He had enough of that. He had taken it on for art, and no one was going to stop him from that. He refused to get intimidated by Townsend. He took a deep breath. He was ready. Opening his briefcase, he took out the fine steel wire. At times, it did cause a few blood smears, especially when the victims struggled too hard. But a few blood smears were tolerable. They would add strokes of beauty to the masterpiece.

It had rained during the day. Meerhof had been thankful for the coolness it had brought along. He had been thirsty, exhausted, and scared to death. But the rain had changed all of that. He had smelled it coming, the smell of wetness approaching the sun-scorched earth, and it had brought back memories from his childhood. But as the day had ended, the coolness had vanished, leaving behind a hot, humid night. It had been his turn to keep watch, while the rest of the platoon tried to catch some sleep. Claasen had told him to wake him up in an hour, after which he would take over. But the hour had never seemed to come, and had it not been for the mosquitoes, he would have fallen asleep a long time ago, which made him wonder if he wasn't already asleep. He dreamt that the platoon slept, while he kept guard. But there were strange noises. The leaves rustled. He woke with a start! The footsteps had woken him up. Two German soldiers had passed by, narrowly missing them. Claasen glared at him. The corporal had fallen asleep.

The ex-corporal opened his eyes and returned from the war. He was drenched in his own sweat. The footsteps had woken him up. They had been very lax, like a cat tiptoeing across the hallway. He bolted straight up and checked the time. One o'clock. He had been drifting for close to an hour. He peeped through the gap underneath the door. There was no one there. That was odd. He was certain something had moved. Probably a ghost, he thought. But ghosts didn't tip toe across hallways, did they? They usually flew by. He stood up. This would make it the sixth kill of the day. He had already killed more than a dozen during the war, and about the same after. He swore to kill no more, wondering how many times he was to swear the same thing over and over. He silently opened the door, half expecting to see Townsend, his finger wrapped around the trigger of his silenced gun, ready to shoot. But there was no one there. Looking left and right, he moved across to room number eight. That was where Shaw and Sara were. He had dug the information out of the receptionist. He too had his ways. The ex-corporal tried the door knob. It was locked. That was odd. Must have been a ghost, after all, or his mind playing tricks. Anyway, it didn't matter. The hotel was as quiet as a tomb. It was time to take Townsend out of the equation.

Meerhof reached the underboss's door, inserting the lock pick through the keyhole. It didn't budge. There were no clicks. He tried the knob. It was already unlocked! Strange, he thought, that someone like Townsend would forget to lock his own door. He opened it, slowly, taking cover behind the minuscule protection it offered. In case the Irishman was awake, Meerhof hoped that he too was using a muffler. Mufflers not only hindered accuracy, but they also slowed the bullet down. However, when nothing happened, he thrust himself inside in a flash and flicked on the switch. The underboss was in his bed, unaware. Meerhof had him cold. He took aim, nearly squeezing the trigger, but stopped. There was something odd. Although the body lay motionless, the eyes were wide open, thin and delicate blood smears covering the sheets. The bedside lamps were on. It didn't make sense. Nothing did. Then there were the gunshots. Deafeningly loud. The ex-corporal fell to the floor, pain gripping his body. A few seconds later, he felt the pain no more.

James Townsend had been too tired for dreams. When he had felt the sharp, fine steel wire around his neck, he had had no last thoughts. His life had not flashed before his eyes. If there had been anything at all, it had been deep, dark death.

The hitman hated guns. They were too loud, too obnoxious, too crude. They caused destruction. Whereas he was a creator, a maker of art. The clicking on the door had startled him, and when the door had opened, he had thrown himself to the floor, onto the other side of the bed. Everything had taken him unawares.

Many times, the same contractor would hire two hitmen, one to finish the job, the other to finish the one who finished the job. It was the perfect 'leave no strings attached' formula. Cruel but effective. Something he always needed to be on the lookout for. A single slip, a reckless move, and the hunter became the hunted. However, that job had him so flooded with ecstasy that had caused him a series of unprofessional lapses. He had failed to take precaution, failed to calculate risk, and failed to watch his back. Blunder after blunder had followed. Now, someone with a muffled pistol had flung himself into the room so exceedingly fast, he knew it had to be none other than a professional. Who, why, by whom, it didn't matter. The hitman was caught. The job was over. There was only one thing to do. Survive or die. He chose survival. Picking up Townsend's pistol, he fired, rapidly, till the man moved no more, the big Afrikaner frame crashing to the floor.

Before he had died, Meerhof had been in disbelief. Someone had knocked out the underboss less than two minutes ago. It was confirmation that the footsteps had not been imaginary. The killer, whoever he was, had tiptoed across the floor, picked Townsend's lock, and strangled him. A wooden board had creaked under the weight. In tip-toeing across wooden floors lies an inherent danger of giving yourself away. The pressure exerted drastically increases as the surface area drastically decreases. It couldn't have been Shaw. It was too professional a job done at blistering speed by someone with years of experience. And that someone was in the room, hidden, unseen. It was the ghost! Probably it was right behind him. Meerhof looked around, eyes wide open with horror. He didn't have to look for long. Four rounds were pumped into him. The ex-corporal went down. Sara Therond was not yet safe. He had failed. Well, at least he wouldn't have to face his former commander. Only the Devil, who forgave more readily than Claasen.

# Chapter 24

Shaw had been having trouble sleeping. It was the silver gleam. It kept coming back to him, something very strange about it, he just could not figure out. The tiredness had caused him to close his eyes instantly, but he had been unable to rest, waking up soon after. Something had followed them from Beaufort West, and he dreamt that it was headed straight for the Ford, which had suddenly become slow and unresponsive, its wheel taking Herculean strength to turn. Then, upon encountering a rough patch in the road, the Ford swerved and slid, uncontrollably, before stalling. From his driver's seat, he saw the silver gleam approach them at full speed, becoming blindingly bright as it got close, dangerously close. Strangely, no cloud of dust followed it. He was trying to get out, but the door seemed jammed. The silver gleam kept coming and rammed into them. He opened his eyes.

He had been up since then. It was difficult to decide whether it was a case of intuition or not. Whatever it was, it was winning, and he lay wide awake on the couch, his thoughts going back to the previous afternoon when Dikedeli had slid into Sara's bag a chopping knife, wrapped in a thick hand towel, while they had watched in silence. At that moment, it had seemed symbolic of the times that lay ahead. Since then, the knife had yet to be mentioned. Shaw got up and opened Sara's bag. Upon not finding it, he switched the bedside lamp on. There it lay, right under the bedside table, its handle exposed, the blade peeping out of the towel. What a girl!

The hotel building was rectangular, and their room faced the front. After theirs, two more vehicles had arrived. A Rolls Royce and a jeep, both Cape Town registered. Peeking through the window, it had been impossible to make out its occupants, and he dared not venture outside, fearing exposure. The Ford was well hidden. It was impossible to know he was there, and it was dangerous to make a move now. He had to hole in inside until the coast was cleared or Claasen arrived.

Then there had been a sound. Someone had fiddled with the doorknob as though attempting to ascertain whether or not it was locked. They knew he was here! The silver gleams, the late arrivals, the uneasiness, the sleeplessness, everything made sense now. The anxiety was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief. The end was near. Either his or theirs. He got up, knife in hand, ready to kill whatever walked in through the door. But nothing happened. After the tapping on the door knob, there had been no further sounds. The anxiety was back, becoming unbearable by the second. He had to do something, he just couldn't stay still any longer.

"Sara, wake up," he whispered.

The urgency in his voice, the knife in his hand were all that took her to know that something was severely wrong. She had gone to bed fully dressed, ready to bolt at a moment's notice.

"We need to go," Shaw said.

She nodded, getting up instantly, grabbing her bag, doing everything she could to hide her panic. The questions could come later. Now was the time to act.

The window was the only safe way out. He told her to go and grab Abri. He would get the car.

Then there were the gunshots. Sara screamed.

While the two late guests had been eating, the bellhop had cycled a mile to coax a friend out of sleep. The friend had cursed him all the way back to the hotel. But the bellhop hadn't cared. The man with the Ford was paying well, well enough to keep up with the cursing and grumbling.

The grumpy friend had once worked in Johannesburg, returning home only months ago, and knew more about cars than most people combined. Colesberg was slow, but having the only hotel for miles around, it saw its fair share of cars. The bellhop had wanted to go into business, contracting his friend's services, splitting the profits. The friend had readily agreed. What he had not been told that his services would be needed in the middle of the night as well.

When they had happened to reach the hotel, the bellboy had immediately taken him over to where the two cars were parked. The friend, hearing what the bellhop had to say, had scratched his head, remaining reluctant. He was a mechanic, not a saboteur. Not only was it unethical, but it was also illegal. But the bellhop would not budge.

"Just think of it a friendly favor," he had said.

Well, when put that way, what choice did one have?

"Alright, alright. Pop open the hood," the mechanic had replied with a resigned look.

The bellhop had then told him that he would go and stand guard. "In case someone approaches, I will croak like a frog. That will be the signal."

The mechanic friend had wanted to ask what sort of a frog roamed the dry bush-lands during the summers, let alone croak, but he had let it pass. His mind was occupied with other matters. He had never worked on a Rolls-Royce before. But the jeep was child's play. He started with the jeep.

When the first shot rang, the bellhop immediately thought of his friend, thinking something had gone wrong with the cars. Panic flooded him. But three more bangs, and he knew it was something else. The man in the Ford had not been lying, after all. Indeed, he was in grave danger. Was he dead, already? Had they shot him, just like that? The audacity. In the quiet night, the loud sounds seeming as though they would travel for miles. Instinctively, he headed down the corridor, without even thinking.

The hitman knew he had blown it all. Uncontrolled emotions, recklessness, and impatience had all combined to produce a deadly cocktail. He needed to get out, and now. He barged through the door, and into the corridor. A boy ran straight towards him. It was the bellhop. He shot him at sight. The couple's door was locked, but he heard voices from inside, and instinctively knew they were heading out through the window. They had already been awake before the shots. He landed a sharp kick at the door, his heavy boot making contact with the wood. But it was built solid. The carpenter certainly knew what he was doing. All across the corridor, doors were flying open. A woman screamed. And then another.

"Get back inside," he yelled, and she started crying.

He kicked the door once more. It budged some. Then there was a sharp pain in his shoulder. The gun dropped, automatically. He winced, turning around to see a boy of twenty, wearing coveralls, his hands covered with grease and black, carbon dust.

The mechanic had just thrown a massive wrench with all his might, catching the hitman in the shoulder. The hitman's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. The mechanic surely had well-built arms to have hurled the tool with such force. Holding his shoulder, he tried picking up the gun, but the mechanic reached to it before he could, even managing to land a flying kick to his face. The hitman went down. The mechanic fired. The hitman moved away with the nimbleness of a cat, the bullet tearing away an ear from his body, smashing it onto the floor below him. Somehow, he ignored the pain, making it back to Townsend's room, while lurching like a drunkard. There, he groped for the dead Afrikaner's gun. Having found it, he unscrewed the muffler. It wasn't going to be needed. The whole town ought to be wide awake by now.

The hitman made his way out. His one shoulder hung limp, but his other hand held the gun. The mechanic was waiting, ready, but the hitman was just too fast. Without even blinking, he shot him, right between the eyes, blood spurting out of the boy's mouth. Killing a man, who has spent his life mastering the skills of survival, isn't that easy. The young mechanic had just found that out.

The hitman strode across the hallway with purpose. His ears rung, but it didn't bother him. He knew where the couple was headed to. Exiting the main door, he turned right. Shaw was stupid to have parked the car there. One way in, the same way out. In his attempt at concealment, he had forgone the most important skill of survival—a quick getaway.

He reached the alley leading to the rear of the building, just in time to see the car's headlights headed straight for him. The lane was narrow, the Ford was still some distance away. They had nowhere to run. This was going to be one of the easiest shots of his life. He smiled, wickedly, and took aim.

"Get down," Shaw yelled as he floored the accelerator. There were horrified screams from inside the car. They knew it was over. But nothing happened. Then, there was a dull plop instead of a bang. The man had not fired and had been taken out by the Ford, his body getting flung onto the windshield, cracking it, before getting flung down. Shaw kept going. As they hit the road, there were a couple of shots. He ducked, fearing a stray bullet would get him. He continued, however, afraid to even look back.

The hitman lay on the ground, his back severely bruised. He had pulled the trigger. But there had only been a click. The pistol had jammed. But death couldn't take him away so quickly. He remained determined to die in dignity and many years from now. Right now was not the time. He tried getting up but fell down again. All he wanted to do was reach the car park. He started to crawl, instead, making it to the Rolls. He yanked the door open and hoisted himself into the driver's seat. Taking out his blade, he sliced the ignition wire. But the thing would not start. He tried again, and again, but it refused to go. By the time he noticed the shotgun pointing towards him, it was just too late. It was the Afrikaner! He had been wearing a bullet resistant vest and possessed just about enough life in him to take the shot. The face of the seventeen-year-old girl, who he had first killed, flashing before the hitman's eyes.

# Chapter 25

While all hell was breaking loose in Colesberg, Claasen was at Bloemfontein. He placed a call to Pretoria. "Anything?" he asked.

The man at the other end had had a tough day. The former platoon, doing everything in its power to ensure the safety of Sara Therond, remained anxious, and it was his job to make sure they kept their wits about them. "Keep heading west and keep reporting," he had been telling them all day long. But with Claasen, it was a different matter, altogether. He was the man, who would be most affected in case they found her dead or worse. However, this time, he had good news. She was in Colesberg.

Claasen rushed back to the car. "Colesberg," he said, getting in.

His friend and former platoon member, who sat at the wheel, sped right away. "What does the idiot responsible for all of this have to say?" he asked, after a while.

Claasen only shook his head, trying hard not to get caught in another foul-mouthed rant at Samuel Therond. "He is calling in every hour and has alerted everyone. Seems like he has thrown caution to the wind," he finally replied.

"Is that wise? I fear for your sister's safety."

So did Claasen. Calling the Sullivan gang out in the open was not such a good idea, especially when you were home alone, and did not even own a gun. But with Townsend out of town and Sullivan yet to wake up, the gang lacked a leader, who could order such a bold move. Unless, of course, they got carried away and took matters into their own hands.

"Hopefully, she will be alright," Claasen replied.

The driver then asked him something he really didn't want the answer to. "What about our man?"

Claasen was dreading the very question, the very thought. There hadn't been a single word from Meerhof. Twenty-four hours were up. It was an established procedure to call Pretoria with updates at least once in every twelve. And Meerhof liked procedure. He liked keeping informed and staying informed. Hearing nothing from him was sending out a terrible vibe.

The man answering the phone in Pretoria had borne the brunt of it. Every call had inevitably led to the ex- corporal's status. He was closest to the action, but there had been nothing from him at all. In the end, there was only one plausible explanation. Meerhof had to be assumed dead. Terminated. Taken out of action. They were on their own. It was a race against the clock.

Shaw drove fast as he could. He had to strain his eyes to be able to see through the cracked windshield. Sara and Abri were shaken but holding up. He, too, was shocked beyond belief. They had dodged death by the breadth of the hair, and a zillion thoughts zigzagged through his mind. Why the man had not shot, remained a mystery. Soon after they had pulled out of the place, a deafening sound had filled the sky. No pistol discharge could have made such a sound. It had to be a big, powerful gun, and Shaw prayed that the bullet had gotten the man. But he was not taking any more chances. Pretoria was still afar. He was unarmed, and everywhere he turned, death seemed to be lying in wait. They could no longer dodge it on their own. They desperately needed help. They desperately needed Claasen.

There was movement ahead. Some animal had been caught in the glare of the headlights and had made a dash for cover. Shaw slightly eased his foot in case there were more of them around. He did not want to bump into one and further damage the car, incapacitating it. It seemed that the animal was alone. Must have been a carnivorous beast if it had chosen to roam devoid of any company, unlike the lesser dangerous ones, who flocked about in herds. When you moved about in a group, you had the advantage of spotting predators well in advance, dramatically boosting your odds of survival. Exactly what they were doing, combining their efforts to survive. The only problem was that the predator was not alone. He, too, had teamed up.

No one spoke. They drove in deafening silence. Abri could take it no more. She needed to talk and wanted to be held. The last two days had battered her emotional system, and the silence was strangling her. She cursed fate and blamed God for everything that had happened to her. He was an evil God that claimed to love everyone equally, yet governed their lives by a separate set of rules. Some had it all, while the others had nothing. Deep down inside, she knew that it wasn't right to blame, for she had been taught that all evil came from the Devil. But then why did He sit back and watch, while His children struggled to cope with the Devil's seemingly limitless power. Her thoughts were disarrayed. Until a few hours ago, she had been battling, but the gunshots had further lacerated her wounds. Her father's death flashed before her eyes. Reliving the horror sent her into shock. She had been born into death and had lived with it, her entire life. What disturbed her so was that it always came about so disgracefully to the good, while the evil passed away in grandeur.

"What was all that shooting back at the hotel?" she asked to no one in particular, mumbling incoherently.

Sara noticed the shaky voice and turned around to comfort her, the tears in her eyes glistening in the backscatter of the head lights.

Shaw ignored the question. He was driving at full speed and dared not to divert his attention. Anyway, it wasn't as though he had the answer.

She asked, again, "When will we reach Pretoria?"

Maybe never, thought Shaw to himself. He had his neck craned forward as he tried to get the best view possible through the cracked glass. Taking it off completely and tossing it aside wasn't an option. The dust and the bugs would fly into his face at sixty miles an hour.

Abri repeated the question.

"Say something, Craig," Sara said. There was anger in her voice. "She is going through a really hard time. We all are."

Hard time? What was she talking about? Their lives hung by a thread, which was soon going to snap under its weight if not cut off before that. He ignored her and checked the fuel gauge. He had topped up in Beaufort West. That left him with more than half a tank. To reach Pretoria, he would need to fill it up, again. They would make it to Bloemfontein in the early hours of the morning. He prayed he could find fuel there.

"Craig!" Sara yelled.

"What?" he yelled back.

"Stop behaving like that, and for God's sake drive a bit slower. You are scaring us."

Slower? He was in disbelief! What was that even supposed to mean?

"Look," he said, "If you are feeling scared, close your eyes. Let me concentrate."

"It's you, who is scaring me more than the speed."

Hearing that, Shaw slowed down, slightly. It was time to tend to feelings before they exploded. The shock was taking a toll. A few moments of soothing could do.

"You are a brave girl, Abri," he said with all the courage he could muster. The truth was he was scared himself. "I promise you that by tomorrow afternoon, we shall all be having lunch in Pretoria, safe and sound."

To Abri, that came as welcomed news. Pretoria had seemed so far away, and she was sick of the car. It had come to resemble a coffin. However, lunch in Pretoria sounded splendid, indeed, the very manner in which Shaw had said it, lifting her spirits.

"What happens after that?" she asked.

Shaw replied with the same zest. "We go and meet Sara's uncle and aunt. They are really nice people. You'll like them the minute you see them. We will be safe there."

Abri had been worried sick of what was to happen to her, but she was hopeful of the future now. She looked at Sara. "They would mind me living there?"

"Not at all, Abri," Sara immediately replied. "They have a large house and lots of people working for them. You will be comfortable and safe there. And I will be there, too. I will make sure you have everything you need. You'll go to school and wear new clothes. I will watch out for you, Abri. I promise that."

Abri's world just got lit up. New clothes and school? The picture seemed very rosy. She had dreamed of what it would be like to go to bed every night with a full belly. However, what about the people who had killed her father? Would she be safe from them?

"Yes, you will be safe. My uncle is a very powerful man. He will keep us all safe."

The conversation lasted a few more minutes, but Shaw didn't wait for it to get over. Quietly, he crawled back up to top speed. By the time Sara turned around and sat back straight, his neck was already craned forward.

"I feel so sorry for her," Sara said, "But her courage amazes me. I doubt I could have been through all that, yet retained the will to go on."

Shaw agreed.

"Who was that man back at the hotel?" she asked after some time.

Shaw had no clue.

"Why didn't he shoot us?"

No clue, again.

"You woke me up before the gunshots. How did you know?"

Shaw hesitated. He told her about the mysterious silver gleam. He wasn't sure if it had been tailing them or not, but the next thing he knew he was having nightmares. He went on to describe everything that had happened.

"So, you think somebody tried to pick our lock and kill us in our sleep?'' she asked, terrified.

Shaw nodded.

"Then why didn't he? Who stopped him? You think someone saw him and got in the way?"

It was possible. But the hotel only had ten rooms, and by then, almost everyone must have been fast asleep. It could have been the bellhop or the manager, but he hadn't heard any voices. Also, the shots seem to have come from another room. Nothing made sense. All he knew was that two cars had arrived after them. Both late at night. And neither was painted silver.

Sara felt a cold shiver down her spine. "So, who was the man, then?" she asked.

Shaw looked at her, saying, "I think he was a professional assassin." He let the word assassin hang in the air.

# Chapter 26

The whole of Colesberg was awake. In a place as this where news of some old soul's death, whose one foot had been in the grave for twenty years spread like wildfire, the gruesome killings had sent shock waves throughout the entire community. A few men had even taken up sentry duty, ready to blast just about anything that moved or looked suspicious. Rumor had that it had been the activity of opposing gangs. Gang activity was unheard of in Colesberg, and the atmosphere was rife with speculation as to where the gangs were from. The mention of a Rolls Royce sent the people into a dizzy, and they flocked to the hotel. Someone mentioned something about a couple escaping in an imported car, and most thought they would drop dead with excitement. Never again would their lives ever witness such an effulgent sight.

The scene at the hotel was of total chaos. The lone constable did the best he could. There was a doctor present to assist him. But it didn't take a medical professional to identify that the five bodies lay lifeless. The town did not have a coroner because they had never needed one. A few of the guests had wanted to leave, but he wouldn't let them. A special team of the S.A.P. was on its way there from Bloemfontein. They would decide who could leave and who couldn't.

The chief inspector of the Bloemfontein police station was at his desk. The alert from Colesberg had woken him up, and a jeep full of detectives and a coroner had already been dispatched. A black Ford, driven by a young man, had fled the scene just before the last shot had been fired. He swore he would find it before anyone else.

Sara couldn't take her mind off what Craig had told her. There was no way Sullivan could reach them in Pretoria, but hiring someone to do that in exchange for a case full of cash remained a possibility. They were not immune. If the Sullivan enterprise had shown such eagerness to hire a hitman so far from home, who was to say they wouldn't do the same in Pretoria? These men could wait. Craig and herself weren't going anywhere in a hurry. She imagined Craig, lying in a pool of his own blood, his head blown off by an unseen bullet, on a warm summer's day. No one would know who had fired it, but far away in Cape Town, Sullivan would be having the last laugh. She was literally jolted back from her thoughts as the car swerved into the bushes, forcing her to grip the dashboard to prevent injury.

Abri wasn't that lucky, and fell onto the floor of the car, crying out in pain.

"Shh....be quiet," Shaw urged. He had cut out the lights. The only sound they could hear was the engine.

Then, after a brief period, a pair of headlights appeared, flying by at full speed. Shaw decided to wait a little longer. When they were gone, he slowly pulled back onto the road.

"Who was that?" Sara asked.

He did not know but had a feeling whoever they were, they must have been looking for them. Who else could it be so late at night?

Not the S.A.P. dispatch from Bloemfontein. They couldn't have made it till there so soon.

"Doesn't Colesberg have its own police?" Sara wanted to know.

"It's a tiny place," Shaw replied. "It would have a couple of policemen, at the very most."

Sara waited a while before asking him the next question. "Do you believe that the police in Bloemfontein know we are coming?"

"I bet they have a welcoming party for us by now," he replied.

"What are we to do? Can we trust them? Can we just drive to the police station in Bloemfontein and declare who we are? I am sure, my uncle must have already put them on alert for us."

"I don't know, Sara," Shaw replied. "The police could be hand in glove with them. Especially, the current version of the S.A.P. How do you think Sullivan has such a free run of Cape Town? He pays them to look the other way, and they do. If he can hire a hitman to follow us until Colesberg, a place he had no idea we would be going to, what is to stop him from doing the same at Bloemfontein?"

That was news to Abri. "The man shooting at the hotel was a hitman?" she asked.

Shaw ignored her question, telling her to go back to sleep, which was just not going to happen. She had heard of such men. Many black men did these sorts of jobs for the whites, but usually, only when they needed money. A white man who did this full time? The very thought made her hair stand on end. She looked out the window and started praying.

"But not all policemen are like that, Craig," Sara argued.

They needn't all be like that. It just took the one. Even the slightest whiff of their arrival would prove enough. Then, even Claasen could not stop a bullet which had left the barrel. Her suggestion, although tempting, was akin to the piece of cheese that hung in the rat trap. Sullivan hoped they would bite.

Sara knew she was beaten. Craig had squashed her idea of putting a quick end to their woes. And rightly so. She opened her mouth to say something, when Shaw exclaimed, "Damn! Someone is onto us."

Sara and Abri both turned around to see a pair of headlights follow them at full speed. Unlike the silver gleam earlier that day, this time there was no effort at concealment. Sara had never felt more scared in her life.

Hendrik Claasen followed the Ford as fast as he could. From afar, they had spotted headlights in the opposite direction, but after a while, when they had failed to pass them, they knew the car had ducked into the bushes for cover. Turning around quickly and catching up with it, they had been able to make out its make. It simply was too rare to be mistaken with another. They just hoped Sara and Shaw were inside.

In the back seat, they were accompanied by the S.A.P. constable from Springfontein. Having had received a telegram from Bloemfontein, he had investigated his town to find nothing at all. Springfontein did not have many places where the couple could have lodged, and he was quite certain that their arrival would have been brought to his notice. The arrival of any stranger was always brought to his notice, and that was about the only people he ever investigated. He would go and talk to them, and if they looked alright, which they always did, he would welcome them to the town which had received municipal status less than twenty years ago. Springfontein was on the map just because it lay between Beaufort West and Bloemfontein, and had a railway line. It was not a tourist attraction. Perhaps the only historical event it could boast of was that it had hosted a British Concentration Camp during the second Anglo-Boer war. The ground was hallowed by death. The constable did carry a well-oiled firearm, though, which he had never used. He was short and timid, and it was hard to believe that he had ever raised his voice in anger, let alone hurt anyone. Once upon a time, during the war, he had been a guard at the concentration camp, and that had helped him to secure a constable's post with the S.A.P.

"At this rate, we will never be able to catch up," Claasen's friend, who now occupied the co-passenger seat, complained.

This irritated Claasen, who was going as fast as he could. "Don't blame me," he snapped. "They have a newer car and lesser weight aboard."

The comment made the friend look towards his bulging stomach, all the extra pounds which he had so generously piled on since he had left the army. He rubbed it with his fleshy hand. Back in the day, he had resembled a bull. But as he had indulged more in life's varieties, it hadn't taken long for all the muscle to be replaced by fat. Unlike the rest, who still kept fit, he had chosen to live life to the fullest. But the one thing he had retained was his agility, often reminding everyone of that.

Claasen had heard the 'agility' excuse many times before, and each time it caused him further irritation.

"Yes, yes, you are agile," he shouted out loud. "We all know that. With the weight you carry around, you'd better be agile, or you might simply topple over, the way you jiggle."

Now, that was news to him. Did his body jiggle about? Had he become that fat? The great war had ended in 1918. That meant he had had just about no exercise for thirteen years. Well, probably, he had. Who cared, anyway? He was still agile.

A jeep passed them by, headed towards Colesberg at full speed, its flashing lights indicating it to be an S.A.P. dispatch.

"Something definitely is up," remarked the constable from behind. "In all my years, I have never seen such activity so late at night."

The fat man nodded, wanting to ask the constable how many times had he been up so late at night. He let it pass, though.

"They're slowing down," Claasen commented, after a while.

# Chapter 27

The red light on the chief inspector's car flashed. When the alert from Colesberg had been received, he had asked the local constable to describe the dead men, having been particularly interested in the description of one. After dispatching the special squad, he had then gotten into his car and driven towards Colesberg, stopping in the middle of the highway, parking the car across the road, using it to create a roadblock. He waited for the Ford. Soon enough, it was there, crawling to a halt. The second pair of headlights behind it catching up, then eventually, slowing down, too.

Shaw had nowhere to run. A car pursued him at full speed, and another blocked the road ahead, parked dead in its center, his cracked windshield giving the flashing red lights a prismatic effect. It was the S.A.P. He took his foot off the gas. There was no other option. The vegetation on either side of the road was too thick for him to try to find a way around it. Whoever it was, knew what he was doing, and had selected the perfect spot to block the road.

"It is a police car," Sara said as they watched the uniformed man wave.

"What do they want?" Abri wondered out loud.

Shaw shook his head. His foot was completely off the gas. The car was rolling on its own momentum.

Sara looked at him. "Are we stopping?" she asked.

"What other option do we have?" he replied. "Be alert. Nobody makes a move until I say."

The policeman approached. Shaw watched him in his headlights, his own cabin illuminated by the headlights of the car behind them. Two men got out from it, hurrying towards their direction.

"Sara! Sara!" Hendrik Claasen exclaimed, noticing his niece through the glass.

Sara, recognizing her uncle's voice, jumped out, leaping into his arms, relieved, and very nearly at the edge of tears.

Claasen smiled for the first time in two days.

Inside, Shaw rested his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes. At last, it was over. He had no words to describe the relief that flooded him. There was a tap at the window. He looked up to see a fat man.

"You must be Craig Shaw," the fat man said.

Shaw nodded, slowly.

"Hell of a job, kid! You had us chasing you all over."

Shaw tried to think of what to say, but something caught his eye. He saw the policeman take out his firearm. Even through the cracked windshield, his intentions were crystal clear. There was a bang. The fat man went down.

Before his hounds had been able to pick up on the scent of the game, James Townsend had placed several calls. One such had reached the desk of the chief inspector at Bloemfontein.

"Chief inspector, Bloemfontein," he had said, wondering who it could have been. Very few people knew that he was up so early even on a Saturday morning.

The voice at the other end had sounded familiar. Frightfully familiar. The chief inspector's expression had grown stern. "Are you out of your mind?" he had sizzled into the mouthpiece. As if their last names being the same were not enough, he had to be calling him as well.

"It has been a long time," the voice at the other end had replied.

The chief inspector had nodded. It had been a long time, indeed. More than ten years since the day he had hugged his little brother farewell at the docks in Cape Town, worried sick. His younger brother might have been a tough kid, but South Africa, with the natives, the Afrikaners, and the English was no Ireland. But his brother had made it, this way or that. And here he was, after all this time, calling him out of the blue.

"Be prompt," the chief inspector had said. There was no knowing who could be listening in.

His brother had wanted a favor. A piece of information. After that, soon, he would be leaving South Africa for a place far, far away.

The news had hit the chief inspector hard. Even though they hadn't met in ten years, there was some comfort in the knowledge that his little brother was only a train's journey away. But leaving the country would change all of that. His eyes had grown wet. He had leaned against the table. "Send me a postcard," he had said, the voice barely audible. Then he had cut the line.

His little brother had never shared his viewpoint, but he had worried about him, nevertheless, because that is what older brothers did. And he was a loyal brother. As loyal as could be. All these years he had kept track of him, and though he hadn't approved of his chosen path, he hadn't shown discern towards it, either. He blamed the bloody English for meddling in Irish affairs which had forced so many young lads to go up in arms against the might of the British Empire, something that had done little to attract international sympathy for Ireland. The world was just too busy to take notice of the atrocities the Irish had suffered at the hands of the English. He did not blame the English, either. He just hated them. He hated them, the blacks, the Afrikaners. However, all his life he had concealed this hatred. The Irish were in the minority, and if not for their cunning, would have ceased to exist a long time ago. Perhaps centuries of being harrowed by the English had made them like that.

The chief inspector too had once been young, overcome by the patriotic fervor sweeping Ireland. But unlike so many others, he had been too wise to fight, acutely aware of the fact that it was only the soldier and his family that ultimately paid the price for war. And his had paid in blood, buried alive under their very home. Until now, his brother had been the only family, but his death was the final straw. The bastards had taken everything from him. Hopes, dreams, family, now even his brother. There was nothing left to live for. Nothing left to die for. Perhaps he had stayed silent for too long. Perhaps he too should have picked up a rifle and gone to fight the English, just like everyone else. Nonetheless, he hadn't, always keeping hope that things would improve. In their hope, the two remaining Townsends had turned to South Africa. Like many, it had been a place for them to start over. For more than ten years, it had seemed like they had, it had looked like the past had been finally forgotten, their unfortunate days back in Ireland had been bygones. But suddenly, everything had come back and hit him with brutal force. All his life, he had never hurt anyone. Not the English, not the Afrikaners, not even the blacks. Look what it had gotten him in return, nothing but silent hurt. His tipping point had been reached. The line was breached. However, this time, there was no sitting back. This time, there was no bending over.

# Chapter 28

Shaw ducked for cover, yelling for Abri to do the same. He hoped that Claasen had a gun and could protect Sara.

The chief inspector knew that the two men in the second car were heavily armed, but perhaps, seeing him had left their guns behind in their vehicle. That was good. They trusted the inspector to be on their side. Also, having finally found one another, all of them were so jubilant that nobody had noticed him aim his gun at Claasen's fat friend. The fellow had seemed like the toughest nut, and it was important to crack him first. The shot had been aimed right through the heart. There was a need for accuracy. He had a limited number of bullets. One shot, one man.

After firing, he moved out of the headlights, and in between the Ford and Claasen's car, who was slouched on the other side of the Ford, taking cover behind it. There was no way the former lieutenant could reach his own car to draw his guns. All he might be having on him was a pistol. That was okay. The chief inspector could deal with that. He had him.

The opposite door of the Ford flew open, and Shaw and the black girl made a quick dash for safety. The chief inspector took aim. However, not having a clear shot, he didn't fire. One shot, one man. There was no need for concern, though. In a moment, he would get them all.

All along, Claasen had sensed something odd about the chief inspector. Ducking behind the Ford, the former military man waved his pistol, indicating for Shaw to take the girls and make the dart towards the police car so as to take shelter behind it, even drive it away if he could. Shaw took the hint. He whispered something to Sara and Abri. Meanwhile, Claasen tried buying time. Hopefully, he could distract the inspector long enough for the kids to make an escape. They were more important. He didn't care about himself. He had lived long enough.

"Why are you doing this?" he yelled out.

The chief inspector noticed a feminine figure dash towards his car and fired a shot that flew above the bonnet. To Sara, it appeared to have passed inches from her head.

"Get behind the car," Shaw urged her. He was still crouched next to Claasen. Shaw offered Claasen assistance, but the former lieutenant did not want his help. He wanted him to take the girls to safety. He could deal with the chief inspector alone. Shaw nodded, deciding to wait for the next chance to cross over.

Claasen reacted, and fired a shot, slithering as fast as he could towards the policeman, who ducked for cover.

"Listen, Chief," Claasen shouted out loud, "Whatever your deal is, it is with me. These kids have got nothing to do with it. Let them go."

The chief inspector did not reply. Claasen tried, again. "Whatever Sullivan is paying you, I will double it, triple it, even quadruple it. Just let them go."

The chief inspector flew into a rage. "Nobody is paying me anything, you dirty, Afrikaner bastard."

"Then why are you doing this? Why do you want us dead? What's in it for you?"

Spotting a chance, Shaw quickly sent Abri across to Sara. This prompted the inspector to fire another shot. Claasen was counting the bullets. He fired back.

"Now, listen, chief," he said, "You only have three rounds remaining, whereas I have a loaded pistol. Just call an end to this nonsense, right away, and I promise not to kill you."

The warning brought out laughter from the chief inspector. "You like guns, don't you, Claasen?" he asked in a sadist voice. "Well, I tell you, we Irish like guns, too. We fought the English back in Ireland. The bastards killed our families for it, slaughtered women and children, buried them alive."

Was he out of his mind? What in hell had that to do with them?

"I am really sorry, chief," Claasen replied, "But we didn't kill your families or your countrymen. These kids had nothing to do with it. And being an Afrikaner, myself, you don't have to tell me about the bloody English." He hoped Shaw didn't mind that.

"Shut up, Claasen," the chief inspector cried out. "Ask your niece's boyfriend what he has done. He knows what he has done. Don't you, you little prick?" The man was out of control.

Claasen looked at Shaw searchingly, who just couldn't understand what the chief inspector was going on about. Surely, his bearings were gone. The only person Shaw had harmed was Sullivan. Could all of this be in the gangster's honor?

"Now, Claasen," the chief inspector went on, "I am at the door of your car, and have access to all of your ammunition and fancy firearms. So, don't stress yourself out counting my bullets. Just come out with your hands up, and I promise, I won't hurt your niece. Throw away your pistol, and come out, at once. And if you really love your niece, save the tricks you learned in the army for later. You too, Shaw. Come out."

Claasen heard the click of the machine gun that they had left behind in the car. The Thompson M1921 was a formidable weapon, a single volley enough to kill them all. They had brought it along in case they were out-muscled. Now, the very thing was out-muscling them.

For Shaw, the chief inspector's conditions sounded perfectly fine. Sara's safety was paramount, and if that meant his life, so be it. The game was up.

However, Claasen remained a tough as nails negotiator, even in a deep crisis.

"The girls and the boy, chief," he yelled back.

"Your stubbornness will get you all killed, Claasen," the chief inspector warned.

There was another click, and the sub-machine gun got loaded. Shaw heard footsteps. The chief inspector was approaching, heavily armed with a Thompson M1921, fully loaded. He stood up instantaneously, both hands in the air. Hopefully, Sara and Abri would be left alive. This was the last hope.

Claasen threw the pistol and followed suit. He got up slowly, hoping death would be instant and painless. With a Thompson M1921, it had to be. Once in hell, he would grab Meerhof by the throat, and ask him how had he managed to botch the job so badly.

The chief inspector smiled as he saw two pairs of hands in the air. "Hendrik Claasen," he said, "The most powerful man in Pretoria. It's a pity you couldn't live long enough to see out your golden..."

The sentence never got finished. Something pierced the back of the chief inspector's neck, exiting his throat, blood splashing all the way to where the two men stood. Claasen dove instinctively, pulling Shaw with him. There were screams from the girls.

The machine gun dropped. The chief inspector now understood the eerie feeling he had had upon lifting the weapon from Claasen's car. There had been only two men traveling in that car, or so he had thought, whereas the rear door had been left open. He went down without a word, stunned, as the former concentration camp guard stood over his body, relentlessly pumping three more rounds into it. Two to the heart, one to the head, the face showing no emotion as the hands carried out the perfect execution. Just another to the hundreds they already had before.

# Chapter 29

A few days later, Craig Shaw and Sara Therond enjoyed lunch with Patricia Claasen in Pretoria. The horrific incidents were over, and there was no need to go over them, again. The food was plenty, the conversation was light, and the weather was beautiful. Abri ate with them, wearing yet another new dress. She had never seen so much to eat in her life and was taking her time, enjoying herself thoroughly. Claasen was not present.

The former lieutenant had traveled back to Bloemfontein, where his partner was recovering. The fat man had survived the shot aimed at his heart, and with all those layers of fat acting as protection, no one had trouble believing that. The constable from Springfontein accompanied him.

"How did you know that the chief inspector was James Townsend's brother?" Claasen asked. They were sitting outside the room on wicker chairs. The old constable was smoking a pipe.

The constable smiled, something Claasen suspected he did a lot but wasn't fooled by it. There was much more to the timid, little, old man than met the eye.

"When I was a camp guard," he started, "The place used to be rife with rumors of who was going to get shot next. Executions, you see. We even used it as a control measure against the inmates. Those were dark days." His eyes wandered off into the distant past. "Anyway," he said, quickly coming back, naturally not keen on dwelling on those memories for long, "Now that the camps are gone, what do you think an old constable in a town with no crime does all day long, Mr. Claasen?"

Claasen nodded. He had gotten his answer. If ever in the future he needed information that was hard to get by, he knew exactly where to look. Springfontein. He wanted to reward the constable, who politely rebuffed all offers. Said he was trying to wash away some of the sins he had committed when he was younger. When he entered the next world, he hoped his cross would not be too heavy to bear, for he knew that in his walk to Golgotha, there would be no Simon of Cyrene.

Sam and Martha Therond caught the first train to Pretoria. Once there, Samuel Therond quickly apologized for his past behavior, working hard to make peace with the couple. Sara forgave him readily, and with some convincing, she got Shaw to do the same. Nonetheless, Claasen wasn't buying any of that. According to him, Meerhof's death was Samuel Therond's fault, and since Meerhof couldn't be brought back from the dead, that was the end of the conversation.

No time was wasted inducting Craig Shaw into his new life. As per Claasen, emotional recovery time and all those things were pure rubbish. Let Sara engage in them if she felt like. Shaw had a long way to go, and a lot to learn. The sooner he began, the better, and he began right away.

Neil Sullivan woke to realize that he was six men short, including his trusted friend James Townsend. His reputation had taken a deep plunge from which there was no recovering. The only way was down. He vowed to make Craig Shaw pay.

Meerhof's body arrived via first class and was buried in a private cemetery. It was a quiet affair. Sara and Craig stood side by side as they mourned the man, who had lost his life, saving theirs. Shaw had requested to be a pallbearer, and Claasen had readily agreed. It was only fair. The entire former platoon or what remained of it was there. This was the first time the ex-corporal had been to visit them in Pretoria, albeit in a box. His wish had been for all of them be present when he was buried.

"As if someone would voluntarily miss the chance to put you in the ground, old boy," Claasen remarked, drawing chuckles. As they lay him to rest, they hoped the insomniac would not carry his old habits to the grave. Pretoria had its fair share of ghost stories, already.

When the funeral was over, the ex-lieutenant spent a few moments alone. He had given Meerhof a simple job, which had gotten complicated beyond belief. Still, that did not qualify as an excuse, not to him. The ex-corporal had made a real mess of it, to begin with, but in the end, he had managed to clean it up. Claasen was going to miss him.

Sara fulfilled all the promises she had made to Abri. Sara and Craig got married and continued to live in the large Claasen house for nearly a year until Shaw saved enough money to buy a house of his own. When they announced their decision to leave, the aunt would not have any of it. Sara was like the daughter she had always wanted. Sara argued that they did not want to become a burden on them. After all, their new house lay less than a mile away. Patricia Claasen asked her husband for support, but the former lieutenant chose to stay quiet. He had thoroughly enjoyed his niece's company but understood how the young couple felt.

It took more than a month for the aunt to agree, and Sara got busy setting up the house. When asked by her husband if she knew what had to be done she told him to quit worrying. She had done it many times as a child, playing house with her dolls. The newly wedded husband wasn't sure whether that qualified as work experience or not, but let it go.

Sara Shaw gave birth to a baby boy on Monday, September the 25th, 1933. It was exactly ten months after they had moved into their new house. Spring was in the air in South Africa (the seasons are reversed in the southern hemisphere), and Pretoria found a perfect excuse to extend their weekend to another day. Not one employee of Hendrik Claasen showed up for work. They had all flocked down to congratulate the mother.

In early April 1934, upon repeated requests of the Theronds, the Shaws made a secret trip to Cape Town with the baby boy. Now that Samuel Therond was no longer the man he used to be, Craig Shaw had begun to get along with him. Martha Therond was delighted to have her grandson home.

Some wounds never heal. Some scores are never settled. Sara Shaw breathed her last on April the 16th, 1934. The bullet had been for Craig. She died in her husband's arms as he begged her not to leave him. In her last words, she thanked him for giving her such a beautiful life, and it was only when he promised not to pursue her murderer and make sure their son never learned of all the hatred that had transgressed, that she breathed her last. And then just like that, she was gone.

### PART II

FRUITS OF POISON

# Chapter 30

I was born Danie Coetzee on April 20th, 1933 in Barberton, South Africa to Gert and Klara Coetzee. My parents were rich, and we lived in a large house in the Mpumalanga province, fifteen miles south of the town of Barberton. Our home stood on a hill, overlooking the picturesque valley owned by my father. Like most children born into wealth, I was home taught by an escadrille of private tutors, who bombarded my brains with Afrikaans, Dutch, English, Zulu, and German, besides other menaces namely geography, history, math and science. And if that weren't enough, every Sunday I had to show up at church, where I got to learn of Adam and Eve's frolicking that had started all this nonsense. No wonder I flipped my lid earlier than most folks. By the time I was ten, I knew that my brain had been overstuffed, and would absorb no more. In a decade, I had received more education than most would in a lifetime. Besides, it was 1943. Hitler was the master of Europe. There were more interesting things to do than to read and write.

My affair with firearms began as a little boy. Barberton is home to the world's oldest mountains. More than three billion years old as per my geography teacher, though I was not sure how he had arrived at that. I was a child and couldn't have cared less had they popped out of the ground yesterday. To me, the mountains meant more than a mere chemical composition of rocks and minerals. Every weekend, I would get lost in their vast valleys, never returning before sundown. Initially, one of my father's men, an Afrikaner named Marius, would always accompany me, but as I grew older, my mother started to let me venture out on my own more often. I had a pony, whom I christened Maarkus. We grew up together in those mountains.

Whenever he would accompany me, Marius would always be armed with a pistol and a rifle. It was not just wild animals we had to be on the lookout for. Barberton lay less than twenty-five miles from Swaziland, home to a large clan of bushmen, who weren't impressed with the way the white man had come and grabbed their land. I fired my first shot soon after my seventh birthday.

"Now, take aim, and slowly squeeze the trigger," Marius instructed as I struggled under the weight of the damned thing. We were up in the mountains. I was aiming at a tree. Upon my first attempt, I couldn't squeeze the trigger. His rifle was just too heavy. I asked him whether I could try the pistol.

"You cannot learn on a pistol," Marius remarked. "Just squeeze harder."

I did as I was told, squeezing with all my might, falling down backward as the bullet exited the barrel like thunder in the skies. My pony, Maarkus, neighed. I had missed by a mile and was struggling to get back up on my feet. Marius, finding the whole thing funny, roared with laughter. However, I didn't care, for it was a moment of great personal pride. I had been initiated into the world of firearms.

As my shooting started to improve, I began coming to the mountains more often. To counter the weight of the rifle, I began to shoot while lying belly down on the ground, resting the barrel on a chunk of rock. I was using several trees as targets, and all of them stood testimonial to my accuracy. Not one of them bore a single bullet mark. But I never gave up. Many months and several rounds later, for the very first time in my life, I finally hit the target. I am yet to miss since then.

My father began noticing that I was spending more and more time outside. Once, during dinner, he casually asked me what I had been up to. His face went blank when he heard the answer, staring at me for a whole minute before shifting his glance towards my mother.

"I have been perfecting my shooting skills, father," I had replied with the innocence of a child.

The very next day, he prohibited me from playing with guns and warned Marius about the same. It was not until I was to turn thirteen that he would allow me to handle a gun, again. Good thing I hadn't told him that I wanted to fight in a world war when I was older. A world war like the ongoing one, which had claimed more than a million lives already.

Down in rural South Africa, we weren't too affected by the war. My mother didn't approve of my father listening to the latest war updates. She said she was sick of all the blood. My father shared her opinion but said he had to keep himself abreast of current affairs. He was a businessman, after all, and wars always revolved around money. I would only understand the depth of his statement several years later.

South Africa was on the side of the Allies, though some Afrikaners were not too happy about that. Still bitter from the defeat they had suffered at the hands of the British during the Second Anglo-Boer War, they remained thirsty for blood. Particularly English blood.

Before 1902, South Africa was divided into four colonies. Cape and Natal were British colonies and occupied a significant chunk of South Africa as it is known today. They had access to all the ports, which played a vital role in their victory. The Afrikaners had two landlocked, independent republics, namely the Transvaal and the Orange Free State. When it became apparent that South Africa had become too small for the British and Afrikaners to peacefully coexist, they went to war once again in early October 1899. The Boer republics, having defeated the British less than two decades ago, remained confident of victory. It had been a harsh lesson for their enemy, who had learned it well, adapting themselves to the Boers' guerrilla style of warfare. The Afrikaners were outnumbered five to one, but that did not stop them from giving the British a harrowing time. They were assisted by Dutch, Irish, German, Russian, Italian, and Scandinavian warriors. It seemed everyone was fed up with British imperialism. Especially the Irish.

The Boers seemed to be winning at first, until the British swiftly shifted tactics, appointing Lord Kitchener to lead them to victory, who did not disappoint. His troops burnt down every Boer establishment and farm they could find. They poisoned Boer wells and bribed the local tribes to help them. Slowly but surely, the tide shifted, and the Boers along with their assisting civil militia, which did not even have a uniform, could not match the seemingly limitless supply of the well organized and disciplined armies of the British. In the end, they simply ran out of men and supplies. Their womenfolk and children starved to death, and over a hundred thousand Boer soldiers were captured and sent to concentration camps from which half never returned. The living conditions of these camps perfectly exemplified British treatment of their enemy. Something they would make a hue and cry of when Germany did the same to the Jews.

When the Boers finally gave up in March 1902, more than seventy thousand men, women, and children had perished. The British would not engage themselves in a bloodier war until the Great War of 1914. Despite defeating them, the British were so impressed with the tactics of the non-uniformed Boer units that they incorporated their style into their own armies. Both the Boer republics were annexed, and the Union of South Africa (not to be mixed up with the Republic of South Africa), a British dominion, was formed. The Afrikaners tried to get back to their pre-war routines with disastrous results. The Boers were primarily agrarian, but most of their farms had been so badly burnt or salted that it would be years before anything productive grew in them. They had been paid three million pounds by the victors to rebuild their lives and economy, but even that large an amount would not suffice. While some Boers successfully re-entered society and rose, most were forced to compete with the blacks in the mines for jobs. A few chose to go into exile rather than sign an oath pledging their allegiance to Great Britain, although, many did come back later.

Most Afrikaners initially referred to the Boer wars as the Freedom Wars. But when it became apparent that freedom was not coming, the name lost its popularity. The British worked very hard to rebuild ties with the Afrikaans-speaking community, going to the extent of disregarding the assistance they had received from the blacks in fear of infuriating the Boers further. In 1906 and 1907, limited self-governance was granted to the Boers, whose wounds were yet to heal.

The Second World War provided the perfect opportunity for the Boers to reclaim their land. Having had already learned that the black Africans could not be trusted, they set about achieving success by themselves. Wealthy and influential Boers held several secret meetings, and hardly a day went by where I didn't learn a new rumor. I heavily relied upon Marius to keep me up to date with the latest developments. Marius was at least sixty years old and had fought in the second Freedom War as he still referred to it. After the war, he had lived in poverty for more than thirty years until my father came along in 1933, offering him employment. He had initially been assigned heavier duties, but as he had aged, my father had slowly reduced his workload. Nowadays, he mostly acted as caretaker for me when I had to be outside the house while carrying out other odd jobs that kept popping from time to time. Despite his age, Marius remained fit as a fiddle, and an expert combatant, armed or otherwise. As the war wore on, he started getting more and more apprehensive. Lying dormant since the surrender, the old boys' intelligence network was active once more, and Marius was very much a part of it. He did not give a hoot as to who won the war. He just wanted the British out of his land. Had someone pointed out to him that like the British, he too, had once been an invader in South Africa, the man would have seen some sense. But apparently, no one did, and Marius continued to hate the British with a passion. He was hopeful that the Fuhrer would sympathize with the Boers, and help them to stamp the British out of their region. And he was not alone.

My father, however, blatantly opposed the plan. The enemy's enemy was not always your friend, he preached. But he was preaching the deaf.

If the rumors were true, the Boers had sent a representative to meet Fuhrer himself, who had promised help. Marius was extremely excited when he picked up on that one. To me, Germany seemed too far away from South Africa for Hitler to consider sending any help. And as the weeks rolled by, my doubts were confirmed as the Allies battled harder, and Marius's optimism started to fade.

Unlike Marius, I wasn't hung up about the war forever, as interesting as it was. Other things had taken center stage in my life. Ava Kruger was back in town.

# Chapter 31

The Krugers were our closest neighbors. Five miles. That's how it was when you lived in rural, hilly country. Ava was my age, and we had been friends since birth. However, now that we were growing up, we began to see each other in new light. In a few months, I would turn eleven, and though I still remained a small boy, I sure didn't feel that way. More than a year had passed since I had seen her, and she had never looked prettier.

The Krugers often invited us over to dinner. On one such occasion, as we all sat together, the conversation drifted towards school. Unlike me, Ava was sent to study in Johannesburg. School was something alien to me, but it sounded much better than being poured over by tutors five days a week. Ava filled us in on her life in the city. A few questions were thrown my way, and I bluffed through the replies, my awkwardness preventing me from even remembering the questions barely five minutes later. Here I was, a farm boy in the presence of a city girl. There couldn't have been a more unfair comparison. I tried to act normal, and not blurt something stupid, wondering why my presence was needed at all.

The pressure didn't relent, however. When Ava was exhausted, the focus entirely shifted upon me. For some reason, my father thought it fit to answer on my behalf, amusing everyone with the replies. By the time he was done, I was sure that all chances of me making an impression on Ava were gone. I was a country kid competing with big city boys, and the emasculating comments made by my father had done nothing to help me in a race where everybody had a head start on me. Embarrassed, I stared at my plate. What I really wanted to do was to jump on my horse and hide in the mountains for a week. Ava and I got talking again, and it was only when she said that she hadn't taken my father's jokes literally that I felt relief. When it was time to leave, her mother suggested that I visit Ava more often, especially since she would be home only for a short while. As if I needed an invitation. I modestly nodded, hoping my father wouldn't start. Thankfully, he didn't, and I made a safe exit. On the way back home, my father complimented me on my manners. I couldn't say the same about him.

For the next two years, Ava and I exchanged more than a hundred letters. The mail was slow, but we didn't wait for replies before sending another on its way. I wrote once a week. Ava would come home twice a year for a couple of months, and not a single day would go by without us seeing each other. We re-explored the mountains together, and she practiced her riding skills while updating me on the latest trends in Johannesburg.

One winter morning, I asked Marius to lend me his rifle for a few hours. He refused at first, asking me if I wanted to land him in trouble. He was extremely loyal to my father, who had taken him out of his misery. After pestering him for more than an hour, we finally struck a deal. If I were to get caught, I would say that I had taken it without Marius's knowledge.

Ava and I rode out further than usual that day and stopped only when I was certain the gunshot sound would not reach back home. Able to perfectly handle a rifle by now, I remained keen on impressing her. This was my domain. No city boy could scare me here.

"Pick a target," I told her.

She pointed towards a small rock lying on a boulder some distance away, and I asked her to step back. Then, like a professional gunslinger, I adjusted the scope. It was all an act. I knew Marius had adjusted it perfectly. There was none better than him. From the corner of my eye, I saw Ava smile expectantly. I felt like a magician about to pull out a rabbit from the hat. I took aim and squeezed the trigger. Ava was impressed.

After a few more rounds of hitting the bull's eye, I asked her if she wanted to try. She seemed reluctant, but with a bit of persuasion, agreed. I locked and loaded, and stood behind her as she tried to balance the heavy rifle. My first lesson flashed before my eyes, and I remained determined to do much better than Marius.

We aimed at a stone that I had placed fifty yards away. Our bodies were close, her hands in mine, as I helped her squeeze the trigger. I didn't want her first experience to be as comical as mine had. She shrieked with joy as the stone blasted into bits. Her first shot, although heavily assisted, was bang on target. Marius would have been proud.

Excited, she turned around and pecked me on the cheek. I was in love, and a week away from turning twelve.

Hitler had ended his life a few months ago, and the war had been over. I couldn't have cared less for I was too preoccupied with Ava. My father stopped making funny remarks about me in front of others and started treating me like a grown up. One day, he announced that since I was well over twelve years old and that the war was finally over, he had decided to send me to school in Pretoria. He had picked a fine one that was to my mother's approval. The formalities were done, and I was to report by January. He then raved on about how he would miss me while I was gone, but at the same time, my progress was also important. I had had enough of homeschooling. It was time I saw the other world. Johannesburg was barely thirty-five miles from Pretoria. I couldn't wait to tell Ava.

Not everyone shared my enthusiasm. Many people who worked our estate, said they would be sorry to see me go. Having grown so used to me, they couldn't imagine a day without the yelling of yet another victim of my pranks. I owed them a great deal. They had taught me everything from riding to farming. I would miss them, too, I said.

One night, after dinner, my father retired to the den to do some reading. A daily habit. When he saw me pass by, he called me over.

"You happy with the decision, son?" he asked, flipping a page. A whiskey glass lay on the side table. I replied in the affirmative.

"Do you know what is special about Pretoria?" he asked, again.

I told him everything I had picked up from textbooks, and after every point, he kept saying, "What else?"

When I said that that was all I knew, he looked at me. His face had a wicked smile, a smile of a man who held a nasty joke and couldn't wait to reveal it.

"The mail from Pretoria reaches Johannesburg within the day," he said, before exploding with laughter.

This was one person I surely wasn't going to miss.

No one seemed as affected as Marius. The man had never had a family, and I had been his sole friend. Despite our huge age difference, we got along well. He had taught me how to be street smart and had trained me in outdoor activities. As the days went by, he seemed to be spending more and more time by himself. Probably, he was preparing to get used to not having me around. I felt sorry for him. He had lived a long, hard life.

One afternoon, I found him sitting under a tree. He had finished his lunch, and unlike most people, never took a nap after it. Instead, he roamed the estate, making sure everything was in order. The rifle went along everywhere. His collection of firearms had been on the up. Five upon the last count. When it came to security, there was no challenging Marius. He was a seasoned expert. If anything caught his eye, he went to work upon it immediately. My father never questioned his advice. Once, I overheard one of our men referring to him as the best-paid bodyguard in Africa. My father was obsessed with security. I went and sat down beside Marius. Christmas was a month away.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

He was staring into the valley. "It's over, Danie," he said without looking in my direction. "It's over."

I didn't know what was over and I didn't ask. Marius was an endless source of the hardest facts of life, and I wanted to hear them no more. The atmosphere was already gloomy with the news of my departure. I joined him in staring into the valley, both of us lost in our own thoughts.

Christmas cheered us all up, and we spent an unusually warm one that year. Ava was back home in the first week of December, and like always, I couldn't wait to see her. One evening, I told her about Marius. She thought for a while before suggesting that I write the man a heartfelt thank you letter, thanking him for all the things he had done for me. It struck me a brilliant idea, and I sat late that night, writing. By the time I had finished, it was ten pages long and barely fit the envelope. The next morning, I went up to Marius's cabin when he was running some errands, and dropped the envelope on his bed. My whole day was spent away, and I didn't get to see him. When I finally went to bed that night, I found a folded piece of paper on my pillow. My friend had scrawled a big 'Thank You Too' with his name at the bottom. Marius was the best friend I ever had. I still have that piece of paper.

It seemed like my letter had the desired effect, and Marius started smiling a lot, something he hadn't done in months, even going to the extent of whistling or humming a tune as he took his rounds. The remarkable change escaped no one's eye, including my father's, who knew better than to meddle in Marius's affairs. Others were not so polite and kept prodding him with questions. Someone spread a rumor that he had fallen for a woman, and when it reached my father's ears, it amused him greatly. On New Year's Eve, as Marius sipped wine during our annual festivities, he confessed to me that no one had written him a single letter in over forty-five years. The man was truly alone. I told him it was Ava's idea. He said he had figured that much already.

I left for Pretoria in the second week of January 1946. It was an emotional farewell.

# Chapter 32

Even though I had never attended school, I felt fairly confident about the whole affair. Marius, along with my parents, accompanied me to Pretoria, and throughout the train journey, considered it necessary to pour down on me all the tricks of survival he had learned in his life. After some time, when I reminded him that I was going to school and not to war, he commented that war was school life on an escalated level. If you survived the latter, chances were, you would survive the former, too. My mother asked Marius whether he too had attended school, and he shocked us all with the answer. Marius had been an ace student with one of the best Boer schools. Earning a scholarship, he was all set to go to university in Europe, when the war broke out, ruining everything for him. A whole five minutes passed by before anyone spoke, as we all visualized the man Marius would have been had the bloody British not picked up the habit of meddling in others affairs.

My school, spread over thirty acres, was purely Afrikaner. We were three hundred boys and girls with fifty odd staff. I had entered the sixth grade and found out that academics was not going to be much of a problem. My tutors had already taught me most topics. What I struggled in were areas besides academics. The emphasis on sports was huge. We were all supposed to pick a game and commit to it. Shooting was not on the list, and I was in a dilemma. I had never played a team sport. The only other things I could do besides shooting were riding a horse and growing vegetables. However, one look at the horses in the stable and I knew I would never ride them. The horses back home had been raised under the watchful eye of Marius. Riding them was a thrill you could not experience on poorly trained animals. I thought of waiting a little while longer before I made up my mind. In the end, it was made up for me.

Years of living without kids my age did nothing to help me in breaking through the social barrier. My friendship with Ava meant that I got along with girls better than I did with the boys, and for a newcomer that was not always a good thing. Also, thanks to hanging around with Marius, I sought the friendship of boys much older to me, and in a school, that was easier said than done. I knew nothing of the unseen hierarchies, and breaching them got me into trouble more than once. No sooner had I landed that I got myself into the wrong books of Theunis, the class bully. Besides being a bully, he was a member of the school boxing team as well, excelling in both. The minute he set his eyes upon me, I knew I was in trouble.

Three weeks into the first semester, I had become good friends with Evelein. She was an angel at heart, and seeing that I stuck out like a sore thumb, did all she possibly could to help me settle down. However, I had sworn not to let anyone ever take Ava's place in my heart. I was hers, she was mine. Or so I thought. What did I know about the ways of the world? I was twelve.

Constantly ridiculed by Theunis and his pack of loyal dogs that roamed around him, I felt upset. I not only had to face their insulting taunts but also put up with their other tactics. My stuff would disappear from time to time, only to be found in the commode or the trash can if I was lucky. Marius had warned me about the sins of complaining, and I was following his advice. Everything would settle down, he had said. When, I wondered?

One day I walked into class to find a cartoon depiction of myself on the board. My head was shown inside the commode, and next to it was an inventory of items which I was supposed to be fishing out of it. Everyone, except Evelein, found it to be hilarious. As usual, I didn't let it bother me. Seeing my indifference, Theunis started shelling me with the contents of his stationery case. A pencil almost poked my eye. Much to the surprise of everyone, including Evelein, I picked it up and hurled it back at him. It caught him square in the face. Such a thing had never happened before. He was embarrassed. Pin drop silence followed as the crowd anticipated his next move. The bully got up, and slowly walked over to me. I got up as well, trying to point out that he had started it all, but before I knew it, the under-fourteen category boxing champion had knocked me to the floor with a single blow. As I lay there, feeling my bleeding lips, I saw Evelein get up and try to intervene. It was not a wise decision on her behalf as he callously flung her aside. He called me names. I heard a language which I thought only grown ups were allowed to use. Determined to teach me a lesson, he approached me once more, unchallenged.

I don't know whether it was the bottled up anger or the audacious treatment that he had rendered to Evelein, but something caused me to react before he could do anything further. A low sweep of my foot landed him on the floor beside me in an instant, and after that, it was mostly smooth sailing. It was difficult for Theunis to imagine anyone standing up to him, but unfortunately for him, that day had dawned. Before he could even grasp the situation, I had already rained down no less than ten blows, and my kicking had been relentless. No one dared intervene as they stared in disbelief. Eventually, he did recover and started to fight back, but the tricks my mentor had taught me prevented him from gaining the upper hand.

The faculty, who finally intervened happened to be the boxing coach. Although he would later vehemently deny, it was said that he let the fight go on for two full minutes as he gauged the next boxing champion. A plaque in the school boxing arena still bears my name.

Sending us back to our seats after a severe tongue lashing, the coach asked me to report to the boxing ring that very evening. Evelein looked up to me with admiration, and she was not alone. Suddenly, I started making new friends, and even my seniors started treating me with respect. My little bout with the junior boxing champion had opened to me new doors of infinite possibilities. I was hot property. Everything that had been going wrong started going right. My stuff stopped disappearing, and the very people, who had been involved in making it vanish, began returning items which I used to misplace. All the girls wanted to hang out with me, although, Evelein did an excellent job of isolating me from them. I was famous. Marius was right. It was war, after all.

I studied hard and boxed harder. The coach thought I was a natural, but my technique needed improvement. Against the advice of Evelein, I tried making amends with the ousted bully, but he would not have any of it. The coach knew of the bad blood, and never pitted us in the ring facing each another. Additionally, he issued us with a strict warning.

One evening, dismissing the team but for the two of us, he leaned over, before yelling in our faces, "I find you two in a scrap, again, and you both will serve detention for the rest of the term, weekends included. You understand me?"

We both nodded. We might have been good fighters, but were no match for the former Transvaal champion. Besides, who wanted to sit down all week long with their books?

# Chapter 33

My spare time was usually spent writing letters to Ava and my parents. Occasionally, I would write to Marius as well. I felt I could be absolutely free with him, and he appreciated my honesty. He always wrote back, and though his scrawl was difficult to make out, his language always impressed me. There was never a punctuation mark that was out of place, and the more I read, the more I wondered what had gone so wrong with his life. I felt the urge to ask him but was scared at what I might learn.

The days turned into weeks and the weeks into months. Winter approached, and so did the boxing tournament. The winner would represent the school in the junior category, and I wanted that spot. Theunis, of course, wanted to defend it. He was confident of beating me in the ring, and his arrogance caused me jitters as he warned me to get ready to lose. I thought of confiding in Marius, but I wasn't sure his reply would reach me in time. Ava remained confident in me, but I doubted her knowledge of boxing or the opponent that I was beginning to dread. I feared that getting beat would once again turn me into the earlier, awkward Danie, getting pushed around by everyone. The term tests were over, and me acing them did nothing to help ease my tension. This would be my first time participating in a proper competition. I decided to write to Marius, anyway. In case I lost, I could blame him for not replying in time.

The tournaments drew nearer. I belonged to the Cronje team, named after Boer War Commander Piet Cronje. There were three more teams besides mine, and the rivalry was fierce, even to the point that your best friend turned into an enemy. No one could be trusted. Every medal won allocated points to the particular team. When all the competitions were over, the points were totaled to determine who had won. We had an array of activities that included athletics and union rugby. Although, I did bag a couple of bronze medals here and there, what the group expected from me the most was gold in junior boxing. I remained determined not to disappoint.

After easily winning the first three rounds, I made it to the semifinals. Theunis had also made it till there, and luckily, we were not drawn to fight each other. A day before my match, I gave serious thought to taking a dive in the semifinals. I was desperate to avoid the former bully at all costs, who was destined to reach the finals. The coach remained impartial and supported us equally. My semifinal opponent turned out to be a classmate of mine, who I had sparred against many times. I knew all his tricks and knew how to counter them. He was competing despite carrying an injury, and even though I had two or three excellent opportunities to knock him out early, I let the match go all the way. This didn't escape the notice of the coach, who lauded my sportsman spirit. But despite all the praise, I felt sick from the inside. My next opponent was Theunis.

Theunis was in fine form and sought revenge. He had knocked out all his opponents, whereas all my matches had gone on until the last round. That evening, as I sat contemplating what were to happen if I were to lose, I was called to the mail office. An urgent letter had arrived. I instinctively thought of Marius.

I was surprised to see the envelope. My name was typed. That had never happened before. Tearing it open, I saw the letter typed as well. It was a few sentences long, and the name Marius appeared at the bottom. Was the old fellow learning to type, now? I didn't waste too much time pondering the thought. My mind was much too preoccupied.

The letter was precise and to the point. I was not only defending my own pride but that of everyone back home. Marius wanted me to win, and that was that. In case I did my best, yet failed, he would understand. But he forbade me from entering the ring with defeat on my mind. He asked me to remember the young men, who in the Freedom Wars had stared death straight in the eye. Besides, he had already informed everyone back at the estate that I had won gold in boxing. Hence, I was left with no option, now. I cursed him for that. What was he thinking? For the first time ever, there was no mention of my parents.

Later that night, I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Everybody around me was fast asleep, exhausted from the day's activity. I was tired too, but my mind couldn't rest. Marius's words kept coming back to me. I remembered his war stories. Ghastly tales of young boys only a few years older than me, taking on the mighty armies of the British. It filled me with wonder as to how anyone so young could be so brave, battling men as seasoned as Marius. The more I thought about them, the more I felt like them. They had a strange effect on me. My opponent seemed to be getting smaller. Theunis may have had a few years of experience on me, but I was just as good as him, if not better. I had watched him spar and had watched him fight. In my mind, I began playing the tape, fighting him again and again, until I had countered his every move. When I finally beat him in my mind, I closed my eyes. The next morning I opened them to win the gold.

The match was brutal and dragged on till the very end. After every round, I thought I would not have the strength to get back up. However, every time I felt like giving up, Marius's face kept flashing before my eyes. If the man, despite the odds, had managed to keep fighting for so long, what right did I have to give up after mere bloody rounds? As per my friends, I was winning, although, I didn't know how they knew that for the scores are never disclosed until the fight is over. After the tenth round, as I sat in one corner on a hard, metal chair, spitting blood into a hard, metal bucket, while someone tried to patch my eye, I caught a glimpse of Evelein. She had been rooting hard for me.

In the end, when I finally beat Theunis by a mere two points, I could barely stand, needing the support of two other students as the medal was placed around my neck. Evelein came up to me, saying something, but I couldn't make out a word. All I wanted to do was go home and fling the medal at Marius's face, but before I could do that, I was stretchered to the infirmary, where I shared a room with Theunis for two entire days.

I was glad to see my parents when they came to pick me up. The ever present Marius stood behind them, grinning at my black eye and bandaged head, which caused my mother to erupt in a flurry of questions. My father was proud, but none was prouder than Marius. As I loaded my bags into the car, Evelein came up to me, wishing me goodbye. She handed me a note with her address on it, hoping I would write to her during the vacations. I took it, saying I would. She lived near Pretoria. When no one was looking, Marius gave me the wink. I told him to get lost.

On the journey back home, my mother wanted to know every little detail, and my father let her do the questioning, without interruption. Like the last time, Marius sat with us, but this time did not say a word. He just sat there, his arms folded, a smile on his face, as I kept the stories coming. Maybe they had thrust him back in time. By the time we arrived at Barberton, I had had enough of school. I was dying to meet Ava and everybody else.

# Chapter 34

I roamed the estate, trying to catch up on what I had missed out, which had not been much. Barberton was not the most happening of places, and I spend my time riding and shooting. Since I was a boxing champion, my father now thought it okay for me to handle firearms. As a result, Ava too started practicing, and her rate of progress had me impressed. One day, we rode deep into the forest and decided to take a break. It was cold. Sitting beside each other, we watched the forest, its absolute stillness mesmerizing us. Church bells tolled in the far off distance, penetrating the silence, distracting us.

Ava spoke first. "Danie," she said, "Do you recall our scripture lessons?"

The question was odd. Scripture lessons had been years ago at the hands of a priest, determined to instill in us the fear of God. The doomsday preacher is what I had once heard my father describe him to my mother, and the description was fairly accurate. The priest was an old man with a near Satanic look in his eyes. He wore a great frizzy beard that made him look even scarier.

"Vaguely," I replied.

Honestly, I had never understood a word in those classes. The man had always shrieked and hissed more than he had talked, and I had made a big fuss of not attending. Strangely, somehow, my father had agreed for me to always leave early. This had not gone down well with the priest, but he dared not express his opinion to my father. The other children had not been so lucky. Ava included. Their parents had insisted they attend entirely. Our style of worship was Calvinism, deeply rooted in a theology that required an in-depth study. Theory upon theory was constructed and re-constructed as to how to live and think. I had heard that great theologian thinkers often gathered in Pretoria and Johannesburg and that such gatherings attracted the thousands. Obviously, rural Barberton wasn't high on their list for they had assigned a mad man to us.

"Can't blame you," Ava went on. "You always left early."

And thank God or my father for that. "What did you all do so much time in there?" I asked.

The question made Ava shake her head. A sudden sadness dawned upon her. I had never seen her like that.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

She didn't reply, going totally silent. I tried to cajole her into talking, but she wouldn't utter a word. I decided not to pursue the matter anymore. When she was ready, she would tell me. A loud whistle filled the woods. It was Marius, the party-pooper, obviously sent by my mother to look for us. She hated us being late for lunch, and it was always I, who got the blame. In her eyes, Ava was an angel, who could do no wrong. I whistled back to indicate our location, before helping Ava to her feet. We mounted and rode back to meet Marius.

"Lunch time, Casanova," he said when he saw me.

I gave him a look.

Ava left after lunch, and I accompanied Marius on his rounds. He planned to go hunting that night, he told me, and in case I wished to accompany him, I should ask my father's permission. I definitely intended to. When we arrived at a steep cliff, we stopped, taking in the view. Pretoria might have been a pretty place, but rural Barberton's rugged beauty could be compared to none.

"Marius," I asked, "Have you ever been religious?" Everyone knew he never attended church, which was a high sin.

He must have sensed something, for he looked at me warily. "I used to when I was young," he said.

"Then why did you stop believing in God?"

Marius took his time, his eyes scanning the distant mountain peaks as though searching them for the answer, although, with little hope of finding it. He sighed. "I don't know, Danie," he said, "I don't know. It was the war, I guess."

He was right. The atrocities of war ought to have shaken any man's belief.

"Did our priest never try to lead you back?" I asked.

The very mention of the man must have touched a nerve for Marius instantly stopped staring at the mountains. "That scoundrel?" he asked, spitting. "He dared not come within a mile of me. Once, he even tried telling your father to get rid of me, but your father said to him that he didn't need divine intervention to help hire people. That bastard should consider himself lucky I didn't put him in the ground a long time ago." Then he laughed a short, cruel laugh, before saying, "No doubt he waits for my final day. But I once told him I was not going anywhere before he did."

The way Marius had put it, left me with no doubts. After a while, patting his horse, he asked, "How come, all of a sudden, you asking me this?"

"Just wondering," I replied.

I didn't see Ava for another two days. I was accompanying my father on his business trips. As per him, it was about time I started taking an interest, in case I intended to live well in the future. I certainly did.

We were back on Saturday, and I saw Ava in church the following morning. She sat next to me, and I apologized for being away. It was alright, she said. I soon lost interest in the priest's yammering, and my thoughts drifted towards my recent conversation with Marius. The words 'divine intervention' came to my mind, and I looked over to where my father was seated. He didn't seem interested in the sermon either. He was busy reading his Bible. Later on, when we would have a new priest, my father would go on to confess that he missed the old one for the non-stop blabbering used to provide him with the perfect opportunity of reviewing the estate's weekly finances, written on bits of paper, buried deep between the pages of the holy text.

The look on the Krugers' faces, however, was entirely different. Mr. Kruger seemed to be absorbing every word. Ava's mother, too, appeared to be engrossed. I looked around to see a few more faces, drawing pride from the fact that nobody was paying lesser attention than my father. I planned to tell Marius about this little survey of mine. I whispered to Ava, asking her what she had been trying to say to me the other day, but she just shook her head.

"Just forget about it. I was upset over a trivial thing," she said.

We knew each other well enough to sense when the other was lying. The more she hid it from me, the more determined I grew to find out what it was. On our way out, my father shook the priest's hand, telling him how much he had enjoyed the sitting. Easy for a man who had hardly been listening, I thought. I followed Ava, noticing how she only briefly glanced at the priest for a second before zipping past him. The priest saw me notice and patted my head. I was getting an evil vibe about this man, now. Like always, Marius was right.

The days quickly flew by, and soon it was time to go back to school. I had planned on doing so much, but it seemed that just as I had begun that the break was over. Ava had been herself all along, and despite one or two feeble attempts, I hadn't been able to get anything out of her. Saying goodbye to everybody, I hauled back for the journey to Pretoria. Marius had become a permanent member of the small party that would make these trips twice a year.

Back at school, while my parents conversed with a teacher, I asked Marius if he planned to type his future letters as well. He made a face, asking me whether that was some sort of a trick question. I shook my head to say no, further going on to ask him where he kept his typewriter. I had not seen one in his cabin during the break. He examined me as if I was some sort of a loony, before asking, "You sure the climate in Pretoria suits you?"

My father heard the comment as he made his way back to where we stood. The teacher must have given him a kind review of me, for he swelled with pride.

He slapped me on the back, saying, "Of course the climate in Pretoria suits him, Marius. He was born..." he bit his lips before finishing, "He was born in a very similar climate. Weren't you son?"

I nodded, confused, wondering what on earth was he talking about? Barberton's climate was not even close to Pretoria's.

That year was the first time I celebrated my birthday away from home. Marius sent me a bird's feather for a present.

"It's beautiful," Evelein remarked upon examination.

I told her it was a peacock feather.

She seemed surprised. Peacocks were only found in Asia.

"Why don't you ask him how he got it?" she suggested.

I shook my head. The lesser I knew about Marius, the better off I was.

# Chapter 35

Life handed me my first blow during the summer break of December 1946. Ava had me concerned and was becoming exceedingly detached. I tried to cheer her up several times, but it was of little use. Our meetings started to occur less frequently as I spent more and more time in my father's office. Evenings, I would go to her house, but we would barely talk. Something had changed, and with every passing day, was changing for the worse. Sadness enveloped her, and her state confused me beyond words. I tried to talk to Marius, but he just brushed it aside. As per him, everything was normal, and I was making too much out of nothing. Such phases came and went, he said. However, his words provided me with slight warmth. I felt cold on the inside.

One night, unable to sleep, I walked up to Marius's cabin, ready to pour my heart out, only to find that he had been gone hunting. I silently cursed him.

My mood remained somber over the next few days, and Ava did little to change that. I didn't understand what her problem was. She had started to avoid me, increasingly, and I decided to let her have her way. If she didn't want to see me, I didn't want to see her as well, a decision that tore me further, thrusting me into deeper turmoil. One day, when I couldn't take it any longer, I rode up to her house, storming in. Enough was enough. On the way to her room, I said hello to her mother, who looked sadly at me. It was almost as if she felt sorry for me. I told her I was going upstairs to see Ava.

Ava greeted me with a forced smile. She quickly stepped out of her room, closing the door behind her, suggesting we find another place to sit. But I was having none of it. I was angry, hurt, and desperate for an answer. I asked her what was wrong with her room, and more importantly, what was wrong with her. Why was she behaving like that?

"Don't be so loud, Danie. My mother might hear you," she said.

I didn't care who heard me. Taking her by the hand, I dragged her back to the door, literally forcing her inside. However, soonest I stepped in, my jaw dropped. What I saw confused me. The shelves were all empty. Her belongings, all the gifts I had given her, her books, our letters, everything was gone, dumped into overflowing suitcases lying strewn about the floor.

"What on earth is going on here, Ava?" I asked, stammering.

Ava said nothing, preferring to sit down on a chair. She sobbed as I looked around the room, still unable to fathom as to what it all meant. The answer hit me like a hurricane.

"We are leaving South Africa, Danie," she said between sobs, her tear filled eyes looking at me, as though secretly pleading for me to do something, anything to change the situation.

"Where are you going?" I asked, my body trembling.

"Amsterdam."

Amsterdam! That was like a zillion of miles away.

"When will you be back?" I asked, fearing the worst.

It was the worst, indeed.

"Never," she replied, the words barely managing to escape her mouth.

I was ready to break down and cry.

Mr. Kruger had decided to relocate his family to Europe. Amsterdam was recovering well after the war, and trade was booming. A former diamond trader himself, he was going at the invitation of his brother, who had accumulated so much business at hand that he was having trouble keeping pace. I stood there, devastated.

"Will you still write to me, Danie?" she asked.

Of course, I would. I was hers, forever.

I barely managed to show my face at Christmas that year. My father urged me to get over it but backed off when my mother asked him to leave me alone.

We went to see off our closest neighbors on the 2nd of January, 1947. Ava handed me an envelope that contained a letter and a dried rose that had been pressed between a thick book for days.

"Remember me when you see this," she said amidst a tear-filled goodbye.

I said I would. I was hers, forever.

I went back to school feeling advanced beyond my years. This was the first painful event that had ever occurred in my life, and I just didn't know how to handle it, each passing day leaving me feeling lonelier and angrier. I read and reread Ava's last letter a hundred times, but it didn't help. Boxing remained my only release, and I punched harder, leaving my opponents reeling after fights. I started fouling a lot, something that did not escape the coach's eye. I was angry, and I wanted someone to pay. Once, when I kicked an opponent, who was already down, the man lost it and told me to leave the ring. Throwing off my gloves in anger, I stormed out of the gymnasium, acutely aware that my actions would bear grave consequences. However, I couldn't have cared less. Later that night, I got sent for by the man. To my surprise, he sat me down, asking me what the matter was. It took me a while, but very soon the floodgates opened. I could no longer hold it inside.

When I was done, he chuckled, before very calmly explaining to me the ways of life.

"Don't sweat it too much, Danie," he said. "What is meant to be, will be. Ten years from now, you will look back at these days, and laugh at how you were. These are beautiful moments, Danie. These are beautiful days. Cherish them, but don't you ever let them hold you back."

The talk left me feeling much better, and slowly, I started recovering, getting back to normality, much to the relief of everyone, especially Evelein.

Weeks went by without news from Ava. I had written to her over a dozen letters. I knew that the Netherlands was far away, but I hoped she was receiving my mail. Then one day, when I expected it the least, a letter finally arrived. I didn't even have to read as to who it was from. The way my name was written, the stamps, the choice of the envelope, they said it all. I ripped it open.

Ava had adapted well to life in Amsterdam and was busy making new friends. They no longer lived in the rural country but in a big city. Much bigger than Pretoria or even Johannesburg for that matter. She enjoyed being home every day after school, and unlike me, seemed to be coping pretty well with her emotions. Well, going by the letter at least. In the last paragraph, she mentioned that though distraught at first, she had somehow gotten over things, and begged for me to do the same. Hopefully, one day, we would be together again, and very soon. I felt happy for her, though I didn't know if I would ever be able to overcome the grief. She had been the first love of my life and would prove the hardest to leave behind. My coach's words rang in my head. What is meant to be, will be.

# Chapter 36

Not all of my free time was spent hanging out with Evelein or moping over Ava. Boys will be boys, after all, especially when in the company of other boys. The school had a huge library with a vast collection of books where I had become a regular. Teaming up with some like-minded readers, I had managed to procure a key to the cupboard that housed the erotic literature and was strictly out of bounds for the students. On a given day, I would enter the library, issuing three to four books at once. At the counter, while the librarian entered the names of books against my record, I would ask him his views on them and their authors. That would interest him the most, and we would get into lengthy discussions. While we chatted away, my friends would go to work. Having had already staggered their entrance, they would mill around, pretending to be engrossed in reading, while waiting for me to head to the counter and engage the librarian. Then, one boy would silently open the cupboard, while the other two kept a watch. Our signal system was well rehearsed, and we were sure it rivaled that of the army. Pulling out a couple of books, my accomplice would then tuck them inside the thick blazer that he would always be wearing, never mind the weather. The librarian's attention still on me, the culprit would quietly sneak out. I would wait a minute or two before leaving, while the other two would mill around for a little longer, though all that would be on their minds was sprinting from there fastest they could. Once, we very nearly got caught in the act and had it not been for some very sharp thinking, our game would have been up. Ever since it was agreed to maintain at least a four-day gap between consecutive raids, and not more than two books ought to go missing, just in case the librarian was to get into the mood for a random inventory.

Who read the books first was always be an issue, so we rotated. But for me, it was not entirely fun, for I had to read or at least go through the other books that I had genuinely borrowed. The librarian would always discuss them with me in great detail. Borrowing the trick my father used at church, I would read in class. In the beginning, my friends would cuss me, urging me to quickly get done with the reading. They could hardly wait. But all of that soon changed. By the time I was fifteen, I was making legitimate extra trips to the library as I waited out for my accomplices to get through a couple of flimsy books. Frustrated, I was asking them to just read the good stuff, skimming through the rest. I didn't know how many books I had read, but finishing a thick book in a day was no big deal. Evelein and the librarian were impressed. Of course, neither had the faintest idea about what went on underneath.

In 1948, I qualified for the senior category in boxing. I was older, bigger, stronger, and faster. It was my time to make my mark.

One morning, I was all alone in the gymnasium. It had not yet entered dawn, and as usual, I was early, using wooden parallel bars as I went through my warm up routine. My torso was hoisted up into the air, supported by my arms, my palms wrapped tight around the bars when suddenly, there was a sharp snap. I crashed to the floor, breaking a bone. The bars had collapsed. Instinctively, I knew whose work it was. Someone had not yet gotten used to being the second best boxer in school.

My first urge was to kill Theunis, then and there, but as I stood up, the pain accentuated, and I immediately crashed down, again. There were tears in my eyes. I must have been drugged for I woke only in the afternoon to find myself in the infirmary. Evelein sat by my side. I could barely feel my hand, which was now wrapped in plaster. I jerked it up straight, but the pain came back in an instant.

"Don't, Danie," she said, trying to calm me down, "You'll only worsen it."

My friends rushed in when they heard the sound. Not a word was said as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the boxing tournament, avoiding the concerned looks on the faces of my friends.

"How do you feel, Danie?" one of them asked.

"When will my hand heal?" I asked back.

"Three months," he said before quickly adding, "Forget about the tournament, now."

I wanted to ask him as to how was I supposed to forget about the tournament, but I held back. Instead, I formulated plans to even the score. Theunis might have gotten one on me, but by the time I was finished with him, it would be hard to recognize his face. I meant to use every trick Marius had taught me in my war with Theunis.

That night, one boy was allowed to stay back with me in the infirmary. He helped me finish my dinner and cleared out my tray. The medicine must have been taking effect for I felt drowsy, again. The last words I had heard before I closed my eyes were, "If you don't get to participate in the tournament, neither does he." I slept soundly, knowing that they had not been mere words. I could make up for this loss next year. But for Theunis, it was the beginning of the end.

I had a lot of visitors during my stay in the infirmary, which lasted a few days. Theunis not among them, which was a good thing, for the very sight of him would have caused me to react violently. Evelein spend all her free time with me which had my friends frustrated as her presence meant they could not discuss plans to get back at the number two boxer. I told them to wait until I got out of the sick room. It was imperative to lay low for a while.

Word of Theunis's act managed to get out. I don't know if it reached the coach's ears or not, but no one seemed to be doing anything about the matter. That further rubbed salt into my wounds. I had hoped for a rallying cry, a revolution against Theunis, but there had been nothing but total silence. My rival was roaming around free, although, his popularity was declining with each passing day. Finally, I was released, and spent the first night back in my room, plotting away into the night. We had to make it look like an accident, too, although, I did have the burning urge to confront the coward directly. My friends told me that the confrontation could come later for as far as disciplinary records went, our plates were full. When we heard the morning bell, we had been asleep for less than an hour. We spent a lot of time scrutinizing every detail and picking every hole. After a week, the plan was ready. It was time to set the wheels in motion.

Once when Marius had been in one of his remorseful moods, I had tried to cheer him up by saying that in the end, he had won the war, after all. When he had asked me how on earth had I arrived at that conclusion, I had replied by saying that since the British armies had not been able to kill him, he had trumped them. In surviving he had defeated them. My logic was blown away in spectacular fashion. Marius wished he had perished with his mates in the war. Survival had sentenced him to thirty-five years of poverty and misery. He further went on to state that if I thought that killing someone guaranteed vengeance, I ought to readjust my thinking. There was no greater satisfaction than watching your enemy live the rest of his life on his knees. Something the British armies had thoroughly enjoyed watching him do.

# Chapter 37

Thanks to Evelein, we never got to set the wheels in motion as she threw a caltrop in our path. Looking back, that probably was a good thing as it would have violated Marius's thumb rule for revenge. Constantly in grave doubt that we were up to something very nasty, she pestered me on and on. I laughed away her concerns, but by that time it had become impossible for me to lie to her. Like Ava and Marius, she too could read me like an open book. A day before the plan, I was sent for by the boxing coach to his 'office' - a table and two chairs in the corner of the gymnasium. When I sat down, I expected him to ask me about my hand or some other silly thing. But the second he looked at me, I knew that he knew.

"I had a little chat with your friend, Danie," he said, taking off his glasses. His sore, crooked jaw, leaving me in no doubt as to this friend's identity. I knew who he meant. I nodded.

With a voice as cold as steel, he went on to say, "Better call it off right now, or the consequences shall be grave. Extremely, grave."

There was not a hint of emotion in his voice. He knew that my broken arm was that little rat's doing, but not once had he even asked me about how I had felt, not once had he cared to understand my rage, my anger, my hurt, my frustration. Now, he was blackmailing me.

"You know what he did," I said back, "You disqualify him, I call it off." My voice had been equally cold.

That must have touched a nerve, for he leaped off his seat and across the table, grabbing me by the collar. "I am not cutting a deal with you, you little rascal," he hissed into my face.

My feelings were raw, and he must have seen it in my eyes for he cooled off, pushing me back into my chair. He then sat down as well, regaining his composure. The fatherly figure, who had so patiently heard me out only months ago, was gone. I wanted to kick the table at him and tell him to go to hell, but I didn't. Maybe it was because I was afraid of him. My hands trembled, involuntarily. I resolved to hate him and Evelein for the rest of my life. But that didn't mean I was going to let Theunis get away. Who did these people think I was? I was brought up by a living legend, who hadn't known the meaning of defeat. Before anyone knew, I would be plotting again, coming up with a much better plan. I didn't doubt my abilities for a second. There was no way Theunis was boxing that year. Getting up, I spat in his face, before walking away.

I told my friends what had happened. They first cursed Evelein, and then the coach. The anger then spilled over to Theunis, and when they eventually ran out of people to cuss, they vented their frustration on me. I was called names I never imagined my friends ever to call me. At least not to my face. They were risking themselves for me, and behold, what had I done? Revealed the plan to my damned girlfriend.

"She is not my girlfriend," I protested.

"Then why do you keep sticking to her so much?"

They were right. I must have been missing Ava.

That night, I wrote to Marius telling him what had occurred. If there was one person, who would take my side, it was Marius. The boxing tournament was days away, and we were yet to come up with anything new. Frustrated, I told my friends that in case we couldn't think of something, I would confront Theunis myself. They sneered.

"What, with one hand? Sure, go ahead, and make his day."

I didn't speak with Evelein for a fortnight, and she made no attempt to talk to me. She left me a note stating that she was sorry and was just too scared to approach me. She hoped that I would realize that what I planned to do was wrong. Wrong? I couldn't believe her sense of justice. Using a pair of scissors, I struggled to cut the damn note into bits. Then, to show her my appreciation, I stuffed the bits into an envelope on which I wrote the words TRAITOR. I handed the note to her. I didn't ever wish to see her again.

A day before the tournament began, I received a letter from Marius. It left me in shock. Out of all the people, I had expected him to be on my side. But he was appalled at me and my plan, expressing relief that I had at least one real friend in Evelein, who, as per him, possessed more sense than the rest of us combined. If I had even a bit of dignity left intact, I ought to apologize to her, and the coach as well. Just because I had been wronged, didn't mean that I automatically had been granted the right to do the same to others. He begged me to learn from his life, which had been wasted seeking revenge. In the end, he confessed that he didn't expect me to pay much heed to his words, but I should think twice before making rash decisions. My father was having a rough year at work and had not been himself the past few months, something that had very much affected my mother, who remained worried sick about him. The last thing they both needed was a telegram from the school informing them that their impudent boy had been kicked out.

It was checkmate. I crushed the letter and threw it into the bin.

I refrained from watching the fights or any other sporting event, choosing to spend my time alone, feeling sorry for myself. I did attend some of my friends' rugby matches, and unless they were cliffhangers, I left before the final whistle. My mind wandered all the time. I mostly thought of Ava and wondered if she would have done the same as Evelein. I spent hours and hours daydreaming, imagining myself to be with her. Ava had once told me that she believed that if you prayed from your heart, God didn't disappoint. And I prayed with all my heart for the school boxing champion to be anybody but Theunis. Seemed God wasn't interested in my prayers. Theunis was sailing through every round. Though I was asking God something immoral, it didn't bother me the least. It's funny how hard it can get to spend time alone. The vacations were less than a week away, and I wanted to go home. The librarian didn't care much about sports, and the library became my refuge. It kept me from losing it all.

On the final day, I was sitting in the library, minding my own business, when I heard someone yelling out my name, the voice echoing in the empty, high-roofed building, annoying the librarian. I recognized it as one of my friend's. He was dressed in his rugby gear and was panting. Seemed that he had sprinted all the way from the rugby field to till there. I raised my eyebrows, asking him what the matter was. But his excitement prevented him from thinking straight, and he jumped on me, hugging me, causing me to topple over with the chair. The fool must have had lost his mind for I narrowly missed landing on my broken hand. I was furious, but I couldn't react. Something he had just said had made me forget all about it. There were tears in my eyes. I asked him if it was true, indeed. He swore it was. I didn't attempt to get back up. Instead, I just lay there on the floor, crying, unashamedly.

What goes around comes on over. In one of the most shocking upsets in the school's history, an underdog knocked Theunis out in the boxing final of 1948. God had been listening, after all.

That year, I asked my parents not to come to pick me up. I felt old enough to travel alone. Most boys my age were doing the same, and I surely didn't want to get teased. Peer pressure was a strong motivator. Since I had only one good hand, my friends assisted me with my luggage. In the far distance, I saw Evelein. I told them I'd be right back. At first, she froze when she saw me approach, but she must have sensed something different for a smile escaped her lips. I hugged her and told her goodbye. I couldn't wait to see her when school reopened.

# Chapter 38

Entering our final year of schooling entitled us to a few privileges, one of them being able to spend Saturdays out in the city, beyond school walls. While most of my class exuberated at this newly found freedom, the only emotion felt by a couple of friends of mine remained relief. It was the first time they would be crossing the periphery through the gate, and not by scaling the school fence, an act which I feared would finish their schooling early. On our first Saturday, the principal rounded us up, reminding us to be on our best behavior. Out there, we were representing the prestige of the school. He went on and on, making a few of us wonder how much longer he would take to put his point across. Twenty minutes were nearly up.

The principal, however, didn't seem to have lost any steam, still stuck upon the point of good behavior.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, getting ready for another long bout, "Pretoria is home to several well-respected people of the Afrikaner community, people occupying positions of power. Their eye shall be upon you, while they enjoy their weekend."

One look at my lot and they would never be taking another weekend. Fed up, I shouted out impulsively, "If you could inform as to their whereabouts, we promise not to visit those areas."

The comment brought about scattered laughter, and the man seemed to pay little attention to it. Unaffected, he went on. "Can anyone tell me the first sign that lets you know you are in danger?" he asked. His topic had now shifted to personal safety.

Besides boxing, I had a reputation for being a stand-up comedian, and seeing that my last comment had amused, I shouted out, "Yes, most certainly. When you find yourself under the eye of the well-respected people of the Afrikaner community, occupying positions of power."

The laughter that ensued was harder, but I did not join in as the principal looked straight at me, with an expression that had trouble written all over it. He might have been lenient, but I was stretching it.

"As amusing as always, Mr. Coetzee," he said, "Perhaps you can amuse your friends further by reporting for detention."

The atmosphere grew tense, and I tried to talk myself out of it. "I apologize," I said. "The excitement got the better of me."

Someone snickered at the lie, but it worked. The man looked away. When he finally let us go, he had addressed us for over an hour. Knowing I had dodged a bullet, I quickly got away, hiding behind my friends before he had the chance of changing his mind.

Although all of my classmates were dressed smartly, my friend had insisted I not wear anything fancy. I had protested. I didn't want to look like a dosser. But he had stood his ground, and I did as I was advised. His family was from Pretoria, and that meant him knowing the city like the back of his hand.

Alcohol was not something I ever thought I would get used to. My friend, who always boasted about being more a man than the rest of us based on his ability to handle a drink or two, took our first day in the city as an opportunity to introduce us to the world of spirits. Bad company came naturally to me those days. Four of us made our way through back alleys to a shady, little bar. It reeked of cheap liquor and appeared to be filled with ruffians, who dug mines all day for a living. One look around and I instantly knew why our friend had insisted on us not being overdressed. My hat would have cost more than the garb of every man there put together.

"You sure this place is safe?" I asked as my friend strode in with confidence.

"Don't worry," he replied. "After a couple of drinks, it will seem the safest place in the world."

I was not so sure about that, but there, at least the risk of being spotted by the well-respected people, occupying positions of power was as good as zero.

Finding an empty table, we sat down. A fat, black girl came and cleared the mess the last occupants had made. My friend must have noticed my nervousness, for he said, "Will you relax? A boxing champion should be the last person to feel fear."

An Afrikaner lady with heavy makeup approached us. She ran her hand through my friend's hair, saying, "I see that the young man has brought his friends along."

A broad smile flashed across my friend's face. Holding her by the waist, he began introducing the rest of us as though we were celebrities. I was introduced last, and when she heard the exaggeration that I was the reigning boxing champion of Gauteng Province, she leaned over to me. I could see a lot of breasts, and she caught me staring.

"I think your friend likes what he sees," she said, causing my friends to burst out with laughter, while I went red with embarrassment. When she left, my friend asked me if I had liked her.

"Shut up," I told him, sounding visibly offended, "She is a cheap, nasty whore."

"She is known as the Maagd (Afrikaans for virgin) around here," my friend declared with enthusiasm.

"I am sure she is," I replied, "Every night." There was more laughter.

Our alcohol arrived warm, and in dirty, mismatching mugs.

"Don't they clean them?" I enquired.

The fat, black girl, who had served us, heard me. "You want a cleaner mug, bring your own," she said rudely before calling out to Maagd, "This punk here wants a clean mug. Says he isn't satisfied with the level of cleanliness."

"Leave him alone," the Maagd yelled back. "I like him."

My friends laughed again.

We toasted, and I took my first sip. It tasted foul and acrid, and I immediately made a face, asking my friend what the hell it was.

He ignored my question, taking a massive gulp, while I waited for the answer. The contents of his mug nearly half gone, he put it down. "Umqombothi,'' he replied while smacking his lips as though he had been in the desert for a week.

"Umqom what?" I asked. "I thought we were drinking beer."

"It is beer," he said, "Local beer. Now just shut up and drink up. You will not regret it."

I didn't trust his advice, but drank, nevertheless, slowly. The other two imitated me. My friend certainly knew his stuff, and surely, after a while, I felt a buzz in my head. He was aware that it had hit me and smiled. I smiled back!

We lingered there until noon, and I must have used the restroom – an open area behind the place – at least half a dozen times. This thing might have gotten you in a good mood, but I could surely do without the repetitive trips. When I suggested lunch, my friend got up, saying, "Sure, you guys have another. I will be right back. Then, we head on to eat."

We wanted to know where he was going.

"To build an appetite," he said before disappearing behind a secret doorway none of us had noticed before. It was in the back, and partially hidden due to the poor lighting. About a minute later I saw the Maagd follow in.

We started visiting the watering hole every other weekend. By now, I was no stranger to alcohol and had tried just about everything under the sun. I liked Umqombothi, but its low alcohol content meant that for every two rounds I would have to visit the 'toilet' at least once. Real beer tasted much better, and my friends agreed. Our inducer, however, stuck to the traditional drink.

On one occasion, we felt the urge to have a drink during the middle of the week, and the two of us fenced the school wall. While we were on top, and just as I was getting ready to make the steep jump, he told me that the Maagd fancied me, causing me to very nearly lose my balance.

"She won't even charge you," he said, beautifully arguing the case.

How generous of her, I thought. The last woman I wanted to lose my virginity to was the Maagd, who I noticed was getting increasingly aggressive every time I visited. My friends hadn't helped matters by telling her that I liked her in return. My hunt for a new watering hole was in full swing.

After Evelein's constant complaining of having to spend the weekends by herself, I decided to take a break from my Saturday ritual. My friends thought it was a good idea, especially given what had happened the last time around. As usual, we had been having fun, when I had felt a hand on my shoulder.

"You boys having a good time?" a deep, familiar voice had asked.

I had turned my head around in dread. It was the boxing coach!

My first instinct was to go down on my knees and plead for mercy, but I didn't want to lose my dignity. Especially not with the Maagd watching. I had celebrity status there by now. Not only was I a good boxer, but coming from a rich home and yet being able to enjoy a drink with the regulars had earned me a lot of admiration, which I was not willing to lose. My friends must have been thinking along the same lines for none of us stood up. We all looked at the table, undecided about the next move. Fortunately, we didn't have to stay like that for long. The thick chested fellow, who acted as security, must have sensed something wrong.

"You want a drink?" he asked the coach as he walked over to where we were seated.

"No," replied the coach.

"What is it that you want, then?"

"Nothing."

"We don't serve that here. Better get going. The door's right over there," he said, pointing.

The fool had no idea what he was getting himself into. The coach glared at him. I could smell trouble. But he said nothing and left. After he was gone, we ditched our drinks and got going. My friend wanted a few minutes alone with Maagd, but I told him to forget about it. A week without Maagd would do him some good.

For four days I skipped boxing practice as I had a 'fever.' I slept with a peeled onion buried in my armpit. When I woke, my body temperature would have risen high enough to qualify as fever. One evening, as I entered my room, I found the coach sitting there, occupying a chair. Placed in front of him was an onion that I had left under my pillow that very morning.

"I don't know where you are headed to, son," he said as he stood.

I looked at the floor. Neither did I.

"You may report to practice if you so wish.'' And with that, he was gone.

Dropping my bag, I tossed the onion into the bin. Collecting my thoughts, I changed into my boxing attire.

# Chapter 39

The following Saturdays, I roamed Pretoria with Evelein, who showed me what all I had been missing. The city evidently offered better sights than the watering hole. Evelein was working on a project and needed to visit the center for historical records. The idea of going through old, dusty books weighing over five pounds each didn't thrill me one bit, and the thought of going back to the watering hole, enjoying the passes Maagd made at me while hearing my friends laugh, immediately crossed my mind. But I had little choice. Reluctant, I trudged along.

The lady-in-charge seemed as old as the building and smiled upon seeing us. Evelein did most of the talking, and in a few minutes, we were shown into a small room, whose walls were lined with sagging bookshelves. She left us alone, asking us not to hesitate in case we needed anything. How about a duster and face mask, I was tempted to ask. The books were buried in an inch-thick layer of dust. Ostensibly, not too many people were reading their history. No wonder it was repeating itself. There was a window in a corner, and I went to open it, the hinges creaking as I did so.

"Danie!" Evelein called out, alarmed. "Leave it alone before you break something."

I had no idea how far we would go if she kept having the urges to treat me like a younger brother. I wanted to point out that I wasn't seven years old and could very well manage on my own. But, of course, she wasn't going to waste her time discussing the matter any further. She had a stack of books in front of her, and work to do. I left the window alone.

The room was tall, ancient, and soundless. My thoughts drifted towards home. I thought of what my mother would be doing. Saturday lunches were always late at my house. My father would indulge in a bottle of wine before he ate, taking in the view of the valley. During my last vacation, he had offered me a glass, toasting to my first drink. Well, if he only knew. Marius would be touring the estate, his eyes scanning every inch. Inevitably, I thought of Ava. I had seen photos of Amsterdam before the war, and the place had seemed beautiful. The war had devastated Europe, and people were still picking the pieces of their lives as they tried to return to normality. I wondered how long that would take them. After nearly fifty years, Marius had yet to pick them all. War left just about too many pieces to pick, and I thought how much longer it would take him. Time was running out. I hoped the day he went, he went in peace. He had paid enough dues to last him two lifetimes.

Evelein slammed a book shut, and I returned to the present.

"We can leave if you want to," she said, noticing that it was taking longer than planned.

I very nearly stood up with relief, but there was something odd about the way she had said it. It had been a rhetorical statement. Smiling, I told her I was just fine. A little more time in this dusty tomb was far better than crossing her. She returned my smile with a look that said, 'wise decision.' I got up to look at the shelves.

My paternal grandmother had died during labor. Gert Coetzee, her only son, was born in a concentration camp. Fate had not been very kind to my father as he was soon orphaned when my grandfather was killed by a wayward bullet in the Second Boer War. He was taken in by an orphanage in Johannesburg, where he managed to complete his schooling. Growing up, he worked odd jobs to support himself, saving whatever he could. By the time he was twenty-nine, he had saved enough to buy a few shares in a new mining venture. The company had yet to find diamonds, and he knew it was a precarious investment. However, a year later, when diamonds were eventually discovered, he made a decent profit. There was no stopping Gert Coetzee after that. In three years he had made enough to buy a house and had managed to persuade Klara's father to allow her to marry him. They shifted to Barberton in 1933, where I was born. He has been on the up since.

A week after he had offered me my 'first drink,' my father had celebrated his fiftieth birthday in grand style. The year was 1950. One of the guests had remarked how he didn't look a day older than my mother's forty-five years. I had often thought the same. My father had maintained his looks.

In one of the bookshelves, I found a set of books listing names of the people who had perished in the British concentration camps. Curious, I pulled them out. They contained the last names, followed by the first names in alphabetical order, giving the date of death and the camp where they had died. I quickly flipped to 'C,' running my finger down, until I reached Coetzee. I was amazed at the number of Coetzees that had died in those horrible places, and cursed the British. Finally, I found my grandmother's name. She had died on the 11th of June, 1900 in Kimberley. The book said nothing more, and I had almost put it back, when I suddenly pulled it out again, hastily flipping to the page that had my grandmother's name. Something had caught my eye. Was it a coincidence or a mistake? On the opposite page it was mentioned; Coetzee, Gert. Died—July 06, 1900. Age—00 Years. Site –Kimberley. The cause of death—Cold.

Putting the book back, I took out the other book that listed deaths as per the camps and quickly flipped to Kimberley. Surely enough, my father's name was there, too. Closing it, I just stood there, lost in my own thoughts. What a coincidence it was. Another Gert Coetzee who had died an infant the very same day my father had been born. Or was it a mistake? It was common knowledge that the British had done a horrible job of record keeping, and by 1900, the camps must have been full. It had to be a mistake. Two baby Gert Coetzees in the same internment camp seemed too much to be a coincidence. I decided to write to my father, informing him of my discovery.

Evelein soon finished. As I helped her put the books back, she asked me why I had gone so quiet all of a sudden. I replied, saying that it was the stale air of the room. When we returned back that evening, I rushed to my room and wrote a letter to my father.

I spent a couple of restless weeks, awaiting my father's reply. Meanwhile, I had returned to that place to dig out more information. If the deaths had been recorded, surely, the births ought to have been recorded, too. But I found nothing more. I decided to wait and see what my father had to say. I expected him to express surprise at the findings, and encourage me to keep looking. This could turn out to be quite an adventure. Going through the school library, I had already compiled a list of places where further records could be found. I envisioned him accompanying me on a trip to Kimberley. We wouldn't rest until we had discovered the truth and set the record straight once and for all.

My father, however, didn't share any of my enthusiasm, throwing a dampener on it all. He said that he was aware of the fact his name had been listed among the dead. Having come across it many years ago, he had gotten it expunged from the records. The copy I had referred to must have been an old edition. That would explain things. Also, those records could not be relied upon. The camps had been filled with deaths, half of which never got reported. He forbid me from discussing the matter with anyone. My father was a wealthy man, who did not want his enemies digging deep into his past. One never knew what they might find. Anyway, that was all in the past. He was very much alive, now, and that ought to be proof enough. Furthermore, he wanted to know why I was wasting my time with trivial nonsense despite a poor show in academics? As per him, had I spent all this time studying instead of reading outdated publications, my grades wouldn't have been what they were. He was well aware of the alarming drop in my grades, and unlike my mother, wasn't going to cut me any slack. He left me with two choices. Either my grades improved or I come back home to be tutored privately. It was brutal.

I folded the letter and opened my books.

# Chapter 40

Whoever said old habits died hard must have been right. Despite close shaves, I found myself back at the watering hole. Same old place, same old faces. Ava had been gone for four years. She still wrote from Amsterdam, but hardly. That entire year I had received just two letters. I guess as we grew older, she became more resigned to the fact that we just had to move on. My friends talked rugby. My mind drifted away, landing upon Evelein, who having recently turned seventeen, was growing prettier by the day. It suddenly dawned on me that she was mine. But I had hardly done her any justice, spending time away from her, and still being hung up about Ava. Probably it was time to move on, indeed. Well, at least as per my alcohol induced brain.

Finishing my drink, I got up. "See you all later," I said.

My friends looked at me. "Where you off to?" They wanted to know. "We just got here."

"Well, got to make a move," I replied.

"On whom, the Maagd?"

I ignored their rapturous laughter.

I found Evelein sitting alone on a bench, writing something in her notebook. I went and sat beside her.

"What are you writing?" I asked, peeking.

"Just notes for next week's class," she said before asking, "How come you are not wherever you usually are at this time?"

That was a good question. "I don't know," I replied. "Maybe I was missing you."

She smiled briefly before adding, "Alright, Mr. Coetzee, what is it that you want?"

I wasn't about to be put off by her tactics, though. I was a man on a mission.

Spending time with Evelein meant that I didn't visit the watering hole for weeks. One night, I suddenly felt the urge for some fresh air. I thought of the watering hole. I asked my friends to come with me, but they refused. Having had a poor rugby session, their coach had drilled them hard, and they were exhausted. I decided to make the trip alone.

The Maagd sat at the counter, talking to someone. When she saw me enter, she came and took a seat at my table.

"Where have you been, naughty boy?" she asked.

I had missed her harmless banter and was glad to see her. Alone, her behavior bore stark contrast as to when my friends were around. Probably, she did it to amuse them. We got talking, and the topic finally came back to where I had been all along. I told her I had been spending time with Evelein. She sounded impressed.

"Are you in love?" she asked.

I shrugged. Probably. Who could say?

"How old is she?"

"Seventeen," I replied.

That caused her to smile and gaze into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. Maagd was in her late thirties, and her face showed that it had been a rough thirty years. I had heard that she was involved in helping many younger girls, who had been forced to take up her profession. The least she could do for them was make sure they attracted a better clientele. But to do that they not only needed to look the part but play it as well, quite a task for the young, inexperienced prostitutes. That's where she came in, showing them the tricks of the trade. The Maagd might have been a whore by profession, but she definitely wasn't a whore at heart. I didn't interrupt her thoughts.

After a while, she said, "You know, I had already turned professional by seventeen."

I nodded my head, unsure whether to sympathize or commend her for the achievement.

"I was sixteen and had three baby sisters. We hadn't eaten in two days. My father was an alcoholic, my mother ran away with another man. So, I did what I could."

I took a sip. This was getting a bit dark. I had come to have a good time, not hear how she had launched her career.

She must have noticed me get uncomfortable, for she said, "Sorry, I got carried away there."

The face was that of an honest woman, even if her clothing suggested otherwise. I decided to be her shoulder to cry on, just for once.

"It is alright," I said, "At least your sisters got saved."

A sudden tear left her eye, and she quickly dabbed it.

"What's the matter?" I asked. I had never expected that from her. Obviously, she was nursing some very deep wounds. She was human, after all.

"No, Danie," she slowly replied, "I could not save them. Despite all I did. In the end, they were taken."

"Starvation?" I asked. The question wasn't a big deal. The Boer Wars had left a lasting legacy, and almost everyone knew someone close, who had died of starvation or disease.

She shook her head. "They were sacrificed," she said.

I very nearly spit my beer out.

The story was profoundly disturbing. Maagd had trusted the wrong couple, who had taken her and her sisters in under the pretext of offering them shelter. Then one day, one sister disappeared. When Maagd confronted the man, he told her that she had been sent to a better place and that there was nothing to worry about. At first, her natural instinct had been to trust him, but after a few weeks, when the second sister went missing, she knew something was amiss. The man's wife had a physical disorder, and Maagd had seen her drinking blood. Strange symbols were scattered all over her room. By the time she understood it all, it was already too late. Her last remaining sister was gone as well.

"Why didn't you try to expose them?" I asked.

"No one would believe me. It was in an isolated part of the country, and they were God fearing people. At least seemed to be. I was labeled as delusional, and there was the talk of locking me away. So, I ran."

"Why didn't you do something when you grew up?" I was full of rage.

She looked straight at me. "I didn't need to," she said. "I killed them in their sleep before running."

I went silent. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke.

"Why do they do such things?" I inquired.

She shrugged. "It's belief, Danie," she replied. "As we believe in God, they believe that the blood of little children has magical, healing powers. They drink it, eat body parts in the hope of getting cured."

I didn't have the stomach to hear anymore, but something made me stay.

"Have any children ever survived? Are any lucky enough to escape?"

"Only the unyielding, and rarely. Most are way too scared to even react. Anyway, forget it, Danie. It took me a long time to put it behind me. I don't wish to relive the past."

After a few more minutes, she suggested I got going. It was getting late. On the way out, I asked what her real name was.

"Wilhelmina," she replied.

That night was one of the longest of my life. I sat staring out the window into the black night. I was seventeen and wasn't getting along with a few people. My grades remained in steady decline, and the future looked bleak. I thought I had problems. How small my world was. Little did I know about the monsters, people on the other side had to live with. People like Marius and Wilhelmina. My respect for my father suddenly grew. After all, he too had once been on the other side. These people knew how cold life could get. They had felt it, and survived it. They were the real heroes. Invincible. As I finally went to bed that night, I swore to cross over to the other side. I wanted to feel for myself how cold it got. I wanted to know if I could survive. But first, there was something else that needed to get done. Someone had to die.

As the Christmas holidays approached, the weather grew warmer. A letter arrived. Amsterdam got unbearably cold. Last year, they even had had a little snow. Snow for Christmas? I shuddered at the thought. Good thing I was here, down in South Africa. We did have some harsh winters, but at least you didn't have to go through the festivities shivering. It was brief, and I quickly went through it. I wanted to write back, but I couldn't. Ever since my conversation with Wilhelmina, I hadn't been able to take my mind off Ava. Memories came back, flooding. I finally understood what she had wanted to say to me in the woods. I recollected events of years gone by when we had been no older than five. I had never been able to understand what had occurred, but everything seemed to fall in its place, now. Had I been able to make sense of it when I had been younger, I am sure things would have been very different. I took out a book from my drawer, flipping to the page that held the dry rose. It might have been too late to change the past, but it still wasn't too late to modify the future. The priest was still alive. Other children could be spared.

We had been a handful of children. A small boy had gone missing a few weeks ago. Suddenly, Ava had stood up, shouting, "You ate the boy! You ate the boy!" she had said.

The priest's eyes had flared with anger, and he had dragged her into the adjoining room, warning us to remain quiet, his curly beard and red eyes scaring us to near death. The door was shut. They both disappeared behind it. A horrible punishment awaited Ava.

Overcome by curiosity, I got up to peep from the keyhole. Something was amiss. I saw strange symbols of all kinds. One of my unsporting mates started yelling, screaming that I wasn't following instructions. I promptly returned to my seat, but not before punching him. Soon, there was a big ruckus, and hearing it, the priest came out. Ava escaped from behind him, snuggling up to me. My head being full of fluff since an early age, I told him to leave her alone, or I was going to tell my father and Marius. In my mind, they appeared bigger than him, and certainly, could knock him out if the need arose. The threat worked, and the priest backed off. Ever since, Ava always sat next to me, until we stopped attending.

The bell went for lunch, and I returned from my thoughts. I wasn't hungry. I had a rough plan, but it had several holes any investigator could pick. Still an avid reader, I was aware of the latest developments in forensics. My initial instinct was to snipe the priest, but in rural Barberton, tracing the rifle would not prove difficult. Also, I should not be officially present in the area when the crime occurred. This would make the mystery impossible to solve. Sure, people would bring it up for years, and the brainy ones would even come up with their own theories, but if I could manage a clean hit, it would be impossible to even doubt me. The thought of acquiring a weapon on the black market did occur, but neither did I know whom to approach, nor did I have that sort of money.

Evelein had brushed her leg on a poisonous plant, and it bore a rash. Even the doctor was not conclusive as to the identity of the plant.

"Well," I said, "If even the doctor does not know, then who does?"

She shrugged. "Probably the Zulu bushmen," she replied.

I thought about it. I didn't know whether they could identify the mysterious plant, but they surely had my answer.

# Chapter 41

On the 22nd of January, 1879—the Day of the Zulu—twenty thousand Zulu warriors fought two thousand British troops on an isolated hill in South Africa. Zulu used the hill to gain an aerial advantage, and while one group carried out the frontal assault, two other outflanked the British, who got annihilated, despite their vastly superior weaponry. What the British were unaware of was the fact that the enemy possessed some very deadly secrets. Not only were they high on herbs similar to cannabis, but also, the tips of their spears were dipped in the sap of a plant simply known as the Bushman Poison Bulb.

The Bushman Poison Bulb is an attractive, resilient plant widely found in the Savannah grasslands. Its sweet-scented flowers bloom every spring, regardless of rainfall. One should not be fooled by the name for in the hands of traditional Zulu medicine men, the extracts are used to cure the severest of wounds. Otherwise, as British history stands testimony, it is the poison of the deadliest kind, indeed.

The Zulu lived mostly in the Kwa-Zulu Natal province. Although Barberton lay more than a hundred miles north of there, their presence was ubiquitous. They weren't happy with the treatment they had received, especially their traditional healers, who had been shunned as pagans, and their practice degraded to witchcraft. The Zulu had two types of healers. First, the Sangoma, who predicted the future, providing people with herbs to ward off misfortunes. Second, the Inyanga, who possessed magical powers, using them to cure illnesses that had already entered the body. Inyangas were mostly women. However, there existed a minority third, the miscreant, commonly referred to as a Thakathi or a witch, who used their powers to spread illnesses and misery.

Ever since I was a child, stories of a Thakathi, who lived in the mountains nearby were popular. It was said that a long time ago, upon a holy minister's order, she had been beheaded by a group of white men. It is hard to determine how much of it was true, but it was also said that the minister and the men had died miserably. Some even went on to state that they had been unable to kill the witch, who continued living in those remote mountains. No one dared to venture there. Not even Marius.

I had once asked Marius if the stories were true. He had dismissed them as old wives' tales, even saying that he had never heard anything more bunk. However, in stark contrast, a few weeks later, when we had been miles from home, and I had suggested riding towards the supposed location of the witch's dwellings, his face had lost color. "Let sleeping dogs lie," he had said.

No one in Barberton had any clue as to the exact location of the witch, save for an old man, who claimed that his mother used to visit her. He told some fascinating tales, most of which defied logic. Some believed him, others dismissed him as a good for nothing, who used his stories to get himself free drinks. Nevertheless, people still listened to him and bought him drinks.

Once, when I had been accompanying my father into town, I had come across the man. He had stood in a corner, his mystical eyes drawing me to him. I had asked if he knew where the witch lived, and he had pointed this way and that. After that, he had told me he was famished, and I had given him whatever money I had had on me. That must have pleased him, for he said that he saw in me a very special boy, who, one day, would embark upon a journey to meet the witch. He had been about to add something, when my father's chauffeur had pulled me away, saying it was hardly appropriate for the heir of Gert Coetzee to be seen mingling with such lowlife. I never saw that man again, and the last I heard, he was dead.

Over the years, my interest in the witch had waned, but it was back now. I didn't believe most of the tales, but as the saying goes, there is no smoke without a fire. If she had actually lived, she must have left a protegee behind. Someone ought to be there in those mountains, who knew a great deal about the Bushman Poison Bulb. I could have tried to acquire it via other sources, but that would undoubtedly leave a trail. Also, I had no idea of the correct dosage. The minutest of errors handling the sap, and it was me that would be dead. I needed professional help.

A few days after I got home, I announced to my parents that I intended to take a week long camping trip in the mountains. That would provide me sufficient time to locate the witch and return, I estimated. My mother seemed concerned and asked me to take Marius along. I told her that I was old enough to handle myself in the wild. After all, I had grown up in those mountains. My father asked me to cross check my camping map with Marius, who could not understand this sudden urge of mine. Nevertheless, two days later, I packed my supplies and mounted my horse, armed with a rifle and a handgun. The intended route was supposed to take me through Badplaas, a town roughly fifty miles west of Barberton. My father had friends there, but I told him I didn't plan to meet with them. Marius accompanied me for an hour. When we reached the boundary of the estate, we said goodbye.

I kept going for a few hours. According to my research, the witch lived east. The route I had shown Marius took me west. I intended to follow it for half a day, before turning south. Then another left turn would take me east. I would have to travel three days to reach my destination, which might involve crossing over into Swaziland. Then, having procured the Poison Bulb, I would retrace my tracks. Allowing for unseen delays, I had kept an extra day in hand. The last thing I wanted was Marius heading a search party for me.

I had left at five in the morning and should have arrived in Badplaas by dusk. However, in the afternoon, I turned left and headed south. By the time I camped for the night, I was mere miles from home and needed to make sure I didn't leave any traces behind. Marius was bound to notice.

The next morning, I kept going south, putting as many miles as I possibly could between myself and Marius. Then, after a quick lunch, I turned left and headed east. I was in dense forests by now, without even a trail in sight, and relying on my compass. At night, I boiled some vegetables, having them with my last piece of bread. I didn't know what I would do for food the next day. The official plan had intended for me to be in a position to buy rations from Badplaas. Anyway, I chose to worry about that in the morning. It was time to sleep. The smoke kept the mosquitoes away. Malaria was rife in those parts and the last thing I wanted.

Waking up, I brewed tea and resumed my journey. I hoped to come across a few animals that I could hunt, but by late afternoon, there had been nothing. Tired, I unmounted and started a fire. Water was not an issue. The subtropical area received plenty of rainfall. However, there was still no sign of the witch, and I was beginning to lose hope. Resting under the shade of a tree, I was sipping tea when the canteen suddenly flew out of my hands. Startled, I grabbed my rifle and took cover. A big, round pebble lay on the ground. Whoever had thrown it, surely had deadly accuracy with a slingshot. I too had deadly accuracy with my rifle. The problem was, I couldn't see anyone. I called out loud, announcing myself as a traveler, who meant no harm. My call was greeted by silence, and then a whizzing sound very close to my head. Looking up, I saw an arrow stuck in the tree, a few inches over my head. I smiled. I might not have found the witch, but the bushmen had found me.

Within no time, three more arrows flew within inches of me as I hit the ground, pondering my next move. Clearly, whoever they were, they didn't mean to kill me. Had they had, I would have been dead by now. They only wanted to let me know that they had me. Throwing my rifle away, I got up very slowly, my hands in the air, hopeful that no more arrows would fly my way. After a few tense seconds, three faces emerged from the foliage. Three boys, roughly my age, wearing traditional skirts around their waists, and in addition to bows and arrows, carrying spears as well. Good thing I hadn't retaliated. One of them asked me something in Swati. I didn't understand much. I replied in Zulu.

After a few more attempts at communicating, he got the point across that they were Swazi tribesmen. I nodded, saying I understood. They wanted to know where I was from. Johannesburg. This seemed to impress them, and they asked me question after question, and I kept lying, sign language constituting the majority of our conversation. After nearly thirty minutes, one of them wanted to try out my rifle. I asked him if he could shoot. He said no. I said not to worry.

Taking aim, I fired a shot into a tree branch, the loud bang causing them to reel with excitement, at the same time, scaring them. Soon, they were having a time of their lives, discharging my handgun and rifle at will, not stopping until half my ammo was depleted. Despite using firearms for the first time, their aim remained pretty good. They were born warriors, after all. When they were finished, I asked them if they had anything to eat. They told me to wait. After an hour, they were back with something that looked like meat but smelt awful. Not wanting to offend, I took a bite, discovering that it tasted quite good. I ate till my stomach was full. Then, I asked them if they wanted to fire a few more rounds. Yes, they did.

I started teaching the oldest looking boy a few pistol tricks I had picked up from Marius, causing him to swell with pride upon the special attention. After a while, I casually asked him about the Bushman Poison Bulb. His eyes widened at first, but I met his gaze, looking him straight in the eye. When it became apparent that I was dead serious, he said that he knew about it, but it didn't grow in these parts. I asked him if he could get me some sap. He said no. But he could get me a substitute, as lethal and deadly. As long as it did the trick, I couldn't care what it was. However, he wanted something in return. He had liked my wrist watch. It was quartz and not easy to find in those days. I didn't want to give him something which could be traced back to me. But who would be checking with them, I figured? I agreed, but only after he got me what I wanted. He said, he would be back first thing in the morning.

After spending a restless night, I awoke to find the boy's face staring at mine. I bolted up. He handed me a small bottle, containing a white fluid. It had been stolen from the medicine man's hut. He had taken a significant risk, and if caught, would pay the ultimate price. Hence, in exchange, he now wanted me to throw in a gun as well. Losing a watch was alright, but losing a gun was unacceptable. I refused, offering him money, instead, but money was no good to him, and a lengthy negotiation ensued. We finally agreed upon the watch, and my flintstone lighter. Bidding farewell, I wrapped the bottle in my other shirt, carefully nestling it in my satchel. Then, I rode back east.

That had been the fourth day out, and Barberton was a two-day ride. I don't know what I had thought when I had set out on the journey, but it had borne fruit. If not for the witch, I had hoped to be able to come across bushmen, although, I had never imagined them to be Swazi ones. Anyway, it didn't matter. I was in one piece, and not all that hungry. The boy had also given me some dried meat, which, if sparingly used, would last me until home. I kicked the horse to make it go faster.

# Chapter 42

I was back home in time. My mother was pleased and had prepared a feast. I was delighted. The journey had me starved. What all men endured if it meant getting even within a whiff of revenge.

Half the problem solved, I moved to the next half. I had procured a syringe. It was of the latest type, with a chamber made from glass. I hid it along with the sap.

Evelein had confessed to typing the letter, which I had presumed had been from Marius, right before my final match with Theunis a few years ago. When asked how she had gotten access to a typewriter, she had said that the school office had disposed of a few. They were old but worked. Rummaging through my drawer, she had found the latest letter that had arrived from home. Picking up the envelope, she had rubbed off the address as well as she could, sticking over it a piece of paper that had my name and the school address typed. This way, the envelope still carried the stamp of Barberton, and although the date was a little old, I had been too preoccupied to notice it. It was brilliant!

A few days before the vacations had begun, I had typed my school address on a piece of paper, and the priest's address on another. On the third, I typed out a return address – the Dutch Reformist Church of Pretoria, and on the fourth, an invitation to the priest, inviting him to Pretoria to attend a prestigious ceremony. When I was done, I had dismantled the thing. Typed letters could be traced to the exact typewriter. Over the next few days, I had disposed of the parts.

An envelope containing nothing inside was then posted to myself, reaching me at my school address just a day before I left for Barberton. It had no return address. I hid it amongst the other pieces of paper and brought them back home.

A few days after I returned home from my 'camping' trip, I took out the envelope. Peeling off the piece of paper that stuck to it, displaying my school address, with a pair of tweezers, I replaced it with the priest's address. On the other side, I stuck the Dutch Reformist Church's address. Then, along with the invitation, I placed in it a train ticket from Barberton to Pretoria. It had been purchased the day I had left for home. It was first class, and I had had to borrow money from my friends to be able to afford it. In the afternoon, while everybody including Marius was taking lunch, I rode out and dropped the invitation into the priest's mailbox. With a little bit of luck, he would not take much notice of the old dates on the stamps. Anyway, he didn't have the time. His train departed at seven in the morning.

Marius had a pistol known as the Philadelphia Derringer. It was six inches long, and could easily fit in my pocket. He hardly ever used it, keeping it in a bottom drawer of his chest. While he made his rounds after lunch, I sneaked into his cabin and took it. Hopefully, he would not notice the theft for another twenty-four hours.

The last Derringer had been manufactured more than eighty years ago and was the perfect weapon for the job. John Booth had used the very thing to assassinate Lincoln, although, I didn't plan on using it that way. It was only for intimidation. Carefully packing it with twenty grams of gunpowder, I left it half cocked. I would only cock it fully in case it became absolutely necessary. Built to be used at point blank range, the pistol had varying degrees of accuracy and just a single shot. That was all I would need if I ever needed it at all.

Like every day, I woke up early, mounted my horse, and rode into the mountains. Nelspruit, twenty-five miles to the north, was the first stop on the rail line after Barberton. I reached there well before the train arrived. Tying my horse in the forest, I walked up to the station. I did not enter it, though, choosing to stay a few hundred yards down the line. When the train pulled up shortly after seven fifteen, I crossed the track, climbing into the first class coach, undetected.

When the train started moving, I went up and knocked on the priest's door.

"Ticket Inspector," I called out.

The door opened, and he stood there, his expression filled with fear upon seeing my gloved hand holding the pistol. Suddenly, it struck him.

"Don't even think about it," I warned, pushing him inside as I locked the door behind me.

"Wh....what are you doing, Danie?" he stammered, his voice quivering with fear.

"What does it look like I am doing?" I replied.

Kneeling him onto the floor, I stuffed his mouth with his handkerchief. He was trying to retaliate, but I slapped him with the back of my hand, the sound so loud I was afraid it might have penetrated the bulkhead, traveling to the adjoining booth. Making him turn around, I tied his shaking hands behind his back with his cincture.

"Don't worry about your alb," I said, mockingly. "It won't fall off."

Fishing his bag for the ticket and the invitation, I pocketed them both.

When I turned around, his head was shaking, his eyes pleading for mercy. I had never done this before. I wasn't a killer, and the look on his face caused me to question my own actions. However, anticipating such a moment to arrive, when my will would weaken, and doubts would flood me, I had prepared myself, countering for it. I closed my eyes and saw the little boy's face. The Bible classified murder as a sin, but what about child sacrifice? Good thing the Bible wasn't legal constitution. It would be a defense attorney's dream come true. One could get away with almost anything.

"Remember this boy?" I asked, opening my eyes, showing him a photo I had clipped out of an old newspaper.

He sure did. The guilt immediately showed.

I hissed in his ear, "As much as I would like to kill you slowly, I can't. For that, you can consider yourself lucky. But remember this before you go. The quicker you die in this world, the longer you suffer in the next."

With that, I took out the syringe, checking it for air bubbles. I prayed to God that the poison worked. It was the time He took back His messenger. I re-convinced myself, saying that I was doing this for the children. In his death lay their resurrection. It was then that I discovered that one could convince one's self of just about anything. Opening my eyes, I slowly inserted the needle into his neck and watched his head drop. The poison had worked. Relief flooded me. I thanked God with tears in my eyes. I hoped he would count me amongst his saints.

Quickly taking charge of my emotions, I untied his hands, and took out the handkerchief from his mouth, wiping off the drooling saliva. I positioned his body on the berth and placed a pillow under the neck to make it appear as if he was asleep. Then, I set the ticket on the table next to him and got ready to exit. The aisle was empty. I gently shut the door.

I reached home in time for lunch. Marius waited for me. He had an odd look about him. As I neared, he held out his hand. Without a word, I placed in it his Derringer. Then I went inside, where I ate in silence.

A few days later, I posted a letter to Ava. The envelope contained a newspaper clipping which described the mysterious death of the priest, whose condition was not discovered until the train had reached Pretoria. No one could figure out the reason as to why he had chosen to embark upon the journey. The investigators found a lot of disturbing material from his house, but they were saying nothing more. Ostensibly, the church had shut them up. That the cause of death remained poisoning was evident. But beyond that, there was no clue. As far as they were concerned, he had brought it unto himself. Besides, Christmas was around the corner. The case was closed.

# Chapter 43

Marius died on February the 5th, 1952. Even though I knew his end was near, I still couldn't believe it when it finally did come. Only a few weeks ago had he stood behind my parents at the Barberton train station, waving me goodbye.

My father wanted me home for the funeral and had arranged for my travel. I left immediately.

We buried him in our estate three days later. It was a Friday, and as though expressing their grief, the heavens opened up. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, I couldn't hold back the tears. My best friend was gone. I hoped he would have an easier time on the other side than he had had on this.

# Chapter 44

Upon finishing school, I joined the South African Navy. My father wanted me to pursue further studies in Europe, but I was tired of life as a student. Having had always led a sheltered, secure life, I couldn't wait to live on the edge. I was hungry for action and adventure, and life in the military guaranteed both. The army struck me as drab and slow. In stark contrast, the Navy seemed royal and mighty, even poetic. Pictures of heavily decorated admirals in white uniforms with thick golden stripes draped over their shoulders had me out flat. I wanted to wear those stripes and to command men. I pictured myself pushing buttons, launching powerful missiles from the water. I wanted the glory and the fame. Coincidentally, the Navy wanted young men like me, and in January 1953, I enrolled as an officer cadet. None of my friends joined me in my endeavor. They were too good to die in someone else's war. I scoffed at their cowardice. They weren't real men.

I spent three grueling years as a trainee at the Naval College in Gordon's Bay, thirty miles south of Cape Town, where I learned the art of navigation and sophisticated murder. I was taught how to calculate my exact position using the sun, the moon, and the stars. My grades were amongst the best, and I continued to dominate in boxing. The training was intense, intended to separate the men from the boys. Boxing matches would go on late into the night, only to be followed by academic tests the following morning, leaving literally no time to prepare for either. But that did not qualify as an excuse to perform poorly. You were in the Navy. You were at war. And in war, you either killed or got killed. And I killed. When we passed out, I was recommended for an award or two, narrowly missing out. Anyway, I didn't mind it too much. I wanted action and glory. Not some trophy that would soon be catching rust.

Finishing Academy, I had an obligation to serve six months as a midshipman before I made second-lieutenant. I was disappointed to find out that I had been assigned to a replenishment vessel. I had hoped for a frigate or a destroyer, not a rust bucket, whose tanks stunk of a thick tar-like liquid known as fuel oil. Upon learning my fate, I raised an objection with my training base's commander. He heard me out patiently, before blasting me for trying to act smart. He also added that in case as a fresh academy graduate and yet to stand trial against the rigors of sea life, I thought myself too good to serve aboard a replenishment vessel, he would be happy to write to the Admiral, informing him that a certain Danie Coetzee's future with the armed forces didn't look as though it was going to last very long. Shutting up, I walked out and packed my trunk. After spending the Christmas of 1956 at home, I boarded the SAS Tafelberg on New Year's Eve.

Despite the ship being more than twenty-five years old—and that is hoary for a ship—she was well run. The officers and the crew were a cheerful lot. The captain or commanding officer in naval terms was in his late forties and loved a good time. He took me under his wing, and together with the officers, taught me everything I needed to know about running that ship. We picked up stores and supplies including various types of fuels, which we then transferred onto other, larger combat ships, enabling them to stay out at sea longer. It was a tough job, comparable to that of a merchant seaman's. My day began at four in the morning and ended at eight every night. Being a midshipman, I was allowed weekends off, where I mingled with the non-officer ranks, drinking rum, listening to the dirtiest songs ever. No one seemed to mind as long as I behaved. The Tafelberg was an extraordinary boat, run by a remarkable man, who genuinely cared for the people under him. Surprisingly, I didn't suffer much from sea sickness, although it took me a while to find my sea legs.

After six months, I cleared my exam and made an officer. I was granted a week's leave, which I spent with Evelein in Pretoria. Since I had performed well and aced the exams, I was given the option of joining a destroyer or a Corvette. I had heard my batch mates speak of the life on those ships. Discipline was ruthlessly enforced, and the officers were expected to set an example. Meanwhile, I had been so spoiled with the life on the SAS Tafelberg, I knew I wouldn't last in any other environment. Sure, we only had a couple of machine guns and a few hand grenades to show for, but I couldn't have cared less. Six months of watching the captain of the Tafelberg had washed away my conviction that life had to be lived on the edge. I refused, citing loyalty to my ship, rejoining the Tafelberg.

Since I was the junior most officer, most of the workload was thrust upon me, and I did my very best to cope. By the time I turned twenty-four, I had been placed in charge of navigation. Physical labor had been replaced by a mental one. The Tafelberg was an old ship with a lot of old sea salt for seamen. Together, we worked our socks off in its day to day running.

Being good sailors, we drank our fair share of whiskey, and soon, I was hooked. Never a day went by without me indulging. As an officer, I was called upon to drink within limits. However, spending more and more time with a few like-minded crew prevented me from doing so. Soon, we became well known in every bar of every port in South Africa, our fame rivaling that of merchant seamen. I met with sailors from across the world. Americans, Scandinavians, Greek, Italians, and Japanese.

In 1958, the Tafelberg was selected to partake in a naval exercise along with the British and Dutch navies in the North Sea. It was winter in the southern hemisphere, and we all welcomed the trip, even though I could not understand the role a ship like ours would play. There were rumors that the ship was to be broken down in Europe, and being an officer, the men looked up to me for insider knowledge. Not having any, I told them to quit fueling the fire. There was no way our beloved Tafelberg was about to be scrapped.

# Chapter 45

Things soon changed for the worse. The Tafelberg was assigned a new commander, causing the scrapping rumors to instantly die down, only to be replaced with ones of the new man. A change in command is a dangerous thing for a contented crew. Sailors hate change, and a new man brings with him the looming threat of just that. It was not only the men, who were afraid. The officers seemed rattled, too. The current captain had never said a word to anyone as long as the work had gotten done in time and the ship ran without problems. He was a good man, who encouraged everybody's opinions. Everyone liked him, and in one and a half years aboard, I had yet to hear a single negative word said about him. Anyway, I remained unconcerned. As long as I did what was required of me, I didn't see a reason to worry. The new man, of course, had other ideas.

Captain Thornby took over command of the rust bucket in June 1958, and we both started on the wrong foot. Having had spent the entire night awake on duty, I went to bed at seven in the morning, missing the welcoming party of the new commander. As if that were not sufficient, I informed the men under my watch that it was okay if they too remained absent. Thornby, noticing that a lieutenant had been missing, sent for me that very day, asking me my reasons, dismissing them as poor excuses, even accusing me of being disrespectful. Wow, this guy sure had some ego! He further warned, saying that he intended to watch me carefully. It was characteristic of the petty hogwash that goes on inside the armed forces during times of peace. During a war, everyone is busy. However, during peace, people seem to have time enough on their hands to start wars of their own.

True to his word, the new commander watched me like a hawk. When he couldn't point the finger at my work, he started targeting my other areas. My alcohol issuance was reduced, but I figured a way around it. He then began targeting the men under my watch. As the voyage to Europe continued, his behavior became too much to tolerate. One day, I lost my temper and answered back in front of the men. Having had faced adverse weather, we were without sleep or food. Not having spotted any heavenly bodies for days, I was navigating using dead reckoning, a method of estimating position, allowing for speed, wind, current, and time. It was tedious work. By the time the sun came out, my calculations were off by a couple of miles. This did little to impress Thornby, who lashed out at me. I returned him in kind, further telling him to leave me alone. I needed to calculate the further course, a far more important job than listening to his never ending gabble. I got my first black dot on my service record that day.

When we got news that our ship was to be docked in Amsterdam for three full days, I immediately notified Ava with a little help from the radio operator. I was thrilled, even managing to put up with Captain Bligh, as we had nicknamed our commander by now.

We reached Amsterdam on the 30th of June, 1958 after a month-long voyage during which we had to endure two storms and some very rough seas. Running a ship as old as ours in inclement weather conditions was no joke, and every man had contributed to the fullest. To show his appreciation, the executive officer wanted to throw a party, but Bligh wasn't having any of it. We were there on a naval exercise, not to party, he said. I thought that was a wise decision. A small disagreement, a little alcohol, and the captain would be dead, lying in a pool of blood, shot by one of his very own men.

Once alongside, I went ashore to see Ava. She had asked me to wait at a famous restaurant facing the Amsterdam canal, and I reached there well before time. It had been over a decade since I had last seen her and felt as though I was meeting a total stranger. I didn't love her anymore, but I wasn't certain I'd feel the same way once my eyes fell upon her again. I felt extremely nervous. Hopefully, I'd be alright, and not say something to embarrass myself. To muster some Dutch courage, I ordered a whiskey. I was in Dutch land, after all. I wondered which part of the country my ancestors came from.

However, as the seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes into hours, there was no sign of Ava, and I grew more and more apprehensive about her showing up. I didn't understand. She had probably gotten held somewhere or perhaps I had mixed up the date or the place, maybe both. I'd try the following day again, I decided.

The next day, I occupied the same spot with some sort of strange expectation that stemmed more from hope than belief. Our last letter had been years ago. As the day wore on, a thought crept into my mind to make my way to her house. I knew the address and could find it. Sadly, as I got up, I found myself dragging my feet back to the Tafelberg. My steps were heavy, my shoulders drooped, sadness enveloping my mind. That was her way of telling me goodbye. Well, so be it. What a shameful ending we had arrived at.

As though God was plotting against me, the first man I bumped into as soon as I boarded the Tafelberg, happened to be Bligh, who as usual had something nasty to say to me. Fed up, I went to my cabin and opened a bottle. There was a knock. It was the warrant officer. It was his turn to stand watch that night. I invited him in and passed him the bottle. He looked hesitant. I told him it was okay. Nothing was going on. Besides, who on earth was to gain anything by attacking a replenishment vessel, which sooner rather than later was going down, anyway? He looked at the bottle, then at my face, then back at the bottle. Finished contemplating, he finally grinned and took a sip, then another. We got talking. I told him all about my latest encounter with authority. He couldn't believe it himself.

"The faster they scrap this thing, the better, lieutenant," he said, admiring the night lights of Amsterdam. We had moved out onto the open deck. "I love this ship," he went on, "And have worked on her for nearly thirty years. Not once in thirty years has she had such a goat for a commander." The whiskey was taking effect. He was getting worked up.

Then, with a sigh, he added, "I think it's a sign. Her time is up."

Well, I didn't know if her time was up or not, but mine surely seemed to be. Soon, it would be six years since I had enrolled, and in those six years, I had never even gotten close to within a whiff of adventure, let alone action and glory. I had heard of men spending entire lives away, putting up with all kinds of nonsense, just to experience a few moments of combat. I knew I didn't have that sort of patience. Barring the training field, I had never even fired a shot. On some occasions, when we had stood at anchor, we would hurl a grenade into the water to attract the fish. It wouldn't make a sound, but deep inside, I am sure it must have created havoc for it caused the fish to rush up towards the water surface. Then all one had to do was scoop them with a bucket. The grenade would get written off as a defective. That's what life had come to. Fishing, alcohol, and putting up with Bligh. Ava hadn't helped matters, either

That night, by the time I stumbled to my bed, I was drunk enough to forget Ava once and for all.

# Chapter 46

The morning the naval exercises began, Captain Bligh, summoned us to the wheelhouse, where he gave an impassioned speech. Or at least attempted to. The high pitched words rang in my head like a bell, giving me a headache. There were forty of us crammed into the narrow space, and it was getting difficult to breathe. Having gone out the previous night, I was still drunk, and from the looks of it, didn't seem to be the only one.

Mercifully, he soon dismissed us, reminding us of the South African Navy's slogan of being 'Unchallenged at Sea.' Well, that fit the bill perfectly. Since I had joined, nobody had challenged us, and I hoped it stayed that way. The Tafelberg wasn't built to withstand challenge. Apparently, Thornby remained uninformed as to that and expected us all to perform well above par, whatever that meant. Maybe he expected us to pump fuel into other ships faster than a downtown gas station, or perhaps supply them with milk, bread, and eggs quicker than a Cape Town street peddler.

Instead of being in the wheelhouse from where I would have an aerial view of proceedings, I was assigned deck duties. That was all right by me. Up there, I was under constant threat of Bligh's verbal attacks. Out on the open deck, I could enjoy the sea breeze at the very least.

Our role was to approach the larger battleships at close quarters and then launch lines unto them, enabling rapid personnel and ammunition transfer. It was a relatively simple task, one we had done countless times. Anyway, my job was to relay the captain's orders to the warrant officers, who would then relay them to the petty officers, who would further relay them to the able seaman, who having nobody to relay to, would do all the work. Military hierarchy at its finest. For every one man that worked, there were nine to bark orders at him.

Somebody lit up and passed the pack around. I looked the other way. In an actual war, this exercise would have been going on at night, and smoking on open deck could give away our position. But the summer sun was shining, and a stiff breeze was blowing. To hell with the procedure.

The Tafelberg finished its role early and was to make the dash to the harbor before being spotted. Real shells were being fired, and even though protocol required we go inside, the captain ordered to get the quarter deck ship-shape. The men set about the task, and I went up to the wheelhouse, from where I could admire the firework. That's when I heard the fool trying a fancy maneuver. He must have thought we were a Trans-Atlantic steam liner.

"The engine stalls, when you go dead slow astern," I told him. Needless to say, my interruption wasn't welcomed.

"Is that so, Lieutenant?" he asked, obviously irritated. "Is that so?"

I answered in the affirmative.

That infuriated him further. "And why might that be?"

"You'll have to ask the engineer that, sir," I said. I was trying to be helpful, but it was of no use.

The executive officer joined me, trying to talk sense into him, but we might have as well sought to drill a hole into a block of concrete with nothing but our fingers. Instead, Bligh further went on to say what a poor job we had been doing running the ship. However, now that he was in charge, he just wasn't going to have it. Well, whether he was about to have it or not, I had about had it. I left the wheelhouse and went outside. There were two senior officers in there, and if they didn't know what they were doing, then God help us. I had done my duty by informing, and there was nothing more for me.

Within moments, the alarm indicating engine failure buzzed, infuriating the engineers, who wanted to know the lout behind all of it. I told them to check with Bligh, after which I rushed out to call the men inside. The Tafelberg was helm-less, and drifting into shell fire. That's when the unthinkable happened!

A shell landed into the water less than a hundred yards away, sending a surge of a wave over our shallow hull, sweeping away a young seaman, a boy of nineteen. Man overboard! The exercise got suspended for over two hours as we rescued the boy, while the engineers vigorously scratched their heads, figuring out ways to re-start the engine.

Once we re-docked, the captain was called for questioning. Neither of the participating navies had been impressed with his performance. In those two hours, the Tafelberg had drifted very close to danger. I had hoped they demoted the bastard, but he was able to talk himself out of a sticky situation, lamenting blame upon the engineers. The navy board didn't seem all that impressed with his answers, however. He had let the South African Navy down. I had hoped to have my say as well, but I never got called. Apparently, the board didn't have time for junior officers.

After the exercise, we were told to proceed to Southampton, England. The rumors turned out true. The Tafelberg was about to be broken down. Our Tafelberg. Our beloved Tafelberg. I could already envision tears in the eyes of more than a few faces.

We spent two months in Southampton while they broke down the ship. The Navy wanted us to get some yard experience under our belts, and every morning I would strut around, trying to learn whatever I could. I was assigned to the team of young British lieutenant Jason Briggs. He was a naval architect, and very much interested in South Africa. I was a navigator, and very much interested in England. We soon became good friends.

I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday in 1958 in the yard canteen.

My stay in England lasted until early October, after which I boarded a British aircraft carrier bound for Cape Town. Of the original forty odd crew of the Tafelberg, only about fifteen remained. Jason came to see me off. He planned to visit South Africa. He was most welcome. "Just let me know when you start," I told him.

The voyage back home gave me the time to review my options. Not being part of the crew, I had the entire day to myself. I had been assigned a cabin and spent my time lying in my bunk, thinking of what to do next. It was obvious that my career with the Navy wouldn't take me very far. Thanks to Thornby, I could kiss the admiral's stripes goodbye. I would be lucky if I made Commodore, but for that, I needed to sail on real warships, not a bunker barge, though I doubted I could keep up with the false displays of toughness. Well, at least it was not all bad. I still had a lot of cherished memories to take with me.

A few days before we reached Cape Town, I requested access to a typewriter. I was shown into a tiny office and left alone. Taking a deep breath, I started typing out my resignation.

The navy board was not happy with my decision to leave, wanting me to put in a few more years before giving me an honorable discharge. I argued, that being an officer, I was entitled to an honorable discharge as and when I pleased. The board said they would get back to me. Meanwhile, I resumed duty. Since I didn't have a ship, I was assigned a staff role, and for a few days, pushed the pencil around. After what appeared to be forever, the board summoned me again. I knew that they were short of officers, and lured me with a quick promotion to Lieutenant Commander, even offering to send me back to work under my old captain. I stood my ground, refusing all offers. They were dangling a carrot, but I wasn't the donkey to try and bite it. When talks reached a stalemate, they cited I was free to go, but only with a General Discharge. I said I would appeal against it. They made me wait further. Finally, on the 17th of November 1958, I was released with an honorable discharge. I wanted to get drunk but resisted the urge.

"Take care, Lieutenant," one of my old men said as he wished me goodbye.

"It's Mr. Coetzee, now," I said, correcting him.

Refusing a ride, I walked from the naval base, and along the tavern filled streets that I had frequented not so long ago. I had changed the course of my life dramatically, and there were more questions than answers. I wondered how I would adapt back into civilian life. Memories came back to me when a few years ago, I had attended a social gathering in Durban. One of my school friends had invited me over, and other than impressing the ladies with my fictional battle tales, I hadn't had much to say. I had lost touch with what was occurring in the real world. That was the price one had to pay. I had become a social misfit. Yet, I strode on into unfamiliar territory, undaunted, the confidence and recklessness of a twenty-five-year-old behind me.

I caught the train to Pretoria and met up with Evelein. She was thrilled to see me, and even more thrilled with my decision to resign, wondering how on earth I had managed to spend six years there. To her, I had never struck the military type. In hindsight, it seemed a miracle. My old school friend often came to see me, and I shifted to his house from the hotel. His father even offered me a role in politics. I told him no, thank you. I had had enough of bigotry to last a lifetime.

Evelein inquired as to my future plans, and I confessed to having no clue. Perhaps I'd occupy Marius's old cabin and grow vegetables. Nevertheless, on New Year's Eve 1959, I proposed to her. She readily agreed, asking me when I planned to hold the wedding. A few months down the line, I told her. In the meantime, I needed to till my soil.

# Chapter 47

My father, who had not been thrilled with my idea of skipping university to join the Navy, was not thrilled with my decision to quit it prematurely, either. He likened me to a rudderless ship, with a bad captain. The Tafelberg and Thornby immediately sprang to mind. Though I did not care for the comparison, I decided to let him judge me over the long run. I might not have been to business school, but neither had he. Nevertheless, I got to work, choosing to concentrate on the estate, first. I was into vegetables, literally.

Over the years, as my father's business interests had altered, he had paid less and less attention to the estate, which now barely produced enough to support itself. We grew small quantities of maize, pineapple, and some amounts of citrus and subtropical fruit. Hardly a thing had changed in over twenty-five years, and it didn't take a genius to recognize how much more could be achieved.

Six years in the Navy had taught me that change was a painful process most people didn't want to undergo. Provide them with a decent living, and they were content to remain there, deteriorating in mind and body. I brought in a new goal and vision, and all I got in return was resentment and advice on how not to fix something that wasn't broken. Maybe not in their eyes, but from where I stood, the cracks were apparent. If we didn't fix it now, it was soon going to collapse, spectacularly. My father must've agreed, for he didn't interfere.

Had I been a ruthless executor, I would have fired the lot resisting change. However, having had known these people my entire life, there was no going forward without them. Hence, I played it down, slowly convincing them, bringing them over onto my viewpoint. My functioning could be compared to that of a sleazy politician, hustling for popularity, but with a difference. I planned on delivering the goods. As time flew by, my father watched me, wondering what I was up to. He hadn't seen any change in over two months. Patience, I kept telling him. Three months after coming home, I, along with every toiling hand, announced our intention to overhaul the workings of the estate. We had drawn a comprehensive plan, called in the experts, and gotten the soil tested. We were going commercial! Maize, dairy farming, and tobacco. Especially tobacco. Cigarette manufacturers were paying top dollar for high-quality tobacco. To drive the point home, I had even reduced the profit margin my family would receive, deciding to share the spoils more generously. But even with the lesser margin, we still were in for a bonanza. It was win-win. Half the work was done. All that was left was counting the cash. My father started to change his views about me.

I remained careful about hiring new workers other than agricultural experts. Although a few advisers did advise me on hiring cheaper labor, I never fell for the stupid idea. Loyalty went a long way, and the following years would prove me right. Besides, my father would have never approved, to begin with.

Having had made my first mark, I married Evelein in September 1959 in Barberton in a ceremony to which everyone was invited. A few people warned me against mingling guests of different social standings. But by then I had been cautioned against so many things in life that I had stopped caring. The celebrations went on for a week. Surprisingly, a letter from Ava arrived. My heart pounded as I opened the envelope. The lonely wait in Amsterdam had seemed a long time ago.

She was sorry for standing me up, but she had had her reasons. For the first time, I learned that she had been married for four years. Well, that was something. I felt a little betrayed that she had been keeping secrets from me, but then so had I. Finally, she admitted having seen me in Amsterdam while I had waited. She had hidden her face under a hat and behind large sunglasses. She wished me luck and success in my new venture. Hopefully, I would forgive her, and that the future would hold more favorable circumstances.

I tore the letter and binned it. No point in Evelein finding out. I didn't want to start my married life with a boom and a bang. I was done with Ava, anyway.

Evelein adapted well to life in rural Barberton. As well as could reasonably be expected from a city girl. I was worried that she would find the mountains isolated and boring, but quite to the contrary, they intrigued her. One evening, I asked her if she would care to join me for a stroll in the countryside.

"The whole place is a countryside," she remarked. That was true, indeed.

Our honeymoon was postponed by a man called Hendrik Verwoerd. He had been elected prime minister of South Africa, and his new regulations had swept the country, leaving businesses extremely vulnerable. Apartheid was very much a part of the legal system by now, but the worst had yet to come. And it seemed that this man remained determined to bring it about. Though the country was not yet a republic, Verwoerd sought to achieve that status very soon. Had only Marius been around.

My father and I welcomed the idea of self-governance, but what came after was what we dreaded. The nation was racially divided into whites, Indians, natives, and colored. Mixing was not allowed. The Immorality Act of 1950 made it illegal even to have sex with a person of the other race. Back then, that wasn't something many whites looked forward to, anyway. But who knew what went on behind closed doors? Luckily, our estate had only white workers, but that couldn't be said of our mines. White folk suddenly woke up to realize that they were too good to be doing jobs they had been doing for years, demanding higher pay and supervisory roles. My father was having trouble handling the crisis, and I was forced to stay back. Evelein understood. Her parents were having problems of their own. I ended up helping both.

In February 1960, British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan gave the famous 'Wind of Change' speech. The British were decolonizing – something I preferred calling as getting out while they still could. He took a direct dig at apartheid when he said that some of South Africa's reforms prevented his government from lending us their support. Whatever he meant by that, but decolonization didn't help a lot. In the years that followed, the continent got torn by civil unrest, the nations so used to foreign governance that self-governance posed a stiff challenge. Most leaders, who took over turned out to be greedy pigs, selling their countries to international businesses, who proved to be worse than the colonizers.

Thanks to men like Verwoerd, South Africa was spared a similar fate, and after becoming a Republic on the 31st of May 1961, exactly fifty-nine years after the second Boer war, celebrated, even if it was just the white Afrikaners. Their time had come. The British were finally gone. My father and I didn't join the revelry. We remained busy, planning our survival.

The whites were in the minority, but, as usual, thought they deserved better treatment than most. When their government pulled out, the British whites were left feeling betrayed, but they didn't let sentimentality hold them back. They were masters of politics, after all. Soonest they realized that the white Afrikaner regime was to stay, they forgot all their bloody history and crossed the divide. The still bitter Afrikaners were urged to let go of the past, and focus on the future, instead. We were no longer the British or the Boers. We were South Africans now. White South Africans. It was a beautiful time to have been born white.

A couple of years later, when stability finally crept in, Evelein and I still remained unable to take our honeymoon. There had been an addition to the family. Lisa was born on the 12th of November, 1961. She was every bit as beautiful as her mother.

The following years, our lives revolved around Lisa, especially my father's, who dumped his entire load on me days after her birth, stating that he no longer retained the will to work. All he did all day long was play with his granddaughter. Once a month, he would show up at the office to sign a few papers, after which he would go through some files, always leaving by lunch, irrespective of whether the files were finished or not. I was running the business and the estate. At times, the thought of asking Evelein for help did cross my mind, but I didn't. She was busy with Lisa. Anyway, if my father had managed for so many years, so could I.

One morning, late in January 1964, while I was at work, my father showed up. Leaning back in a chair, and placing his feet upon my desk, he asked me a favor. Having had been stuck in rural Barberton their entire lives, he and my mother wished to see the world. I left office and went to find a travel agent.

It had been months since my parents had gone, and we had no idea when they planned on returning. Now and then we would receive a postcard from someplace new. I saw little of my family during the week, but the weekends were reserved for them, where I declined to conduct any business, forbidding my staff from doing the same. If they weren't resourceful enough to finish five days work in five days time, they could very well leave. Family time was important, and I was determined to run a happy business, not a money laundering machine. I knew this rule was costing me a little, but I had not forgotten what I had learned in the Navy. Peace of mind was more crucial than a few Rand. Once, one of my men barged in, stating that my presence was needed back home. I rushed, fearing something had gone wrong, only to find my baby taking her first steps. She would walk a short distance before tumbling. Of course, I would be there to catch her every time she fell.

Having the place to ourselves allowed Evelein and I much more freedom, and we became closer than ever. Now and then, mother and daughter would make the trip to Pretoria to see Evelein's parents, not returning until the week was done. I didn't mind. For the first time ever, I sat in our grand, old house, all alone, nobody there to keep me company. Not even Marius. It was a strange feeling, one that I began to like.

A little over two years had passed since my parents had gone on their trip around the globe. One afternoon, as I was about to open an urgent meeting with shareholders, a commotion erupted outside. There were loud noises and greetings. When I heard heavy footsteps thump up the wooden stairway, I instinctively knew who it was. Gert Coetzee was back in town.

The door flew open before I could even reach for the knob, narrowly missing my face. The holiday had helped him, no doubt. He looked ten years younger.

"Everything ship shape, sailor?" he asked, mockingly, referring to my days in the Navy. Then, before I could even reply, he plonked himself into my chair, startling the other five or six men in the room.

"Now, let's see what we have here," he said, opening the file. Watching him, the others did the same. The meeting had now begun.

Neither did my father think it necessary to ask me what the meeting was all about, nor did I wait for him. Exiting the building, I took off my coat, flinging it over my shoulder, aimlessly walking the street. Not counting my days in the Navy, I had worked for eight years straight without so much as a break. Throw in naval time, and that figure went up to fourteen. Lisa was old enough to travel. It was time Evelein, and I took our long overdue honeymoon.

# Chapter 48

Over the next few weeks, my father worked with a zest I had not seen in years. His hunger was back, and he was akin to a twenty-five-year-old business graduate. When it became apparent that this new found energy of his was not going to dissipate anytime soon, I started taking it easier, allowing myself more time with my family. Lisa was four and could talk all day long. At times, I would sit on the steps leading to the porch and watch her play, while she tried explaining to me the various topics that had captured her interest. Of course, whether or not I was listening, didn't bother her the least. She just had to get her point across.

The sprawling estate gave Lisa the freedom she needed, and never a day went by when she wouldn't want to venture out to explore something new. Sometimes a flower, other times the bee that hovered over it. Neither was she scared of the nasty insects that came in all shapes and sizes nor did she have any stubbornness about her. These traits of hers didn't go unnoticed, and there was not a soul, who didn't like her. The same man, who had severely warned me against using the walls of his house as a canvas to display my artistic abilities, hardly seemed to bother when his grandchild did the same. This encouraged Lisa to keep at it, and I feared we would run out of walls. My mother gave Evelein all the benefit of her experience. According to her, Evelein was lucky to be raising such an obedient child. Evelein agreed, saying that when compared to handling me back at school, raising Lisa was an easy task. I hit back, saying that I had had two mothers. One nagged me at home, the other at school.

"But your skull was so thick neither was able to penetrate it." If anybody deserved full marks for consistency, it had to be my father.

Though I didn't let it be known, I remained cautious when it came to the people Lisa spent her time with. I had not forgotten Ava's hurting at what she had learned, and I didn't want my child's innocence to be shattered in a similar manner. The years might have passed, yet my mind remained haunted ever since my conversation with the Maagd. The priest having gone, things had improved, making me wonder if it all was just an illusion. Anyway, I didn't regret what I had done. Someone has to clean up the filth. God assigns the brave.

Once, when I had felt the need for an ear, I had gone and spoken to Marius's grave. I might have been too young to protect the boy, but sure as hell I wasn't going to fail to protect my daughter. However, in this zealous sense of duty, I needed to make sure I didn't end up curtailing her freedom. I wanted Lisa to enjoy the same carefree days as I had in those very mountains.

One summer night, owing to the heat, I found it impossible to sleep, tossing and turning in bed, waking up Evelein more than once. Convinced it would be a while before I slept, I went downstairs and sat beside the swimming pool – my father's latest addition to the house. All in the name of Lisa.

Very soon, I was joined by the very man, who offered me a beer. It was weird to see my father drinking that stuff. I had always thought of him as a scotch man. I refused, but he insisted. The contents were cold, and my thoughts drifted towards an air conditioner. I had experienced their effect in a few offices in Pretoria, and the cool rooms had felt amazing.

"Some heat!" my father exclaimed, wiping the sweat from his brow. We were both shirtless and could have been mistaken for two men by the beach. "We better install an air conditioner." "That was my very thought," I replied.

"Summers are getting hotter. Or maybe I am getting old."

"You look great."

"Which is more than could be said of you."

Here we go! I thought I looked just fine, although recently, apart from sex, I hadn't been getting much exercise. I knew I had to take it up a notch. The exercise, not the sex. Maybe both.

I nodded, saying, "Don't worry, I plan to get right onto it."

My father turned towards me. "No, I meant your eyes. They look tired. You need a break."

Well, I certainly could do with one.

My father went on. "Take one. You know that you deserve it. Especially Evelein."

That was true.

"Well, Danie," he said, "You know how things were back then. I am glad you stayed for I would have never been able to handle things alone. Besides, you helped Evelein's father, too. Those were some days, eh?"

I nodded. They certainly had been.

The beer must have been having an effect. My father went on. "You know, then, with Lisa being born, I knew it would be impossible for you to go. So I went while I still could. I am sorry if I messed up your plans."

"You didn't mess up anything. Evelein and I are happy for you and mother."

We went silent for a while, sipping the beer, staring at the still water in the pool.

"You are very lucky, Danie, to have found a girl like Evelein," he said. "She is dedicated, devoted, and selfless. Trust me, I spent my life with a woman like that, and I know how lucky you are."

It was not customary for my father to express his emotions like that. At least not to me. How many beers had he had?

"Take my advice, boy. Delay no further. Make a plan. Go wherever you and Evelein have always wanted to go. I can cope on my own for a while. However, let me warn you, in another year, I would have given it up all. I have had a hard life, boy, and I am ready to live out the rest of my days in the sun. So, I tell you, go. Go and show the girls the world."

That was it. I was leaving the very week.

"Especially, Lisa. She doesn't deserve to be raised in a country like this. I don't know what is happening here. Netherlands abolished slavery years ago. America has integrated its schools. The world is moving on, while we just sit here, patting ourselves on the back for the fine job we are doing, holding our children behind. We might as well put them in a cave."

Seldom at expressing his opinions, he then went on for another ten minutes, blasting just about every law he could think of. When he was done, he asked me to fetch more beer. I did, and we got drinking, again.

"So, take Lisa. Show her the real world before she gets any older. That's when she will be most vulnerable to all of this. We never let you get affected by any of it. But times have changed. The brainwashing nowadays is almost irresistible. The stuff they are teaching the children. I am an old man, and even with all my years, at times, it is hard for me to resist it. Imagine what goes through a child's mind."

I asked him how he had kept me from it? As far as I knew, I had kept out of it myself. Whatever little did accumulate in me, soon got washed away in the navy.

My father smiled before answering. It was a sly smile. He took his time, enjoying the suspense he had created. When he came close to losing my attention, he let it slip.

"Marius," he said.

"Marius?" I asked with no hidden surprise. How was that even possible? He was a hurting, old soul, who had never gotten over the fact that they had lost the Freedom War.

"And the more you looked at him, the more you realized how silly it all was," my father replied, abruptly.

I had nothing left to say. The nail had been hit right on the head. Just watching Marius had taught me the futility of war. Little wonder when I went looking for it, I never found it. I realized that it wasn't war I was looking for, to begin with, but meaning. Just like the millions of young, lost soldiers, who thought war would provide them with one as if there ever had been meaning in bloodshed. Fortunately, I had avoided that fate. Marius hadn't. When he had gone looking for meaning, he had found war, and thinking it would provide him with the very thing, had blindly jumped in, only to realize that it was the most meaningless thing ever. It had scarred his life. Marius had never spoken fondly about the war, only telling me stories about brave men. Perhaps he had wished for me to be braver than them all by not looking for meaning in something that had none.

After a few minutes of deep silence, I said, "Evelein and I have been thinking of sending Lisa to school. We don't think here is the best option."

He looked at me. "Where you thinking of?"

"I don't know," I replied. "Europe.... America, perhaps?"

My father thought for a while, then shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Sounds like a fair idea, but stick a pin in it for now. Take the vacation. See where you stand after that. Follow your heart. Take as much time as you need. A year. Two years. Whatever. But be as sure as the sun that once you are back, all this is yours. If you want to sell the entire thing and resettle, do it. I couldn't care less. Just leave me the estate. That I can run without your help."

"You wouldn't mind if I just sold off your business like that?" I asked. "I mean, you have toiled at it for years."

"I have toiled for my wife and for my child. I have toiled for my family. Just like you toil for yours. What good is all this toiling if it can't be used to better the lives of the very people we toil for?"

"Thanks, I really appreciate it."

"You don't have to thank me. I just did my duty. The same way you do yours. That's all there is to it. Never get attached to any of it, Danie, for, as they say, an attachment is a dangerous thing."

We both sat there, thinking about our lives. I was young, and looking towards the future. He was old and reflecting on the past.

"You know, Danie," my father continued, "Unlike you, I had to begin from scratch, all alone, never anyone to guide me. But don't get me wrong. I see you, and I see the same spirit in you. I'm certain that had you been in my shoes, you would have fared better, much better. So, no matter what, never let anything ever make you doubt your ability for I never doubted it, neither did your mother. Nor your old friend Marius."

My eyes grew wet. It was a great compliment from a great man.

"You are a fighter, Danie, and you are one hell of a fighter. You would have made your mother proud."

Did he just say that or had I misheard? "What do you mean by that?" I asked.

He gave me a confused look. "Huh?"

"What you mean I would have made my mother proud? You said I would have made my mother proud."

"Did I? I think I might have had one too many. I am slurring my words. I meant you make your mother proud."

I nodded, slowly. There hadn't been a single slur the entire night. I always had a feeling I was being kept from a closely guarded secret, and this was the man keeping it from me. In so many years this had been just the second slip. The last one, years ago, when while dropping me off at school, he had very nearly said that I was born in Pretoria. However, those were not the only signs. The discovery of his name amongst the dead, his obsession with security, and his childlike reluctance of getting involved with any businesses originating from Cape Town. I wanted to confront him then and there, but like always, he cut me off.

"Before you leave, give thought to installing that air conditioner," he said, getting up.

After he had been gone, I sat there, wondering what it was that he was keeping from me until I saw gentle ripples across the water. A slight wind was picking up, and I finally felt sleepy. Draining the remainder of the bottle, I went inside, not waking before breakfast was served.

# Chapter 49

A week after the poolside conversation, Evelein, Lisa, and I boarded a ship at Durban. The year was 1970. Wanting the memories of our first vacation to last forever, I spared no expense. A similar journey on the Tafelberg would have taken me a month, whereas we were now to cover the six thousand seven hundred miles between Durban and Southampton within ten days. The ship was less than a year old, and fitted with the latest technology, including stabilizing fins on the sides of her hull to keep it from rolling in heavy seas. The captain, pleased to learn that one of his first class passengers was an ex-naval officer, invited us to drink. Having had had the privilege to see a few captain's cabins on large merchant vessels, I had always been impressed with the luxuries it provided. However, this one was a league above the rest. It seemed that the owners of the ship were committed to making sure the captain felt very much at home. And with good reason. Lisa wished to see the wheelhouse, the place from where they drove the ship was what she called it, and the old sailor was only happy to oblige. It was every bit as luxurious, and at least ten times bigger than what I had been used to. I couldn't help but compare it to the Tafelberg's. While the second mate got busy explaining the various instruments to a glowing Lisa, I stared ahead towards the sea. The ship was doing thirty knots, and I couldn't feel a thing. My lovely, old rust bucket, on a good day, had managed eleven, but not without rattling every bone in my body.

We met Jason in Southampton. He had progressed through the ranks quickly, already making Captain. I wasn't surprised. Once, he took me to the very docks, where twelve years ago, they had broken my beloved Tafelberg, the smells of barnacles bringing back old memories. Jason was nothing like me, but we got on remarkably well. He had carved himself an exceptional career in the Navy, and a few years down the line, it was not hard to imagine him in an admiral's uniform. Of course, being a naval architect, Jason didn't have to put up with the sort of nonsense regular officers did. Plus, he was always home. He had bought a house in Southampton, which he shared with his wife of eleven years. Their son, a little older than Lisa, went to one of the best schools in the country. I wanted to know more about it.

"Why do you wish to send Lisa to school here?" he asked as he stirred his coffee. We were sitting on a bench in the yard canteen just like we had years ago. Some men in dirty coveralls ate a few feet from us. Jason was a captain but didn't mind snacking in a canteen that did not exclusively cater to officers. I was not sure how many such officers existed in the British Navy, but I was sure there weren't many. Perhaps that's what made us so compatible. We couldn't have cared less for the petty protocol.

I told him that I was exploring all options. He said he would be glad to provide a referral if needed.

After a few days in Southampton, we traveled to London, accompanied by Jason and his wife. One day, he took me to visit someone in Chelsea, the place the city's elite called home. We entered a posh apartment complex, and from the way the doorman greeted him, made it apparent that Jason was a regular. We rode the elevator to the fourth floor.

"So, who are we meeting here?" I asked, admiring the expensive wallpaper.

"Someone is waiting for you."

"Me?" I asked, surprised.

The door at the end of the hallway flew wide open, and a man with a broad build and thin, graying hair stood at the doorway, a welcoming smile on his face. He held his hand out. Jason made the introductions.

"Danie, this is Jerome Parker. Mr. Parker, Danie Coetzee."

"Mr. Coetzee, a pleasure." His grip was firm, and his eyes reminded me of a dead Boer soldier I had once seen a portrait of. He welcomed us inside, offering us a drink. It was ten in the morning! My naval days were long gone.

"I'll just have a coffee," I said. Jason opted for the same.

Jerome Parker was a wealthy businessman looking forward to investing in South Africa. Gauging the man was not easy for his face, and body language gave nothing away. He must have made a terrific poker player, I thought. I presumed his interests lay in mining.

"No, Mr. Coetzee," he said, "I have no interest in mining at all."

That was odd. What did this Parker want from me then? Tips on growing corn?

Jason, who had been silent up to now, spoke, "Mr. Parker was thinking along the terms of yards."

"Ship or railway?" I asked.

"Ship, Mr. Coetzee," Parker replied, helping himself to another cup. "Shipyards in Cape Town."

My experience in yards had lasted about two months. Although I had considered exploring them from a business standpoint, my father had strongly resisted. According to him, the marine industry in South Africa was monopolized by immoral people, and ports and yards served as gateways to smuggle goods and individuals in and out of the country. My father's reputation was clean, and he didn't want to get his hands dirty.

"How can you run a business without getting your hands dirty?" I had argued.

"Not so dirty," he had argued back.

In the end, I had torn my plans. There lay no point in getting what you wanted if that meant upsetting Gert Coetzee. He would go on about it forever and ever.

I told Parker that I was not the right man. Much to the contrary, in his opinion, I was the very man. At least when it came to South Africa.

The strategy was straightforward. Cape Town lay in the center of the Americas and Asia and had enormous potential. Ships needed repairs and refueling. We were to form a merger, of which Jason would hold all executive rights. My job was to facilitate the smooth running. They wanted a purely South African face. It was easier that way. Since Parker would do most of the financing, he was to receive the significant chunk of the profits for the first ten years, allowing him to recover the sum invested. That's how much time they predicted, and based on my past research, that was about right. Then on, the profits got split three ways.

I said that I would have to get back home before I could make a decision, and that wasn't happening anytime soon. They were prepared to wait. I could have named ten people, who would have taken the deal then and there, but Jason had insisted on having me on board. South Africa was foreign territory, and he didn't trust anyone else. Parker wanted Jason, Jason wanted me. Everything hinged on me now. We parted on a positive note, although, I wasn't sure how positive my father would feel when he found out.

We spent close to a month in England before bidding goodbye to our gracious hosts. I shook hands with Jason. He awaited an answer. I promised him that even if I decided not to go ahead, I would find him a worthy replacement. Lisa waved goodbye as the ship cast off. She wanted to know if I knew this ship's captain as well. I told her I would try to strike an acquaintance.

# Chapter 50

After England, we traveled to Denmark, Belgium, and the Netherlands. Once, during our stay in Amsterdam, I ventured out alone at night. For obvious reasons, I had developed a bond with the city. I wandered around, scared I might bump into Ava. She didn't know we were visiting, and it was best it stayed that way. The last time around, her no-show, had left me with a very foul taste. After an hour, I wanted to head back to the hotel, but something prevented me from doing so. Instead, I kept walking, faster and faster, my heart thumping with excitement. When I heard the sounds in the distance, I knew I was close and was walking so fast, I might as well as have run. When I saw the lights, I stopped and took in the view. The bars were lined in rows, neon lights displaying their unusual names. I entered the one called 'The Drunken Sailor.' A few rowdy seamen laughed uncontrollably in the corner. I smiled to myself. The time machine had been switched on. I was back in the Navy. It was time to get drunk!

Next stop was BDR—West Germany. Jan Schreuder, our guide, was a former East German escapee, who had successfully scaled the wall. His partner hadn't been so lucky, having had been shot dead in the attempt. When it came to climbing walls, I was no novice myself, but not one guarded by snipers. He told us about the night he had crossed over. As he described every little detail, I tried imagining what it must have been like to see the woman he had loved, die before his very eyes. She hadn't called out to him. He hadn't reached out to her. It was useless. She was gone. Jan Schreuder opted to live. That way he had a better chance of getting back at the enemy. He reminded me of Marius, fighting for a cause, but one that was worth fighting for. Rumor had it that Jan was involved in the digging of some very secretive tunnels below the wall. He certainly seemed like a man, who knew what he was doing. I didn't care to ask him whether it was true. I was sick of walls. To me they represented one thing—freedom curtailed.

Jan Schreuder was not the best of tour guides, but we stuck to him, nevertheless. Captivated by his stories, Evelein wanted to find out for herself what went on behind the Iron Curtain. I wasn't up for the idea.

"Pretty much the same what goes on back home," I said. I didn't know how open these countries were to tourism and didn't want to find out. Not with a wife and daughter along.

Evelein persisted, though, and in the end, I agreed with her plan for Moscow. But only for a week. Not a day more. That would permit us to make it to Paris in time to catch the Bastille Day parade. Lisa didn't want to miss that for the world. Like many girls, she had found the French language irresistible, forcing me to search high and wide for somebody, anybody, close to Barberton, willing to teach it to a seven-year-old. In the end, I had managed to locate an elderly lady in Nelspruit. Once a week, Lisa, accompanied by the chauffeur, her nanny, and upon my father's insistence, a bodyguard of sorts would make the thirty-mile trip. She had promised her teacher to bring back photos.

Upon our arrival in Leningrad, we were introduced to our tour guide. Roman Ivanovich looked like someone, who hadn't had a real time in years. Seating us in a comfortable room, he explained the 'safety precautions' we needed to adhere to at all times. Simply put, he was telling us the rules. The 'safety precautions' took fifteen minutes to explain, whereas they could have been handed over in a single sentence—If you see only what we show you, your trip to the USSR shall be a memorable one. I don't know why, but I told Ivanovich to cut to the chase. It was bad enough that they were preaching communism, but I wasn't there as a student. In return, the Russian tried to assert his authority, but I threatened him with the ultimatum. Either we leave for Moscow right away, or I tell his superiors that they had lost some well-paying customers, although, I wasn't sure they wanted us there, to begin with. Ivanovich must have had a lousy record for he succumbed to my tactics. We were off to Moscow.

We spent only four days in Moscow. It was not the city or its beautiful people that forced us to cut short our trip, but an eerie feeling that our every move was being monitored. Leonid Brezhnev was president and was doing a damn fine job at that. The Russians were offering other tours as well, but Evelein decided she had seen enough. I informed Ivanovich of our decision, who feigned surprise but got on with it. In those four days, I had blasted him again, when he had attempted to preach propaganda to my daughter.

Lisa had asked him if he was a Christian to which Ivanovich had replied in the negative. However, he hadn't stopped there, going on to explain what an excellent philosophy they were following. That had ticked me off. Back home, I needed to work hard to make sure Apartheid didn't affect the way Lisa treated people. Now, our tour guide was offering her an alternative. The pressures of raising a child correctly were tremendous, indeed. I wasn't against communism. It looked good on paper, but in the real world, it remained tough to implement, beyond the capabilities of mortal beings, at least. I couldn't understand how people, who preached equality, were above the others. Politburo members drove in reserved lanes, while most people couldn't afford a car. Everything was filtered before it reached the public, views included. A few select lived like monarchs, while the masses slogged away. No wonder it didn't last too long.

Ivanovich was in his late forties, and I had wanted to ask him if he actually believed in the system or was he so brainwashed that he only spoke what the state wanted him to talk. It was no use, though. I knew what his answer would be – whatever the state wished it to be. I took pity on him. In a world where Stalin's very own daughter had decided to defect to the West via New Delhi, what chance did a man like Ivanovich stand?

After Russia, we headed straight for Paris. We were traveling Europe in circles, but as long as my family was happy, little did I care as to how we went about the task. Lisa seemed to know all about French history, insisting we not hire a translator, and trust the eight-year-old to show us 'her' city. Right from checking in at the hotel to ordering meals, she did it all. Whenever she got stuck, she referred to the big book she carried along, surprising onlookers. Many smiled at her and wanted to speak with her. In the end, Lisa ended up making a lot of friends, and I wondered whether she would need those French lessons, anymore. After ten days in Paris, she was French enough to qualify as a citizen.

We took one day at a time, trying to absorb the culture the best we could. I had never done something so slowly in my life but was enjoying every bit. We mostly walked, and when Lisa could walk no more, I would carry her on my shoulders. The tour continued. Overstaying, we finally departed France in late July 1970. I promised Lisa we would soon return.

The rest of the trip had to be cut short. We skipped Switzerland and Italy. Evelein didn't mind. From Marseille, we headed to Barcelona, Madrid, and finally down to Malaga, before crossing the Straits of Gibraltar and ending up in Casablanca. From there, we were lucky to get onto a ship that was headed back home. When we finally reached Barberton, I was a few days shy of my thirty-seventh birthday. Despite touring for months, we had been unable to cover all of Europe. For the next trip, Evelein planned on seeing America. I wondered how long that would take.

# Chapter 51

In my absence, my father brought about no changes, and everything remained pretty much the same. It took me a few days to settle down into my old routine. My father kept his patience. When he saw that I was comfortable, he showed up in my office. I could sense what was coming. He was finally calling it a day. I was on my own. No more dropping in to see how things were going. It was a clean break. There were to be no comebacks. Everything was to be transferred to me. The following year, he intended to take one more trip with my mother. Not a very long one. Just two or three months. If it was okay with Evelein and me, they wished to take their granddaughter along. Asking me to get the papers ready, he left. I got to work.

The following week, as he had said, he was back, reviewing the papers our lawyers had prepared. I watched as he took his time, going through them. When he was done, he stood, slowly walking over to the window, staring out, probably rewinding the tape of the journey that had led him so far. Pretty far for an orphan without a penny in his pocket.

"This is it, then, Danie," he said, still looking out the window. "This is it."

I remained seated, wrestling with myself, wondering whether or not to inform him of my meeting with Parker.

"It's all yours now," he went on, "Everything." He looked out a few more minutes, before abruptly turning and walking back to the desk.

When he reached for the pen, I stopped him. There was something he needed to know. I could have easily opted otherwise, but I felt that would tantamount to stabbing him in the back. Metaphorically.

"There is something I wish to tell you," I said. My voice was hesitant, and I was avoiding eye contact.

"Go on," he said. It was the last thing he must have expected.

I took a deep breath. "I wish to inform you that this ship is not headed where you think."

"Where is it headed to, then, young lieutenant?" His voice was clear. There was not a trace of concern. Probably, he had actually stopped caring.

I managed to chuckle. "Towards expansion," I said.

He looked me from the corner of his eye. It was time to lay the cards on the table.

His face suddenly grew concerned. However, something told me that he wanted to know more. Usually, he would have vehemently shaken his head, but there was none of that. I went on.

"A friend of mine, a naval architect. Knows yards like the back of his hand. Can scrap a ship in his sleep."

"Who?" my father wanted to know.

"Commodore Jason Briggs of the Royal Navy." Jason had been promoted once again while I had been on holiday.

"Can we afford to invest so much money?"

"We don't have to. Most investment is by a man named Parker."

His head nodded, mind thinking of something. "I have heard of him."

"They await an answer. We start work by January."

My father absorbed all the details. He had one question. "You plan to tell them yes?"

"Only if you can live with it," I replied. I know how strongly you have advised against changing lanes, and for a good reason. We are doing well. But if...," I stopped mid-sentence for it became apparent that he wasn't listening. I waited for him to return from his thoughts, but he never did, simply getting up and walking away, instead. The papers left lying there, unsigned. I cursed myself. I should have induced the topic slowly, instead of springing it on him at the last moment. I thought of Jason, while at the same time trying to think of my replacement.

I placed a call to Southampton, but it didn't get through. Frustrated, I went out for a walk. I needed the air.

That evening, I holed myself up in the office until late, returning home only when everyone was asleep. Evelein was waiting for me.

"You want to tell me what's bothering you?" she asked.

I shook my head to say no. It wasn't worthwhile. She ran her fingers through my hair as I fell asleep.

The next morning, after a quick breakfast, I went to Lisa's room as Evelein got her ready. I kissed them both goodbye.

"Take care," Evelein said with a concerned look. I promised I would. I saw my father coming out of his room and hurried. Before he could say anything, I was already out the door.

Southampton was a few hours behind Barberton, and I decided to wait until lunch to tell Jason. Determined not to sulk, I soon got busy, and felt good. That's when I heard the door open. Afraid of who it might be, I continued to stare at the page, although I couldn't make out a word. Suddenly, it was all blurred.

"Where are those papers?" my father demanded.

I opened the drawer and passed them over, without looking in his direction. It took him about two minutes to sign them all. When he was through, he pushed them back at me. Then, reaching into his breast pocket, he took out a piece of paper. On it was the name of two shipyards in Cape Town.

"They are being offered to a local company," he said, passing it over. "Bid more than them. Whatever it takes. Hijack the deal. Use any tactics you have to. Do it today."

I looked at the paper. The names were familiar. "What if Parker does not wish to go beyond a certain limit?" I asked.

"Then tell him that he is out. Either he plays along, or we go solo."

Going solo? I had trouble believing him. Where had that come from?

For five minutes after my father was gone, I stared at the door, half expecting him to come back to say something further. When he didn't, I picked up the telephone. Jason was still in bed. I told him to get out of it.

That evening, when I went back home, my father enquired if I had contacted the sellers in Cape Town. We were eating dinner. I told him I hadn't.

That very nearly caused him to lose his temper. "What did I tell you in the morning?" he asked.

I couldn't remember the last time my father had lost his patience with me, but I didn't appreciate the haste. Those yards weren't even on our list, and there was no way Jason would be willing to buy them, and that meant there was no way Parker would put up the money. I tried to explain this to him, but he just shook his head.

"You tell me one thing, what did I say to you in the morning?" he kept repeating, over and over, his voice getting angrier. My mother gave him a disapproving look. Evelein stared at her plate. I kept eating, desperate to avoid answering back, which would only worsen the situation. We had had several heated arguments in the past, but a long time ago. The mutual cease-fire of nearly fifteen years was on the brink of violation.

"Danie!" he yelled out loud. "I am talking to you."

I put my fork down and looked up. Evelein, who was seated across from me looked at me, her eyes begging me not to respond.

"We'll talk about it later," I said, picking up my fork.

This seemed to have irked him more than I thought that it would, and he slammed the table, very nearly toppling the wine bottle. "We will talk about it whenever I want to talk about it. Do you understand?" he shouted while pointing a finger.

That was it. I looked up, again, angrily, intending to ask whether he had lost it. That's when I heard my mother's voice.

"Gert!" she said to him, firmly. "Enough! I will not have you behaving like this at the table."

My father retreated slowly, still glaring at me. I glared back. My mother was not finished, however.

"And I don't want a word from you, either, Danie," she said, turning her attention towards me. "If you two want to fight, go to the office, and lock yourselves in. Heaven forbids Lisa hears. What sort of impression will that make on her? The two men she looks up to behaving like that. Thank goodness she went to bed early."

Scolded, I looked down and resumed trying to eat. In the meantime, my mother reassured Evelein, who had never seen us like this. Sure, we had the usual family banter, but it was mostly civilized. My father must have noticed the unease for he calmed himself down, apologizing to them. He offered me a weak sorry. I said it was alright. My mother changed the topic by asking what Lisa had studied that day, and we finished the rest of dinner in peace.

Back in my room, I was almost drifting off, when there was a knock. Puzzled, Evelein and I looked at each other. It was my father. He wanted a word if that was okay. I told him I would be out in a minute. Throwing on some pants, I headed down.

My father awaited me in the porch. I went and sat next to him. After a few minutes of silence, he asked me whether Evelein was alright. I informed him she was. He said he was sorry. I asked him to forget about it. Once the tension dissolved, he got back to business.

"About those yards," he said, turning his head towards me.

I opened my mouth to explain to him, but he waved his hand, cutting me off.

"I know what you are trying to say, and believe me, I don't want to interfere with your plans. Whatever you three intend on doing, go ahead. There is nothing in it for me."

Then why had he dropped off those names?

"However, since you are going to be a genuine buyer, backed by serious money, I want you to do me a favor."

I listened on. By the time my father was done, I was left feeling shocked. Somebody was about to end up in the streets!

# Chapter 52

The following morning, we all ate together. My father, determined to restore normality, conversed freely and cheerfully, much to the relief of the ladies, especially Evelein, who had been visibly discomforted by the skirmish. Breakfast had, my father surprised everyone by showing up at the office, though I doubted anyone genuinely felt that way. He had been promising to retire forever. Quickly grabbing my briefcase, I headed for the train station.

On the platform, I sat on a bench. I had wanted to take one of my assistants along, but our small staff didn't permit me the luxury. Two henchmen accompanied me, instead. Both were armed, and no strangers when it came to hurting people. I too carried a pistol. Things could get hairy, and we weren't taking chances. However, being in no immediate danger right there in Barberton, I scanned the paper. The news was depressing. Journalists ought to have been the most pessimist lot. They always smelled a rat, and in their zealous endeavor to find one, ruined a lot of things which were functioning smoothly. That day was no different. The Bantu Homeland Citizenship Act, passed earlier that year, was still providing fodder for the press. There was a talk of more such acts to be passed, and I was hard-pressed to remember the last time the fools in Parliament had done anything that had benefited the nation. I skipped to the sports section. There wasn't anything uplifting there, either. It was 1970, and blacks being unable to represent South Africa had resulted in several sports bodies around the world boycotting us. Fed up, I folded it and observed the tracks. Even that was more interesting.

When the train arrived, I left the paper behind on the bench. There was no way I was reading that damned thing for any longer. Besides, I had other reading to do, and the privacy of my first class cabin would allow me just that. Settling in, I opened my briefcase, flipping through the secret dossier my father had handed over. It was mostly typed, the original entry dating to nearly forty years ago. The train started moving. Cape Town lay less than a day away.

The dossier was nearly two inches thick and well organized. My father had done a very thorough job. I buried myself into it. Still an avid reader, I was able to finish it within a couple of hours. When I was through, I realized it was no ordinary dossier, but a blueprint of an entire organization. My father must have spent a small fortune on it, and for close to four decades had painstakingly collected data, revealing the organization's darkest, murkiest secrets. Now, he wanted two things from me. Understand how the organization functioned. Then, throw a spanner in the works. Closing it, I looked at the old, black and white photo of the president. He had no idea what was coming. I felt like a corporate assassin!

The train arrived in the early hours of the morning, and I checked myself into a hotel. My men occupied adjoining rooms. I told them to get some rest.

In the morning, after breakfast, I headed towards Cape Town's busy port district. Having had frequented the area often as a cadet, I remained familiar with the layout. Marine offices occupied more than two lanes. Finding the one I was looking for, I entered. My men waited outside. I informed the receptionist that I was there concerning the floating yards. She was polite and smiled a lot. After a couple of minutes, I was shown into the chairman's office.

Frederick Gatsby was an averagely built man, who must have been in his sixties. He was clean shaven and dressed conservatively. In stark contrast, I wore a fashionable stubble and dressed modernly. Anyway, he had no interest in my sense of fashion. I was there for business. I expressed my interest in buying the yards.

Gatsby frowned, and with good reason. Neither had he heard of my company nor me. Then, why was I so interested in a pair of old yards? I said that although new, we weren't without experience, and certainly not without cash. Serious cash. And he wasn't the only seller; we intended speaking with.

Gatsby confessed that another party was already involved, deeply. "They plan on doing exactly like you, Mr. Coetzee," he said. "They are very much into these things."

I very well knew what the things they were into and had been for the last forty years. The dossier lay at my feet.

"Also," he continued, "negotiations are at an advanced stage, and unless...." he hesitated before going on. "Unless you make a substantially higher offer, I am afraid, we will have to go ahead with the current deal."

Smiling the smile of a man with seemingly limitless funds, I went on to ask him what they were currently receiving. He hesitated. He was not at liberty to disclose such matters. I nodded, saying I perfectly understood, before reaching into my pocket for the check I had prepared that very morning.

"I believe ten percent higher qualifies as substantially higher," I said, sliding it across the desk.

Gatsby was left feeling speechless. The amount on the check was exactly ten percent higher.

"Seems you and your backers are well informed," he said, still staring at it.

"I presume I am in the running now," I said. It was more of a statement than a query. Of course, I was in the running. It went without saying. We shook hands. I had been in there for less than an hour.

I telephoned Jason, asking him when he planned on coming down. In a couple of weeks, he replied. I informed him that I was already in Cape Town looking at yards. My enthusiasm delighted him. He couldn't wait to tell Parker. Until noon, I visited the offices of other dock owners, the ones I actually intended to buy from. I was sure Gatsby had a lot of friends, and would soon be hearing about me from them. I was killing two birds with one stone. Yet, it was impossible to miss.

By lunch, I was done with my day's work and roamed the streets. It was important to spend the hours wisely. The tussle for those two yards could get intense. Picking up a new thriller from the stands, I headed for the beach.

The following morning, I was back at Gatsby's office by ten and was shown in immediately. News had spread. The chairman had heard that I was interested in other yards as well. I confirmed that to be true. We meant to spend money. However, his two yards remained our top priority. That appeared to have him relieved. There had been developments, he informed. The previous buyer had upped his initial bid by eleven percent. I was expecting it. Coolly, I produced a check that was marked at fourteen. I would be back same time tomorrow.

Panic must have broken, and by lunch, I was being followed. My father had warned me how dangerous these people could get. The tail was spotted by one of my men.

"Want me to do something about it?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No, let's see what he gets up to."

The tail stuck with me, while I made more rounds of offices. In the evening, when I headed back to the beach, it disappeared. There, reading for approximately an hour, I went to a bar shack and occupied a stool. Within minutes, I found an attractive girl seated next to me, a bikini flaunting her flawless body. She offered a hello.

It seemed that Fae had studied the art of seduction. We were on our third drink, but she was hardly drunk, her cocktails appearing as harmless as water, whereas mine, pails of alcohol. Soon, I went to relieve myself, taking my time. On the way out, I saw one of my men take off his hat. It was a signal. I immediately looked away.

Fae wanted to order another round, but I surprised her by saying that I needed to get going. That caused panic to flash through her eyes momentarily, just in time for me to catch it. Her job wasn't finished yet. I placed a few Rand on the table. In a last ditch attempt, she asked me to a party later that night. I vowed to be there. She was my stepping stone to the man operating her, and though I very well knew who he was, I still had to play in this little game of cat and mouse. Besides, why read thrillers all evening when you could live one?

After a shower at the hotel, I got to the party, meeting up with Fae, who wore a revealing dress designed to make you wonder what lay hidden beneath. Anyway, I wasn't going to let my penis interfere with my head. The party was private, and I got introduced around, every name carrying a profession. Lawyers, shipowners, bankers, the lot. Finally, I met the very man himself, recognizing him from the old, black and white photo. His advanced years hadn't taken the shine out of his face.

"Neil Sullivan," he said, shaking my hand. The grip was crushing.

"Danie Coetzee," I replied.

"Welcome to Cape Town."

Apparently, Sullivan didn't discuss his business in front of bimbos, and Fae soon disappeared. We made small talk as he told me about himself and his company. The dossier gave a very different version.

"Let me assure you of brilliant returns if you work with us instead of against us," he said.

I didn't know what to make of that. Heavily invested in the ship repair business, he desperately needed the docks. Clients were demanding services, which he was struggling to deliver. Not obtaining them would mean suffering substantial delays and losses. I planned to go a step further and bankrupt him, entirely.

Sounding unimpressed, I replied, "That is very kind of you, but the people I represent don't believe in partnerships, preferring to work alone."

"Some people," he said. "They seem to be willing to take on unprecedented risk."

"Not before expecting an unprecedented return."

"Fair enough," he growled before leaning over and looking me straight in the eye. "But swimming alone with the sharks is dangerous," he said. "And there are plenty in the bay of Cape Town."

It wasn't a threat. Not yet. But it was close.

"Not if you're a shark yourself," I replied, returning the look.

The statement had been that of a seasoned professional, who had dealt with threats before. The message was clear. Ours was not a body that could be bullied into submission, but a well-oiled machine, and a big one at that. And if we wanted it our way, we were about to have it.

"It's funny," he said, "I have a feeling I have met you before."

I couldn't imagine when.

# Chapter 53

My men slept in shifts that night. All through the night, someone sat on my sofa, a loaded gun in his hand, ready to shoot at the first sign of trouble. Luckily, we didn't get any. In the morning, I was back meeting Gatsby. He too had been present at the party, and it was apparent that he had left late. Sullivan had made it clear he didn't wish to go any higher. The docks were mine, and even though I didn't want them, I tried to act pleased. Secretly, I knew that he and Sullivan were testing me out. A never-heard-of-firm, just coming along, ready to pay through the nose for two old yards, didn't fit very well. I asked when I could sign the papers. In another twenty-four hours, I was told.

After visiting more offices, I had lunch at the same place. During my visit to the restroom, one of my men asked whether I had spotted a tail. I hadn't. He looked concerned. Neither had they.

"Isn't that a good thing?" I asked.

He just shook his head, saying that he wasn't sure. They had already called up Barberton, and two more men were en route. There were taking no chances. My father had a zero tolerance for mistakes.

After lunch, I went back to the beach. Fae surprised me with an appearance. She was modestly dressed this time. I wasn't sure what she wanted, but something told me that this wasn't a business visit. She asked whether I had seen through her act the previous day. I smirked. Who was she talking to? I decided to be blunt, telling her that I had only played along to see where it all led to. If Sullivan wanted to meet with me, he didn't need to send her my way. She confessed that the plan had been much worse, but I hadn't fallen for it, further going on to reveal that my appearance had caught the Sullivan group unaware. They were still collecting data on me, and more importantly, the men behind me. The signs were apparent. They were slowing down. When I went to the bar that evening, I found Fae seated close to a man. The modest clothes were gone, the bikini was back on. She winked when she saw me. Some people never learned.

When I woke up the following morning, I found someone else on the sofa. The baby face belonged to a security expert, and one of the most sought after. Only a few years ago, we had paid him a big bonus, when he had cracked a mysterious case. A ring of corrupt miners had been stealing expensive tools. They were well organized, going undetected for two years. That's when Babyface had come in. It had taken him less than three weeks to round off the culprits. Impressed, my father had then contracted him to survey the other mines, and the estate, too. Marius was long gone. Someone needed to step into his shoes. Babyface had a knack for smelling danger. It was like a sixth sense. And he sat less than eight feet from me. Was I in such deep trouble? He greeted me without a smile. Coffee was on its way. Terrific!

Gatsby seemed visibly concerned that morning. Sullivan was offering as much, and since he was their old customer, protocol demanded they let Sullivan have the docks, unless....There was always the unless.

I told Gatsby that though I was authorized to go higher, I would have to consult with my investors. He was ready to wait another day. That much time wasn't necessary. He would have his answer by lunch.

Leaving, I went to place a telephone call to my father.

"He has matched the offer," I said.

"Go higher," he replied, without even taking a second to pause.

It was like a kick to my abdomen. My father might have waited patiently for forty years, but in my opinion, he was blowing it away at the last moment.

"What if he doesn't match our bid? What if we are forced to buy?"

"He will match our bid." The reply had a calm assurance. I felt enervated.

"How can you be so sure? He is a businessman. Surely, he will see sense and walk away."

"Have you read the dossier, Danie?'' my father asked.

I had. Twice.

"Read it again. You are missing something."

Whatever I was missing, I was sure one more read wouldn't reveal it.

"Tell Gatsby fifteen percent," he said.

Fifteen percent above the asking price? Gatsby would literally be laughing his way to the bank. I could envision him, rubbing his hands in glee, while two idiots fought over two pieces of junk.

"Seems you know this Sullivan very well," I said.

"We go back a long way."

I kept the phone down and went to find a bar. I needed a drink. A strong one. Fifteen percent! What had Sullivan ever done to my father? I hoped I never offended anyone in a similar manner. I didn't want such hell bent enemies.

Babyface advised me to get done with whatever I was up to, and fast. I told him I needed to stall a bit longer. After a lengthy argument, he finally relented. But that was it. He had already gotten me transferred to another hotel. I was booked into a suite. He gave me an identity card that classified me as a Mr. Jonkheer. I said I didn't care for the name. He said he didn't care for what I cared. Babyface had done his homework and had his own dossier on Sullivan that might not have listed his business techniques, but surely listed his leg breaking ones. Also, no more visits to the beach. Every day, I was to finish my work and then be holed up inside.

"How much longer will this last?" I asked him.

"Only you have the answer to that," he replied.

I went to my new hotel and called Gatsby. We were on. Fifteen percent it was.

True to his reputation, Sullivan upped his bid to fifteen percent the very afternoon. What was he thinking? If the dossier figures could be relied upon, it was very nearly financial suicide. He had some reserve cash, but it was dwindling. My father seemed to know all about it. Gatsby wanted to know what I had to say. I asked him to give me another day.

That evening, I called my father and informed him about Sullivan's latest offer.

"See, I told you so," he kept repeating, delighted that his prophecy had come true.

I congratulated him for his intuition, before asking him what needed to be done next. There was no way I was going any higher. Surprisingly, my father agreed. Any higher, and Sullivan would be unable to afford, forcing us to bite the bullet. On the other hand, pulling out would demolish the competition, allowing prices to slip. Gatsby was desperate to sell.

At that point, the whole exercise began to seem futile. If my father had wanted to scare Sullivan, well, he had succeeded. But beyond that, it had been a waste of time and resources. Gert Coetzee, however, wasn't done and had one last card to play. He wanted me to up the bid to fifteen and three quarters.

"Trust me,'' was all he said before hanging up. I just stood there, staring at the receiver.

In the morning, I went to see Gatsby. The chairman was not alone. A man much older sat across.

"Mr. Coetzee," Gatsby said, "May I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Samuel Therond."

The face was shockingly familiar, although I couldn't recollect when and where. The skin was wrinkled, but it was the eyes that caught my attention. I remained sure that I had seen them somewhere. More than once. I shook hands.

Samuel Therond had taken a last minute interest in the docks, and Gatsby wanted to know how the final bids stood. The sale had dragged on long enough, the board wanted him to sell. They needed the money to invest it elsewhere. I examined my shoes while stealing glances at the man seated next to me. If I could only recollect where I had seen those eyes.

Gatsby interrupted my thoughts. "Mr. Coetzee," he said, forcing me to look up. "I need to know your final bid."

I checked the time. It was nine thirty on a Friday morning. I asked Therond how much he was bidding. Whatever it took him, apparently. "Trust me," my father's voice echoed in my head. Was this man the final card he was playing?

I cleared my throat. "I have talked to my people, and they are willing to go a tweak higher. Nothing more."

The answer didn't satisfy Gatsby. He wanted figures, not words. "How much?" he asked.

I took my time answering as both men observed me. I was nervous and with good reason. I thought of Jason and Parker. What was I to tell them in case my father was proven wrong, and I was compelled to buy the docks? Parker would look at other people to work with, and that was all right by me. It was Jason that I was concerned with. He had proven a worthy friend. Our wives got on well, and so did our children. Upon my word, he had already given in his papers and was arriving within days. My father was desperate to knock out Sullivan, and I would be damned if that meant in Jason turning out to be a sacrificial pawn in the grand scheme of things. I doubted the Royal Navy would take him back. I certainly didn't have the connections to get him a job with the South African Navy, if that were to interest him in the first place. I looked at the painting of a merchant ship hung on the wall. It was perfectly symbolic of my situation—all at sea.

"Mr. Coetzee, would you like some privacy to make a phone call perhaps?" Gatsby asked.

I ignored the question, trying to make sense of the entire situation, stealing glances at Therond. Neither the dossier nor my father had mentioned anything about him. Who was he? What did he want? Why this sudden interest? Was he another Sullivan plant, like Fae? He could very well have been. Gatsby, Sullivan, Therond. All Cape Town co-conspirators. Spokes in a wheel that would roll over and crush my father, the village idiot of rural Barberton, who thought he was smart enough to take on the cunning, big city men. I wanted to get up and run, but the voice in my head prevented me from doing so. "Trust me," it kept saying. I hoped I could.

# Chapter 54

"Fifteen and a quarter," I said, slowly, half a percent lower than what my father had instructed.

Gatsby's face lit up, but Therond looked disappointed, his wrinkles doing little to hide the expression. I could sense anger.

Frowning, he turned towards the chairman. "Fifteen and a half," he said.

"Fifteen and three quarters," I blurted out, much to the satisfaction of Therond. It seemed as though he knew that should have been my original figure.

"Sixteen," he went on.

Silence followed. I was outbid, and although relief flooded me, I dared not to display it. Gatsby looked at me one final time. I shook my head. Therond had won. Or at least that's what I thought. I got up to leave, but Therond asked me to wait.

"Half an hour is good?" he asked the chairman. Gatsby nodded.

Therond asked me to accompany him to a cafe down the street. I saw Babyface sitting on a bench, wearing dark glasses. His face remained calm, but I doubted that was the way he felt inside. A coffee break hadn't been discussed. He got up and disappeared.

A walk which should have taken less than a minute took five. Therond walked slowly, and with the aid of a walking stick. The cafe was a foot higher than the sidewalk, and I offered him my hand as he struggled to climb the step.

"Very kind, thank you," he said, grabbing it.

I looked around, seeing two of my men, but not Babyface, though I had a feeling he could see me. I wondered what he was making of all this. A barista rushed to pull out a chair when he saw Therond, who nodded at him. Then, without waiting for an order, the barista was off, only to return moments later with two cups of coffee, and a tray full of assorted biscuits and cakes.

"Please, help yourself, Mr. Coetzee," Therond said as the waiter placed the tray on our table.

"Call me Danie," I said. I might have been in my late thirties, but Therond was at least twice my age. It might have been the norm in Cape Town, but back in rural Barberton, no one that old had ever addressed me as mister.

This appeared to please Therond, and he smiled. We sipped our coffee. He nibbled on a biscuit, whereas I dug into a chocolate cake. The last few days had had my nerves shot, and the sugar helped. Babyface passed by. I looked back at Therond, who was observing me. Those eyes. If I could only figure out where.

"Why did you not go up to fifteen and three-quarters right away?" he asked.

I stopped eating. "You know my father?"

He smiled. "Longer than you have known him."

So that must be it. I must have seen him somewhere with my father. But where?

"I assume you both are working together," I stated.

He nodded. "We go back a long way. A long, long way."

I didn't doubt that for a second. Everybody seemed to be going back a long, long way. Sullivan, my father, Therond. Old men settling old scores, while they still could.

"So, Sullivan is a common enemy?'' I asked.

"And we finally get to destroy him." There was a pause. "Forever."

I surely didn't envy Sullivan.

I took another bite at my cake. "I am sorry, Mr. Therond," I said. "But I have a strange feeling that I have seen you somewhere before.''

Therond's face lit up. "You remember me?" he asked, seemingly surprised. "That's quite remarkable, considering how small you were.''

How small had I been?

"A baby. Hardly a year old."

That made no sense. How could I remember someone I had seen as a baby?

"You sure I haven't seen you ever since?"

Therond was sure. I wasn't. Those eyes. I got up to use the washroom. Looking into the mirror, it suddenly hit me. I now knew where I had seen those eyes before. I stared right at them. My eyes were exactly like Therond's!

When I returned, Therond was waiting on the sidewalk. Sullivan had upped his bid to sixteen and was in Gatsby's office. Since I had been responsible for starting the bidding war, I was invited for the final showdown. And in case I felt like it, I could even bid. I said I was content to watch.

Gatsby's office was packed. Sullivan occupied a corner, surrounded by his advisers, although, going by the dossier, I doubted he planned to listen to any of them. He did not bother to greet Therond, who in return, barely acknowledged his presence. The blood was bad, and only a handful of people in the whole of South Africa seemed to know why. None were present in that room. Therond went and sat down facing Sullivan. He too was flanked by his bankers. Gatsby had his own secretary and lawyers present. I counted no less than twelve people. Finding a vacant chair, I went and sat down.

"Your lawyer will be with you, shortly," Gatsby informed, no sooner was I seated.

I looked around. Had he spoken to me? What lawyer? I was just about to ask when Babyface walked in, all dressed up like a lawyer. Managing to find a chair, he came and sat beside me, his briefcase resting on his lap, its contents a far cry from what one would expect to find in a real lawyer's briefcase.

Gatsby spoke first. This was the concluding phase of the bidding. The board was breathing down his neck, and the deal had to be signed within the hour. He stressed and overstressed the need for urgency. He was about to say something more when there came a knock at the door. An assistant appeared. The chairman looked irritated, asking the man what in heaven's name did he want? It seemed that some prominent members from neighboring offices had heard about the bidding, and were wondering whether they could watch. This irritated Gatsby even further, and he quickly asked both parties whether they had any objections. Therond said no straight away, and after some consultation so did Sullivan. Gatsby finally asked me, and before I could open my mouth, my 'lawyer' informed that we too, had no objections. The chairman nodded to the assistant, and a stampede erupted as no less than twenty men jostled for places. It seemed that the whole street had left their work to see the two rivals go head to head. I saw one of my men in the crowd. When no more would fit in, Gatsby ordered his assistant to close the door and lock it. Even batten it down if need be! He was running out of time.

Someone from the crowd asked who Danie Coetzee was and Gatsby pointed towards me. I tried to remain calm, while numerous pairs of eyes scanned me from head to toe. Someone wanted to know how much my last bid had been, and whether it was true that I was backed by American investors. That was news to someone else, who had heard Japanese. Gatsby answered the best he could, although, even he was not sure as to the nationality of the men behind the scenes. That was something they would just have to check with me, but later.

"Congrats!" my 'lawyer' whispered. "You are a celebrity."

"Shut up," I whispered back.

After spending close to a minute or two answering stupid questions, Gatsby requested for silence. He wanted to resume business.

Therond looked towards one of his bankers. "What was that rat's last bid?" he asked out loud enough for the entire room to hear. Everyone looked at the 'rat,' who fumed. Therond seemed unaffected, however.

"Sixteen and a quarter," Gatsby interjected before there was any more name calling. Silence followed as everyone did the mental math.

Therond whispered something into his banker's ear, who looked up and said, "Sixteen and a half."

Everyone gasped. They were fighting over the yards like two dogs fighting over scraps of meat. I didn't know how much money Therond had, but I was sure that Sullivan was about done.

"How much does that come to?" Babyface asked me.

I shook my head. I didn't even want to know.

All eyes were set on Sullivan, who still glared at Therond. He didn't want to admit defeat. My father was right. The fool had too much pride and was walking straight into a trap.

"Sixteen and three quarters," he said.

"Seventeen," said the banker.

"Seventeen and a quarter," Sullivan thundered, much to the dismay of his advisers.

"Seventeen and a half," came the banker's cool reply.

"Eighteen." There was even more thundering, and I noticed how Sullivan had skipped an entire quarter, reaching straight out for the half pointers now.

"Eighteen and a half." The banker was not about to let Therond down.

"Twenty."

I almost stood up in shock while Sullivan's advisers desperately tried to hide their faces! There was no way they wished to be associated with such madness. Their careers were on the line. This seemed to have caught out Therond as well, who huddled with his team, pretending to be in deep conversation. In truth, he had Sullivan exactly where he wanted. Meanwhile, the spectators shook their heads in disbelief. Babyface carefully scanned the crowd. I could have bet, that by now, he already knew the color of each man's socks.

Therond seemed reluctant to go any further, and after much contemplation, his banker stood up and declared that they would not be bidding anymore. The docks were Sullivan's.

Babyface decided that I had had enough entertainment for one day and that it was time to go home. I quickly got away.

A few weeks later, I was in my study, when Lisa came rushing in, handing me a newspaper grandpa wanted me to read. Taking it from her, I sat her in my lap. It was a day old edition of the Cape Times. Sullivan had filed for bankruptcy. My father smiled as he went past the room. Lisa wanted to play. I threw the paper in the bin and went chasing after her as she screamed with delight.

# Chapter 55

Jason arrived in South Africa in mid-November 1970. Quite understandably, he remained keen to get to work. My father, however, persuaded him to take it easier, introducing him to life in rural Barberton.

"This is not England," he once told him, when Jason re-expressed his desire to get to Cape Town. "We do things at a different pace around here. Those docks aren't going anywhere. Danie has seen a few, and my contacts have already spoken to the owners. You will be given top priority."

That seemed to have relaxed Jason, but I worried the very mention of my name would drive prices up. My last visit had gathered me a lot of fame. Jason didn't know of the scheme I had been conscripted into by my father, though, sooner or later, I was sure he would find out.

We finally departed for Cape Town during the first week of December. Our wives did not accompany us. My mother insisted they stay behind. She was afraid of this Sullivan, whoever he was.

In Cape Town, withing a week, Jason narrowed down the selection to four docks from my possible ten. He sure knew what he wanted. We had discussions with the owners. Parker wasn't interested in coming down. He wanted to spend Christmas at home. I told Jason so did I, and we agreed not to ponder matters too long.

"All are pretty much the same, anyway," he said, one afternoon as we took our lunch at a seaside restaurant.

I couldn't make out much, but agreed with him, nevertheless. "Right you are, Commodore," I said.

He sighed. "Never mind commodore. I just want to be a naval architect."

I picked up my glass. "Cheers to that."

Since it was a Saturday, and there wasn't any business to be undertaken, we ordered more beer. Sitting by the seaside, I got further reminded of my days in the Navy. I thought of my old men, wondering what they would be up to. Getting drunk and having a great time, somewhere, without a doubt. I missed them.

"It is so strange, isn't it?" Jason asked.

"What is?"

"A month ago, I was in England, freezing, strutting around the dockyard with thick, golden stripes on my shoulders. Now, here I am in South Africa, sweating, dressed as a businessman. No one salutes me as I pass by, no one cares."

Unlike me, Jason had stayed in uniform for quite long, and the transition wasn't going to prove easy. Fortunately, he was working hard at it.

"I thought Southampton didn't get very cold," I said, not finding anything fitting to say.

My comment seemed to have irked him. "You are one of a kind," he said. "Here I am, trying to express to you my feelings over this great change in my life, and all you can focus on is the climate. You are a philistine."

Was I? I tried to think of something to defend myself, but the moist, warm wind blew through my hair. I could taste the salt in it. Turning around, I signaled for the waiter to replenish my beer. There was no way I was a philistine. They were. The people who had thought it okay to scrap my beloved Tafelberg.

In the evening, I paid Samuel Therond a visit. Hearing that I was back in town, the man had invited me over. Jason wanted to do some shopping.

Therond was in a wheelchair, which shocked me. Only a month ago, he had been spitting venom in the direction of Sullivan. Now, this. Seemed Sullivan's decline was all that he had been living for. We got talking. He spoke much slower. His energy was fizzling. But those eyes, they remained exactly the same. His wife was dead, and he openly admitted being going, too. I didn't try to console him by saying that he still had a while when it was apparent that he didn't. After some time, he excused himself.

"Old age, you see," he said, apologetically, as a caretaker came and wheeled him away. I told him I understood.

While he was gone, I got up and walked around the house, observing the paintings that hung on the walls. They were mostly amateurish, making me wonder as to why he didn't invest in the works of a professional artist. My guess was correct. They were all painted by someone named Sara Therond. His wife, perhaps, I thought. Or a daughter. There were several photographs, too, all clustered on a single wall. In one of them, stood a middle-aged Samuel Therond, with someone I assumed to be his wife, and a beautiful, young lady, holding a baby. I kept staring at it.

"That is my wife, and my daughter with her child," he said from behind. I hadn't heard him enter.

"She is very beautiful," I said.

He smiled, agreeing.

"Where is she now?"

The smile vanished. "She died a long time ago."

"I am so sorry to hear that."

He shook his head, "No, no, it wasn't your fault."

Obviously, it wasn't my fault. I had meant it as a figure of speech. Besides, I would have hardly been born by then. "The baby is your grandchild, I assume," I said, going on.

The smile was back.

"Boy or a girl?"

"Take a guess."

"Girl," I said.

This amused Therond, who laughed uncontrollably, stopping only when the laughter turned into a bout of coughing. In his condition, I wasn't sure whether it was advisable for him to be laughing like that. One never knew what could go wrong.

"It is a boy," he said, managing to catch his breath.

I didn't ask him where he was for I feared that he too, would be dead. The man appeared to be outliving everyone. No wonder Sullivan was worried.

"He is very much healthy and alive," Therond said out of nowhere. Could he mind read? I smiled. The dying man went on. "He is a real gem. I love him very much."

He must have. It showed on his face, making even the wrinkles seem less wrinkly for a moment.

"Does he live close by?" I enquired.

"Alas, no. But I hope that he comes to my funeral."

What was there to hope in that? He was a grandson. Of course, he would be present at the funeral.

"What is his name?"

"Danie!" he said.

Time stopped for a second as a cold chill went up against my spine. Was he calling me, or was that his real name, indeed? Those eyes. They seemed to be mocking me from under the thick brows. And that was not the only thing. Before coming across the photo, I had come across another, a similar one, save for a minor detail. My father stood in it! The photo was now in my pocket.

The man coughed, repeating the name, "Danie Shaw! That's my grandson."

I simply nodded, my hair still standing on their ends. It was like someone was telling me a ghost tale. A really scary one at that. Therond wanted me to stay over for dinner, but I declined. I had to get to the bottom of something.

# Chapter 56

After a bland dinner, I went to my room and got my gun, before sneaking out of the hotel. I told my men not to worry. I was just going to the bar down the road. Once outside, I ignored the taxi drivers and walked, the warm, moist air doing little to help clear the cobwebs in my mind. However, the man I was going to meet, could blow them right off.

In the aftermath of the bankruptcy, Sullivan had been forced to move. I, of course, knew the nasty little place he now called home. The dossier was very much alive. As I made my way through the dirty street, I remarked on Sullivan's journey from rags to riches, and back to rags, again. The house was a small hole, built by someone in extreme haste. I could see a light flicker inside. The door was unlocked. Taking out my gun, I entered.

Sullivan was eating his meal by a candle. It was a candlelight supper, but there was nothing romantic about it. He didn't have electricity. Even in the dark, he had correctly guessed who it was.

"Danie Coetzee. Please, come in," he called out.

I slowly stepped forward.

"You can put the gun away. I am unarmed."

What did he think I was, stupid? Neil Sullivan not owning a gun. I reached the table with the weapon still drawn. That's when I looked at his meal. Even rats wouldn't have eaten it. I sat down, facing him. His eyes glowed, the flickering flame rendering his face an evil look. It was not just Therond, who had aged since my last visit to the city. Not one of Sullivan's friends had come forward during the fall. The attitude and cockiness were gone. Only the evilness remained.

"So, what brings you here to my humble abode? Have you come to kill me?"

I shook my head, saying, "No, apparently the people who did this to you would rather watch you die like this."

That didn't faze him. He wiped the corner of his mouth and continued eating. "Sorry, I can't offer you anything. There's some water if you like."

Contaminated perhaps. I'd rather drink my piss.

Sullivan finished his meal, and neatly wiping his mouth, pushed the plate aside.

"What do you want, then?" he asked, looking outside.

I looked at him, contemplating. I didn't have any other option. My father or Therond were never going to tell me anything.

"Answers," I said.

He raised his eyebrows. "What answers?"

I slid the photograph across. Sullivan picked it up, examining it in the candlelight, before sliding it back.

"I didn't do it," he said. "I know it is very hard for you all to believe that, but I didn't. So, if there is a confession you came here looking for, there won't be one."

"What didn't you do?" I asked.

"You know what I am talking about."

I didn't. I leaned forward and repeated my question. He saw in my eyes for a few seconds. Suddenly, it hit him. "You don't know who that woman in that photograph is, do you?" There was a crooked smile.

I shook my head.

"Well, then you will need to find that out for yourself. There is nothing I can do."

Saying that he began to get up. I took out the gun. He sat back down again. Had I been in his shoes, I would have begged for someone to shoot me. But he didn't. Maybe he still thought he could get back at his enemies and friends. Did he ever tire?

"Who is the woman in the photograph, Sullivan?" I asked. The gun remained pointed.

The answer was spat out onto my face. "That is your mother, you fool."

My world stopped. The hand holding the gun trembled, forcing me to rest it on the table. My mother? I looked into Sullivan's eyes and knew that he wasn't lying. Everything started to make sense. The cobwebs were gone.

"Therond is my grandfather?" I asked in a quivering voice. It wasn't so much as a question as a statement. Sullivan slowly nodded his head.

We just sat there in the dirty room, choosing not to look at one another. I watched the wax drip down the side of the candle. "What happened, Sullivan?" I asked in a sad voice.

He closed his eyes, pinching the top of his nose between his fingers and thumb. As eager as I was to hear the story, as reluctant was he to repeat it. Then, in a flash, he opened his eyes, looking into mine, "Exactly thirty-nine years ago..." he began.

By the time he finished, I didn't know what to feel. I felt confused, and my head reeled. I had been raised by a woman, who was not my real mother. Not only had she hidden the truth from me, but so had my father. Rage boiled in of me, rage towards everything that had occurred. I felt betrayed by the woman, who had taken from me the love a child reserved for his real mother. Why hadn't she had children of her own? Did I have a step brother or sister I didn't know of? What other dirty secrets was my father hiding? More importantly, why hadn't he ever told me about it? It was not as if I was a child. I could certainly have handled the truth had he just told it to me. But he hadn't, and as fate would have had it, I was forced to learn it from the very man responsible for my mother's death. That I was going to avenge her, was a certainty.

"You shouldn't have told me the truth, Sullivan," I hissed. My eyes were red. He knew his time was up.

"I had no other choice. I just wanted to get it off my chest. It has haunted me for years."

"Why don't you just admit that you killed her?" The barrel was inches from his head.

"Because I didn't. Why should I admit to something I have not done?'' His voice remained calm.

"Then who did it?"

There was no answer. Instead, he just sat there, waiting for me to finish him. It seemed that he finally wanted to go.

His resilience irked me. I jammed the barrel against his forehead, and shouted in his face, "Who did it, Sullivan?"

The noise grew unbearable, and he begged me to stop. "I can't tell you, for if I do, you will only go and kill her," he let it slip.

Her? It was a woman?

"So she lives?" I asked.

He reluctantly nodded.

"Tell me her name, Sullivan, or I swear to put you through such punishment that even your present situation will seem like bliss."

Sullivan didn't say a word. The silence was killing me. I slapped him, twice, but he didn't respond.

"All right, Sullivan," I said, "If you want to do this the hard way...." I reached into my pocket, taking out a roll of duct tape and a pair of pliers. His eyes flashed with horror. Within minutes, I had him all taped up.

"You remember how you Irish were treated by the British, don't you?" I asked, playing with the pliers. He shook his head, begging me not to do it. Smiling, I grabbed his index finger, using the pliers to tear the nail off it. He had one finger missing.

Sullivan's eyes looked as though they would pop out with pain.

"Did that hurt?" I asked, mockingly. "I promise to be even slower the next time. Which one should I pull out next? Hmm....let's see. You got eight more left, and then your toes. Well, I will just do the fingers first.'' Saying that I peeled off another nail, then another, and another, the pain causing him to acquire superhuman strength, managing to violently rock the chair. But it was solidly built, and I wasn't worried about the tape. Duct tape can be easily cut, but just try peeling it off.

"It is not going to work, Sullivan," I said. "You are an old man, now. Maximum, you will manage to give yourself is a heart attack."

I was gripping the fifth nail with the pliers when he started to say something. I took the tape off his mouth.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Townsend.... Townsend," he said between gulps of air.

"Townsend?"

"Amanda Townsend. The woman who killed your mother."

"Never heard of her."

Sullivan huffed. "And with good reason. James Townsend was my lieutenant. She was his wife. Your father killed Townsend. So, to avenge her husband's death, she killed your mother.'' Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, causing them to flinch.

"That sounds like a load of nonsense, Sullivan."

He looked at me. "Why should I lie?" he asked. "When you came here, I thought you had come to kill me. Had I been behind your mother's death, I would have told you so. But I wasn't. It was your father, I had a grudge with, not your mother. Besides, I would never touch her. I knew her brother would come looking for me."

"Who was her brother?"

"Hendrik Claasen."

I knew the name. In fact, several years ago, I had even met with him in Pretoria, when I had been helping Evelein's father with business affairs. Was it the same man Sullivan referred to? It could easily have been. He had certainly looked the part.

"Hendrik Claasen of Pretoria?"

Sullivan nodded, affirmatively. Claasen was dead by now.

"If you don't believe me," he said, "Go to his house and ask for a black woman named Abri. She was the girl your father rescued."

"How do you know she still works there?"

"Because I know. Like your father, I, too, kept tabs. It was not possible to reach him in Pretoria. It was Claasen's turf, and no one in his right mind dared lay a finger on him or his friends there. I waited for your father to return, but he never did. In fact, when your mother was shot, I hadn't even known that they had been in Cape Town. Everything was done so secretively. After that, he was gone. Vanished into thin air. Then, so many years later, when I saw you, I knew that he lived, and had sent his son to get me."

After a long moment of looking away, I looked back into his eyes, and asked, "Why did you bid so much for those docks when you knew you couldn't afford the money?"

Sullivan shook his head. "I had no choice. The cash was disappearing, and so were my friends. I had been promised help, but it never arrived. I guess, Therond turned their heads, threatening to splash them out of the water if they even thought of assisting me. He has become a very powerful man, and eccentric. When he says something, he does it. Consequences don't even mean anything to him. That must have put them off."

It made sense. Sullivan was not stupid. He had just run out of options.

"You knew we were coming, didn't you, Sullivan?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Why didn't you run?"

"Where to?"

Good question. "Hell, presumably."

"What was the point? You were sending me there, anyway."

That was true. I cocked the gun, aiming between his eyes that just looked back at me, motionless. I didn't shoot. Marius's words came to my mind. The man was living on his knees. Why end his misery? Blowing out the candle, I made my way back to the hotel, my eyes red hot with grief.

# Chapter 57

The following days turned out to be quite hectic as we finalized deals. Jason used Parker's money to write checks, while I used Therond's contacts to help speed up proceedings. After a fortnight, all formalities were finished, and we were registered as owners. It was time to leave for home. Christmas was days away, and my family awaited my return. Jason's son was to spend his vacations with an aunt in London.

"Bet the boy's loving it up there," Jason remarked as we boarded the train.

My attempts at consoling Jason that the boy would be missing his parents sounded unconvincing. You couldn't really blame him for having a good time at his favorite aunt's place, while his parents remained thousands of miles away on an entirely different continent. As the train started, Jason seemed to be lost in thought. It was hard to say whether he was thinking about his son or the new venture, but I wasn't going to ask him. I was in a world of my own.

I had searched high and wide for Amanda Townsend but had been unable to locate her. Sullivan had last seen her more than thirty years ago. She had been in need of money. An arrangement was made. He had gotten her a safe deposit box in a vault, filling it up with cash the first week of every month. She was to visit only in the second week or later. Not once in thirty years had the box failed to get cleaned out. That's how he knew she was still alive. However, since the bankruptcy, the box had yet to be replenished. I had provided him with the funds. Sullivan had begged me not to hurt her, arguing the case beautifully. She was an old woman, who had suffered much, already. I asked him to get on with it. But when the box didn't get cleaned out for two weeks, I doubted if it ever would. I had to use other techniques.

When the train reached Pretoria, I made my excuses to Jason and got off. My men wanted to come along, but I said no.

"What do we tell Mr. Coetzee?" one of them asked, referring to my father.

"Tell him that I have some work that cannot wait."

Once off, I headed straight for the Claasen residence. The reigns of the Claasen empire were now in the hands of Hendrik Claasen's son, Tertius Claasen, who must have been ten or twelve years older than me. The man at the gate asked me my business.

"I am here to see Mr. Tertius Claasen," I said.

"And you are?"

"Danie Coetzee."

"Forgive me for the asking, but are you expected?" The tone was polite and co-operative.

"Since a long time."

I was shown in and offered a cup of tea. Mr. Claasen was to join me shortly. He arrived after a few minutes.

"Danie Coetzee," I said, standing up, introducing myself.

"Pleasure," he said, shaking my hand.

He asked for us to be left alone. The door was closed. We sat in awkward silence.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked.

He put his cup down. "Do you?" he asked back.

"Now, I do."

"Good," he said, breathing a sigh of relief. "I read what happened to Sullivan."

It seemed my grandfather had posted copies of the Cape Times to everyone.

"You too were involved in some way, weren't you?"

He nodded.

"So, tell me Mr. Claasen," I said, "How many people know about this?"

"A handful," came the reply. "Your grandfather, your parents, and I. Now, of course, you and Sullivan, too."

"What about the others?"

"All dead and departed."

I thought about that. "What about a black woman named Abri?"

He smiled. "So, Sullivan told you?"

"Yes, but I would like to know the whole story."

Tertius Claasen crossed his legs and leaned back. "Only your father knows the whole story, Danie. You don't mind if I call you that, do you? We are related, after all."

I didn't. He went on. "The rest of us are just pieces of the jigsaw. We can only tell you our part."

"So, tell me your part, then," I said.

His part wasn't much. When my mother had been shot, he had been a little boy, and like everyone else had been kept in the dark. He vividly remembered my father, and my real mother, Sara Shaw.

"I also played with you when you were a baby," he said.

Then, one day, he was told that my parents had moved back to England, since that's where my father was originally from, or at least my father's father. It wasn't until Hendrik Claasen was on his death bed that he had summoned him, swearing him to secrecy. So, Tertius Claasen did what as his father had done all those years, avoiding contact and keeping an eye out for potential threats. Hendrik Claasen had been a dangerous man, and from what I could tell, his son seemed no different. Small wonder Sullivan never messed about in Pretoria. Then, after years and years of laying low, a message arrived from my father. It was time to strike. Teaming up with Samuel Therond and Gert Coetzee, Tertius Claasen wielded his influence and power to sting Sullivan and make him pay for his sins. Both generations of the Claasens had wanted to assassinate Sullivan a long time ago, but my father wouldn't let them. He had a family to protect. Besides, he wasn't going to let him die so easily. Tertius Claasen admitted to being afraid that Sullivan was to die in peace, but in the end, was glad to have been proven wrong.

Obviously, he had no idea that it was not Sullivan behind my mother's death, and I wasn't about to tell him that. I expressed my desire to meet Abri.

"I can arrange that," he answered, "But only tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, may I invite you to stay the night here. It is your home, too."

Over dinner, I conversed with his wife and their two teenaged boys. Claasen introduced me as a friend. The older boy had recently left school and planned to be an aviator. The younger one was attending my old school.

"What's your name, again?" he suddenly blurted. We were midway through the main course. Tertius Claasen pointed to his son's manners, but I laughed it off.

"Danie Coetzee," I said.

He turned towards his older brother, saying, "That's the name on the plaque in the gym." The older brother remembered as well, and I became an instant hero in their eyes. Throughout the remainder of the meal, we exchanged stories, while Tertius Claasen laughed along, telling us a story or two of his own. When I went to sleep that night, I was saddened by what the boys had said to me. My boxing coach had died a long time ago. Upon leaving school, I had promised to pay him a visit. I wondered whether he had waited.

The following morning, Claasen arranged a car that dropped me off outside the city. Pretoria was a white district, and that had forced Abri to move away. I found her waiting by the side of the road. She nodded at me, simply asking me to follow her. When we reached an isolated area, she showed me into a traditional hut. Inside, she smiled, saying that she was glad to see me. It had been a very long time, indeed. The hut was poorly lit with only a small, squarish hole at the top permitting light inside. It took a while for my eyes to adjust. We made small talk, and she asked me how my father was.

"He saved my life, you know," she said.

I replied in the affirmative.

# Chapter 58

Abri was living comfortably. The Claasens had taken excellent care of her. She was married and had a grown up son. She wanted to know all about me, and I told her everything I could. When she expressed a desire to see my family's picture, I took out a small photograph of Evelein and Lisa from my wallet.

"They are so beautiful!" she exclaimed. I didn't carry a picture of my father.

We had talked for some more time before I asked her whether she had heard what had happened. Of course, she had, and like many, had waited for the moment her entire life, thanking God when it had finally arrived. Thanking God for shoveling misery on someone else? Not for the first time, I couldn't but help feel sorry for Sullivan. In their eyes, he remained a brutal killer for whom no punishment could ever suffice. I had seen otherwise.

I chose to break the news. "Did you know he didn't kill my mother?"

The reply wasn't the one that I expected. Instead of shock and disbelief, there was silence. She knew.

My jaw dropped. "You do?" I questioned, still amazed.

Without making eye contact, she revealed James Townsend's wife's name. Words escaped me. How many more shocks did I have to bear to get to the bottom of this?

"How long have you known?" I asked. There was anger in my voice.

"Ever since the killing took place."

"How?" My rage was evident.

After killing my real mother, Amanda Townsend had sent a letter, explicitly admitting to pulling the trigger. She had thought that my father had killed her husband, and had wanted to avenge his death. How she got to know about their arrival in Cape Town, remained a mystery.

"Do you realize what you have done?" I asked her.

She looked into my eyes and said, "Yes." There was not a trace of guilt. It unnerved me.

"You hid the truth from the very man who saved your life, ruining several others."

"I hid the truth, Mr. Danie, but I hardly ruined lives."

"Yes, yes, you did," I shouted. "I grew up without knowing my real mother. My father had to change his name and move to rural Barberton. You have no idea how much damage you caused. And for what?"

Her face remained expressionless. "You think you were hard done by, don't you? Maybe you didn't grow up in your real mother's arms, but at least you had a woman to call mother. I didn't. My mother died when I was very young, and Sullivan killed my father. You love your daughter, don't you? Well, so did my father. He loved me. Before you accuse me any further, think of the poor man, who couldn't afford to buy his daughter new clothes. It was your father, who bought me my first ever new dress, and it was your mother, who kept me like a younger sister, and Patricia Claasen, who welcomed me into her house with open arms. These are things I will forever remain grateful for, but I had my reasons for hiding the truth."

"Like what? Revenge?"

"Yes, yes, revenge. I knew that if I showed the letter, they would never go after Sullivan. Amanda Townsend wrote the letter in the hope that they would come after her and kill her. She had loved her husband dearly. I couldn't let that happen. I wanted Sullivan's head. He molested me before my father, then shot him dead. I still feel his hand down there, and will until the day I die. I was fourteen, Mr. Danie, and I wanted revenge. I was fourteen. And that was the only way I knew."

She was crying now. I could understand what she must have felt. I tried consoling her.

"Please, forgive me, Mr. Danie," she said between sobs. "I know nobody else will."

"The only person that can forgive you is my father," I replied.

She wiped her tears. "In the last few years, overcome by guilt, I tried to find your father. I had no idea where he was, and Mr. Claasen wouldn't tell me. But I tried, Mr. Danie, I tried."

So had we. In this web of endless lies and deceit, we had all tried to come clean, to wash our sins away. In the end, however, we had failed. Marius, Samuel Therond, Abri, Sullivan, Amanda Townsend, Ava, the priest, Claasen, my father, and I. But we had tried. The harder we had tried, the more entangled we had got. Maybe, we should have only just let go.

I picked her face, and asked her, "Where is Amanda Townsend, now?"

Abri shook her head, saying, "She has paid for her sins, Mr. Danie. Leave her alone."

"Where is she?" I repeated my question.

"In Bloemfontein, and has been for the past twenty years."

"Where in Bloemfontein?"

"In the asylum. She lost her mind a few years after James Townsend died."

That was impossible. Then who had been clearing out the cash from the box every month?

"Are you sure?" I asked her.

She was. "She is a vegetable, Mr. Danie. Let her go."

I promised I would. Leaving her, I borrowed a car from Claasen, setting off towards Bloemfontein.

I visited the mental hospital in Bloemfontein. Amanda Townsend was in isolation. The receptionist asked if I was family. I said, no.

"Then I am afraid you cannot see her," she said.

I enquired about her next of kin. She asked me to sit tight. A woman around my age came to see her every day. A daughter, I presumed. I asked how long I would have to wait. The receptionist had no clue. A few minutes, an hour, two hours, maybe more. I stopped asking questions and sat down. After nearly four decades, what were a few more hours?

Aniston Townsend was a couple of years older, but it was apparent that life had treated her much harder. Her clothes were simple, and she wore no jewelry. She welcomed me into her house. Aniston had remained unmarried all her life, which had been a mess. She worked hard, and most of the money she made went towards her mother's treatment, including what she found inside the box. However, what amazed me the most was her willingness to forgive everything and everyone. Unlike the rest of us, she wasn't looking for revenge.

"Look what revenge got her," she said, referring to her mother. "I let go of the very notion. I left school and started working to support her treatment in vain hope. I was tempted to ask Sullivan for more money but didn't. Sullivan meant trouble, which I was desperate to avoid."

She went on to reveal her life, and the more she talked, the more ashamed I felt. What had I thought when I had decided to drive down to Bloemfontein? That I could still settle the score? Well, if that was it, I had to admit that the very thought was gone. Shame was all I felt. For over two weeks I had cursed fate for being so cruel, yet here I was, seated in front of a woman, who had put up with unimaginable hardships her entire life without so much as batting an eyelid.

"How much do you need for her treatment?" I asked.

She laughed. "No amount of money can cure her, Mr. Coetzee."

"Well, why not? And please call me Danie."

Aniston sighed. "Several times in the past her bills went so high that I couldn't afford to keep her there. The doctors threatened to throw her out, unless..." Her voice trailed off. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Unless what?'' I asked when she had regained her composure.

"Unless I agreed that they could experiment new drugs on her!"

I looked away, shocked. My eyes felt moist.

Aniston continued, "My hands were tied. I had no other place to take her. Eventually, it got to a point where nothing worked any longer."

Thankfully, she stopped there for I was not sure I would be able to hear another word.

"Yet you chose to forgive?" I asked.

"Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed her," she said, quoting Mark Twain.

How true it was. She was a violet that had been crushed under several heels, and she had forgiven them all. I compared our lives to hers, realizing that we were nothing. Nothing at all. We pursued our enemies, praying to God to destroy them. She ignored her enemies, praying to God to forgive them.

I left Bloemfontein the very day. I had had a paradigm shift. My mind had been blown wide open.

# Chapter 59

I made it back in time for Christmas. Everyone wanted to know where I had been, and I came up with details of a project we had finished months ago. They all bought it, except, of course, for my father. A couple of days after Christmas, while I was in the study, he came up to me, asking me if there was something he ought to know.

"Is there something I ought to know?" I countered, amused.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"What does it sound like?"

"Sounds like meaningless blabber to me," he said, annoyed.

I kept my cool. "Does it?"

"Yes, it does. You don't just disappear like that for three days. Your mother and Evelein were worried sick."

Oh really? I kept reading. "Then, like always, you should have come up with something," I said.

"What are you talking about?"

I slammed the file shut. "You very well know what I am talking about, Mr. Craig Shaw."

A loaded goods train couldn't have hit him harder. He just stood there, speechless. After a while, he tried to come up with some explanation, but I showed him the photograph I had picked up at Therond's house. He halted there, staring at it for a long while. When it seemed he was about to begin, I got up.

"Wait," he called out, "Don't go."

I told him that I was shutting the door. The last thing I wanted was Lisa running in, overhearing family scandal.

"What do you know?" he asked as I sat back down.

I knew he would say that. Then, once he became aware of what I knew, he would simply state there was nothing more. This game had gone on for too long.

"Nice try," I said. "For a change, why don't you tell me what you know?"

So, he did. For a man, who had been keeping secrets for four decades, his candor surprised me. He made a clean breast of it, starting right from his grandparent's arrival in South Africa to how and where he was raised, and his parent's early death.

"That was when I first saw your mother," he said. He had been going on for more than an hour, already, and it seemed that he had barely begun.

He described everything, from meeting my real mother to collaborating with the younger Claasen and my grandfather to finally destroying the man behind all the upheaval. I lived through the terrible drive from Cape Town to Bloemfontein, and through the prosperous time in Pretoria. He told me what my mother had made him vow as she had died in his arms, a promise my father had been unable to keep.

"The more I shielded you from the truth, the more you seemed drawn towards it."

After she had died, he had fled with me to Pretoria, where he went underground for weeks, not even attending my mother's secret funeral. No one knew where he had gone. Not even Claasen, who couldn't understand how Sullivan had gotten wind of their visit to Cape Town. In hiding, he met his second wife, who was moved by his story. Leaving me with her, he went back to Cape Town.

"I saw him through the scopes of my rifle, but I just couldn't pull the trigger. Your mother's face kept flashing before my eyes. Killing Sullivan wouldn't satisfy my purpose. I wanted to watch him suffer. So, I decided to wait."

Returning to Pretoria, he thanked the woman who had cared for me in his absence. She had wanted to come along. He had wanted to refuse but knew she would prove a valuable ally.

"The decision had been purely professional," he admitted.

The woman had known this but had decided to be patient. My father's love for my real mother wasn't dissipating anytime soon. Pretending to be husband and wife, they moved to rural Barberton. My father was wealthy, and with Claasen's help, acquired new identities. They chose to be the Coetzees. They changed names, date of births, and the whole family tree. My father was five years younger than what his birth certificate declared. Only Hendrik Claasen had been informed as to their whereabouts. No one else. Not Claasen's wife, not his friends, not even the Theronds. In Barberton, my father invested in the estate. The only man he trusted was Marius and had confessed to him that he was no Coetzee. Marius only needed to know that much. My father had pulled him out of his misery, and for that, he remained grateful till the end. A day before dying, he had come to my father, begging him to tell me the truth. It was my right to know, he had said.

"The first time I felt affection towards your mother was when you turned five. She had stood by me. I couldn't be disloyal to her. Slowly, I started falling in love with her, resting in the knowledge that Sara would approve of the woman, who had taken such good care of her child."

"Didn't she want children of her own?'' I asked.

"Not for the first five years. We slept in the same room, but I slept on the floor. By the time I fell in love and asked her, she said that she was happy to have you. She came from a humble background and considered you as her blessing. Drawing a comparison between both your mothers is wrong. One gave birth to you, the other nurtured you. I couldn't have made it without either."

Neither could have I.

It is said that the foolish neither forgive nor forget, the naive forgive and forget, whereas the wise forgive but never forget. My father had forgiven Sullivan by the time I turned ten. But he never forgot the day his love had died right in his arms. He kept track of Sullivan. My mother knew what he was up to, fearing for our safety. But my father consoled her, saying that he wasn't going to repeat the same mistake twice. There was no way he was risking exposing his family, again.

"I thought it was over, Danie, that I would have to die without avenging her. But when you told me about your new venture, I knew the moment had arrived. So, I made a few calls and set you upon him. The rest is history."

When he was finished, I held my head in my hands. If it was dispiriting to learn of Samuel Therond's initial resistance to their union, it was heartening to know of Hendrik Claasen's approval. I planned to visit the graves of the men, who had made it possible for me to live my life, manning the barricades time and again, even if that had meant putting themselves at risk. I hoped Dawid Meerhof lay in peace. In giving my father a chance, these men and women had given me a chance, and no matter what I did, I would never be able to compensate them, ever. But probably the largest contribution had been that of my mother. Not my real mother, but of the woman that had raised me, never expressing a desire to have her own children, treating me like her own. I vowed to love her even more, every day. To this day, when I think of my mother, the woman who flashes before my eyes is the one who raised me, not the one whose face I remember from an old photograph.

"You plan on disclosing this to Evelein and Lisa?" my father asked.

I nodded. But not yet. There was something he needed to know. The puzzle was not yet complete.

"I met Sullivan," I told him.

Joy flashed across my father's face. "How is he coping with life?" he asked.

"Not very well."

"How comforting." There was, even more, joy.

I doubted he would say the same when he found out who else I had visited.

"I met Abri, too."

"Really? How is she? Does she remember us?"

"She does."

"What did she say?"

"The same thing as Sullivan."

A confused look came across his face. "And what might that be?" he asked.

I took a deep breath. "That he didn't kill my real mother."

My father paused. "And you believe him?"

"No, but I believe Abri, and the daughter of the woman, who killed my mother."

An eerie silence filled the room. As far as my father was concerned, nothing made sense. "Stop talking in riddles, Danie," he said.

I told him what I had discovered. Right from why Amanda Townsend had blamed him for her husband's death to how and why Abri had concealed the truth.

"I saved her life. This is how she repays me?" he asked, his voice crackling with anger.

"Forget it. You have no right to blame her."

"Yes, I do. I do have a right to blame her," my father shouted out loud, the fact that he had been conned by someone he thought was on his side, infuriating him. I understood his feelings. But perhaps Aniston's story would change his perspective.

I tried my best at telling him how the woman had and still suffered due to her mother's condition. As I went on, his anger slowly faded, just like mine had, and he felt as sorry for her as me.

"Forget it," I told him. "Just let it go. That's what my mother wanted, didn't she?"

He nodded.

I went on. "Amanda Townsend has paid the price, and Aniston is still paying it. Surely, you don't think that is just or fair?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't. I think I should feel lucky that my son isn't suffering for my sins. Hatred hasn't led us to anywhere. Sara was right."

And so was Marius.

We sat there for some more time until we heard summons for dinner. We had been locked in for hours. When Lisa started banging on the door, we got up, and I hugged him.

"Thank you for everything," I said. He hugged me back.

That night, I wrote a letter to Aniston, explaining to her how it wasn't my father that had killed hers, not that it mattered. As far as she and I were concerned, it was all ancient history. I folded the letter, placing along with it a large check written out to her. In the letter, I had begged her not to return it. It was my father's wish.

The following day, I told my mother that I loved her despite the fact that she wasn't my real mother. She broke down crying when she heard that, the strain of carrying that burden for years finally off her back.

In the afternoon, my father brought me a bottle of strong liquor, the kind of stuff only Marius was brave enough to consume. He poured two shots, and we drank in silence. We were sitting in Marius's old spot, overlooking the valley.

After a couple of rounds, he asked, "So, when do you plan to tell Evelein and Lisa?"

I shrugged. "I don't know," I said.

What was the point, anyway? It wasn't as though it was useful information. Just a bloody tale of hatred. We couldn't go back to being the Shaws. It was too late and too complicated. Besides, I liked being a Coetzee. I had been one since I could recollect, and it fit me just right.

"To the Coetzees," I said, raising my glass.

"To the Coetzees," my father repeated. Then he poured us another.

# Chapter 60

The new year brought with it additional responsibilities. Jason, along with his wife, moved to Cape Town from where he called the shots. Occasionally, when he ran into obstacles, he would ring me, and I would come down to do what I did best; grease palms and convince people.

Evelein and I took the big decision of sending Lisa to school. After much thought, we concluded that right over here would be just fine, under our very noses. Hence, in the January of 1971, we enrolled her into school in Pretoria, the very same Evelein and I had attended. My father approved thoroughly. So did Tertius Claasen.

Dropping her off proved harder than I had anticipated. As we waved her goodbye, a peculiar sort of anxiety filled me, manifestly evident on my face. Memories of my rocky start to school life flashed before my eyes. Somehow, I had coped up. Marius had trained me. My father slapped me on the back, with a look on his face that said not to worry. I tried to act calmer, wondering whether he had felt the same when he had first dropped me off. Perhaps not, I concluded. I hadn't been a sweet, little angel like Lisa. It was easier waving goodbye to a devil than an angel.

My parents had been invited over by the Claasens. Evelein and I made our excuses. We wished to re-tour our old school. It had been years.

Every inch brought back memories, and for obvious reasons, a few places meant more than the others; the gymnasium, where I shed blood and tears, the spot on the school periphery from where my friends and I scaled the wall, and, of course, the library. Learning that the librarian hadn't changed, I eagerly made my way there. I offered a hello, wondering whether he would recognize me. He was quite old by now. He observed me for a moment, and a smile slowly crept along his face.

"Danie Coetzee!" he said in a meek, gentle voice. "What a pleasant surprise! Oh, what a fine gentleman you have grown into!"

Honestly, I was amazed as to how he had recognized me.

"I would recognize you from a mile away, boy." He still referred to me as a boy, which I didn't mind the least. On the contrary, it felt good as I virtually escaped the problems of being an adult, even if for a moment or two.

He went on. "In my forty years at this school, I have never come across such an avid reader." Saying that he summoned a student, introducing me to him, heaping praise after praise upon me until the point of embarrassment. The student, although nodding, looked at me oddly, no doubt wondering what sort of a jackass I ought to be if the nutty, old man considered me an exemplary pupil.

We spoke for a long time. He moaned about how the younger generation was gripped by radio, and recently, even television. In his opinion, the school needed more readers like me. And friends who forced their hand into reading fiction, non-fiction, and autobiographies of just about every loser, while they flipped through adult novels, I thought. He offered me a tour of the building, telling me about the numerous changes and updates that had taken place. I wondered if he had updated the collection of adult novels as well. I took a sneak peak at the cupboard housing them. As I did so, three pairs of eyes carefully observed me. I winked at one of them. Seemed like the tricks had been passed down through the generations.

Finally, it was now time to leave. With a heavy heart, Evelein and I made our way out. As we walked, I couldn't help overhearing a conversation between a father and son, the former boasting of how he was once the school boxing champion. Curiously, I turned my head towards him. His eyes caught mine. It was my old rival, Theunis!

Both taken aback, we reluctantly walked towards each other, shaking hands, unsteadily. Unsure of what to say, we tried to act like grownups in front of the boy, who seemed a couple of years older than Lisa. Theunis then asked his son to run along and join his friends.

"So, your boy is studying here," I commented as we watched him go.

He did and was on his way to domination in the ring.

"That's no surprise," I said, trying to be courteous.

"I coach him myself in the holidays," Theunis replied.

What in, boxing or sabotage, I wanted to ask? Instead, I kept a polite smile on my face. Evelein stood next to me. Like many of our classmates, Theunis, too, had gone to the Netherlands, pursuing further education. He wished to find out what I had done after my schooling.

"I joined the Navy," I said, and he laughed, before realizing it was not a joke. I didn't mind, though. In the Navy, we had always ridiculed the likes of Theunis, and heartily.

I asked him where he now lived.

"Johannesburg," he said, enthusiastically. "Moved back six years ago. Got homesick. It sure feels good to be back amongst friends."

I wondered if his friends shared the same view.

"Are you alone here or is your wife with you?" Evelein spoke for the first time.

"She is here. Just meeting with the faculty."

"Is she from Europe or here?" Evelein seemed to have taken a keen interest in his wife, and hearing her, my own curiosity grew. I couldn't wait to see who had married this jerk. He had yet to lose his sense of false pride and superiority.

"It's a bit complicated," he replied.

Being married to you must be, I thought. I wanted to ask what he had meant by that, but before I could, he said, "Here she is."

We turned our heads to watch the feminine figure walking towards us, and a deep, sinking feeling went through to me. My knees felt made of rubber, and I wanted to vomit. I gripped Evelein's hand tighter as we got introduced to his wife. It was Ava!

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Coetzee," she said, formally. There was not a trace of recognition! Seeing my state, Evelein must have guessed it to be the very Ava. I did my best to act normal, although with disastrous results.

Apparently, Theunis didn't know our history, and even if he did, he did an excellent job of concealing it. I couldn't help but think he was trying to get back at me, but I wasn't in a condition for thinking clearly. When the conversation was over, Theunis invited us to join them for lunch. I didn't know whether that was tantamount to rubbing salt into my wounds, but what I did know was that I had a strong urge to punch him. Thankfully, Evelein got us out of that one. We exchanged visiting cards, and I scurried out of there. Once outside, I went to the nearest bar and ordered a large drink.

"The strongest you got," I said to the bartender when he asked my preference.

"Any old feelings coming back?" Evelein asked on our journey back home.

Here we go, again, I thought. I looked her straight in the eye. "What makes you say that?" I asked, sternly. There was no way I was having this conversation for more than a minute.

"I don't know," she replied, shrugging. "Maybe the fact that you have been on the same page since the last ten minutes."

Had I? I had, indeed. "The coach shakes a lot," I said to my defense. The excuse was ridiculous.

She kept looking at me. I threw the book aside and got up, trying to pace in the narrow space. We hadn't had this conversation since back in school, and I didn't wish to have it anymore. Besides, I loved Evelein from the bottom of my heart, and if I were given a chance to begin over, I would pick her above everyone else, Ava included. I wanted Evelein to know that, and I made sure that she did. She had been my rock. Nothing could change that. Not even Ava throwing herself at me, though I doubted that was ever happening.

"Then what happened back there?" she enquired.

Well, she had a point. What had happened back there?

"I don't know," I admitted, and that was the truth. Firstly, I was already torn by waving goodbye to Lisa, albeit for a few months. The second was the fact that Theunis's son was attending the same school as our daughter. Lastly, the discovery of Theunis being married to Ava had rattled me. I told Evelein of how Ava had never turned up in Amsterdam, and the letter that she had sent shortly after our marriage.

"That is all there is to it," I concluded. "I mean, put yourself in my shoes. Even you would be concerned."

Evelein agreed. Ava's behavior didn't seem to be that of a reasonable person. The topic was closed then and there, and we soon reached Barberton.

As I got off the train, I saw a clergyman standing a little distance away. His back was towards me, but I could sense familiarity. To my horror, he turned around, revealing his fiery red eyes. It was the priest! He had come to take me to hell.

I opened my eyes to find myself screaming.

"Danie, are you alright?" Evelein asked, flicking on the switch. I couldn't sleep a wink again. I was afraid the priest would come and get me.

# Epilogue

Death is near. I can smell it. Not my own, but that of the man I see through the scope of my rifle. Marius's rifle once upon a time. The same rifle I fired my first shot from, the same rifle I had used to impress Ava. Perhaps it was built for a purpose. At least the bullet was, anyway.

I know I cannot miss. I never have. Marius and the Navy have trained me far too well for that. There is no way I am letting them down. I might let God down, but what is another let down in the face of so many? The Devil, I know, beams with pride. Perhaps it is he, who will count me as one of his saints when I am finally going. When, I wonder?

I retain no will to live, but I refuse to die. Perhaps it is for this I have survived. I surely hope. If I don't die soon, I fear I might slip away into eternity. It's just a silly joke I share with myself, alone, for there is no one left to share it with. Everybody has gone. Evelein, my parents, Jason, the friends I had, even Ava. I think of them, every day. Especially Ava, whom I never met after the brief re-encounter. I never heard from her either, until after her death. A letter arrived. It had been her suicide note.

As fate would have had it, she ran into more and more misery. She didn't blame me, though. I had always done my best to help her, punching above my weight on most occasions. Alas, she never took my help, choosing to fight her own battles. In the end, she lost, and though the letter never said in so many words, I knew she had lived a wretched life.

The letter now rests in my pocket, fueling my will to hate. I take it with me wherever I go, which is never too far. Since Evelein's death fifteen years ago, I am yet to leave the estate. There is enough resentment in my heart to fill the entire world, and I fear venturing out might cause me to lose some. Though I doubt that is likely.

My target is moving closer. I see him through the cross hairs. I put my finger on the trigger, but I don't squeeze. Not because I have had a change of heart. It would be easier to alter the world than to alter my heart. It is because the target has not yet moved closer. I want to clearly see his face as he dies.

I am not afraid of anyone. No one can touch me here. Not even God, though he tries. I ask him to leave me alone. The Devil is my ally, and what a faithful ally he is for he never leaves my side. Never has. He stands right behind me. And I know, when all this is over, he is going to stab me in the back. I can feel the tip of the sharp, iron blade. But even that does nothing to make me want to cross over to the other side. I have dues to pay. Secretly, I think I can fool the Devil, himself. What a fool I am to even think that. But it is just a thought. Who can stop the mind from wandering?

Everything has been taken care of. I leave no burdens behind. No liabilities, no sick relatives. Only a beautiful daughter, living happily in Pretoria with husband and child. Lisa has had an exemplary life, and for that, I remain grateful to my wife and my mother. Others have not been so lucky. Others like Ava. But I will not let God's injustices mar the beauty of what her life could have been. I am her cleanser. And I have chosen to cleanse her from her sins forever.

The moment is arriving.

The letter in my pocket begs me to provide her with another chance. However, that is a chance I cannot afford. I have promised myself to Evelein, who on her deathbed asked me to join her on the other side. I promised I would. She said she would wait. Then, she gave me one last kiss before departing. For fifteen years, I have kept her waiting. How much longer, now?

There is not anything here to distract me. I don't own a cell phone or television. Neither do I care about the latest technological advances taking place all around me. I just sit on my porch, waiting for my death, the very place my father sat waiting out his. I retain a vivid recollection of his last days. He went in peace. I shall go screaming. But go we all must, for death layeth its icy hands on kings and paupers alike.

An excitement creeps through me. The man is mere yards away, exactly where I want him to be. I can see his face. The face of my timeworn rival. The face of the man, who caused Ava extreme suffering—Theunis. I compare it to the face of the girl I once loved.

I have no desire to describe what he did to her. I just don't have the stomach for it. Ava suffered right to her death, committing suicide when she was thirty-nine.

Theunis doesn't know who awaits him on the porch. It's a trap. Hope is the bait. He thinks he is here on business which is not far from the truth. It is business for me, after all.

I watch him as he slowly gets closer, his weary knees barely able to take his weight. I justify myself as to what I am about to do. When this is done, I wish to be gone, too, reunited with Evelein, that is if I don't burn in hell, forever. The only way for that is to avenge Ava, to set her free.

Enough of reasoning, however. The moment has come.

He looks up, his face filled with horror. He knows what he hath done. A pleading look flashes his eyes. It is a plea for mercy. There shall be none.

I pull the trigger. Thunder claps the air. My work is over.

Rest in Peace, Ava Kruger.

# Author's Note

Some readers may stumble across a few facts that might appear to be in error. There are mistakes in this book, as in any other, and as long as I take the liberty of occasionally dressing up the facts, the slight mistakes will continue. My appeal to them is that to put my errors down to fiction, a wonderful gift that allows us all to roam the rugged wilderness of the mind, and without which life would be as bland and as dull as can be.

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# About the Author

Raul was born a rebel. Rebellion without a cause. Entering into a career at sea with the navy during his late teens followed by the merchant marines, he discovered most of the world through the dreamy eyes of a boy, gradually gaining wisdom and poise. A natural storyteller, he combines the knack with his broad experiences to satisfy the deep yearning for peace and tranquility felt since a child. Things never clicked until he began to write.

Life is a story. Better make it a good one with profound purpose.

Raul's works intend not only on thrilling but also enlightening his audience upon various issues that plague the mind. Societies have more questions than answers, and he tries to address them through fiction. To be precise, he helps readers arrive at solutions, perhaps even questioning the questions.

His first novel, An Examined Life, helps understand the very basic emotions we often feel stuck up with and that prevent us from leading a more fulfilling life. His next book (out in 2018) will follow similar but more advanced themes.

Whatever they are, in the end, Raul believes that if the stories are fascinating and make a positive impact on his fans' and readers' waking lives, his job is complete, his mission accomplished.

Other interests include motorcycles, pets, machinery and tools, literature, and home mods.

Please visit his website MindInvestigative.com where he discusses life from a deeper perspective.

Alternately, visit his Amazon Author Page by clicking here and his SmashWords Author Page by clicking here.

