Roadkill, p.5
Roadkill, page 5
Jakkals reached into his shirt and tugged distractedly at the curly black tuft sprouting from his navel. He was in one of those heavy birthday moods that seemed to get worse with each passing year. Fifty-four was neither here nor there. In no time he would be staring sixty hard in its ugly face. Jesus, he could still remember the day his dad turned sixty. It felt like yesterday. And where was he now? Pushing up daisies in the Roodepoort state cemetery. Life’s a bitch and then you die – whoever psycho came up with that one had a point.
The landline was ringing. They could call him on his cell. Across the pool, Christina lifted the towel from her face.
“You not going to get it?”
“No.”
“Maybe it’s important. Please answer, Jakkie.”
“Ja, okay, keep your hair on.” This wasn’t the woman he’d married thirty years ago. She had become this panicky bird banging up against the window – the smallest thing sent her off the deep end. Rolling his body off the Addis lounger, he caught sight of his reflection in the glass sliding doors – not the prettiest sight in a Speedo, but at least he was still alive. Same couldn’t be said for half his buddies.
Venter’s home office faced directly on to the pool and braai lapa. He pulled open the sliding door. The phone was still ringing. Covered wall-to-wall above his desk were his hunting trophies – a pissed-off warthog with heavy eyebrows holding centre-stage. Below them, his photos. Chrissie and him at their place on the Vaal. Next to it, a misty studio photo of the family looking ridiculous in their Sunday best – her idea, not his. One of him holding up the hammerhead he’d caught off Stilbaai beach on New Year’s Eve. And his favourite – a yellowing blown-up photo of him and the boys partying under an Angola sunset, shirts off, downing Blackie quarts around the fire, eating meat straight off the spit. All of them pissed as coots, with him holding court in the middle. He was still built like a brick in those days; not an ounce of fat.
“Jakkals Venter … Jissus, Dippies, why the hell don’t you call my cell? … Well then, the battery must be flat, but still. What’s up? You’re sounding jumpier than a fucken grasshopper … Sorry, boet, hold on a sec.” Jakkals held his hand over the mouthpiece. Melanie was standing at the door, drying the snivelling kid. Fuck, if it wasn’t one thing … “Sweets, I’m just on an important call here—”
“Sorry, Pa, I didn’t mean … Mom said I could get a plaster from you … Ryan’s cut himself.”
“Ask Betty inside. She knows where they are.” As if he needed this crap on his birthday. “Okay, speak to me, Dippies.” He shoved his hand into his Speedo and gave the underside of his ballbag a gouging claw. He’d kept meaning to top up with Mycota; the itch was getting worse by the day. “Whoa, hold your horses. What you mean, disappeared? … Let me understand this correct, step by step. You did the usual, exactly to the T. But because you heard nothing on the channels, you decided to circle back later. Right? … How much later, Dippies? Fifteen minutes, one hour, two hours? … Let’s settle on forty-five minutes. At this point you discover there’s nothing there. Risen up like fucking Lazarus … Seriously, I don’t need to hear this. You sure you double-checked the hospitals and morgues? … I’m just asking. And no, I’m not saying you didn’t do a professional job … Whoa, Dippies, no need to get your ball bag in a knot … Listen up. I want you and Freddie to keep looking until I say stop. You get me? … Good, because we can’t afford mistakes this stage of the game, ’specially mistakes costing me big bucks … And one more thing, Dippies. Next time you call me on my cell, not my bladdy landline.”
Jakkals slammed down the phone. Dipshit! This was what he got for listening to Chrissie. He should have stayed put in the lounger. Any minute now this thing would start chewing at his ulcer. There had to be a logical explanation for it. There always was, as long as you were prepared to look for it. Jakkals sniffed his fingers. Winced. The rash was definitely getting worse. He would have to Google “Athlete’s Foot of the scrotum” when he got back to the office.
12
“I told you already, Tarryn, I can’t go any faster! The engine will blow if we don’t pull over soon.”
“Are you crazy? We can’t stop here.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not safe. There must be a quiet farm road nearby.” Tarryn leant across the seat. The needle still had another bit to go before it hit the top of the red. “Please, just keep driving for a bit longer? There has to be somewhere … How far did you say the next town was?”
“How am I supposed to know? Five kays. Maybe less. Maybe more.”
Like an ageing Windows computer, Aldridge’s panic-riddled brain was at that precise moment attempting a hard drive reboot to clear it of all recent cached memory, the contents of which included: a psycho cop with fingers thicker than pork sausages and the body odour of a dangerous animal; a dead body with skinny legs and a grinning mouth of smashed teeth; a mangled fender scraping the tar like chalk across a blackboard; a blistered big toe with a curved nail poking through a black sock; drying blood on a blue groundsheet.
“There it is!”
Aldridge snapped back to the present. To the front of them, an oval sign loomed large and threatening:
WELKOM TO EDENDAL
WHERE STRANGERS LEAVE AS FRIENDS
A wounded soldier returning from the front line, the stricken Fortuner limped past the sign, trailing a thin line of water.
Edendal wasn’t your average North West town. It was beyond average. More arid, more desolate, more rundown than anything the Aldridges had hitherto passed through on their way to Kruger. It was new millennium South Africa at its best.
Turning left into Hoof, the Fortuner entered what was presumably once the commercial centre – treeless, potholed, lined by barricaded shops. A Kwaito track blasted from a Star Furnishers. Next to it, a Happy Cash Loans and a butchery fronted by rolls of lumo-pink sausage and sheep heads grinning at the passersby. Sprawled on the pavement, a ragged red-eyed huddle bounced a Castle quart. The Fortuner kept moving. Tarryn and Steve Aldridge kept their eyes locked to the front.
“You would swear this place has never seen tourists before.”
The knot in Aldridge’s gut ratcheted up a notch, and with it came a fresh wave of nausea. Coming to the four-way stop, a dog of indeterminate bloodline blocked their path. Tarryn stretched over and pressed on the hooter.
“Jeepers, don’t do that!” said Aldridge, alarmed. “People will look at us.”
“What – do you want us to sit here all day instead?”
The cur stood up, lifted its leg against the front wheel, and dragged itself onto the kerb.
“This place gives me the grils,” said Tarryn. “There’s no white people anywhere.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I dunno. What do you want to do?”
Invisible eyes were watching their every move – Aldridge felt them all over his skin. The human brain was wired to smell death, so it was just a matter of time before someone tipped off the cops. The Focus-on-the-Positive he’d learnt on the Dale Carnegie course wasn’t working, for the simple reason there was nothing positive to focus on. But one thing he was sure of: his life was over. He had killed a man. He, Steven John Aldridge, had killed another human being. He already saw the headline splashed across the lampposts: “Sasolburg Man in Hit and Run Murder”. He saw his friends, the guys at the office, his dad opening the Sasol Herald and seeing the headline and photo from his ID book. That Deborah Patter woman from eTV would flock to Sasolburg to interview the neighbours. Everybody and their dog would have an opinion. How they couldn’t believe a quiet guy like him could murder somebody. But then it just went to show you couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Saying how lucky they were, because it could have been one of them. Or worse, one of their kids.
The warning buzzer was screaming for attention. The needle was up against the plastic pin. Steam was rising from the bonnet.
“Please Tarryn, we have to stop – the engine’s about to explode!”
“All right, we’ll stop then. Let’s find a caravan park where we can stay the night.”
“But what about him?”
Tarryn considered this for a moment. “We’ll put him in the boot.”
“There’s no ways I’m sleeping with him in the boot. Seriously, I can’t take this anymore—”
“Okay, okay, in that case we’ll find a B&B. Happy now?”
“But what if someone finds him?”
“Who’s going to find him? Jesus, it’s only for one night; we’ll be long gone before anyone wakes up. And you’re talking like we actually have a choice in the matter. You yourself said the engine is about to explode. So, until we get it fixed, we can’t go anywhere. Right or wrong?”
Clenching her jaw against the fear and what-ifs breeding like flies, Tarryn softened her tone.
“Come, drive just a little more. There has to be somewhere to stay close by.”
“What’s that in front there?”
She had also spotted the sign. “I told you so … Eden Palm. I like the sound of that.”
“Come on, you can do it,” whispered Aldridge into the dash. “Just a little bit more.”
“Turn left here … into Nerina Close”
The Fortuner shuddered and steamed and jerked along Nerina – a gravel street hiving off into cracked cement driveways and 1970-something face-brick houses with thirsty yards, netting curtains and front doors fortified by Trelli.
“Only fifty metres to go,” said Tarryn.
“Let’s just pray they have space for us.”
“I’m sure they do.” She squeezed his arm. “Left again.” The Fortuner turned into Rubicon. The buzzer had now kicked into high gear. The light flashed red and angry. “Just a few more seconds, Stevie, we’re so close now.” She bit into her lip.
Tarryn’s brain was racing ahead of itself; she had it all mapped out. They would settle in, unpack, run a nice hot bubble bath, prepare a tasty snack. She could heat up the doggy bag of ribs and chips from the Wagon Wheel and make a tomato and onion salad to go with it. They would eat and relax, and only then plan their next move. She was going to get them out of this, no matter what it took.
“That must be it there.”
“You think so?”
Aldridge switched off the engine. Crackling sounds, accompanied by a cloud of steam floated up from under the bonnet. They stared silently at the yellow-on-green sign wired to the gatepost:
Eden Palm B&B.
Where strangers become friends.
Wir Sprechen de Deutsche.
No cheques! No credit cards!
Vibracrete ran the length of the property; above it, a mesh of razor wire. The driveway was all tar. The garden was devoid of green. The windows were few and small.
“It doesn’t exactly look friendly,” said Tarryn.
“Maybe we should try find something else?”
The Fortuner answered with an anguished groan of contracting metal.
“I suppose we better find out if they have a room for us. You want to ask, or must I?”
“Maybe we should both go?”
They climbed out and approached the gate. A chain with a Viro padlock blocked the way.
“Looks like there’s nobody here,” said Aldridge, hopefully.
“You better try the bell … Dumb place to put it.”
Aldridge extended his arm through the gate, his cheek pressing up hard against the bars. He pressed the button. Unseen to his left, a brown blur was bulleting across the tarmac. Aldridge leapt back in fright as it flung itself against the gate in a frenzy of saliva and snarling teeth.
“It almost took my bloody hand off! I don’t need this in my life. I seriously don’t.”
The rabid animal continued its onslaught against the gate.
“Adolf! Platz!” boomed a voice.
Deaf, or feigning deafness, Adolf resumed his assault with renewed gusto – as if aware time was not on his side. A stocky individual in khaki shorts and Crocs with white socks was making his way down the driveway.
“Adolfus! I said, platz!”
The man walked casually up to the gate, grabbed Adolf by the collar, yanked him onto his hind legs, and gave the leather a sharp twist, switching off the oxygen tap. With instant effect.
“That’s my boy,” purred the man. He relaxed his grip and stroked the dog’s whimpering head. He turned his attention to the couple, standing far back from the gate. “Sorry for this,” he said. “Adolf sometimes gets a little excited with strangers.” The man knelt down. Adolf licked his face. “You’re such a big baby, ja? You just don’t like to be teased, isn’t that so?” The man stood up, looked Tarryn up and down, and turned to her husband. “So, what can I do you good people for?”
13
Ferdie Meyer slid the combo clipper-nail file back into its vinyl sheath, sat back and admired the result. In this business, a man’s hands defined one; they were the difference between success and failure. Like, who would buy a classy package from a director with grease monkey hands? He reached to his side, yanked on the lever, and tilted the chair back to P/2.
“I’m telling you, Trutes,” he said, stroking the suede finish. “They don’t make quality like this any more. Nowadays it’s all plastic Chinese crap. Guess what I paid for it?”
“How much?”
“Guess.”
“I give up.”
“Come on, take a guess.”
“Fok, okay … Seven hundred bucks?”
“Five-O! Fifty. Can you bladdy believe it? Scored it at a liquidation auction in Boksburg. Same with half the stuff here.”
Meyer’s office was a simple and functional affair in keeping with the economic status and general tastes of his clients. Arranged on a diamond-patterned carpet from the Joshua Doore in Nigel were his swivel Executive Chair, a beech-veneer desk and a pair of white plastic chairs of the posher garden variety. Set at an angle on his desk was a misty picture of him and Amanda and the kids in an ornate gold frame. Next to the photo, an AVBOB-sponsored calendar and a box of tissues.
“How’s your drink doing?”
“Still lekker, Ferdie … Ag, what the hell, you can gooi me a top-up.”
“That’s my man.” Meyer reached over and emptied the dregs into Sergeant Truter’s glass. He flicked a nail clipping onto the carpet. “Lemme see that pic again, in case he comes in.”
Truter handed Meyer the photo of a younger Gary Johnson with his shirt off, holding up a fish. “Nice size barbie. Did you try the body shop in Brits? He might be lying on ice there.”
“Why would they cart him all the way there?”
“Because you never know with these State-employed monkeys. What about the hospital?”
“Checked. Like I told my pen-pushing deputy, the boytjie’s absconded and giving some chick the hot meat injection as we speak.”
“You’re right. Nobody evaporates into thin air. Not in this place.
Truter threw back the last slug and stared morosely into the bottom of the glass. “Good stuff this.”
“The best. Way better value than that rip-off Johnnie Walker Red. You see what they’re selling it for now? Over two hundred bucks!” Meyer spotted another errant nail clipping wedged under the family photo. What Amanda saw in that dress was beyond him – it made her tits look all droopy before their time. He licked his finger and retrieved the nail. He took a nibble. “Anyways, what were we talking about again?”
“About playing your cards right.”
“Oh, ja. Take me, for example. I bought this business just after the elections. Everyone thought I was cooked. Even my own toppies. Said I would be bankrupt in a year. Like, what black man will use a white man’s business when he can go to a fly-by-night in the location for half the price?” Meyer snapped his fingers. “But I showed them, Trutes. I checked the writing on the wall and I adapted myself to fit. It was the same in the car game. You can’t keep selling HiAces when the government is forcing taxi owners to buy the new Quantum. You change your tune. You get your act together and you start selling Quantums.”
“Hey, I’ve got a good one for you, Ferdie … What does HiAce stand for?”
“Dunno.”
“High Impact African Culling Equipment!” Truter slapped the desk. “Fok, I love it. High Impact African Culling Equipment.”
“Ja, it’s a good one. But that’s exactly what I did. I adapted my business model to fit the market. And look where I’m now. Sitting comfy. You check that pile of folders up there? Ninety per cent of them blacks – my bread and butter. If I had to wait around for my white clients to peg off, I would be out of business yonks ago. The things live forever nowadays.”
“I see what you saying.”
“And you check that Insurance Claims box next to it? That, pal, is where the big money is today.”
“How so?”
Meyer crossed his legs on the desk. “John Smith signs up for a fat funeral plan. John Smith pegs off. John Smith’s family claims on the funeral plan. Insurance company pays me direct – velvet-lined casket, full embalming, black Merc, fancy snacks afterwards, you name it, all the whistles and bells. And no questions asked. Ka-ching! Money’s in the bank, and I’m happy as Larry.”
“Nice.”
“Nice for me, double nice for the small-time insurance brokers making themselves a fat packet on commission from the big boys – the Santams and Liberty Lifes. These guppies are coining it all the way to the bank.” Meyer flipped open the brown folder on his desk. “For instance, check this one for old Roger Henley. Signed up for the full Monty on 12 May – I’m talking this year. Five months later he kicks it and scores the Lotto with an all-expenses-paid funeral. How’s that for a luck?” Meyer pushed the policy across the desk.
“Who the hell is Roger Henley?”
“Roger Henley, man. You know him. The big rooikop who came second in the darts round robin last month?”
“Oh, him. I didn’t know he pegged.”
Meyer clicked his fingers. “Just like that. Keeled over in the street walking back from the club on Tuesday night. I didn’t realise he was such a big mother. My boys took serious strain lifting him into the van.”
