Roadkill Read online

  Published by Red Press, 2020

  Kindle Edition

  [email protected]

  www.redpress.co.za

  © Paul Leger, 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, whether in part or whole, without written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-990952-98-2

  Editor: Claire Strombeck

  Cover design: Caitlin Truman-Baker

  Typesetting & layout: Matthew Covarr

  To my mother – for instilling the love of words

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Day 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Day 2

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Day 3

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Day 1

  1

  Hidden by the shade of the gnarled pepper tree, the driver of the black Nissan Navarra tracked the prey’s movements through his binoculars: the ritual tapping of the road sign, the stopping midstride to take a piss in the veld, the tucking in of the vest, the tying, the retying of laces.

  Taking his cue at eight hundred metres – the yellow (and still wet) daub of paint on a telephone pole – the driver placed the binocs on the passenger seat and turned the ignition key. The Navarra crawled out from its den and rolled slowly onto the tar. His focus locked on the prey – still a distant smudge – the driver eased his foot onto the accelerator.

  The runner’s outline came into view – hogging the centre line, sidestepping the potholes as he ran. The driver’s jaw muscles tightened as he pressed his foot deeper into the floor – unleashing a menacing growl from under the hood. At two hundred metres, the runner’s features were now clearly visible. Long sinew and bone, wearing a vest and peak cap and blue Polycotton shorts. His biltongy arms swinging loosely at his side, head lolling on his shoulders, his gait relaxed. The cap was pulled down, fending off the morning sun that still sat low on the horizon.

  The runner was now moving away from the solid centre line, aware of the Navarra’s approach, but his stride still loose and free. Glancing at the speedometer, the driver stuck to his lane. He wasn’t about to blow this one; it had been too long in the coming. Under the cap, the runner’s expression was changing – puzzlement had replaced endorphin-fuelled confidence.

  Twenty metres. With a precision born out of repeat experience, the driver ground his foot into the pedal and pulled hard right on the steering wheel. Caught in no-man’s land between the centre line of the R434 between Brits and Edendal, and the yawing veld of the North West, the runner’s face registered a flash of primal terror, before flesh and bone merged with hardened bulbar steel travelling at precisely one hundred and forty-six kilos an hour.

  2

  Leaning over his AA Map of Southern Africa, Steve Aldridge traced a finger northbound along the N14. From time to time the finger paused on a point of cartographical interest. He rolled the names around his mouth. It was like sucking on a pack of boiled sweets – each came with a unique flavour: Soetkraal, Brakfontein, Lemoenhoek, Rosedene, Soutpan. A thought struck him. It was so true what they said – life was about the journey, not the destination.

  Venturing into the unknown, guided by a mass of black dots linked by a spider web on a piece of paper – this was the stuff of goosebumps. And that’s where he and Tarryn were wired so differently, because she just didn’t get it. He related fully with guys like Columbus, Vasco da Gama, David Livingstone, the Voortrekkers. Like Bruce Springsteen sang, he was also born to be free.

  Aldridge stretched over the bonnet and flicked a scab of bird turd from the white paintwork – it was a good thing he hadn’t gone for the metallic.

  Like explorers recent, past, and present, he was dressed for the job: Cape Union shirt tucked into Cape Union multi-pocket khaki shorts, anti-glare Polaroids, and Hi-Tec ATs (All-Terrains) – after Crocs, the best shoes in the world, in his humble opinion. He didn’t care what anybody said.

  Aldridge folded the map and returned it to its plastic sleeve. He checked his watch. It was still early. He took a slow sip from his Crème Soda and leant back against the Fortuner. Man, did it feel good or what to be on the road again. He closed his eyes, savouring the fresh early morning forecourt air, the warm North West sun on his face. This was why modern-day humans worked – for moments like this. The past year at work had been a killer, what with the Supa-Lube Bearings launch hitting them smack in the middle of the recession and all.

  He held up the can and studied the small print. It didn’t matter half the ingredients were Greek to him, because there was nothing like a well-timed Crème Soda. Best of all, there were another eleven where this one came from – Kruger treat. Again, he checked his watch: seven fifty-five. Good thing they’d hit the road early. As long as he lived, he would never get why women took so long to sort themselves out, when he could tick off the three Ss in ten minutes flat. Not that he was complaining, or anything. On a day like this, he was more than happy to chill while Tarryn did her thing in the Ladies.

  “Mornings!”

  Aldridge squinted into the sun. A fellow traveller. One of those sunburnt guys in Mad Dog shorts and slops and mozzie-bitten ankles clawed into scabs – a veteran camper.

  “Mornings.”

  “Nice day for travelling, or what?”

  “Most definitely. Couldn’t ask for better.”

  “Where you chappies headed?”

  “Kruger.”

  “Nice. Very nice. Which camp?”

  “Satara,” said Aldridge.

  “Not messing around. I like. Which gate you attacking from?

  “Orpen.”

  “Orpen? If I was you, I would hit it south from Skukuza side. Especially pulling that baby behind you.”

  “Isn’t Orpen quicker?”

  “In the old days, maybe, but this is the New South Africa, my friend. The roads have gone to kak and gone. ’Specially the one to Orpen.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I must look at my map again. Where you guys on your way to?”

  “’Toti. Visiting the old lady’s people. Got themselves a mansion right on the sea like you won’t believe. Any closer and you need a lifejacket and whistle. Did you also kip last night at the Municipal?”

  “No, we drove straight from Sasolburg this morning.
What was it like?”

  “Nice lake for the kids, but hardcore. Got chowed to death by mozzies as big as bats.” As if reminded, he lifted a leg and gave his ankle a hefty scratch. “But for a hundred bucks a night, you see me complaining?” He took a lick at his soft-serve, aimed it at the Fortuner. “How’s she run?”

  “I’ve only had her for two months, but so far, brilliantly,” said Aldridge, experiencing a fuzzy feeling in the chest. “The new technology that’s come out with this model is—”

  “Four by four?”

  “Umm, no. Just diff lock. But for the type of travelling we do, we don’t really need—”

  “And thirsty as all hell I bet. That’s ours there, the red Hyundai under the shade cloth. Bought it off my brother-in-law for an effing bargain – excuse the French. Goes like a Boeing. ABS, aircon, CD shuttle, fifteen kays per litre – you name it.”

  “Is it still on motorplan?

  “No ways. Who needs a rip-off motorplan when you’ve got reliability?”

  “It’s actually not that much when you stop and—”

  “Shit, here I’m jabbering like a woman and I haven’t even introduced myself. John Phillips.” Phillips extended a freckly hand.

  “Steve Aldridge. Nice to meet you, John.”

  Phillips lifted his arm to the sky and suctioned the dripping ice cream from under the cone. “You must try one of these. Only sixteen bucks … with Flakey.” He aimed the cone at the service court. “I see the missus is howling for my blood. Can’t live with them, can’t live without the bladdy things. Anyways, say howzit to the elis for me.”

  “For sure, I’ll do that. You guys must have a safe trip.”

  Aldridge took a sip of Crème Soda and watched John Phillips cross the forecourt and stop in front of the Mens to give his ankle another claw, before disappearing inside.

  That was another thing Steve Aldridge loved about travelling – you always met such interesting people.

  3

  “Fok!”

  This had to be the tenth time the sign had blown over. Truter’s day hadn’t even started, but his gut was telling him it was going to be a seriously kak one. And nobody to take it out on; that useless pen-pusher Delport was never around when he needed him.

  The morning breeze whipped the dust around Truter’s state-issue riot boots. He glared into the cloudless sky. One of those hot-as-hell days he despised. Minimum thirty-five in the shade, according to his hangover-skewed estimate. Not that there was any shade to speak of, because all that stood between the sun and his balding head was a scrawny acacia. He would take Durban humidity any day.

  A jackhammer pounded behind Truter’s eyes. He must be getting old. That, or the Three Ships wasn’t what it used be. Cock on block, the cheapskates were cutting the whisky with methanol. He wouldn’t put it past them, because these corporations were all the same. They didn’t care a rat’s arse for their customers, as long as they made a fat profit. Who was it who had told him about a Chinese company replacing milk powder with baby powder? Must have been Delport and his Google.

  With this new-found knowledge at hand, Truter’s hangover now made perfect sense: the Chinese had bought out Three Ships and were cutting it to increase profits. Unbelievable. He didn’t trust the chinks further than he could spit.

  Truter farted into the morning sky. He pushed back on his hips, stretching his aching groin – he should have sued SAPS Rugby Union for making him play prop. How many times had he told the coach he was born to play lock? More than he could count, that’s how many.

  A new thought had hatched in his brain and was crawling its way towards the light – his ex-brother-in-law, Ross. He was the one diluting the Three Ships with rotgut to save himself a few bucks. Once a cheapskate, always a cheapskate. Now that he stopped to think about it, he’d never trusted the guy, even when he was still married to his witch of a sister. The mere thought of Sharon triggered the vein on the side of his head into violent spasm. There was something all high and mighty about Ross. Him and his fake concern during and after the divorce, acting like some marriage counsellor, but in the meantime getting his rocks off somebody else’s problems. Who did he think he was coming over to his flat with a bottle of whisky? Invasion of privacy, that’s what it was, asking all those personal questions, snooping about the place like he owned it, going for a piss one time too many – what was that all about, anyway?

  What the stuff, thought Truter, he had more important things to worry about right now than Ross the Toss. Like getting the roadblock up and ready before the holiday traffic hit. He looked around him. What was called for was a heavy rock to stabilise his sign against the wind.

  It now occurred to him that Delport should be doing this, not him, a high-ranking policeman. Problem was, you couldn’t rely on Delport to organise a lap dance at a Teazers. When it came to practical matters, the guy was worse than useless; if he couldn’t change a tyre on a patrol vehicle, or something as simple as squeezing the truth from a suspect, how was he going to man a roadblock? All Delport and the new-breed cops were good for was office work, when what Truter needed was someone to cover his back under fire. His radio crackled into life.

  “Come in, Sergeant Truter. Over.”

  Truter reached into the vehicle. “Sergeant Truter!” he barked into the handset. “Is that you, Delport?” He rolled his eyes skywards.

  “Yes, sir. Over.”

  “Over what? Forget it! Flippin’ hell, Delport, can’t you see I’m busy? This is the real world out here, not some office tea party.”

  “Sorry, sir, I just called in to alert you to a possible missing person’s in your environs …”

  “Wat se environs? Speak English, Delport. A missing person’s, who?

  “A Miss Bianca Reynolds …”

  Truter felt his pants stiffen. “You telling me a white chick has gone missing?”

  “No, sir. Bianca Reynolds is the partner of the missing person’s. According to her statement, her boyfriend went for a jog at six hundred hours on the R434 and hasn’t been seen since. She says he’s normally back by seven hundred hours. Over.”

  Truter had heard it all before. “Let me tell you what’s going on here, Delport. Your so-called missing person is dipping it in on the side. And this Bianca chick, I bet she has a face like a dog’s ringster. Am I right, or am I right?” Truter shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Something was starting to stir below.

  “She’s actually quite pretty, sir. Long dark hair, nice skin … She’s convinced something bad has happened. Over.”

  “And I’m convinced she’s wasting our time, Delport. Over and out!”

  The stirring below could no longer be ignored. He cursed himself for not sorting it out before coming on duty, but this was proof of what happened when you had to do everything yourself: you ended up rushing. You ended up forgetting to take care of the little things. Like taking a crap before clocking in for work.

  Truter shielded his eyes against the North West glare and studied the horizon. The R434 was still clear – not a vehicle or human in sight. He had to act quickly, because one couldn’t mess around with these things.

  He scanned the immediate terrain for a suitable site; right where he stood appeared as good as any. He loosened his belt, his holster and radio dangling heavily from side to side. A horse on the home run, his bowels anticipated impending relief. With not a moment to spare, he dropped his pants and squatted down and gave himself over to the hissing deluge, gasping with pleasure as the nagging burden dropped from his body. He shifted his weight onto his good knee and marvelled at the steaming result. Nature was incredible. The body’s ability to produce such volume at such regularity was a miracle. There was nothing more underrated in life than the deep spiritual satisfaction of a good boskak. It ranked right up there among life’s true pleasures.

  Truter craned forwards for a better view of the road. His back felt like an ironing board. He should have given up rugby when that quack had told him to. His uniform creaked under the wei
ght of his belly. Wiry black tufts sprouted from the gaps between the buttons. He sighed contentedly, savouring the moment. Special occasions like these were not to be rushed.

  Truter’s ruminations were called up short and sudden with the realisation that his allocated roll of patrol toilet paper was sitting above the office filing cabinet. Pushing down a surge of panic, he weighed up the options. There weren’t many. He tugged at the spiky veld grass bordering the tar – a last resort. He calculated the distance between himself and the patrol van – at least twenty metres by his reckoning, and a messy affair getting there, with uncertain outcome, since the vehicle contained nothing of use besides KFC takeaway polystyrene and Sparletta cans. He patted his shirt pockets – a chewed Bic pen, his pack of Pall Mall 20s, two sachets of Grandpa headache powder. A second surge of panic, stronger this time, rippled through his body. He peered down the R434 – still clear. He lifted himself into a half-squat, careful not to mess, gingerly probing his trousers for good news. Nothing in the front pockets. He was fast running out of options. Wincing, he reached round to his back pocket and patted the square outline of a charge book. He had forgotten about that. Things were looking up. A wave of Zen-like calm settled over him and the world felt like a kinder place.

  Taking his time now to complete unfinished business, he paged through the dog-eared charge book, noting the contents with grim satisfaction. Pretoria couldn’t accuse him of laziness. Not that those bastards ever showed any appreciation for his contribution towards law and order. They couldn’t even spell A-P-R-E-S-I-A-T-I-O-N. It was a pity to see all his work about to go to waste. To think he had risked his life bringing some of these criminals to book. On the other hand, a charge book was nothing more than admin PT to make the bosses rich; his present situation was a lot more urgent than any donation to their gravy train.

  His view crystal-clear on the matter, Truter took hold of carbon copies B500 to B535, ripped them from the charge book, and proceeded to wipe himself blue in the arse.