How would he tell her of the land he had bought? He already knew how she would react, how she clung to the things she had control over, because there was so much she could not control. The battle she had fought to get where she was, in her house with her son, had been so long, so hard in a world of poverty and violence. Her work, her house, her daily routine it was her sanctum, her shield, her very survival.
One Saturday he had looked up from the mathematics textbook he was studying and decided that today was the day. She had her needlework in her hands, he had turned down the radio and told her that in that time when he had stared into his own eyes, his urge had been to get away, to go back to where he came from, to continue his lifes journey back to the source, to begin again, a new life. To build something with his own hands hands that had broken perhaps a house, with his sweat and muscle and concentration, a place to live. To dig his fingers into the ground, to turn the earth and to plant and grow. He began to search, and weeks later he found it in the Cala valley, a beautiful place where the mist rose up against the mountain slopes in winter, where as far as the eye could see, the veld was an undulating green of fertility, Xhosa country, the landscape of his youth and his people.
He was on his way, busy with the final arrangements, when Miriam had crossed his path, and now, months later, the urge remained. But he could no longer do it alone, for he was no longer alone. He asked her to come with him. Her and Pakamile. They would take the child out of this harsh world and show him his heritage, let him learn other values, give him a carefree youth. There were schools there, in town, where he would get his education. She wouldnt have to work. It would be just the three of them; he could provide, he would provide, he would build this new life for them.
She was quiet for a long time, the needle and thread moving rhythmically in her hands. Then she said she needed to think about it it was a big decision and he nodded, grateful that she would at least consider it, that her first answer had not been no.
The lightning brought him back. It seemed there was rain up ahead. He looked at the odometer, another sixty to Beaufort West. The fuel was below half. The eastern horizon was changing color, he had to make town before daybreak to refuel. He opened the throttle, 160, feeling the tiredness in his body, 170, he checked the figures on his digital watch, 04:43, the night was nearly over, he had not come very far and there was a long way to go today. Kimberley if he could get there, he could get a plane, 180, perhaps to Durban, to break the pattern, from Durban to Maputo, Maputo to Lusaka or something, but keeping flexible, 190, be adaptable, get this thing over and then go back, so Miriam would see he would never desert her, 200, the white lines on the road flew past, too fast, he had never gone so fast. Yes, the new day was a red ribbon in the east.
* * *
Two more vehicles arrived, an Opel Corsa and an Izuzu bakkie, policemen climbing out stiff-legged, pulling their raincoats tight around their bodies, irritated by the early call out and the rain. They walked over to Mazibuko.
The sergeant called over the radio to say he has dropped off your men.
I know. We have radio contact. Wheres the sergeant now?
They have gone home. Their shift is over.
Oh.
The road will get very busy once its light. Are you stopping everything?
Just the necessary. Are you here to help?
Yes.
Then you must move your vehicles.
How?
He directed them. He wanted a formation that would make running the roadblock impossible. They followed his instructions, pulling their vehicles into the road while he waded through puddles to the helicopter and pulled open the door. The flight engineer lay asleep in the back with mouth agape. The pilot was up front, awake.
Do you have a weather report? asked Mazibuko.
Yes, said the pilot. Rain. Any minute now. He smiled broadly at his own joke.
The rest of the day?
The system will move east. It will clear in the afternoon.
Fuck.
You can say that again.
Mazibuko pulled his cell phone from under his jacket and punched in a number.
How far are you? he asked.
Just beyond Richmond, said Lieutenant Penrose, second in command of the Reaction Unit.
You must move.
We are driving as fast as we can, Captain.
Is it raining there?
Not yet, but we can see it coming.
Fuck, said Tiger Mazibuko.
You can say that again, mumbled the pilot in the Oryx.
* * *
The consignment of Cape newspapers landed in a pile on the desk of the news editor of the SABCs morning television program in Auckland Park, Johannesburg, yesterdays
Argus
and this mornings
Burger
and
Cape Times.
It was one of his moments of truth every morning: how well the news team in the south had fared against the competition, but also a window to another strange world, ships sinking in storms, Muslim extremists, gangs in the Cape Flats, the ongoing political circus.
MORE NNP LEADERS CROSS OVER read the
Burgers
headline in Afrikaans. No surprises there. Nor in the rugby analysis: SKIN-STAD: WE HAVE NO EXCUSE
.
He overlooked the usual manipulative Christmas Fund article and skipped to the last front-page story of a thirteen-year-old cricket protégé. Mmmm. Country story, from Barrydale. He circled it with a thick red marker for follow-up.
Pulled the
Times
from the stack. NEW ALLIANCE FOR PROVINCE? the headline cried. And THERE GOES THE RAND AGAIN. Then his eye fell on the third front-page story. SPOOKS SEEK BIG, BAD BMW BIKER by Allison Healy He read it.
Molly, he called, but there was no response.
Molly!
A face appeared at the door.
Get that asshole in the Cape on the line. Right now.
* * *
Rooivalk One, this is Ops Control, come in, over. There was urgency in Quinns voice. He waited a moment, got no reaction He made sure the frequency on the digital panel was correct, called again. Rooivalk One, this is Ops Control, come in, over.
This is Rooivalk One, Ops Control. What have you got for us? Over. The voice was a little sleepy.
We have contact, Rooivalk One. Repeat, we have contact. Subject is four minutes out of Beaufort West on the Ni on the way to Three Sisters. We want you in the air. Do you read me? Over.
We read you, Ops Control, we read you. Rooivalk One and Two operational. Over.
What is your expected time of interception, Rooivalk One? Over.
Expected time of contact, ten minutes, Ops Control, repeat, ten minutes. Over.
Quinn clearly heard the big engines being started up in the background. He spoke louder automatically. We just want to chase him on to Three Sisters, Rooivalk One. We want presence, but no contact. Do you understand? Over.
No contact, Rooivalk One confirming, no contact.
The pitch of the engines hit high. Are you aware of the weather status, Ops Control? Over.
We know its raining at Three Sisters, Rooivalk One. What is your situation? Over.
The rain is threatening, Ops Control. Theres a helluva system up north. Over.
Rooivalk One on the way, Ops Control. Over.
Rooivalk Two ditto, over.
We will keep contact, Rooivalk One, the channels stay open. Report when you intercept. Ops Control over and out.
Roger, Ops Control. Rooivalk One over and out.
Quinn leaned back and looked around. Janina Mentz was busy on the cell phone with Tiger Mazibuko. The few people who had rested since four
A
.
M
. were back at their posts. There was a tingling in the air. The Ops Room was awake.
* * *
Allison Healy was dreaming of her mother when the phone rang. The dream was an argument, a never ending, disconnected fight over nothing, and she was relieved by the sound. In her dream she lifted the instrument to answer, but it continued ringing.
She made a noise, a groan of reluctance to rise out of the deep sleep, sitting half upright in bed, the sheet falling away to bare her rounded nakedness to the room.
Hullo.
Allison? It was the voice of a colleague, she couldnt place which one.
What?
Are you awake?
Sort of.
You had better come down here.
Whats going on?
Theres a shoeshine man downstairs. He wants to talk to you.
A shoeshine man? She wondered if she was awake. Hes a friend of your big, bad Xhosa biker. Oh shit, she said. Im coming.
16.
H
e had drunk coffee and swallowed an uninteresting sandwich at the petrol station while the attendant filled up, and he had asked how far it was to Bloemfontein and if there were police on the road. He had tried to look like an armed and dangerous fugitive and had no idea if anyone would take the bait. The jockey was jumpy as a cat in a dog run, but that meant nothing and now the dark bank of clouds hung before him, twenty, thirty kilometers away, and the road stretched out before him, the light washing the Karoo in pastels. He rode fast, 185, because he wanted to pass Three Sisters on his way to Kim-berley before they could react, and the caffeine had awakened anxiety that he should have felt since Laingsburg. If they knew he had taken the motorbike and knew he was on the Ni, why had there been no attempt to stop him, why were they not waiting for him?
Never mind,
he thought,
never mind.
He was here and he had done all he could to establish Bloemfontein as his destination. All he could do now was ride as hard as he could, try 200 kilometers per hour; in daylight perhaps it would be less terrifying. He kicked down to fifth and twisted the ear of the great machine, feeling the vibration of the two flat cylinders, the boxer engine strange name. He was consumed with urgency, anxiety. Where were they? What were they up to? What were they thinking? And when he heard the thunder, his first instinct was that it had come from the heavy clouds up ahead, but the noise was continuous and his heart turned cold. It was an unnatural thunder and then a dark thing swept over him, a huge shadow whose noise drowned out the boxer beneath him and he knew they were here; he knew what they were up to.
* * *
Miriam Nzululwazi was rinsing Pakamiles porridge bowl in the kitchen. She missed Thobela, he was the one who brought good humor to the morning. Before, it had been a silent, almost morbid rush to be ready before the school bus came and she had to catch the Golden Arrow to the city. Then had come the man who swung his feet off the bed at the crack of dawn with a lust for life, who made the coffee and carried the fragrant steaming mugs to the bedrooms, singing all the way not always in tune, but his deep voice buoyed up the house in the morning.
She had said the boy was too young for coffee, but he said he would make it especially weak. She knew that hadnt lasted long. She had said she didnt want to hear that Afrikaans radio announcer in her house, but he said he and Pakamile couldnt learn to be farmers by listening to the music of Radio Metro every morning. They listened to the weather forecast and the market prices and the talk about farming topics, and the child was learning another language, too. He kept Pakamile on the go with RSG when the boy dawdled, saying, Pakamile, its raining on the farm, or The sun is shining on the farm today, Pakamile, you know what that means? And the boy would say, Yes, Thobela, the plants are growing with chlorophyll, and he would laugh and say, Thats right, the grass is getting green and sweet and fat, and the cattle are going to swish their tails.
This morning she had switched on the radio to compensate for his absence, to restore normality. She listened to the weather forecast from habit, wanting to shake her head here was Miriam Nzululwazi listening to Afrikaans; Thobela had changed so many things. She must go and see how far along Pakamile was. Pakamile, have you brushed your teeth?
No, Ma.
Its going to be hot on the farm today.
Oh. Uninterested. He was missing Thobela, too. The time signal sounded on the radio, time for the news, she must hurry. The newsreaders somber voice sounded through the house, America in Afghanistan, Mbeki in England. The rand had dropped again.
Dont dawdle, Pakamile.
Yes, Ma.
Petrol was going up. Thobela would always talk back to the announcers and newsreaders, would always say when petrol prices were announced each month, Get to the diesel price Pakamile and I have a tractor to run, and then he and the boy would grin at each other and Pakamile would mimic the Afrikaans word
