The Disappeared (29 page)

As a result, in
1975,
Operation Savannah
was launched and Task Force Zulu was sent it.
In mid October of that year, the Task Force captured Perreira d’Eca. Less than
a month later, in what was to become a record-breaking advance, Novo Redondo
was annexed. These were things that Gibson Jones was hugely proud of. This was
what it felt like to be a winner. A victor.

During their
blistering advance, Gibson Jones’s company had picked up a pocket of intense
resistance just south of Joao de Almeida. In the ensuing fire-fight, the South
African forces suffered severe losses. They were in danger of being overrun by
the enemy. Jones’s unit had advanced far ahead. Too far ahead. As part of the
forward advance guard that had been badly mauled by enemy gunfire, Gibson Jones
suddenly discovered he was alone. His entire unit had been decimated. As if
that wasn’t bad enough he was only a short distance from the enemy positions. Their
advance had separated them from the rest of the battalion and there was no hope
that re-enforcements would arrive in time. He was facing a division of MPLA and
Cuban soldiers. And he was all alone.

Through the
thick Angolan bush, he spotted a group of enemy soldiers moving towards their
position. His future prospects suddenly became clear. He would either be
executed on the spot. Or he would be taken prisoner and spend the last dismal
days of his life being tortured in a filthy Angolan jail. But Jones was a
survivor. Had always been. Will always be. And defeat was not an option. As the
enemy unit bore down on their position, Jones had less than a minute to save
his own life. With the enemy soldiers within spitting distance from him, Jones
executed his gory plan. Next to him the body of Corporal Gerbert ‘
Vloer Moer
’Fourie
lay sprawled out. He had taken a single AK47 slug to the forehead. Now, however,
there was little remaining that could be identified as a head at all. Jones
leopard-crawled over to Fourie’s corpse. From a sheath hanging from his belt,
he extracted an army-issue hunting knife. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jones ripped
open Fourie’s blood-stained shirt.

Gerbert Fourie.
From Delmas. Erstwhile son of Johanna and Roedolf Fourie. Erstwhile husband and
father to Petronella and Kristel Fourie respectively. Jones liked Fourie. But not
enough to spare the young man’s corpse the indignity of mutilation. Without any
pomp and ceremony, Jones had plunged the knife into the dead soldier’s torso.
With vicious movements inspired by the fear of death, Jones ripped open Fourie’s
body. He sank both hands into the soldier’s bowels and smeared blood and gore
all over his own face and uniform. Then – with seconds to spare – he drove the
knife into the dead man’s intestines. He slashed and hacked until he had loosed
a sizeable chuck of entrails. The stench of blood and shit were overpowering. Then
Jones cut up his own shirt. He could hear enemy boots crushing the undergrowth.
And voices. Speaking in Portuguese. They were here. Metres away. He could smell
their sweat and filth. Metres away. Jones grabbed the severed innards and
heaped it onto his torso. And flopped down acting dead. Just in time. Less than
five seconds later, he felt a boot kick the earth bare metres from him. The
most intense few seconds of Jones’s life elapsed while the enemy soldiers
surveyed the carnage. There was raucous laughter. Several soldiers kicked the
corpses of his dead countrymen. Somewhere to his left, a Cuban loosened a
stream of piss onto a corpse. And then they moved on. As soon as the soldiers
were out of earshot, Jones got up and sought refuge within a thick clump of
bushes. Less than an hour later, the rear of the South African forces had
defeated the remaining MPLA resistance. And he was rescued. Later on Jones read
a report on the engagement. Specific mention was made of the enemy’s brutal
desecration of the corpse of a certain Corporal Gerbert Fourie. Gibson Jones
was a survivor all right.

Now – as he
sat in a booth across from the dead Mayor’s snivelling little brat – his
survival instinct kicked into high gear. It was time to act. Time to grab fate
by the throat and squeeze its balls. Really hard.

Jones stretched
out expansively and yawned. ‘Max, I’m going to grab some fresh air. See you
just now.’ Max Theron nodded in listless acknowledgement.
They may have
resigned themselves to their fate
Jones thought as he stepped into the dull
sunlight.
But not me. I’m not done yet. Not by a long shot.
On the neat
sidewalk of Main Street with its topiaried mop-head trees, Jones looked around
to see if anyone was looking. No-one. Good. He began the brisk ten-minute walk
to his house. His plan was clear and single-minded. He was going to get the
hell out of this place. The sooner the better. And once he did, there would be
no looking back. The good people of Bishop would have to fend for themselves.
Just like he was doing. That was the law of the jungle. It was a law that Gibson
Jones understood with scathing clarity.

Jones turned
into Church Street, casting a quick look over his shoulder, once again to make
sure no-one was looking. He couldn’t understand why Coetzee hadn’t ordered
everyone to evacuate already. More specifically he wondered why – just like
himself – no-one had seized the initiative and simply just buggered off. Were
they really that much in awe of the
dutchman
cop? Surely it couldn’t be.
Well, Gibson Jones (esquire) wasn’t going to put his life in the hands of a middle-management
cop. He hadn’t become the single biggest realtor in the region by sitting back
and letting someone else take charge. No damn way!

Up ahead in
the distance, Jones’s house was visible. The vigorous walk had left him short
of breath and he paused for a while sucking oxygen into heaving lungs. Soft
sunlight shone through the luxuriant tree cover and dappled the street in
broken light. In the distance, the rolling waters of the Elandsriver were
clearly audible. Besides that there was nothing. Only silence loomed. It was a
beautiful place. Of that there was no doubt. And Jones was going to miss it. God
alone knew what happened to the missing residents of Bishop. But it wasn’t his
concern. There was only one thing on his mind right now. And it wasn’t the
beauty of this doomed Free State town. Jones resumed his brisk pace and before
long he was standing in front of his garage door. He whipped out his car keys
and pressed the remote control button. The garage door wheezed open. Inside was
Jones’s pride and joy. A brand new Jaguar XF Luxury model with a 3.0 litre V6
Diesel engine. His heartbeat increased as he looked at the luxury sedan with
its sleek lines. He smiled with fatherly pride. It was true indeed that he
loved this car more than anything – or anyone – in the whole world. Jones
de-activated the alarm and slid behind the wheel. He fired up the powerful
engine and shifted the transmission into first gear – automatics were for woman
drivers! With a broad smile on his face, he raced into the street. He was
taking charge. Being his own man. Determining his own fate. Freedom was just
around the corner and damn, it felt good. Gunning the engine with reckless
abandon Jones pulled into Main Street and headed for East Bridge. He felt like
leaning out the window and whooping with delight. Man, it felt good to be
alive. Up ahead was the sharp turn that led to the bridge. And to freedom. Jones
geared down to second and executed a swanky turn. As he straightened the car –

Oh shit!

Jones braked
hard. The momentum of the sudden stop – seatbelts were for homosexuals –
propelled him forward and slammed his head into steering wheel. The Jaguar’s
airbag deployed.

Blood streamed
from his nose. Exploding stars swam before his eyes. In a daze, Jones pushed
down the inflated airbag to allow him a proper view through the Jag’s
windscreen.

What he saw
made his mouth hang open in disbelief.

The
outskirts of Bishop.

Flanked by
two muddy banks, the mighty  Elandsriver roared through its course. Loud. And
powerful. Except for that ... there was dead silence. It stuck to everything.
Permeated everything. It was awesome and huge. Not so much an absence as a
visible presence. A thing on its own. A hollowed-out thing that possessed
Bishop.

No birds
perched in trees. No insects scurried in the undergrowth. Nothing stirred at
all. And there was no sign of life. Or was there ...

Barely
inside the perimeter of Bishop. Just off East Bridge. Was a thick rim of
shrubbery. It rustled. Shook. And nothing. Then it bent over.

A figure
emerged. Hunched down. Barely visible thanks to expert camouflage. The figure
was a mere suggestion against the green of the Elandsriver foliage. He paused.
The figure was hooded. Wearing a one-piece Hazmat suit. Two round, tinted
eyeglasses built into the hood gave the figure an alien appearance. He brought
a pair of high-tech Zeiss binoculars to his eyes. Then he slowly brought them
down. He indicated with his hand, making a forward motion. As if by magic, a
further eight figures materialised against the green background. With his hand
the leader indicated various directions. Each of the figures took up a position
as instructed. Now the leader made a downward motion with both hands. The
members of the team sank into the ground, lying low. Just as they had risen
from the environment, they now disappeared back into it

This was
the advance crew. And they were in place. Soon they would be moving through the
little Free State town.

‘It’s the
army, I’m telling you brotha.’

Jansen and
Collie were sitting in Jansen’s chaotic lounge, sipping on beers. They had
arranged to meet there after their rounds. It was Jansen’s suggestion that they
have a quick beer before they return to Coetzee with their findings. And the
findings were morbid indeed.

As agreed,
Jansen had searched the residential areas south of Main Street. Collie in turn
had scoured the northern sector in his Ford Bantam
bakkie
. The search
for survivors had been slow and laborious. Jansen would park at the end of a
street and then walk on foot, knocking on every door. He would then test to see
whether the door was locked. If the doors were unlocked – as most often they
were – he would enter the houses and conduct a more thorough search. After
searching several dozen houses, Jansen had discovered only one survivor. Old
Mrs Hendrien Jakobs. She had been in her backyard watering her Azaleas. (Yes. Some
people were
actually
into Azaleas.) Blissfully unaware of the massive
tragedy that had occurred around her. When Jansen found her, she was dressed in
a gown with pink and blue plastic curlers jutting out from a scarf wrapped
around her head. Jansen’s explanation of the situation had been greeted with
annoyed disbelief. He had been told to ‘
take his ridiculous story to old
Mavis Hendriks down the road who was far more likely to fall for such rubbish
’
and ‘
didn’t policemen have more important things to do than harass
law-abiding citizens?
’ Only when Jansen had threatened arrest did she agree
– reluctantly though – to go to the Abbot.

Collie had
more luck in convincing Fred and Siobhan Young – the only survivors in his
search area – to join the rest of the townspeople. They had been on their way
to the local veterinarian to report that their bulldog – Churchill – was
missing when Collie discovered them. Fred and Siobhan were both doctors from
Bloemfontein who had decided to seek the quiet life of country doctors. Jansen
realised – at the very least – that Coetzee would be
moer
happy to
discover that two doctors were amongst the survivors.

But that
didn’t detract from the terrible truth their reconnaissance had uncovered. The
town of Bishop was virtually empty. And almost no-one was left.

What the hell
had happened?

At first
Collie and Jansen had simply sat like two lost souls in Jansen’s living room.
Neither had said a word – stunned into silence by their discoveries. Lost in
sombre thoughts. But after another two Black Labels each, the discussion had
flowed without inhibition.

‘At first I
thought like, it’s a terrorist thing. You know, like that Obama Bin Laden oke
in New York. But I’m telling you, I’m sure. It’s the army ... and the
government. They’re in this together.’ Collie stared philosophically at his
beer. The little man was wearing military fatigues. A pair of brown
military-issue boots and a camouflage jacket completed the outfit.

Jansen nodded
into his beer without really listening. Before Collie arrived he had downed
three Black Labels in quick succession. The alcohol wasn’t having the desired
effect though. The restless darkness was still there hovering around the
fringes of his mood.

Red light.

‘I saw things,
brotha, when I was in the army.’ He leaned forward whispering conspiracy. ‘Some
things they wouldn’t want the public to know. Know what I mean?’ Collie sniffed
loudly. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they were trying to get rid of all the
witnesses, you know. Trying to do away with the ole Collster. Are you following
me, my
bru
?’

‘So they
planned this whole thing to get rid of you?’

‘Fucking Ay,
china
,’
Collie said with enthusiasm. He didn’t detect the sarcasm in Jansen’s voice. ‘But
I’m ready for them, my man.’ He pulled out a Colt .45 from under his jacket.
Like a real suburban
Rambo,
Collie also had a knife inside a scabbard
strapped around his left ankle. A shoulder holster contained a further two
pistols. Collie had the largest gun collection of anybody Jansen had ever seen.
He was sure only half of that collection was – strictly speaking – legal. Cop
or not, Jansen didn’t feel it was his business. ‘They must come,’ Collie
continued. ‘I’ll go plutonium on their fucking asses.’ He guffawed in nasal
mirth.

But already
Jansen wasn’t listening. It felt as if all his sensory impressions were
filtered through the lingering anxiety that continued to gnaw at him. Sounds
became amplified and, like pebbles thrown in a pool, would send ripples of
irritation through him. Colours and light would become distorted as through a
prism and grate at him. Even the sensation of touch would make him recoil in
annoyance. And it was getting worse. Jansen felt like a time bomb. Building up
to some pent-up explosion. What the hell was wrong with him? Could it be

(
red light
)

simply his
reaction to the chaos of the morning? And of course then there was –

‘... they didn’t
call me The Terminator for nothing, hey ...’

Collie may
have had his own idiotic ideas about the cause of the disaster ... but Jansen
knew better. In his mind he saw a vivid image of the prisoner behind flaking
iron bars. The stranger had something to do with it. He was – almost – sure of
it. Almost. What were the odds? The one moment everything’s fine and dandy.
Then a stranger shows up – a convicted criminal – and suddenly all hell breaks
loose. Yes. The prisoner was somehow involved. The more he thought about it the
more sense it made. The prisoner was some kind of spy. Sent in to keep an eye
on the survivors. What better cover? Who would suspect an escapee from some
second rate reformatory? Perfect. Things were starting to become clear. Jansen
smirked sardonically.

‘
Ja
,
you follow what I’m saying,’ Collie said with enthusiasm, thinking Jansen was
reacting to his words. Jansen nodded in agreement. Yes. Things were starting to
become crystal clear. He looked at Collie with a glint in his eye.

‘Eugene,’
Jansen said with as much warmth as he could muster, ‘Did I tell you there was a
prisoner in the cells?’

Tick tick
tick.

‘And you
searched every single house?’

Collie, Jansen
and Coetzee were standing around the desk in the interrogation room. Coetzee
was on one side of the desk while Collie and Jansen stood with folded hands on
the other side. Coetzee wasn’t sure why, but his two deputies looked like two
guilty schoolboys.

In the period
since he had sent Jansen on the reconnaissance mission Coetzee had been a busy
man. Following Jansen’s departure he had tried scanning all the CB radio
frequencies. Only cold static greeted his frustrated efforts, however. After
trying all the landline phones and all available cellphones it became clear
that they were indeed cut off from the outside world. The little snot-nose
Duggan was right.

The next hour
or so had been spent calming frayed nerves. And fielding frantic though pointless
questions from selected residents. Primary amongst these had been Bridgette Le
Roux and Max Theron. For the umpteenth time that day Bridgette had asked
whether anyone had seen her twin boys. She knew the answer just as well as
Coetzee but seemed to derive some meagre comfort from merely asking the
question. Her frantic hysteria of earlier had now been replaced by a numb
melancholy. No doubt aided by a generous helping of tranquilisers. Coetzee had
promised her that his deputy was out searching Bishop for anyone that may have
survived. It seemed to ease her troubled mind. For the time being. Max on the
other hand wanted to know if his relation to the Mayor qualified him for special
rescue. Coetzee was barely able to suppress his irritation. It took all of his
even temperament to not lash out and give the spoilt son of the mayor a
snotklap
deluxe. Instead he assured Max that his privileged familial affiliation
would indeed be conveyed to the rescue team. In addition half a dozen other
residents had frustrated the middle-aged policeman with persistent questions to
which he simply did not have the answers. Coetzee realised however that it was
more important to listen to their questions than actually supply meaningful
answers. Today he was more than just a cop. He was a priest. A psychiatrist.
And a father.

Amidst all the
frenzied interruptions Coetzee had even managed to do some administrative work.
It seemed laughably pointless. And a bizarre waste of time. And yet the rote of
admin work gave to Coetzee exactly what the residents now sought from him. Solace
and comfort. Pure and simple. A sense of normalcy and the ordinary. A welcome
escape to the tedium of the everyday. And as he laboriously recounted the events
of that morning that’s exactly what he received. For almost an hour he was just
Inspector Coetzee again. A small town cop who dealt with nothing more serious
than the odd public disturbance or stock theft. A station commander who lived
in a town that suffered nothing more disastrous than the occasional flood or
traffic accident. For those precious few minutes the world was whole again and
Bishop was untouched by tragedy. It was a welcome respite. But brief.

After he had
finished – as Coetzee put down the ballpoint pen and stared at the fifteen
pages of the report – he wondered if anyone would ever read its astounding
content. He scanned the carefully penned words and thought it resembled the ravings
of a madman. The warped imaginings of a drug-induced mind. Not the trained
observations of an experienced policeman.

Coetzee had dutifully
filed the report. And sat alone in his office. Quiet and unmoving. Glad for the
solitude. Glad there was no-one that needed his comfort or his re-assurance.
Glad there was no-one that looked to him for leadership and guidance.

Then. In the
eerie quietude of his office Coetzee had risen from his chair. Behind him was
the grey steel cabinet that was standard issue to all police stations. It was
ugly and austere. Soulless and functional. But it housed something precious and
eternal. Something Coetzee allowed himself in moments of doubt or whenever
melancholy and longing seeped into him. With great care he had slowly unlocked
the cabinet and opened its doors. All the shelves inside were crammed with
files. Except the topmost one. A beautiful quilted cloth covered this shelf. In
the middle was an ornate wooden cross on a stand. Before it lay a wedding ring.
On either side were two framed photographs of a woman. The one photograph with
its sepia tone showed a young girl beautiful with youth and vitality. The other
one revealed the same woman though more advanced in age. Karen Coetzee. Beloved
wife and life partner of Jan Coetzee.

Karen Coetzee.
The beautiful caring woman with the soul of an ancient sage. The strong and
poetic woman whose life-force had been steadily devoured by the black cancer.
The elegant woman who had faded right before his eyes. Reduced to the deep
humiliation of dementia and incontinence in her cancer bed.

Her death had
left a gaping hole in his life. His heart. His soul. In the early days her
passing had been like a black hole. Nothing escaped its tragic gravity. All
thoughts. All feelings. All intentions. Everything was sucked into its black
centre. In the end his very will to live had disappeared into this black void.
He had begun to be filled – to be consumed – by a cloying emptiness deep
inside. It needed filling. It needed to be sated. And so the drinking had begun.
Alcohol was the perfect answer. The ideal substitute. Consolation in liquid form,
it filled every gap. It drenched every crevice and plugged every hole. As only
liquid can ... alcohol was drawn to emptiness and sealed any remaining pockets
of grief inside his pock-marked soul. Like most cops, alcohol had always been a
part of Coetzee’s life. But in the months following Karen’s death it took over
and reigned supreme. If it hadn’t been for his immaculate record Coetzee would
have been dismissed from the South African Police Services. Instead his
commander had placed him on extended compassionate leave. It was a mistake. As
a result Coetzee was left alone. Outside the boundaries of sanity and removed
from the people that could have intervened. With both the time and the means,
his addiction steadily worsened. The dark liquid dug talons deep and awful into
his grief. It filled him up and emptied him out. Coetzee had become a shell of
a person. A mere container for the fiery fuel that consumed him. Coetzee was
dying. Just like the woman whose death had possessed him he was now being
slowly devoured from within.

And then, one
day, on the brink of physical and emotional putrefaction he had been saved. He
had awoken. An early onset of alcohol withdrawals. He leaned over the bed and
puked out his guts. He had consumed his last drink barely twelve hours ago and
yet his excessive drinking meant that the
delirium tremens
were already
racking his depleted body. There was no food in his system. Nothing solid. And
yet he continued vomiting. With every tortured heave of his body, it felt as if
the energy was being drained from him. Eventually only a yellow slime oozed from
his stomach. A sticky goo with long yellow tendrils like fingers hung from his
mouth. In the corner of his dishevelled room, on top of a chest of drawers he
could see the bottle of cheap whisky. He knew he needed its bitter contents to restore
sanity to his craving body. And yet for all his desperation. For all his efforts.
He simply couldn’t lift his body from the bed to reach for it.

And then he
had seen her. Karen. Radiant and beautiful. Vivid and exquisite. The woman he
had loved with all his heart. Untouched by the ravages of the disease that had
plundered her body. She stared at him with unfailing, unconditional love. A sad
smile touched her lips. And then she had spoken. He didn’t hear the words as
much as feel them.