Send Flowers

By Victor Metcalf

Send Flowers! is a ‘get-up-and-go’ fictional thriller, taking the reader headlong into the South African Farm Attack arena. Included, is an account of how the depths of our souls have been traumatised by the horrifying nature of these crimes to the point that we can’t bear to look anymore.

The story highlights a young woman’s need to understand and make sense of her life after the tragic loss of her parents in such an attack. She acts decisively after the realisation that an overwhelming number of these crimes, policed by a service with questionable motives and limited resources, would let her parents’ killers go unpunished. The young farm girl with a gift for growing flowers uses her computer skills to find the killers, and proceeds to groom them with the result that they proceed to unwittingly do her bidding.

Grounded in contemporary South Africa, cradled within the wonder of the Waterberg mountain district, the story builds up to and beyond the Covid-19 national confinement, a catalyst for change and a brighter future. A fast-moving story of a woman’s love for life and family, pain, actions and consequences. Allowing just enough space for healing and forgiveness.

The magic only an African love story can offer.

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From the Author of Brutal Bullion

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor Metcalf
• Release date: Aug 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005907600

Victor Metcalf

I'm a husband, father and recently a grandfather, these are my most important biographical features.I have numerous technical and financial qualifications, having held executive positions with numerous listed and private companies across the globe, none of which are relevant to my writing. I served my country faithfully in the 'bush wars' an experience which has had an influence on my writing. I love my God, my wife, my family, my way of life and my country equally.. and each feel the same way about me.My writing started with the Children's fables each containing subtle, and sometimes not so subtle messages to my three grandchildren that might provide guidance in their navigation of our ever-changing and confusing world. My novel writing started as a result of the free time the Covid 19 pandemic created so I sat down and gave it a try, to discover another new delight I didn't know existed.I live and write in paradise, a village called Knysna in the heart of the garden route on the south coast of South Africa where every passing day is a new blessing.I aspired to these values - Honesty, Dignity and Respect in my quest to become a happier human being. I often fall down and get up again, but I think its starting to work!!! Thank you for your interest in my stories...I pray they shine more light into your life as they have mine.

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 Victor Metcalf

Published by Victor Metcalf Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Victor Metcalf using Reach Publishers’ services,

Edited by Sheena Carnie, for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: [e-mail]

To: my precious Nix.

01

Autumn again. The morning sun was putting up a gallant effort to afford warmth to those in the valley below; it was still colder than a widow’s smile, yet somehow pleasant to the observer.

It didn’t start out this way, she pondered. If I recollect, my intentions were honourable. At least I think they were.

I don’t believe in justice; the system is broken, rigged. It was because… I’m not sure any more. In the beginning it was a need to know, to understand why they would do such a thing and with so much hatred. I was in shock, horrified; and there was a need to understand why. They didn’t even know them. My mother was the kindest person in the world. I needed to know why. When I started to understand what was going on, the need to punish became so great that I could not find a way to relieve the need other than to act. Dominee said that I should find forgiveness, it was impossible.

Fleur traced her thoughts after meeting with Inspector Mbeki, while being led back to the holding cells at the Retief Street Police Station in Mokopane. She was being held on suspicion of murder. They don’t have a thing as long as I keep my mouth shut, she assured herself. I will be back home soon, preparing for the countrywide shut down. It seems crazy to shut down the whole country for some threat we can’t even see, but obviously none of us want to be affected by this recently discovered deadly coronavirus, so I imagine that’s just what we have to do.

Fleur owned a successful online flower distribution network which she and her father had set up after she graduated as a software designer. Fleur’s Flowers showed meteoric growth and soon had to move from their family farm to the industrial area where she rented a warehouse with offices which housed the online network and computing mainframes. Now the business would be put into a dormancy period. For how long she couldn’t guess… how long do world wars last? It was the only logical way to protect her employees from the pending carnage.

Villion, her family name, could be traced back to Maria Villion, one of eighteen Walloons from Wallonia (now Belgium) who landed in the Cape in 1688 with 180 French Huguenots. They were shipped to the Cape to help establish the fledgling agricultural industry required to provide fresh produce to the passing ships en route to the Far East. In spite of her heritage, Fleur never thought of herself as anything other than a purebred South African, and ignored the ignorant utterances and racist rhetoric offered up by the local and national political students and elitists.

Everything changed the morning she got the call from William, her foreman. "Nonna, you must come quickly, the tsotsis… ahh… they came for your father last night! Please come, Nonna!" It’s the kind of horror call which sends a chill down any South African farmer’s spine. (tsotsis – criminal or bandit)

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Fleur’s father was a cattle rancher on a farm which had been passed down through the family for the last five generations of Villions — always to the eldest able-bodied son. Fleur’s father was not the eldest of the sons, he inherited the farm on merit — a decision made by her great grandmother who felt he showed the ability to make the venture a success. Her decision proved to be a sound one, as Fleur’s father, Hendrik, became the most successful Bonsmara stud farmer in the district. Their 7 000 hectares straddled both sides of the meandering Mokolo River just south of the Mokolo Dam Nature Reserve and was perfect for ranching the hardy Bonsmara breed. Her father’s mantra was A happy beast is a healthy beast; our farm is Bonsmara heaven!

He renamed the farm Hemel op Aarde (Heaven on Earth) after a land claim led to a rezoning and adjustment to their water rights during the previous decade. Under his stewardship the farm flourished and so did the Villion family wealth and status. Fleur’s mother was of English heritage, and met Hendrik when she was at teacher’s training college and he was stationed in Johannesburg during his military conscription for the Apartheid government. Their union produced a single heiress to the family inheritance — Gertrude — who was named after an infamous relative.

From an early age Gertrude was a happy child with an uncanny ability and love for cultivating flowers; they seemed to adopt her temperament in their shared radiance. Soon one of the large vegetable beds was reserved for her by her delighted father. No one remembers exactly when, but the young girl seemed to think that it was soon after she started planting flowers in the vegetable bed that her mother gave her the nickname Fleur (flower) in recognition of her special gift. Even her mother did not fully appreciate the family name her beautiful child was bridled with. Fleur was better to her liking as it still had some Belgian heritage which was appreciated by the more conservative members of the family, and was feminine enough for her liking. Soon Gertrude was forgotten and Fleur was the only name the girl recognised.

It was agreed that Fleur would be educated at an English school, and her Afrikaans heritage would be fostered at home on the farm where she would speak Afrikaans and Tswana. Fleur’s schooling was mapped out from a very young age: she would attend her mother’s alma mater, Roedean in Johannesburg, where she would be a boarder from her primary years.

Fleur proved to be an average student who showed an unquenchable interest in computer science and biology. On the sports field she excelled at long distance track events and netball, sports which often got in the way of her being able to visit the farm and her beloved flower gardens on weekends. Over the years, under her father’s watchful eye, these gardens had grown into a seven-hectare hydroponic operation which produced flowers for the local flower market and proved to be such a financial success that it funded her education and expenses.

From an early age Fleur showed strong business acumen, which her father supported by providing the funds for her to start her entrée into the flower business, and before she had completed her schooling Fleur’s Flowers was distributing refrigerated cut blooms both locally and internationally into Europe and the United Kingdom. She knew that for it to be sustainable she needed to take the business into the digital online world. Her choice of further study was clear — she attended the University of Pretoria where she completed a Bachelor of Science in Computer Science. In between her studies she used all her spare time to build the programming required to take Fleur’s Flowers online. Through that medium she could auction her flowers to the highest bidder, while taking full advantage of the changing seasons between the southern and northern hemisphere countries. Soon Fleur’s Flowers was also distributing from many of the neighbouring farms in the region which sought to enjoy the arbitrage she offered in the overseas market.

Her most recent business diversion was to apply the same acumen to the online sale of floral bouquets as she’d done with fresh cut stems. She chose to base herself and her business in Mokopane, a town to the north of the farm, where the programming, flower arranging and distribution networks were available. The capital investment and the fledgling business required her full attention, so she had relocated to Mokopane from the farm and rented a small apartment within walking distance of the warehouse on Sussex Street.

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Fleur gunned the Toyota Hilux down the R33 towards Lephalale and on towards the farm; it was a familiar stretch of road that she’d travelled often in the fetch-and-carry days of boarding school and university. Her customary happiness at the thought of soon being home was absent in light of the disturbing call. The heifer field soon came into view with its customary beautiful brown brutes grazing in the far southern corner, their coats ablaze in the morning sunshine, but that also went unnoticed as she charged on. At last she crossed the final cattle grid.

Before she even reached the homestead Fleur’s worst fears were confirmed by the sounds of the wailing servants and the sight of numerous vehicles hastily parked on the front lawn. Most of them belonged to neighbouring farmers but there was also a police van with its emergency lights still flashing blue. The ambulance was parked adjacent to the house with its rear doors ajar.

Fleur, you can’t go inside, this is not good. Please, my girl, please stay in the car, Lesedi Majoro pleaded while he ran to stop her. It’s impossible, you can’t go inside. Tears streamed down his face.

Les, what happened? I couldn’t get a thing out of William.

They came in through the back door. Why the dogs didn’t stop them? Lesedi was clearly pleading for understanding of the horrors he’d seen.

Les, what are you talking about? Fleur screamed as she started to run for the front door, pushing her way through the throng of people milling around in shocked discussion at the entrance.

Stop her before she gets inside! Lesedi shouted just in time for one of the policemen to realise what was about to happen. He reached out and ensnarled her in his arms, preventing her from entering the house and seeing a scene that would psychologically scar her for life.

A paramedic was immediately summoned to sedate her as Fleur continued to scream in protest at her capture, until eventually the injection took effect and she lost consciousness.

When she started to come around later that afternoon in a hospital ward, the solemn attitude of the people offering their deepest condolences brought the events of that morning flooding back.

Oh God, please, will one of you tell me what has happened to my father? Fleur pleaded when she felt she had recovered enough to understand.

Ms Villion, it is with regret that I must inform you that there was an attempted robbery at your family home last night. Your parents must have surprised them and a struggle ensued. Unfortunately, both your parents have succumbed to their injuries. I’m so sorry for your loss. The uniformed policemen gave her the basic information before any of the familiar faces had an opportunity to speak.

Where is Les? Fleur asked

I’m here, I’m here, Lesedi said, stepping through the group to be at her bedside.

Do you know what’s going on here? What is he talking about? My mother too?

Yes, both of them! Lesedi whispered, shaking his head at the horrors he had witnessed when he found his friend and mentor dead. The manner in which both of Fleur’s parents had been brutalised was unimaginable, even to a hardened cattle farmer.

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Over the ensuing weeks Fleur remained dazed in disbelief, the intensity of which varied from day to day. She had taken up her father’s duties and, with William’s help, kept the ranch running smoothly, but she insisted that the house be closed up and no one was to enter it until she was ready to do so, not even to verify what had been stolen in the robbery.

The funeral had come and gone in a haze of too many solemn faces of friends, family and acquaintances. The politically inclined and journalists, inquisitive for details and a story to tell, had come to pay their respects at a tragedy that had become so commonplace that it made them seem insincere and out of order. Fleur had to endure all of this as part of what was assumed to be the healing process. Meanwhile the young woman buried herself in the physical nature of the farm work in an attempt to dull the pain.

Her ordeal was not yet over, though, and what she was about to endure would push her beyond her ability to retain her grief; she would be driven to action. On a Wednesday afternoon, two weeks after the murders, Fleur received a message on her cell phone from the South African Police Services asking her to report to the Lephalale Police Station at 3 Herman Street to meet with Inspector Mbeki at 9 a.m. the following morning.

The following day she left the farm and travelled to Lephalale (in her mind she would always still call it Ellisras — the name the town went by during the Apartheid years), making sure that she wouldn’t be late for her meeting with the inspector. She found the police station in the surprisingly leafy district behind the magistrates’ court; it was well-appointed and the gardens were neat and well kept. Encouraged by her first impressions, Fleur entered the charge office and informed the duty officer of her appointment with Inspector Mbeki. The young constable looked surprised and asked who invited her to the meeting. Fleur promptly showed him the message she had received the previous day at which he seemed even more surprised and asked her to take a seat while he retreated into a side office and closed the door. It was 9.05 a.m. when the constable emerged from the office and went back to his duties, completely ignoring Fleur’s questioning looks.

Moments later a plump female officer emerged through a side entrance to the charge office and asked Fleur to follow her. Ah, progress at last! It seems even in Ellisras there is red tape, she mused as she followed the officer’s large posterior which seemed to be out of step with her laboured stride. The young woman was ushered into an unkempt office with manila folded files piled on the floor, on the tables and the desk. The only evidence of human habitation was a full ashtray, the mark of a chain smoker’s domain.

Fleur’s chaperone instructed that she was not to leave the room or wander off until the inspector arrived. She closed the door behind her and Fleur was left in the office with all the inspector’s case files. Surely this can’t be proper police protocol? she thought as she started an examination of some of the files nearest her. She noticed neat handwriting on the cover of each file; it seemed each high pile was a different category — stock theft in one pile, assault in another, house breaking and complaints and so forth in other piles. She wondered if her parents’ robbery and murder was part of this chaos. She quickly referenced the case number from the SMS she had received from the investigating officer and started her search; nothing — her case number didn’t match any of the case numbers on the files and she soon gave up her quest.

Fleur was deep in thought when the door opened and a gaunt looking man dressed in civilian clothing entered. His eyes peered out from behind a pair of heavy-rimmed spectacles which would have been better suited on a spinster mathematics teacher she remembered from her school days.

What are you doing here? he barked with a smile, an acknowledgment of the break with protocol which must have become so frequent that he no longer had the energy to try to enforce the rule.

So, what is this all about then? he asked as he sat down behind the desk, stroking his pocket to feel for the presence of his pack of cigarettes and a subconscious message that the meeting had better be short.

Good morning, Inspector Mbeki, I was sent an SMS to meet with you this morning at nine, Fleur offered, not showing any annoyance for the fact that it was now almost 10 a.m.

Interesting. May I see this message please?

Yes, of course, she agreed, handing him the phone.

It does say that you should report here in Lephalale at nine, however there are two things that don’t make sense — the case number is not familiar to me and there is no Inspector Mbeki here. He frowned as he concluded his statement in a manner that suggested the case was closed and not his problem. Fleur sat staring at the inspector, trying to think of what to say.

Do you know what this number might be in reference to? the policeman asked when he noticed her disbelief.

Well, I thought it might have something to do with a robbery on our farm; both my parents were murdered.

Oh! Which farm? he shot back, showing renewed interest.

Hemel op Aarde, Fleur replied, feeling her emotions getting away from her again.

I’m very sorry for your loss; I know about the case. However, farm attacks are no longer handled by the regional police stations. Can I have another look at that SMS? Ah, as I thought, this was not sent from this station or it would have a phone number attached to it; this message has come from the SAPS mainframe. The third thing wrong with your message is that your father’s farm is not in my district, he announced as he handed the phone back to her.

You’re welcome to smoke if you like, Fleur offered, realising she might be able to learn something from the inspector. With a motion honed by muscle memory, he slipped a Chesterfield between his lips; the little lighter was cradled in his hand at the ready. Once it