Where was Septimus? There was Septimus, sleeping, unconscious and unimportant. I crept on another seven metres and squatted on my haunches. I saw the faded yellow curtains in the window of house number three and I remembered Melanie Posthumus saying she had bought some pretty yellow material that was nice and cheerful and I knew where he was sleeping.
I’ve found him, Emma le Roux, I’ve found the elusive pimpernel Jacobus le Roux, also known as Cobie de Villiers. Murderer, missing person, activist and enigma.
Something cast a sudden shadow beside me in the thick grass and someone pressed a gun barrel softly against my cheek and said in a very nervous voice, ‘Put down the pistol before I blow your fucking head off.’
38
Sudden rage or fright stimulates the medulla to excrete the hormone epinephrine. I knew this because I had read up on it in jail in my eternal search for answers. Epinephrine speeds up the heart rate, raises blood sugar levels and blood pressure, constricts the pupils and the capillaries in the skin, so blood loss will be decreased should you be hurt. It prepares the body to better manage a physiological crisis and is referred to as the ‘fight or flight’ response.
The books don’t say what it does to the brain, which is that it ignores the temporary madness, the red mist.
But with a delicately vibrating gun barrel at your temple, fight, flight or madness are not useful responses. All you can do is fight for control and to try to neutralise the effect of the hormone with absolute concentration by breathing slowly and deeply and sitting dead still.
That was not what the shadow beside me wanted.
He banged the barrel hard against my skull and said, ‘Put the fucking thing down.’
His tone was not that of a man in control. It was filled with anxiety and a shrillness that I didn’t like. I slowly lowered the Glock and put it on the grass.
‘Who are you?’
I wanted to look at him, but he pressed the firearm harder to my temple.
‘I am Lemmer,’ I said soothingly.
‘What do you want?’
‘I work for your sister, Jacobus. For Emma le Roux.’
‘I have no sister.’
He was a wire stretched too taut and the trembling of the barrel intensified. I couldn’t see it, but I felt it in front of my ear, and I wondered whether his finger on the trigger was as taut as his voice.
‘Then I’ve made a mistake and I’m sorry.’
That was not the answer he expected. He was dumb for two hammer beats of my heart and then he said, ‘Don’t lie.’
I kept my voice quiet and even. ‘I’m not lying, Jacobus. I’m truly sorry. Especially for Emma. She has such a terrible desire to see her brother again. I think she really loved him.’
‘I have no sister.’ His voice had risen half an octave. My attempt at calming was not very successful.
‘I know, Jacobus. I believe you. My work here is done. I will go and tell her that she no longer has a brother.’
‘That’s right.’
‘May I get up now? I’ll go. I won’t bother you again. You can keep the pistol.’
He thought about it, and as he did, the barrel of the firearm moved a few millimetres away from my temple.
‘Why did you look for me here?’ Less desperate and shrill.
In an easy conversational way I kept to the truth. ‘Emma and I were here last week. I saw three coffee mugs in the shed. But Stef said there was only Septimus and himself. That’s what made me think someone was hiding here.’
He didn’t respond.
‘You heard the birds I disturbed,’ I said. ‘You’re very good.’
‘Francolin,’ he said.
‘You move well in the bush. I didn’t hear you.’
He just stood there, indecisive, like the dog that chased the bus and caught it and then didn’t know what to do with it.
‘Jacobus, I’m getting up now. I’ll do it slowly. Then I will walk away and I won’t bother you again. My work is done.’
‘No.’
I knew why he didn’t like the idea. ‘I won’t tell anyone that you are here. I swear to God.’ Maybe that worked in Hb circles. I turned my head very slowly towards him. I saw him looking at the homestead and then back at me. It was Cobie de Villiers, the man in Jack Phatudi’s photograph. He was sweating and his face gleamed in the moonlight. His eyes were unsettled and he held the firearm with straight arms. It looked like a MAC 10. The cheapest machine pistol on the market, but just as effective as the expensive ones.
He didn’t like me watching him. That was a big danger signal. It’s harder to kill a man once you’ve looked him in the eye. I tried to make eye contact with him. His eyes flicked back and forth, as though he couldn’t make up his mind. His mouth was half open and his breathing was rapid. I knew I had to do something but I couldn’t afford to wait for his decision. He was wanted by the police and he was a fugitive killer who was very seriously considering shooting me. I waited until he looked away for a fraction of a second, then I jerked up my left hand to knock the MAC aside and swung my right leg through. Shots boomed near my ear, deafening me, and I felt a burning sensation at the back of my head. I knocked his feet from under him with my leg and he fell. The machine pistol clattered through an arc, his left arm tried to block his fall and I hit him hard with my fist against his cheek as I grabbed at the MAC with both hands.
He took the blow well, because he didn’t loosen his grip on the weapon. I felt something warm run down my neck which I suspected was blood.
Cobie jerked the machine pistol back and forth. He face was distorted like that of a madman and he made a low moaning sound. He wasn’t much bigger than me, but he was strong and he believed that he was fighting for his life.
I let go of the MAC and hit him again. Aiming for his jaw, I hit his eye socket. His head jerked back, but he swung the machine pistol towards me. I grabbed the barrel with my left hand and hit him against the ear with my right with no noticeable effect.
Behind us a light went on in the second labourer’s cottage and I could see Cobie’s anguished face. His eyebrow was bleeding.
I hit him again, as hard as I could. He jerked his head away and I connected with his chin, but with little momentum. I moved to get above him. My right hand searched for his throat as he squirmed and grabbed my forearm with his left hand.
A door opened and a beam of light shone on the ground. If it was Septimus and he was armed I was in serious trouble. I let go of Cobie and dived into the grass in search of the Glock. I saw it shining, grabbed it, and rolled back to Cobie. He was still down, but he was turning the MAC towards me. I wasn’t going to make it so I dived at him. He aimed and pulled the trigger. Only the sharp click of metal. The magazine was empty. I was on him, bashing the Glock’s barrel violently against his cheek, while looking at the door.
Squint Seppie stood with a hunting rifle pointing at the stars and a bewildered expression on his face. ‘Cobie?’ he said.
‘Drop the rifle or I’ll shoot Cobie,’ I said.
Cobie grabbed at the Glock. He was beyond fear, desperate and mad. I banged the pistol against his head, rolled away and came up on my haunches. I gripped the Glock in both hands, pointed it at Cobie and said in the most reasonable tone I could muster, ‘This is a .45-calibre, Cobie. I will shoot you in the leg first, but there are some big veins there and I can’t guarantee that you won’t bleed to death. It’s your choice.’ Then I looked at Septimus, who stood frozen with the rifle in his hand.
