back.
They spent the afternoon combing
through the pathways and the foliage near the beach where they had spent half
the previous night. They debated the merits of calling the phone with either
Macks’s or Mavuso’s phone. They decided against it. No good if the cops have
found it and we then call. They could trace back and find us. Play safe.
They eventually found the precise
spot in the thick bush where they had drunk and smoked themselves into a
stupor. The place was evident from the detritus of their previous night’s
debauchery. They searched the area and its surroundings, and the paths leading
into the clearing where they had sat.
It was fruitless. After more than
three hours they had given up any chance of finding either the phone or the
weapon. On the way back to Themba’s place they eventually accepted that the
items were lost and they needed to put that fact behind them. They needed to
concentrate on plans for Lucky Dlamini.
They were listening to the thudding
rhythms of kwaito on the car radio and occasionally shouting snippets of
conversation at one another, rather than actually conversing. The mood started
becoming a little more upbeat, and by the time they were nearing Themba’s shack
there were jokes and guffaws and bravura and attempts to emulate the singers as
they writhed to the beat in the confines of the car.
Then, halfway through the classic Nkalakatha which all of them knew by
heart and consequently tried to outdo each other with loud toneless versions of
Mandoza’s energising rhythms and vocals, the song
quickly faded out as a news item was introduced.
It was an update on the murder of
four constables on the R74 on Sunday evening. It provided the new information
that police now had a lead in their investigation. They were questioning two
young women, teenagers, twin sisters, who had been witnesses to the entire
event.
Mavuso, who had been driving, brought
the vehicle to a juddering halt at the roadside. All three of them were
cursing, swearing, and shouting at one another as the news item faded away and
the Mandoza music began building its way back into prominence. Themba hit the
switch and killed the radio then screamed at the other two to calm down.
‘Shut up! Shut up, comrades! Wait,
man! Wait! We must handle this. We must find these girls!’
The other two paused only slightly
then the three of them launched off again in a cacophony of interjections and disagreements
about what to do about this disaster.
They eventually started working out
the plan. They would fan out separately, find out among the connections that
each of them had in KwaDukuza who in the local area might have any idea of the
identity of the witnesses. If they couldn’t get anyone to talk, or if the
police were keeping the witnesses under wraps, then at least they could start a
process of finding out who in the local community had twin daughters.
Teenagers. Probably older teenagers, if they were out on the hills at dusk.
Older teenagers. Twin sisters. Not too difficult. A process of elimination. And
then, once they found them, another process of elimination.
They set off again in the red Mazda.
No radio. The three of them were silent and contemplative as they drove through
the dusk back to Themba’s place. By the time they got to the shack they had
agreed on one thing. The hunt for the twins would start tonight.
20.45.
Ryder and Fiona were recovering
quietly at home on the sofa after dinner, sharing a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
The children were doing their homework in their rooms. The dog lay on the
carpet, jaw resting comfortably on his two front paws, watching them, content
that the four people in the world for whose safety he alone felt entirely
responsible were all safe at home where they belonged.
Sugar-Bear was a six-year old Border
Collie. His left eye was surrounded by white hair and the other eye was half in
white and half in black. This was occasioned by the line of black hair that ran
diagonally
They spent the afternoon combing
through the pathways and the foliage near the beach where they had spent half
the previous night. They debated the merits of calling the phone with either
Macks’s or Mavuso’s phone. They decided against it. No good if the cops have
found it and we then call. They could trace back and find us. Play safe.
They eventually found the precise
spot in the thick bush where they had drunk and smoked themselves into a
stupor. The place was evident from the detritus of their previous night’s
debauchery. They searched the area and its surroundings, and the paths leading
into the clearing where they had sat.
It was fruitless. After more than
three hours they had given up any chance of finding either the phone or the
weapon. On the way back to Themba’s place they eventually accepted that the
items were lost and they needed to put that fact behind them. They needed to
concentrate on plans for Lucky Dlamini.
They were listening to the thudding
rhythms of kwaito on the car radio and occasionally shouting snippets of
conversation at one another, rather than actually conversing. The mood started
becoming a little more upbeat, and by the time they were nearing Themba’s shack
there were jokes and guffaws and bravura and attempts to emulate the singers as
they writhed to the beat in the confines of the car.
Then, halfway through the classic Nkalakatha which all of them knew by
heart and consequently tried to outdo each other with loud toneless versions of
Mandoza’s energising rhythms and vocals, the song
quickly faded out as a news item was introduced.
It was an update on the murder of
four constables on the R74 on Sunday evening. It provided the new information
that police now had a lead in their investigation. They were questioning two
young women, teenagers, twin sisters, who had been witnesses to the entire
event.
Mavuso, who had been driving, brought
the vehicle to a juddering halt at the roadside. All three of them were
cursing, swearing, and shouting at one another as the news item faded away and
the Mandoza music began building its way back into prominence. Themba hit the
switch and killed the radio then screamed at the other two to calm down.
‘Shut up! Shut up, comrades! Wait,
man! Wait! We must handle this. We must find these girls!’
The other two paused only slightly
then the three of them launched off again in a cacophony of interjections and disagreements
about what to do about this disaster.
They eventually started working out
the plan. They would fan out separately, find out among the connections that
each of them had in KwaDukuza who in the local area might have any idea of the
identity of the witnesses. If they couldn’t get anyone to talk, or if the
police were keeping the witnesses under wraps, then at least they could start a
process of finding out who in the local community had twin daughters.
Teenagers. Probably older teenagers, if they were out on the hills at dusk.
Older teenagers. Twin sisters. Not too difficult. A process of elimination. And
then, once they found them, another process of elimination.
They set off again in the red Mazda.
No radio. The three of them were silent and contemplative as they drove through
the dusk back to Themba’s place. By the time they got to the shack they had
agreed on one thing. The hunt for the twins would start tonight.
20.45.
Ryder and Fiona were recovering
quietly at home on the sofa after dinner, sharing a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
The children were doing their homework in their rooms. The dog lay on the
carpet, jaw resting comfortably on his two front paws, watching them, content
that the four people in the world for whose safety he alone felt entirely
responsible were all safe at home where they belonged.
Sugar-Bear was a six-year old Border
Collie. His left eye was surrounded by white hair and the other eye was half in
white and half in black. This was occasioned by the line of black hair that ran
diagonally
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