The Mule

By Avery Leaumax

SYNOPSIS: The story illustrates the decline of an ordinary man, who has lost everything; including his home and his livelihood. He finally experiences his worst fear; the hopeless, helpless state of homelessness. Every day becomes a quest for survival, until he is approached by a criminal, who offers him his doom; disguised as an opportunity, by sacrificing him, as a means to a malicious end. Our protagonist finds himself in a South American jail, where, by a strange convergence of events and the commission of a murder, he finds his way back from an unfathomable abyss, to reclaim and rebuild his life. This is a fictional tale of triumph based on a reality; in which many vulnerable, unfortunate people are led astray by nefarious characters. Many still languishing in foreign prisons, oceans away from home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Avery Leaumax
• Release date: Nov 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370375844

Avery Leaumax

Avery Leaumax is a writer, born Darryl Reed, in Benoni, east of Johannesburg, South Africa in 1968. He is the author of three books; 'Mistaken Identity', 'The Mule' and 'A Collection Of Works'.

Book preview

THE MULE

A novel by

AVERY LEAUMAX

COPYRIGHT © Avery Leaumax

First edition 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

In memory of my dear brother, Neville Reed, who had always loved me just as I was; sensitive and withdrawn, without condition or judgement; but as a true brother should. I will always be grateful to you for your guidance, love, support and respect when I most needed it, in my formative years. I miss you and think of you often.

To my late father, Benjamin Reed, who, intentionally or not, presented me with a gift; the love of books and reading. It has seen me through many a dark time.

To my mother, Elizabeth Ntombizodwa Reed, from you I have the gift of song and music. I thank you for the example of your formidable strength of spirit, for being bold in the face of adversity. Even now, in your twilight years, you are the anchor of the family. My love and respect you will always have.

Chapter 1

Sylvia Olivier, on the N12 to Witbank, faced with an open road, could not resist ‘opening up’ the little red Mazda RX7’s engine. She turned up the volume. AC/DC’s ‘shook me all night’ exploded from the powerful car stereo. She floored the accelerator and enjoyed an exhilarating stretch on the fast lane before easing up on the accelerator and expertly manoeuvring the car towards the slow lane. She gradually slowed down to an acceptable speed as she took the Rynfield exit into the Northmead section of Benoni. She stopped at the red traffic light and as she waited for it to turn green, spotted the usual beggars and pedlars. One of them, a strangely tough looking beggar, had a large open plastic garbage bag in his hands as he ambled from car to car. It took her a moment to figure out what his spiel was; to get people’s attention by offering to dispose of any thrash they might have. A few of the other guys were peddling children’s toys, t-shirts, cell phone chargers and various other portable items. It was business as usual, except for the guy with the thrash bag, shifty looking with frantically darting eyes. Sylvia noticed a few windows going up but she wasn’t concerned. She had a little .22 pistol within easy reach and was not afraid to use it. There was precious little in this life that could scare Sylvia. Her father had often mentioned that her personality leant more towards the aggressive male gender. She left her window down until the robot turned green.

She got onto O’Reilly-Merry road and stayed on it until she spotted the huge glass and brick structure on the corner of 14th street. She turned into the parking lot, kept the car rolling in second gear until she spotted a parking space and pulled in.

She got out of the car, locked it, and strode purposefully to the main building, her long, thick fiery mane riding the soft breeze. It was 11 am on a perfect summer’s Saturday morning with a lot of people about. Sylvia was well aware that she was turning heads, both male and female, and smiled self-contentedly. Her thin cotton dress, although long enough to reach just above her knees, clung to her body, all five foot ten of her, as she strode into the light breeze.

She was pleased with the ‘powers that be’. Her ship had finally come in; nothing was going to stop her now, just one more tiny detail to attend to. She entered the building and bounded effortlessly up the stairs to the lawyer’s office on the third floor. She’d run track at school and still kept it tight in the aerobics gym.

She stepped out on the third floor and turned left towards the reception area.

There were a few people in the waiting room but Sylvia had called ahead and her lawyer, Jimmy Kruger, had promised to see her as soon as she stepped in.

Lucy, Jimmy’s secretary, who was busy on a call, acknowledged Sylvia with a nod of her head before concluding her conversation.

‘Good morning, Mrs. Olivier. He’s in his office. Let me check if he’s able to see you.’

‘It’s Miss Duncan now, Lucy. Remember?’ said Sylvia, sarcastically.

Lucy, unfazed, the professional at work, hardly missed a beat as she pressed a button on her console and spoke into her hands-free mouthpiece. She nodded frostily at Sylvia to go in, who promptly walked into Jimmy Kruger’s office. He was a large man, a colourful character with a peculiar penchant for bowties and suspenders, like that famous American television presenter. He rose from his chair, grinned at Sylvia and spread his arms expansively.

Sylvia ignored his inviting embrace and held out her hand for him to shake.

‘Hello, doll. I thought you’d left us already, like maybe shearing sheep already’

‘Nah, I’m leaving on this evening’s flight out on Qantas. I was just tying up a few loose ends. You’re the last one’

‘Your divorce is done. No residual documents to sign’ said Jimmy, matter of factly.

‘I know, I promised you a bonus if you handled it smoothly and quickly. Didn’t think I’d forget, did you?’

Sylvia handed him a manila envelope with two grand in it and treated him to a bright smile.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for making it so painless’

‘You’re very welcome, my dear,’ said Jimmy, swiftly taking the envelope and slipping it into a drawer. When it came to money, Jimmy didn’t fool around.

Sylvia was already walking out. ‘Bye, Jimmy. Take care of yourself.’

‘Bye doll,’ replied Jimmy, burying his head in a file before she’d even left the office.

Less than an hour later, Sylvia met her beau, soon to be new husband, in the bar-lounge of the exclusive Wellington hotel in Boksburg on North Rand Road. She’d caught him unawares. He’d been working on his laptop when she came in. She stepped into his warm embrace and pressed him, ever closer, to her.

‘Hey beautiful, I missed you, even though we only parted this morning,’ he crooned playfully, from one of their favourite songs, an American fifties big-band number.

‘I can tell’ she said, feeling his arousal, against her body, through her thin summer dress.

She took his hand and led him to their room where they concentrated their full attention on another love-making marathon.

Afterwards, they were lying in the huge soft bed, him sleeping, and her reminiscing about how lucky she’d been to run into him at the home of a mutual friend.

She’d been having a down-day and had almost stayed in when she’d changed her mind at the last moment, thank heavens. He certainly was quite the guy.

After a three month whirlwind romance, here she was, recently divorced and soon to be bride to Mr. Hugh Gaines, Australian businessman extraordinaire. He was an intelligent, successful, physically attractive man in his early forties who looked much younger than his years.

Sylvia thought about how cleverly she’d orchestrated her conquest of him, once she’d learned who and what he was. Well aware that she was something special, Sylvia was determined not to short-change herself in this life.

She had flirted with him on that first night and allowed him to kiss her on the apartment’s balcony, while cleverly avoiding any further amorous advances. She had, however, accepted an invitation to dinner, for the following week’s Saturday evening.

Sylvia had worn a sexy little black number she’d acquired from an exclusive boutique in the Sandton Square, just the previous day, and it had clung in all the right places.

He’d treated her to a delightful meal at a popular Spanish-themed restaurant, the Costa del Sol.

Hugh was perusing the large menu, when Sylvia suggested they order the house special, the tapas; a variety of little plates of food; meatballs, tomatoes in sauce, sausages, roast beef in gravy, tortillas, which they washed down with several glasses of wine, Vina’ Verona ’85, to be precise. Dessert was declined. The wine flowed copiously.

Patrons weren’t generally allowed to purchase and take liquor out of the restaurant as it was not that type of establishment, but Hugh slyly managed to charm the manager into selling him a bottle of Cuervo tequila, costing him thrice the regular retail price, which they took back to her apartment.

Sylvia knew that men found her irresistible and this one was no different. She sat across from him, on the L-shaped designer sofa, and skilfully crossed and uncrossed her long tanned and toned legs. She watched him lose his train of thought, several times, during their conversation, while she appeared, to all intents and purposes, as if she were entranced by his eloquence and wit. When the ambience was just right, she’d let him kiss her, and go a little further than their previous fumbling, allowing him to acquaint himself with her hills and valleys before stopping him short of the crucial moment. She waited for their second date before she let him go all the way. Sylvia was an athletic lady with a body most women only dream about and she was not going to allow Mr. Hugh Gaines to slip out of her grasp. She put in a performance that would have put a wanton whore to shame. Hugh, basically a decent guy, seemed a bit put off by the fact that she was, technically, still married at the time. A good indication that he would be faithful, thought Sylvia. Before he could even begin discussing it with her, she took him on yet another sexual-rollercoaster-ride of his life. When she left him the following morning, he was passed out, in a virtual coma, brought on by physical exhaustion.

Then she remained elusive and unreachable for a few days, especially when she found out that he had been searching, high and low, for her, in all her usual haunts.

By the time she’d made an appearance, a good week later, he’d practically salivated at the mere sight of her. She had withheld her charms just long enough. Any longer would have been counter-productive. Another few performances worthy of the porn industry’s equivalent of an Oscar award, coupled with a bit of masterful manipulation and he proposed marriage.

‘I couldn’t possibly bear to live another day without you,’ he said, his eyes brimming with tears.

Her ex-husband, Marco, had been a melancholic sort of fellow. She had found his sensitive brooding and quiet intellect intriguing in the beginning but, alas, it was not to be. She had just broken off a long term relationship with a rugby jock when she’d first met him. Marco had seemed like a breath of fresh air, so different to the gregarious, but ignorant, guys she usually went out with.

It felt like love, at the time, and they were married after a courtship that lasted a year. Their marriage was great in the beginning until she realised that she had misjudged the dynamic of their relationship, in a big way, and that he was, actually, not her type. The bliss of love finally tapered off into an unbearable situation. They were making each other miserable and one of them had to, ‘throw in the towel,’ so to speak.

Sylvia, not one to sit on her haunches, started playing the field. Hugh was her third extra-marital affair and he would never find out about the other two, not if she could help it.

It was inevitable that Sylvia would accompany her ‘new man’ to Australia, even though she’d already put quite a few miles on him. And so, not surprisingly, the day had finally arrived.

Their flight time was for seven pm and they arrived forty minutes before departure, having been pre-checked, as first class passengers. They were requested to sit in the first class lounge while their baggage was being checked in. They hadn’t touched their genuine-leather Louis Vuitton luggage since packing it. It had passed into the taxi by hotel bell-boys, from the taxi by porters to airline baggage attendants and finally, to the aircraft hold.

The boarding passes were brought to them in the lounge. The airline employee escorted them past the long queues to the boarding gate, down the chute to the aircraft, where they were seated and plied with champagne and other delicacies, while they waited for the aircraft doors to close. They’d been spared even the slightest bit of discomfort and Sylvia swooned over her lover. This was the way to live.

Hugh made a few last minute calls before passengers were asked to turn their cell phones off. He rattled off some business jargon into the phone, while Sylvia watched him. He was so unlike Marco Olivier, her ex-husband, who had been a strong silent type, in contrast to the energetic and ‘full of purpose’ persona of Hugh Gaines. She had been a bit apprehensive about being a farmer’s wife when he had mentioned that his family’s core business was in fact, sheep farming. He explained to her, jokingly, that although sheep farming was big business in Australia and was the initial source of his family’s wealth, they had long since diversified into other areas of the economy, so she didn’t have to worry about being barefoot in the kitchen.

Later, in the aircraft, they raised their champagne glasses in a toast to a new life.

Chapter 2

I was sitting on the porch in one of those wrought iron garden chairs that I detested so much. I had always found them to be particularly uncomfortable, with or without pillows. I shifted my weight from side to side, before finally giving up. I got up, irritably, and walked into the house, locking the front door behind me. I walked all the way through the house to the back entrance. I unlocked and opened the huge glass sliding door and then the burglar gate, before stepping into the backyard, heading directly to the poolside where I flopped onto the ‘chaise longue’.

I heard a cricket somewhere in the flower-bed, its distinctive call piercing the silence at regular intervals. I had always liked the sound they made. It seemed to have a strange calming effect on me. Someone, whether an idiot or a mystic? I struggle to recall, had once told me, as a child, that the cricket calling kept the ‘supernatural creatures of the night’ at bay.

I had a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A perfect evening is what it might have been, under more pleasant circumstances.

I thought about my past and contemplated my future. What would become of me?

This was my third whiskey. That hopeless, sinking feeling I had felt earlier, in my gut, had left me, only at the cost of my thoughts not being as clear as they’d been when I’d first opened the bottle.

I was well aware of the fact that my drinking had gotten worse, since the failure of my marriage. One year had gone by and it still seemed like yesterday. I wondered, sadly, if I still harboured feelings for Sylvia. She had moved on quite easily, in fact, so easily that I was hardly surprised to discover that she’d been having affairs during our marriage. It was a relatively painless and straightforward divorce, a relief really, after the mental anguish of sharing a loveless home. The last year leading up to the final split had been the most painful. I had ceased to be ‘the centre of her universe,’ as she had been known to describe me when things were still good.

The dresses had gotten skimpier and the flirting with random guys at the social events we used to attend, as a couple, had left no-one in doubt that the marriage was gasping its last breath. Instead of succumbing to anger and causing ugly scenes, I had become despondent to the point where people had taken to avoiding me. A situation, I must admit, I’d become quite comfortable with, no longer having to act a certain way to gain acceptance. I didn’t mind being by myself. I had always been contrary, anyway.

I was a small town boy, Marco Olivier, born and raised in Boksburg on the East Rand in Johannesburg, South Africa. My father had owned a workshop which specialised in the salvaging of motor vehicles; repair, maintenance, panel-beating, spray painting, and so forth. My mother ran the administrative side of the business, which meant that I was, effectively, raised by Sophie, our live-in maid, a matronly black woman who originated from Diepkloof, Soweto.

I had worked hard and diligently to improve myself, had never been a physical kind of guy and hated manual labour, so I set my sights on an administrative type of job. I paid more attention to what my mother was doing, much to my father’s chagrin. I selected the appropriate courses and excelled much to my mother’s delight.

I landed a job in the first week of completing my associate’s degree and was elevated to a management position after the first year, when my boss relocated to the United Kingdom. After Sylvia and I married, I purchased a home in the affluent Northern suburbs of Johannesburg.

I immediately marked the stark differences to where I‘d come from, a small town where everyone knew everybody else and visited each other regularly.

I hailed from a place where housewives had long chats over the low concrete pre-cast walls and husbands popped over to each other’s homes for a barbeque and beer on the weekends. It used to be a part of life. Children played together all day until their parents called them in when the sun set. It was an era doomed to extinction at the onset of big business.

All of the local businesses on the main road had been owned by local people, the hardware store, the doctor, the grocers, etc. This was before the invasion of the shopping malls, owned by large corporations and chain stores. The world had changed. The little guys had been swept away by the tides of change.

Here I was, for the time being, living in an affluent suburb, populated by people living in little fortresses, surrounded by high walls and barbed wire, alarm systems in every home. I use the word ‘suburb’ and not ‘neighbourhood’ because I don’t know my ‘neighbours’ or anyone else in this damned place.

It was inevitable. I turned to drink which depressed me or made me happy, depending on the day of the week and how it had gone. After many bottles of whiskey and hazy escapades out on the town I realized that I could die a sad death if I continued on the self-destructive path I was on. One thing I was certain of was that I did not want to die, especially when my eyes opened to the reality of how shallow a person Sylvia, my ex-wife, actually was. She definitely did not deserve the honour of being the cause of my death.

She had made sure that the marriage ended quickly and amicably, thereby enabling her to continue on her conquest in the form of a wealthy Australian businessman, with whom she would eventually immigrate to Melbourne, Australia.

To her credit, she had not requested much, except for the family heirlooms she’d brought into the marriage. She had definitely traded up, financially speaking, severing all ties with me, her former husband, as quickly and efficiently, as she possibly could.

I tossed back the remainder of the whiskey in my glass and felt it burn down my throat. I calmed its strength with a few drags from my cigarette and pushed Sylvia out of my mind as I contemplated my future, if I still had one. My current circumstances were hardly ideal for making long term plans. It almost seemed as if my life was being governed by ‘Murphy’s Law’; the supposed law of nature which implied that everything that could possibly go wrong would go wrong.

I told myself that I only ever stepped up my drinking whenever I experienced severe stress or tension. I used it like a healing tonic, if you will, and then toned it down when my life gained momentum again. Whether this was true or just a lie I told to myself in order to feel better, I couldn’t be sure.

I tried to focus on my current situation and found myself struggling with the decision, yet even while my mind refused to accept the reality, I willed my hands to flip open the cell phone and called my cousin Willie. If anyone could arrange the best deal possible it would be Willie, who worked as a real estate agent. I dialled his number and waited.

‘Hi, Willie, it’s Marco.’

‘Hi, Marco, good to hear from you. How’s it going?’

I wasn’t in the mood for small talk and got right to the point.

‘I’ve reached a decision, Willie. You were right. It makes no sense for me to be living in this big house all by myself. It’s depressing and it’s eating through whatever savings I have left. You still have that ‘potential buyer’ you were talking about?’

‘Mr. Masinga? Yeah, he’s still interested. He told