Vendetta, page 6
‘His wife, my late aunt, Maria. I think he loved her very much.’
It was so sad, Mia thought. Shirley opened the three bedside drawers. She checked through Luiz’s shorts, again finding nothing in the pockets. In the second drawer were some traditional clothes, including a jackal-skin kaross, which was worn around the waist. Mia felt her cheeks turn red at this intrusion not only into Luiz’s privacy, but also his core beliefs.
Shirley bent and looked under the bed, then got down on all fours and reached underneath. She slid out a black metal trunk, then sat on the bed and opened the tin box’s lid. ‘Army stuff, by the look of it.’
Mia shifted the trunk across the floor so she could get a better look, then sat down on the bed next to Shirley. This was actually of interest to her. She’d asked Luiz about his time in the old South African Defence Force, because she remembered her father talking about the ‘Bushmen’ soldiers and telling her what amazing trackers they were. It was the stories of some of their feats, which she’d overheard as a child during some of her father’s drinking sessions with old army friends, that had partly kindled her own fascination with tracking.
She sighed. She’d hoped to learn so much from Luiz and while he had shown her a trick or two, such as tracking snakes and lizards in the sand by looking for the disturbances caused by their underground burrowing, he had been reluctant to engage in long conversations with her. She had hoped that asking him about his military service, in the light of her father’s own time in the army, would help break the ice, but she now thought that it was at precisely that point that Luiz had really clammed up.
Mia caught a whiff of mouldy canvas as Shirley reached into the trunk and took out two old ammunition pouches, a belt and a bonnet hat.
‘I’ve never seen any of this stuff.’ Shirley lifted out a handful of photos, mostly faded colour images with white borders. There were a few monochrome prints and these, like the picture of Luiz’s wife, were smaller. ‘This is amazing.’
Shirley handed the pictures to Mia one at a time as she finished studying them.
‘This must be him when he first joined the Portuguese army, in Angola,’ Shirley said.
Mia looked at the image.
She could see it was Luiz, but he looked so young. He was in a camouflage uniform and though the picture was black and white, she could see that the bonnet he wore, at a jaunty angle, was of the same pattern as the hat from the trunk. There was another young San man with him.
‘He’s just a boy,’ Shirley said. ‘And that’s my mother’s other brother, Roberto, with him. He died in the war.’
Luiz looked no more than sixteen or seventeen and he carried a G3 rifle, which Mia knew had been used by the Portuguese. Roberto could have been a couple of years older, but it was hard to tell. Mia turned over the picture; written on the back was ‘Flechas 1972’. Mia didn’t want to say anything, but she had read quite a bit online and bought a book about the South African Defence Force’s Bushman Battalions. The book pointed out that when the San had fought for the Portuguese in Angola, they had been devastatingly effective – the word ‘ruthless’ was also used.
The next picture Shirley handed Mia was in colour and showed Luiz and another San man in a plain brown uniform – Mia recognised it as typical of the old South African Defence Force, which had changed its name to ‘national’ defence force after the end of the apartheid era. In this image, Luiz wore a different hat, a type of bonnet similar to those Mia had seen worn by pipers in bagpipe bands.
Luiz had swapped his G3 for a South African R1, the same rifle her father had carried in the Bush War. Mia thought the men in this picture, Luiz and Roberto, had been staged. They were in the bush, walking along, half looking at the ground as though they were tracking, though their uniforms looked starched and clean, as if the men had just come off a parade ground. She doubted they would have worn the impractical bonnets in the field.
South Africa had made much of the use of Bushmen at the time; her father had told her that politicians and journalists would often visit the Bushmen Battalions on guided tours, to reinforce a message that the SADF was not fighting a war based on race – but one of good versus evil, democracy against communism. She had read that the San had been mistreated and enslaved by some of the other African tribes in Angola, which had made them easy converts to the Portuguese cause. Likewise, they did not like the Ovambo, who made up the majority of the Namibian independence fighters in SWAPO, the South West Africa People’s Organisation, and its military wing, PLAN.
Men such as Luiz had been at war for a decade or more in the seventies and eighties, uprooted from their traditional lands and unable to return, given the shifts in world politics.
‘Oh, my word,’ said Shirley, who never took the Lord’s name in vain, even when she was shocked.
She handed Mia a picture but showed her the reverse of the photo instead of the image. On the back was written: Luiz, Lt Ferri, Litis, Kruger, Sgt Greenaway.
Mia felt an invisible hand grip her heart. When she turned the picture over, she saw her father.
Chapter 6
Adam stared out over the Indian Ocean. The boat bobbed in the vast emptiness, above the Aliwal Shoal, five kilometres off the KwaZulu-Natal Coast. The only sound, for now, was the gentle slap of the water against the hull.
Somewhere across the ocean were the wife and children he had left behind.
‘You can almost see Australia on a day like today,’ Bruce said.
Bruce Kirkwood was a cane farmer from Mtubatuba, who also had a big house in Pennington with panoramic ocean views. When he was at the coast, which was as often as possible, Bruce was happy to supply his boat and fuel to help Adam’s research, or take him along when he took his friends fishing. Today it was just the two of them.
Adam wondered if Bruce could read his mind, or had just picked up on the way he’d been gazing out to sea.
‘How are your kids doing?’ Bruce asked.
Bruce liked to talk when he fished, whereas Adam preferred peace and quiet. This was the price, however, of having a magnanimous friend and unofficial patron who supported Adam’s research. ‘Ja, OK. Phillip’s nearly ready to graduate law and Jolene’s studying to be a teacher.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember you saying your kids were studying.’
Adam had two rods sitting in holders, baited and ready. On the horizon, where he’d been staring, he saw a dark speck. He went into the wheelhouse and fetched Bruce’s binoculars. When he returned to his position he checked the tension on the lines – still nothing – and focused on where he’d seen the object.
‘Another fisherman?’ Bruce asked.
Adam nodded as he held the focus. ‘Looks like.’ He adjusted and saw that the other vessel was coming towards them. The superstructure was distinctive.
‘Renshaw,’ Adam said. He gripped the binoculars tighter as he stared.
‘We’re not the Sea Shepherd, Adam.’ Bruce tried a laugh. ‘I’m not going to ram him, at least not with my boat, boet.’
Adam said nothing, but felt his blood boil as he saw someone at the back of the boat slopping out bloodied fish guts and offal.
‘He’s chumming,’ Adam said eventually. ‘Looking for sharks. Bastard.’
Adam saw a glint of sun on glass and shifted his gaze slightly. Someone else, standing behind the wheel of the other boat, was now looking at him.
In his peripheral vision Adam saw one of his fishing rods jerk. He put down the binoculars just as he registered the other boat changing course, then darted to the rod and hauled it out of its holder. From the immediate pull he knew it was a big fish. Adam adjusted the drag and started to reel in the line.
Thirty metres out, Adam saw an overly long fin break the surface. His heart pounded. ‘Yes! It’s a guitarfish, Bruce! Get the sling and gaffer ready.’
Bruce picked up the gaffer hook and came to Adam’s side. ‘Sure, he’s a big one. Looks like a big bladdy stingray with a shark’s fin.’
‘That’s pretty much what he is.’ Adam hauled on the rod and reeled in the slack. This was why he was here, his purpose; he could not lose this shark. Adam could see the big fish clearly now, maybe two and a half metres long, its sandy-brown skin peppered with white dots.
Bruce hooked the hefty shark under its gill and managed to hold it more or less steady against the side of the boat as Adam stowed the rod again, leaned over and slid the nylon sling under the fish’s sleek body. He secured the sling.
‘Got you!’ Adam set to work quickly but methodically. He went to his stash of research gear and took up his popper, a small spear gun with a GPS tracking device already loaded. He leaned over the gunwale again and held the device against the shark’s thick, fleshy fin then pulled the trigger.
‘Bloody amazing,’ Bruce said. ‘That will allow you to, what, monitor it on your computer?’
‘Exactly,’ Adam said. Next he took up a pair of clippers and cut a small piece of skin out of the fin. ‘This biopsy will go into our gene bank,’ he said to Bruce as he put the sample into a zip-lock bag.
‘What the fok . . . Hey!’
Adam looked up to see Bruce waving. Beyond him, looming in size and bulk was the boat that had been heading towards them, the name Sea Predator and a sea star logo painted on the side. It was, as he’d suspected, Renshaw’s boat.
‘What the hell’s he doing?’ Bruce said. ‘Back off, man!’
Adam reached over again to start the process of releasing the guitarfish. He would have loved to just sit there for a moment and take in the simple wonder of this sleek, perfect creature, but he also knew that every second the shark was held captive was a risk to its wellbeing.
Adam assumed Renshaw was just coming to see what they were doing, or to hurl some abuse at him. He worked on the knot securing the sling.
‘Fokof!’ Bruce yelled this time.
Adam glanced up again to see the bow of Renshaw’s boat coming towards them. The other skipper was grinning, and Adam could see the can of Windhoek Lager raised in Renshaw’s hand in a mock salute. Renshaw spun the wheel of his vessel hard to starboard and his big cruiser turned.
Adam knew what was about to happen, and braced himself for the bow wave that hit them broadside, but Bruce chose that moment to stand and give Renshaw the finger. Bruce lost his footing as spray washed over them, soaking them, and he slammed into Adam and sent him over the railing into the water.
Renshaw’s crewman, a scarred-faced man named Jaapie, laughed as he tipped a bucket of offal over the back of the departing cruiser. The water around Adam was dyed red and smelled of rotten fish.
‘Adam!’
‘I’m fine, Bruce.’ Adam trod water next to the guitarfish, careful to keep his hand away from the shark’s mouth. The big creature didn’t have the wickedly angled teeth of a great white, but its crushing plates were made to pulverise crayfish or crabs and could do some damage. Gingerly, Adam reached for the big hook that had landed the fish.
‘No, behind you!’ Bruce called. ‘Shark!’
Adam shot his head around and saw the dark grey-coloured fin of a bull shark knifing through the water. Unlike the guitarfish, this was a killer of humans, no doubt attracted by the combination of the swirling chum and the thrashing creature tied to the boat.
Adam reached down to his right calf and unsheathed his diving knife. He slashed the fishing line attached to the hook and then the cord securing the sling to the boat. The guitarfish rewarded his kindness with a slap in his face from its tailfin as it dived for the cover of the deep.
Bruce was reaching down for him, but the bull shark changed its course from the disappearing guitarfish to Adam with a minute correction. Adam knew that if he took Bruce’s offered hand there was no way the other man could pull him out of the water in time. He turned in the water, knife hand up and braced for impact.
The bull shark slammed into him with the force of a motor scooter hitting a pedestrian and he felt pain in his chest. Adam was ready for the blow, however, and slammed his fist down on the shark’s nose.
Adam glimpsed teeth as the shark turned, mouth open, then seemed to spin in the water as it readied for another attack. Adam reversed the big stainless-steel knife in his hand and drove the point down into the shark’s nose this time. The shark dived, not mortally wounded but deterred. Adam reached for Bruce, who hauled him up and back on board.
‘That was crazy, even for a man who spends too much time in the water with those things.’
Adam sat on the deck, his back against the railing, chest heaving. He said nothing but his heart was thumping.
‘Hell, Adam, that thing nearly killed you. How did you know to punch it? I’ve heard of surfers doing that, but I didn’t think it would actually work.’
Adam shook his head. ‘I wasn’t sure either. A shark . . .’ he gasped for air, ‘. . . has a complex network of neuromast cells all linked together in its nose – they’re called the ampullae of Lorenzini. They help the shark sense what’s in the water and make the nose incredibly sensitive. It was . . . it was worth a shot.’ He wiped seawater from his face and coughed.
‘Check, Adam! You’re bleeding, man.’
‘I’m fine, Bruce.’ Adam looked at the gash in his wetsuit and inspected it. There was blood, but the wound wasn’t serious; he felt no pain at all, though he knew that would come later. For now, he just felt good that he’d managed to tag a rare specimen and do his job.
Adam felt light-headed.
‘You OK?’ Bruce asked. ‘I’ll get you some water.’ He fished a bottle from the cooler box, unscrewed the cap and handed it to Adam.
Adam drank greedily, looking up as he downed the contents of the bottle. The sky, he noticed, was the most vivid blue he could recall seeing in a long time. He smelled the salt in the air.
‘You’re grinning like a madman, Adam.’ Bruce shook his head.
What the fuck, Adam said to himself. I’m alive.
As Adam sat there, Bruce climbed upstairs to the bridge and started the boat’s engines. Adam felt the vibration through his body; it reminded him of riding in a chopper, where his whole being seemed to throb in time to his heartbeat as they flew towards another contact, another battle in Angola or South West, where any of them might be killed or wounded.
He’d thought he would never feel as alive as he had during the war. It was crazy, a paradox, that one could feel so fulfilled, so in touch with life, when death was all around. He had gone into battle with men to whom he had entrusted his life, knowing they felt the same about him. It had been like that, just now; Adam had known Bruce was there, that he would pull him from the water if he was mauled.
Bruce reeled in their lines and set the boat on its course, heading back to Rocky Bay. Then he came downstairs to where Adam was still sitting on the deck, recovering.
Bruce went to the cooler box again and opened it. ‘You need a beer after what you went through just now.’
Adam shook his head. ‘I’ll take a Coke or a Stoney if you’ve got one.’
Bruce opened his eyes and mouth wide in a theatrical double take. ‘You, saying no to a beer?’
‘I’m working this afternoon.’
‘At the car park?’
‘Yes,’ Adam said.
‘Why?’ Bruce handed Adam a can of ginger beer and opened a Long Tom of Castle Lite for himself.
Just the sound of the pfft of the gas escaping the silver can made Adam’s mouth water. He licked his lips, wondering if he could tell Bruce the truth.
‘Are you all right, China? Do you need a loan?’ Bruce asked.
Adam shook his head. ‘I work at the mall to earn a few rand, for food and a couple of beers. It keeps me honest, Bruce. I get money, from the university in Australia I’m doing my PhD through, but I’ve been sending nearly all of that back to Oz to support the kids. If I didn’t work, I wouldn’t send all the money, and I’d just sit in the boat club and drink.’
Bruce raised his can and took a sip. ‘I’m not sure I understand you, Adam, but you’re a good man. I like what you’re doing for the sharks. Is that why, when I offered you some money to help with your research, you said no?’
‘Yes.’ Adam opened the cool drink and took a long sip. ‘I would have just pissed your money away. This way, I have to be accountable. If I want a drink, I need to earn it.’
Bruce nodded. ‘I heard about the shootout in the car park yesterday. That was hectic, even for South Africa. Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ Adam said.
‘I never saw action, in the army. I spent most of my time in the townships. You’ve nearly been killed twice in two days.’
‘That must have been hard,’ Adam said, ‘having to deal with our own people, other South Africans.’
Bruce shrugged. He went back upstairs to the helm. Adam looked out over the water again. Sometimes he wished he could live at sea, and never go back to shore. With the coastline in sight, Adam’s phone beeped from his dive bag.
He found it and checked the screen. It was a message from Evan Litis. He hadn’t heard from Evan in maybe five or six years, when Evan had come looking for him, before he moved to Australia. Adam had ignored Evan’s last approach, and was not even sure how he’d found his number, but this was different.
Luiz is dead. Killed himself.
Bruce came downstairs again. ‘Forgot my beer.’
Adam looked at his friend.
‘Sheesh, Adam, you look like you’re going to be seasick for the first time since I met you.’
*
Sannie walked along Pennington Beach late that afternoon. She was between the raised timber viewing deck in front of the cafe and the tidal pool when she saw Adam Kruger emerge from the surf further south.
As she came closer, she saw that his daypack, running shirt and shoes were on the beach.
