Gradually his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He switched the motorbike on, slowly rode to the side of the highway, looked at the moonlit veld, the wire fence straight as an arrow parallel with the Ni. He was looking for a farm gate or a wash under the wire, kept glancing back, unwilling to be caught in the glare of oncoming headlights. He wanted to get off and have a stretch and think.
How far ahead was that roadblock? Four or five kilometers. Closer. Three?
Thank God the GS?s exhaust noise was soft. He kept the revs low, scanning the fences, saw promise on the opposite side of the road, a gate and a two-track road into the veld. He rode over, tires crunching on the gravel, stopped, put the bike on the stand, pulled off his gloves, checked the fastening of the gate. No padlock. He pulled the gate open, rode the bike in, and closed the gate behind him.
He must get far off the road, but close enough to still see the lights.
He realized his good fortune: the GS was dual-purpose, made for blacktop and dirt road, the so-called adventure touring bike, spoke wheels, high and well sprung. He turned in the veld so the nose faced the highway, stopped, got off. He pulled the helmet off his head, stuffed the gloves inside, placed it on the saddle, stretched his arms and legs, felt the night breeze on his face, heard the noises of the Karoo in the night.
Blue and red and orange lights.
He heard an oncoming vehicle, from the Cape side, saw the lights, counted the seconds from when it flashed past, watching the red taillights, trying to estimate the distance to the roadblock, but it got lost in the distance, melting into the hazard lights.
He would have to turn back. Take another route.
He needed a road map. Where did his other choices lie? Somewhere there was a turnoff to Sutherland, but where? He did not know that region well. It was on the road to nowhere. A long detour? Tried to recall what lay behind him. A road sign on the left had called out ?Ceres? before Touws river even, but it would take him almost back to Cape Town.
He breathed in deeply. If he must, he would go back, whether he wanted to or not. Rather a step backward than wasting his time here.
Stretched, bent his back, touched toes, stretched his long arms skyward, cracked his shoulder joints backward, and took up the helmet. Time to go.
Then he saw the orange flashing lights coming closer from the blockade. Stared rigidly at them. Yellow? That was not the Law. A possibility whispered; he watched, filling up with hope as the vehicle approached, the noise reaching him, and then it took shape, rumbled past sixty meters from where he stood, and he saw the trailer clearly, the wreck being towed, a car that had rolled, and he knew it was not a roadblock? they were not looking for him.
An accident. A temporary hurdle.
Relief.
He would just have to wait.
?The problem,? said Rahjev Rajkumar, ?is that Absa keeps only the last two months? statements immediately accessible for any account. The rest are backed up on an offline mainframe, and there is no way to get in there. The good news is that that is the only bad news. Our Thobela had a savings account and a bond on a property. This is where it gets interesting. The balance in the savings account is R52.341.89, which is quite a sum for a laborer. The only income the last two months was from Mother City Motorrad, a weekly payment of R572.72, or R2,290.88 per month? and the interest on the account, just over R440 per month. The debit order from the savings account for the bond repayment is Ri,181.59. There is another debit order, for R129 per month, but I can?t work out what that is for. That leaves him with Ri, 385.29 per month to live off. He draws R300 a week from an auto bank, usually the one at Thibault Square, and it seems like the remaining R189.29 is saved. A disciplined man, this Thobela.?
?The property?? Janina prodded.
?That?s the funny thing,? said Rajkumar. ?It?s not a house. It?s a farm.? He raised his head, looking for a reaction from the audience.
?You have our attention, Rahjev.?
?Eighteen months ago Mpayipheli bought eight hundred hectares near Keiskammahoek. The farm?s name is Cala, after the river that runs there. The bond? listen to this? is just over R
100,000
, but the original purchase price was nearly half a million.?
?Keiskammahoek?? said Quinn. ?Where the hell is that??
?Far away in the old Ciskei, not too far from King William?s Town. Seems he wants to go back to his
?And the thing is, where did he get the other R
400,000
?? said Janina Mentz.
?Precisely ma?am. Precisely.?
?Good work, Rahjev.?
?No, no,? said the fat Indian. ?Brilliant work.?
Thobela Mpayipheli sat with back against a rock, watching the lights on the Ni.
The night had turned cool; the moon was high, a small round ball on its way, unmarked, to score the goal of the night in the west. His eyes wandered over the desolate ridges, followed the contours of the strange landscape. They said there were rain forests here long ago. Somewhere around here, he had read, they dug up bones of giant dinosaurs that lived between the ferns and short stubby trees, a green pleasure garden of silver waterfalls and thunderstorms that watered the reptilian world with fat drops. Weird sounds must have risen with the vapor from the proto-jungle: bellows, bugling, clamor. And the eternal battle of life and death, a frightful food chain, terrifying predators with rows of teeth and small, evil eyes hunting down the herbivores. Blood had flowed here, in the lakes and on the plains.
