said. ?I?m coming.?
16.
He had drunk coffee and swallowed an uninteresting sandwich at the petrol station while the attendant filled up, and he had asked how far it was to Bloemfontein and if there were police on the road. He had tried to look like an ?armed and dangerous? fugitive and had no idea if anyone would take the bait. The jockey was jumpy as a cat in a dog run, but that meant nothing and now the dark bank of clouds hung before him, twenty, thirty kilometers away, and the road stretched out before him, the light washing the Karoo in pastels. He rode fast, 185, because he wanted to pass Three Sisters on his way to Kim-berley before they could react, and the caffeine had awakened anxiety that he should have felt since Laingsburg. If they knew he had taken the motorbike and knew he was on the Ni, why had there been no attempt to stop him, why were they not waiting for him?
He was here and he had done all he could to establish Bloemfontein as his destination. All he could do now was ride as hard as he could, try 200 kilometers per hour; in daylight perhaps it would be less terrifying. He kicked down to fifth and twisted the ear of the great machine, feeling the vibration of the two flat cylinders, the boxer engine? strange name. He was consumed with urgency, anxiety. Where were they? What were they up to? What were they thinking? And when he heard the thunder, his first instinct was that it had come from the heavy clouds up ahead, but the noise was continuous and his heart turned cold. It was an unnatural thunder and then a dark thing swept over him, a huge shadow whose noise drowned out the boxer beneath him and he knew they were here; he knew what they were up to.
Miriam Nzululwazi was rinsing Pakamile?s porridge bowl in the kitchen. She missed Thobela, he was the one who brought good humor to the morning. Before, it had been a silent, almost morbid rush to be ready before the school bus came and she had to catch the Golden Arrow to the city. Then had come the man who swung his feet off the bed at the crack of dawn with a lust for life, who made the coffee and carried the fragrant steaming mugs to the bedrooms, singing all the way? not always in tune, but his deep voice buoyed up the house in the morning.
She had said the boy was too young for coffee, but he said he would make it especially weak. She knew that hadn'?t lasted long. She had said she didn?'t want to hear that Afrikaans radio announcer in her house, but he said he and Pakamile couldn'?t learn to be farmers by listening to the music of Radio Metro every morning. They listened to the weather forecast and the market prices and the talk about farming topics, and the child was learning another language, too. He kept Pakamile on the go with RSG when the boy dawdled, saying, ?Pakamile, it?s raining on the farm,? or ?The sun is shining on the farm today, Pakamile, you know what that means?? And the boy would say, ?Yes, Thobela, the plants are growing with chlorophyll,? and he would laugh and say, ?That?s right, the grass is getting green and sweet and fat, and the cattle are going to swish their tails.?
This morning she had switched on the radio to compensate for his absence, to restore normality. She listened to the weather forecast from habit, wanting to shake her head? here was Miriam Nzululwazi listening to Afrikaans; Thobela had changed so many things. She must go and see how far along Pakamile was. ?Pakamile, have you brushed your teeth??
?No, Ma.?
?It?s going to be hot on the farm today.?
?Oh.? Uninterested. He was missing Thobela, too. The time signal sounded on the radio, time for the news, she must hurry. The newsreader?s somber voice sounded through the house, America in Afghanistan, Mbeki in England. The rand had dropped again.
?don'?t dawdle, Pakamile.?
?Yes, Ma.?
Petrol was going up. Thobela would always talk back to the announcers and newsreaders, would always say when petrol prices were announced each month, ?Get to the diesel price? Pakamile and I have a tractor to run,? and then he and the boy would grin at each other and Pakamile would mimic the Afrikaans word
?According to a Cape newspaper, intelligence authorities are hot on the trail of a fugitive, Mr. Thobela Mpayipheli, who allegedly stole a motorcycle in Cape Town and is thought to be heading ?? She ran to the kitchen and snapped off the radio before Pakamile could hear. Stole a motorcycle.
Her hands trembled; her heart beat in her throat.
What had he done?
In the Ops Room the voice of the pilot came clearly over the speakers. ?Rooivalk One to Ops Control. We have intercepted. Thirty kilometers outside Beaufort West, fugitive on a yellow motorcycle, estimated speed 200 kilometers per hour. This guy is sending it. Over.?
They applauded, the entire room, punching the air, shouting. Janina Mentz smiled broadly. She had been right, but mostly she felt relief, more than anything else, enormous relief.
?Ops Control to Rooivalk One, we hear you, interception verified. Just stay behind him, Rooivalk One. Do not attempt contact.?
?Confirm no contact, Ops Control. We are just chasing him on.?
?Ma?am,? said Radebe, but over the applause she couldn'?t hear him.
?Ma?am??
?Vincent??
?The vehicle team says we must get hold of a
?Why??
?They say there are posters all over town, ma?am.? It took an effort to change gears, to make the shift and understand what he was saying. ?What do they say, Vincent?? The anxiety in her voice quickly silenced the entire room, only the radio static hissed.
SPOOKS
SEEK
BIG, BAD
