Death & Prejudice: JULIAN NEWMAN, #1

By Bronwyn Howard

When the body of well-known beauty queen and celebrity Lindiwe Bhengu is found in the Hennops River close to her boyfriend's home, he automatically becomes a suspect. The fact that good-looking Danny Lotter, a talented artist and sculptor, is a functioning autistic complicates matters. But Danny's mother, Karen, believes he adored his beautiful but faithless girlfriend and could never have committed the heinous crime. She appoints ex-Special Forces private investigator, Julian Newman, who is fighting his own demons, to unearth the truth. Julian quickly discovers that Lindiwe's entire life was defined by a terrible secret - one that came back to haunt her when she least expected it. Soon both Julian and his clients are being terrorised by someone who will stop at nothing to prevent Lindiwe's secret from being exposed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bronwyn Howard
• Release date: May 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9780620934794

Bronwyn Howard

Bronwyn Howard is a South African-based author who is passionate about nature, wildlife and conservaton, as well as environmental issues.  She loves nothing better than being in the great outdoors and writing to make a difference.  She started out as a travel writer and wrote freelance for several South African magazines and newspapers before starting to produce her own digital magazines in 2009.  She lives in the small town of Utrecht in northern KZN in the shadow of the Balele Mountains, with her husband and a small, black cat.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

FIVE YEARS BEFORE

A human shadow detached itself from the double-storey house with its pillared porch and walls gleaming white in the moonlight. Frost sparkled on the grass and a chill wind sighed through the bare bones of leafless trees. The last of autumn’s leaves crackled underfoot. His breath misted in the frigid air and hot tears slid down his face unnoticed. Bundled up against the cold, he leaned against the huge trunk of an oak tree and tried to tame the emotional tempest that raged within him - a maelstrom of fury, frustration and betrayal. How could she?

There was a loud boom from the large, rarely used kitchen at the back of the house, as the gas ignited. Windows shattered and the fireball, fuelled by the infusion of oxygen, rushed to consume the mansion. He wanted to stay and watch the destruction but some confused instinct urged him to run. He turned and, like the jackals that roamed the estate when no one was abroad, slunk away from the scene of his crime. To him, it was not so much a crime as a cleansing. She had shielded him from the world for years and now he needed to protect her from herself.

The fire’s intense orange glow lit up the night sky like a volcanic eruption. Homeowners closer to the scene could hear the crackle and roar of it engulfing the sprawling house, set on a poorly maintained lot. More windows splintered and a lone pine tree exploded, sending sparks in all directions, to the consternation of the neighbours. It was late autumn on the African highveld and, as the rains ebbed and vegetation dried, the danger of wildfires loomed.

Perhaps it was this ominous possibility rather than a sense of altruism that prompted Gordon Miller, the nearest neighbour, to mute the television and alert the estate’s security team. As he scrolled through his phone’s contacts, he remarked to his wife, I hope there’s no one in there. I wonder how it started.

His wife sipped her wine and shrugged. Who knows, darling? Those people are...

Dispatch answered and Gordon quickly explained the situation. Ending the call, he told his wife, They’ll contact the fire department, the police, and get paramedics out...

His wife shivered. If anyone’s stuck in there, they’re most likely beyond help by now.

Gordon went to the window and pulled back the heavy curtain to get a better view. Beyond the reflections of their comfortable lounge, he could see the blazing home in its unkempt garden further down the slope. In the distance, the moon glinted on the Jukskei River as it wound through smallholdings and lifestyle estates, towards Diepsloot, a shanty town that had mushroomed into a more formal township over the years. He opened the glass sliding door, ignoring his wife’s sharp admonition from the sofa: Darling! You don’t need to get involved.

Yes, but that boy, Danny. He’s not quite right, you know. He could be...

She got up and re-filled her glass. Darling, please. You’ve alerted the authorities. Let them deal with it.

He sighed and reluctantly closed the door. All right, sweetheart.

I know you’ve got a soft spot for him but he’s so... strange. Gives me the creeps. She sat down and turned up the sound on the television. Let’s watch the movie.

Reluctantly, he turned back to the warm, pleasant room and sat in his favourite armchair. Sure. Soon, they heard sirens wailing as emergency services responded. Through a chink in the curtain, he could see the red and blue reflections of the vehicles’ lights. He glanced at his wife, who was focusing, rather determinedly, on the television.

DANNY

CHAPTER 1

Danny stepped out of his home - a modified shipping container on the banks of the Hennops River - with a mug of coffee in his hand. Formerly a construction site office, the greying white structure sat on a grassy slope overlooking the valley and surrounding hills. He banged the flimsy door shut before making for the dirt path which would take him down into the trees flanking the river.  He whistled softly to himself, listening to the river’s murmur and trying not to think about the night before. Summer was ending and there had been a heavy thunderstorm the previous evening. When he reached the bank, he noticed that the river, brown with silt, was flowing swiftly.

A short distance upstream was the hotel where his mother, Karen Lotter, worked. He’d seen her the previous day and she’d told him she was on day shift this week. It was Sunday and he could hear the distant sounds of chatter and clinking crockery from the restaurant deck. He followed the path away from the hotel, the river quietening as it widened. He glimpsed an iridescent malachite kingfisher as it flew off, disturbed by his passage. An African fish eagle called, the distinctive sound echoing across the countryside.

He approached a bend in the river where there was an opening in the trees and the sun shone on long grass bearing fluffy white seeds. At the river’s edge was an unusual wooden bench Danny himself had fashioned from a fallen tree trunk and some old lumber. Happiest when working with his hands, he had spent hours on the project. The varnish gleamed in the sun and his pace quickened. This was one of his favourite spots, away from the bustle of the hotel, hidden from people. Here, his innate creativity spread its wings, far from the confusion and stress human interaction frequently spawned within him.

As the path neared the clearing, he noticed a large, white square of material caught on a small thorn tree, fluttering in the breeze. He wondered whether any hotel guests had come down this path. Despite the gate and a sign indicating that this part of the grounds was off limits, people still sometimes wandered into his private space and sat on the bench when he wasn’t there. The material resolved into a fringed, embroidered square and a nameless dread began uncoiling in his brain.

He recognised that scarf! He frowned, wondering how it had come to be here. Lindiwe Bhengu often wore it across her slim shoulders, over her dresses and blouses. Unsure whether to liberate it from the thorns, he glanced towards the river’s edge - and caught his breath.

She was lying awkwardly in the water, cornrows matted with mud, her perfect ebony skin and oval face grey and lifeless. The chocolate brown eyes stared sightlessly skyward, forever dulled. Clay and water trapped her legs, her dusky-pink dress filthy with dead leaves and detritus. Her arms and perfectly manicured hands floated free, moving eerily in the current, anchored by the weight of her lifeless body.

For a moment, his brain could not compute what he was seeing. A whirlwind of emotions he had no idea how to process rampaged through his mind. His heart thudded and blood rushed to his face, his brain whirling in terror and confusion. How could she be here, like this? He had left her at the bench the previous evening, after they’d talked about her leaving for London - a good career move for her - how she’d get settled and he’d join her later. She’d been fine when he’d left her, beautiful and flawless, his summer love.

Tears threatening, he splashed into the shallows and reached down to touch her hand, the skin wrinkled by the water. As he would have grasped the swollen fingers with their manicured nails, they seemed to develop a life of their own. He recoiled, sweating, even as the crab scuttled away. He noticed tiny silver fish swimming around her submerged calves and the sodden folds of her dress. He stumbled backwards, careless of the mud sucking at his slip-slops. Beginning to weep, he found his way to the bench and sat, grasping his stomach, rocking to and fro. He’d wanted to put a ring on her finger, make her his forever and keep her close, but she’d refused.

My looks won’t last forever, baby, she had said, stroking her cheek absently with a polished fingernail. I need to make the most of this while I can.

He’d struggled silently, looking out at the water reflecting the half moon, the light flickering a little as the first clouds gathered - outliers of the storm. What about the...

She had placed a finger on his mouth, giving a short laugh that made him even more unsettled. He’d shivered a little in his thick jersey, hoping she wouldn’t see it in the silvery darkness that surrounded them. I’ll take care of her, she had promised.

But if you go, then maybe I’ll never see...

It’s okay, babe, she had said placatingly. I’ll make sure you get to see her.

Convinced there was something very wrong about all this but not knowing exactly what, he’d begun to feel the fog of confusion descending. Being with her over the summer, he had been able to hold it at bay, but now it came back with full force.  He had said, almost piteously, "Will we really be together? Will you invite me to - to be in London with you?"

It was her turn to gaze across the river. Of course I will. Then, perhaps sensing his dubiousness and attempting to soften the blow: We can video call until then. You’ll be able see me - and her, when she comes.

"But I won’t be able to, to feel you," he’d said desperately, emotion overwhelming him. The ache seemed to reach deep within, so fierce he could barely breathe. She was going where he could never hope to follow, into a future he could never share. And taking a part of him with her.

She’d laughed softly, the white scarf silver and grey in the shifting moon shadows. She had turned to him but he couldn’t discern her expression in the half dark. This will be a great opportunity for me - a chance to be famous, maybe even a little bit rich. Think what I could do for you.

He had said bitterly, knowing the essential truth of his words, You won’t want me then. You won’t. And what about her? What if you don’t want her?

A tiny sigh had escaped Lindiwe, quickly stifled. Come on, Danny, she had cajoled, biting her lip. She’d run a hand down his arm and he’d quivered at her touch in spite of himself. Of course I do. Aren’t you just a little bit happy for me?

He still felt confused but he’d learned it was often better to simply say what you thought others wanted to hear. Besides, he’d had no idea how to explain how thoroughly lost and bereft he was feeling. He knew she wouldn’t want an - what did his stepdad call him, when he was frustrated by Danny’s inadequate attempts to explain himself - emotional cripple around when she was famous in London. Visions of urbane suitors in tuxedos, photographers in baggy cotton shirts, fashion show crowds peering at the catwalk, magazine covers she’d graced, assailed him.

So he had said, Um, yes, I am. He’d reached across the small space that separated them, taking her into his arms and kissing her passionately.

Presently, she had disengaged. Whoa, Danny-boy.

They had quietly regarded one another in the half dark. He had said, I was hoping... You wouldn’t want to - to stay with me here, you know, forever? He’d cursed the faint pleading note in his voice as he mentioned this most private fantasy. He’d imagined heads turning in supermarket queues, waking up to her cooking breakfast in his tiny kitchenette (it had happened once), going to dinner with her, to shows, driving a sports car with the top down, like in the movies, and having beautiful, immaculately dressed children.

She’d interrupted his thoughts. Danny, love, I really can’t stay.

A knot of hot desperation had welled in his chest. "Why not? I want you to be with me. I want you both to be with me. We can..."

She had interrupted hastily, I’ve got a life to live, Danny. Here, I’m a small time beauty queen. Over there... She had gestured vaguely at the hill behind them, Your stepdad says I’ve got star quality. He’s got me this contract. It’s all signed and sealed.

He found himself bereft all over again. As always, the complexity of the situation and his own feelings had threatened to engulf him. "It’s signed?" he had asked in surprise, an edge to his voice.

She had covered one of his large, work-roughened hands with her smooth one. Yes, baby, it is.

Staring sightlessly at her lifeless form, he remembered how he’d wanted to withdraw his hand but couldn’t. By the light of the moon, he had discerned the whites of her eyes, the irises black as the deepest night shadows. From long experience, he had known the expression they would bear: kind, regretful, implacable. I can’t change it? You’re going.

I’m sorry, Danny. We signed today. That’s what I came to tell you.

He had bitten his lip, threading his fingers between hers. He cupped the side of her flawless face with his other hand and leaned in to kiss her again. He was aware of her response and was oddly satisfied. He’d slipped his hands beneath the scarf, feeling the softness of her shoulder, and slid off the strap of her sundress. No, Danny.

Please. Just once, before you go. He was begging. He hated himself but he couldn’t stop.

She had slipped the strap back onto her shoulder and rearranged the scarf. It’s for the best. You’ll see, she had reassured him. You don’t need to worry. I’ll look after her. I will. And I’ll let you know when you can join us.

He had sensed the distance growing between them, as though she had already boarded her flight, winging her way into a new life he knew he might never share, despite her promises. Tears had threatened as the full extent of his loss began to sink in.  When are you going? He had remembered to ask, trying to recall what one did in these situations. It seemed that you didn’t try to hang onto your girl - or your hopes and dreams.

We’ve got to sort out the paperwork, you know - visas, work permits, that sort of thing. And then I’m gone.

He had said, But can’t we see each other until then? I want to be with you. I want to... He had run out of words.

She’d glanced at him as a sudden breeze whispered through the trees, ruffling the river’s surface and playing with her scarf. He had watched the white fringe moving; it gave him something to focus on. I’m going to be very busy with preparations.

He had been unable to keep the resentment from his voice. I suppose you’ll want to see your family before you go.

Her family was a sore point. They had kept their relationship a secret from them. Even in these enlightened times in post-apartheid South Africa, not everyone was entirely comfortable with love across the colour line. In spite of Lindiwe’s objections, Danny had introduced her to his mother and stepfather. His mother had said, concerned, Be careful, Danny. She’s beautiful and... She’d sighed. Just be careful.

By contrast, his stepfather had seemed delighted in a way Danny had seldom seen, enjoying an almost flirtatious banter with Lindiwe that had made him uncomfortable without quite knowing why. When they’d left the spacious house in Parktown North after the first of several dinners there, his father had pressed a business card into her hand. Remember, I’m a publicist, Lindiwe. If you ever need anyone to represent you, I’d be delighted.

Lindiwe’s expression had been unfathomable to Danny as she’d said, I’ll let you know, Mr Lotter.

Please do. And call me Mike. The door had closed behind them as they’d hurried to a waiting taxi, parked on the sweeping driveway. A storm had rolled in and thunder boomed, lightning silvering the raindrops and illuminating the drenched suburb with its tall trees and large houses.

Uneasy without knowing why, Danny had turned to Lindiwe after the driver pulled into the road. Why were you talking to my stepdad like that?

She’d looked surprised, a lightening flash revealing her expression. She’d covered Danny’s hand with her own. It was just conversation, Danny. I know you’re not very, um, chatty in these situations but... She’d leaned in and kissed him deeply, apparently oblivious of the driver watching them in the rear view mirror.

Five months later, towards the end of one of the most exciting, meaningful summers he could remember, his beauty queen girlfriend had looked across the Hennops River and said, making an effort to be conciliatory, But you’re making a name for yourself too. Perhaps Mike, uh, your stepdad can arrange some exhibitions of your work at London art galleries. I’m sure he has contacts there. Then you could be set up before you come.

Danny had grimaced. He was no fool, even if he didn’t know how to express himself properly. Maybe. The silence had stretched, not as comfortably as usual. Eventually, he’d sighed deeply and dragged a hand through his dark, shoulder-length hair. I’m going to go to sleep. Are you sure you don’t want to stay...

No, she had said firmly.

Do you want me to walk you to the hotel?

She shook her head. I think I’ll sit here for a while.

Danny had been surprised; she hated walking back to the lodge in the dark. He was also thinking it would be the last time they would do this, sitting together on the bench he had made beneath the light of a summer moon. I can sit with you, he’d offered. Thunder had rumbled in the distance.

She’d reached into the pocket of her dress, retrieving a small but powerful LED torch. I’ve come prepared this time. Then, she had turned and taken his face in her hands, kissing him lightly. It’s okay, lover boy. Sweet dreams.

Impulsively, he had drawn her to him, inhaling the scent of her spicy perfume, enjoying the feel of the slender, perfect frame in his arms. Lindiwe...

She had gently freed herself from his embrace. Goodbye, Danny.

Choked up, he had still managed to look her in the eye, the way she had taught him. Bye, Lindiwe.

Good luck with the sculptures and the art. I’ll be in touch once I’m settled.

He had said, remembering that he was supposed to wish her well too, Good luck in London. Despite the lump in his throat, he’d managed to add, And don’t forget to let me know about... her. He got up and walked up the path to his house on legs that felt suddenly leaden. As he’d reached his door, the storm clouds had finally blotted out the moon, turning the countryside dark and impenetrable.

It had taken him a long time to fall asleep, imagining her sitting beside the river, while he re-lived this most perfect summer, from the moment he had met her until tonight. The wind picked up and an owl called, low and eerie. He had heard the storm approaching, the distant growl of thunder coming inexorably nearer, as lightning flashed across the sky, bright behind the curtained windows. The first, slow drops thudded onto the roof, quickly becoming a torrent. Later, after the storm had rumbled off towards Pretoria, crickets began singing lustily. He’d heard the river’s accelerated murmur and the sudden trill of a night jar: Good lord deliver us, good lord deliver us... At last, as the first fingers of the dawn stole through the gaps in the curtains, he had fallen asleep.

He’d woken uncharacteristically late, got out of his tumbled bed and made his usual mug of instant before going down to the river, as was his habit - only to find that Lindiwe had not left him at all. Or at least, not in the way she’d intended.

Once his shock had subsided a little, Danny found he couldn’t bear sitting on the bench, looking at her lifeless body moving slightly in the current. He got up and half-walked, half-stumbled back up the path to his home. He wrenched open the door and, careless of the mud on his feet, walked over to the bed, where he curled up, crying helplessly into his pillow. His life would never be the same again. Eventually, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

CHAPTER 2

He was woken by loud, insistent banging on the door. Police! Open up!

He got up, his heart thudding, not noticing the drying mud he had tracked across the floor earlier or the dirty smears on the tangled sheets. There was more hammering and the flimsy door shook. Confusion descended like fog. Police? Here? Why?

His eye lighted on a photograph of Lindiwe on the small table next to the bed and the memory of her lying dead in the river suddenly assailed him. Tears flooded his eyes and his legs threatened to give way. He forced his feet to obey him and opened the door.

A burly black policeman in a blue uniform stood on the threshold, sweat beading his forehead. Another stood at the bottom of the steps. It was an unusually hot, rather humid day and Danny was suddenly aware that he, too, was sweating and that the air in the container was stale, reeking faintly of body odour and the kitchen bin he’d failed to empty. He felt unsettled at this interruption in his usual routine. He wondered what the time was.

The policeman said, Constable Tshabalala. Can we come in?

Uh, sure. Danny backed away and the two men entered, leaving the door open. They glanced around, taking in the thrift shop furniture, the mud on the floor, the tumbled, mud-stained bed, and the kitchen area with its dirty crockery and empty polystyrene cartons that had once contained hotel food.

The other policeman sat on the worn sofa without introducing himself. Danny sat on a matching chair, while Tshabalala sat on another and took out a notebook. What’s your name, sir?

Danny. Danny Lotter.

You live alone? Tshabalala went on.

Danny said nervously, Uh, ja, ja, I do.

Do you work at the hotel?

Danny shook his head, twisting his hands, tears threatening. No. My - my mother does. Can I call my mom? I need to call her. She would know what to do; she always did. He found he couldn’t remember what shift she was on today.

Tshabalala waved a hand at Danny and shook his head. It’s all right, sir. We just want to ask you a couple of questions.

Danny regarded his dirty feet uncertainly. Okay.

Tshabalala glanced at Danny’s feet too, and at the dried mud on the floor. Were you at the river earlier?

I, um... Danny’s voice trailed off and he swallowed hard, feeling panicked. Should he answer the question? Surely they didn’t suspect him of anything? There had to be a simple explanation.

You know a woman’s body has been found near here? Tshabalala said tactlessly, eyeing Danny suspiciously. There was something strange about this young man, despite his startling good looks - the thick, dark, shoulder-length hair, green-gold eyes in a tanned face and his muscular physique. But he lived like a pig. And he was curiously unsettled.

Danny wiped his eyes on a sweatshirt sleeve as the tears started again. Yes, he whispered huskily.

The second policeman, who had still not volunteered his name, looked pointedly at the tracks on the floor, thinking the young man they were interviewing seemed very emotional and ill at ease. He repeated his colleague’s question. Did you go to the river today - or perhaps last night?

I go in the mornings, before work, unless it’s raining, Danny said quickly. This, at least, was familiar territory, talking about things he did every day. I come back and have breakfast at seven. Toast and jam. After that, I go to the studio and work. I have lunch at...

What work do you do? Tshabalala interrupted the monologue, turning a page.

Danny heard the scratching of the policeman’s pen. It was a moment before he realised they weren’t talking about his routine any more. I paint. I paint all day. Sometimes I do sculptures. That’s more work than painting. It can take me a week or two to finish a sculpture. First you have to...

The second policeman crossed his legs, regarding Danny with interest. You’re an artist? he interposed sceptically. Do you sell your work anywhere?

Danny said enthusiastically, I sell at different places. And my mom finds buyers. I’ve got an exhibition now at... He named a prominent Johannesburg art gallery. My stepfather arranged it, he added. He’s a publicist. Danny nodded, trying to remember his stepfather’s explanation of what he did for a living. He promotes people and their work.

Tshabalala scribbled. Let’s go back a bit. You were at the river today, as usual?

Um... The change of subject confused Danny. He stopped and looked around.

Tshabalala eyed him keenly. This morning? he prompted.  What did you do this morning?

Danny said, When I get up, I make coffee. I like it black with two sugars. Six o’clock. Then I go down to the river. I sit on the bench I made...

You made that wooden bench? the second policeman interjected. I thought you said you were an artist and a sculptor. Is woodwork a hobby of yours?

Danny wanted to rock to and fro but he remembered that Lindiwe had said he shouldn’t do that if he felt uncomfortable, as it unsettled people. He forced himself to sit still although he couldn’t stop his hands from fidgeting, as though they had lives of their own and had nothing to do with him at all. I made that bench. It’s a beautiful bench. My mom, Lindiwe, they all love that bench...

Tshabalala regarded Danny intently. Unable to process such non-verbal cues, Danny did not notice. The policeman asked, Who is Lindiwe?

Lindiwe... Danny’s mind suddenly fractured, remembering the sight of her lying dead in the river. She’s - at the river. I left her there. I left her there. His voice broke and he swallowed hard.

The second policeman frowned. When did you leave her there, Mr Lotter?

Danny’s eyes filled with tears. Last night. I left her there.

Was she still there this morning? Tshabalala asked and this time there was a sharpness in his tone that Danny finally noticed. He had no idea how to respond.

I took my coffee down to the bench. I have coffee there every morning. I take it black...

Yes, you said, the second policeman said impatiently.

Tshabalala tried again, sounding annoyed. What did you find at the river? He wondered what was wrong with this young man. Perhaps it was the shock. Or maybe he was taking something. It was the weekend; the guy was an artist... He glanced around but could see no signs of drugs. Danny’s pupils looked normal.

I saw her last night, Danny repeated.

The second policeman said, Okay. So you know - knew - this young lady?

Danny nodded miserably. Yes. She was there, at the river, when I came back here to sleep. She was supposed to go home. But she was still there this morning. She was in the water. She’s dead. I wanted to marry her but now she’s dead. We were going to have a family. I did a painting of her... She had worn a blue dress and a white scarf turban style. He had painted her standing in the grasslands in mid-summer, the grass reaching to her knees. It was one of the paintings being exhibited at the gallery.

He said, trying to get the policemen to understand, I painted her on the hill. He gestured beyond the window. She wanted to be famous. She was going to London. He frowned. But this morning, she was in the river with the fish. She’s supposed to go to London...

Tshabalala looked across at his colleague and the two exchanged a small shrug. Danny dragged the heels of his hands across his eyes. The policemen waited, Tshabalala tapping his notepad with his pen. Can you tell us who the young woman is then?

Danny sniffed, trying to stop crying. She’s - Lindiwe Bhengu...

The second policeman looked surprised. Miss Soweto?

Danny nodded. Ja.

The man’s eyes widened, his expression becoming calculating. And she was here last night? he asked sharply.

Danny nodded, fidgeting even more as he became increasingly distressed. Yes.

Tshabalala frowned in puzzlement. What was she doing here?

Danny said quickly, She came to tell me she’s going to London. I wanted to marry her but she’s going to London.

I see. And she came to tell you last night? the other policeman asked with growing interest.

Ja. She’s going to London. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. She said she’d ask me to come when she was settled but I’m not sure... Danny frowned.

Tshabalala leaned forward, pen poised. Tell me, Mr Lotter, were you very upset that she was leaving?

Danny looked surprised. His bottom lip quivered and his eyes filled again as he felt the extent of his loss. I’ll never see her again. She was - she was...

I can see you’re upset, the second policeman observed but there was no sympathy in his tone. What happened after she told you?

Danny shook his head. I don’t know. She said she wanted to stay and watch the river. It was very pretty last night, with the moon. I came back but she stayed there. There was a storm later. I thought she’d gone home.

And this morning, you went down to your bench and found her dead in the river? The official sounded sceptical.

Danny nodded. Ja.

You didn’t hear or see anything?

Danny shook his head.No. There was a big storm. I didn’t hear anything. And I left her there... He folded his hands across his stomach and rocked a little.

Tshabalala glanced at his colleague, eyebrows raised. This one was something else. So she was alive when you left her?

Danny nodded. Yes. I told you. She was fine. She was going to London. I can’t go to London now. I’m not, I can’t...

Tshabalala closed his notebook and the two policemen got up. Mr Lotter, I’m afraid we’re going to need to take you in for further questioning.

Danny frowned. This was all wrong. You can’t! I - I need to call my mom...

The second policeman said firmly, Mr Lotter, we just want to ask you a few questions at the station. It’s nothing to be frightened of. We’ll take your fingerprints, take a statement - you know, you tell us what happened and we write it down...

And then you’ll bring me back? I need to tell my mom. She works here and she said I must always tell her if I leave...

Tshabalala said, I don’t think you need to do that, sir. It’s just routine. We want to check a few details.

Danny repeated, I need to tell my mom. He suddenly became aware of his sweaty clothing and dirty feet. Can I change? Lindiwe and his mother both said he had to be neat and tidy when he was leaving the property.

The second policeman shrugged and they sat down again. Sure. Don’t be too long, okay?

All right.

Danny fished in a chest of drawers and found a clean shirt, jeans and underwear and went into the tiny bathroom. He showered quickly, thinking of Lindiwe, wondering what had happened to her, his tears mingling with the water. He hurriedly washed the mud off his flip-flops in the shower, watching the reddish-brown water disappearing down the drain. He couldn’t keep the cops waiting.

These men were different; they were nothing like Gert Stander, who ran the local community policing forum. Gert was friendly, not like these cops. They were the real deal, stern, uniformed. He sighed and combed his hair.

The policemen were wandering around the living area when Danny returned from his shower. Tshabalala was holding the framed picture of Lindiwe Bhengu, one she’d given Danny soon after they’d started dating. It was a head-and-shoulders studio shot. She was wearing a white blouse that set off her dark complexion perfectly and was prettily made up.

He put the picture down and glanced at Danny. You’re not on drugs are you, Mr Lotter?

Danny shook his head. I have medicine I have to take every day. My mom says I mustn’t miss my pills. And Lindiwe also says I must make sure to take them. Can I take my pills with me?

Tshabalala glanced across at the other policeman, who shook his head very slightly. No, Mr Lotter, I’m afraid not. But you can have them when you get back.

I need my pills! Danny said in consternation. I have to have them, three times a day. The doctor says...

You’ll be back in time to take them, Mr Lotter. We just need to ask a few questions. Half an hour, an hour and you’ll be back.

Danny looked uncomfortable but then the second policeman, the one whose name he did not know, looked pointedly at a large wristwatch. Yes, Mr Lotter, we won’t be long.

Danny followed them out to the police car, white with a blue and yellow trim. The two men guided him into the back seat, while they sat in front. There wasn’t much room to turn in the clearing but they eventually managed to point their vehicle back up the slope to the main hotel complex. As they drove up the old jeep track, Danny glanced back at the river. He noticed that several vehicles and bakkies had arrived. Men in biohazard suits milled around. A gurney was set up and they were retrieving Lindiwe’s body from the water. He managed not to cry but began whispering her name, over and over, like a mantra. Tshabalala glanced at his colleague and raised his eyebrows. He’s probably drunk or high or something.

The other said, Never seen any drug do this. Think he killed the girl?

Tshabalala shrugged. Who knows?

JULIAN

CHAPTER 3

Dense equatorial jungle surrounded Bengui, capital of the Central African Republic. In the middle of the wet season, the humidity was over ninety per cent most days, the land literally steaming after heavy tropical downpours. There was water everywhere and roads and bridges were often impassable due to flooding, mud slides or infrastructure failure. It wasn’t surprising that the locals walked everywhere.

Julian Newman peered through the soaked vegetation, oblivious to his sodden military fatigues and general discomfort. Another squall had passed and water dripped off his helmet. Around him, the bush had gone unnervingly silent after they’d engaged a group of rebels who had turned out to be surprisingly well-armed and trained. Unknown to his battalion, the South African Special Forces intervention was spiralling into disaster. A subsequent enquiry would find that the intelligence had been deeply flawed. Instead of the anticipated shambolic guerrillas, the home forces and the South Africans - sent in to assist the country’s president - had found themselves facing thousands of disciplined, well-equipped soldiers. It was not long before the defenders were outflanked and outgunned. In an effort to save the city, Julian and his fellow soldiers had been instructed to hold a hill on its periphery to prevent the rebels entering Bengui. What followed was a chaotic nightmare of gunfire, shouts, falling bodies, and the endless dripping of water in the accursed jungle.

Julian woke in the quiet dark, his heart hammering and sweat soaking the sheets. The nightmare was always the same. He was alone on the hillside, his comrades either dead or dispersed in the thick bush. He turned to find himself facing a wannabe guerrilla warlord, an ebony black man clad in camouflage clothing and a maroon beret, armed with an AK 47 assault rifle, which just happened to be pointing in his direction. Then the black man, his wide, white grin splitting his face, pulled the trigger. That was when Julian usually woke up.

That was, of course, not the only facet of the dream, just its inevitable end. The main nightmare consisted of what, in the cold hard light of day, he recognised as the psychological flashbacks they were: a parabat division being slowly picked off, despite the camouflage of thick bush. One by one, he’d watched his comrades fall. In the real life situation in a central African country where an elected head of state was trying desperately to hold onto power long enough to actually begin governing, no wannabe warlord had accosted him at gunpoint. After all his comrades had died, Julian had used his bush survival and stealth skills to descend the knoll, making his way through the jungle to the airport. He’d survived - with a recurring nightmare to remind him of the occasion.

He switched on the bedside lamp and swung his legs out of bed, listening to the crickets. It was 3 a.m. on a Monday, and Johannesburg’s suburbs were quiet, most citizens asleep. The birds were silent and highways virtually empty. In less than three hours, commuter traffic would be building, garages and coffee stands busy, everyone on their cell phones and in their cars at the start of another work day.

He pulled on a tracksuit and went to make himself a cup of strong, black coffee. It wouldn’t be conducive to going back to sleep but he knew from experience that further sleep would be impossible. He reached for his cigarettes, always at hand, and then remembered he was again trying to quit. It would have to be the nicotine gum he hated. He padded through his townhouse, his good night vision enabling him to move confidently without putting on lights.

The small kitchen was functional white and grey, the tiled floor cool beneath his feet. He got out some ready-ground coffee and prepped the coffee maker. The rich smell of brewing filter coffee soon filled the room. He found some nicotine gum and popped a piece into his mouth, chewing reluctantly. He liberated a mug from the dish rack and stood watching the dark world beyond the window. He felt peculiarly alert, a hangover from his Special Forces days that never quite went away. The nightmare usually intensified it. A breeze blew, rattling trees and shrubs, making shifting patterns of light and shadow in the yards. One of the neighbours left at four a.m. for a distant job and he saw lights on in that unit.

The coffee maker finished and he switched it off, dumping two spoons of sugar into his mug and sipping at the hot beverage before wandering into the lounge/dining room off the kitchen. He sat on a couch, put down his coffee on a side table and reached for the Bible that lay there. He remembered, as he always did when he woke from the recurring dream, how he had discovered that he could have a personal relationship with the Creator of the universe.

CHAPTER 4

Before

After Bengui, had come a succession of African states where South Africa’s intervention had been required. Following the outcry over the Central African Republic debacle, many similar ops flew beneath the radar. Then, in the Democratic Republic of Congo, an IED incident had left him severely injured, with half a face, struggling through numerous skin grafts and a painkiller addiction.

A determined chaplain had visited him at the military hospital after yet another surgery, which both doctors and patient had hoped was the penultimate one. You’ll soon be good as new, the plastic surgeon had told him cheerfully on his post-operative round. Julian had smiled with the good half of his face but his eyes hadn’t brightened. You’ll be okay, the doctor had assured him, squeezing his shoulder.

At the time of the chaplain’s first visit, Julian had been heavily bandaged, too afraid to look in the mirror and wracked by strange and fearful dreams - whether from the medication or his military experiences, he had no idea.

Languishing in hospital and enduring multiple surgeries, he missed the companionship of the battalion. As his body and face slowly healed, his mind continued to fracture. He’d seen a psychologist between hospital stays and there was talk of invaliding him out. He had no idea what he’d do without the army. It had been his life. He’d given everything for it: his friends were all army men, macho types who liked swapping war stories. His marriage had dissolved after two years because he was never home. There had been no children and he’d lost touch with his ex and their civilian friends.

Did the military send you? he asked suspiciously the first time the man in a dog collar had arrived. Julian was out of sorts that morning, longing for a cigarette, his face one enormous ache. He hadn’t slept properly for days, in between the pain, strange hallucinations and the nightmares.

Pastor Jonker smiled gently. No.

Who sent you? Was it one of the guys? He tried not to think of his comrades in arms. Many were away now, on assignments in other parts of Africa. The few who had come to see him hadn’t quite known what to say. Many of his compatriots hadn’t come more than once or twice, the visits awkward and short.

I visit patients at this hospital and someone suggested you might want company, the pastor said equably, turning his calm, brown gaze on the man in the bed, with his heavily bandaged face, wound dressings on his arms and peeking from the top of the hospital gown.

Julian would have raised his eyebrows if he could. Really? Well, I don’t want a visit from a strange priest, he said rudely. Maybe you should visit someone else.

No problem. The pastor got to his feet. I’ll pray for you, he added, patting Julian on the shoulder before walking quietly out of the ward. Julian shrugged. He really hadn’t cared, one way or another.

But the pastor had been persistent. He came virtually every day, apologising on the odd occasion when he did not make it. Don’t you have a home to go to? Julian once asked him brusquely.

Ian Jonker’s - by then, Julian had learned the man’s first name - reply was mild. I live alone, so my time’s my own.

You’re not married? Julian had thought all pastors were married with families - wives and kids who got involved in church activities, ran Bible studies, music groups and Sunday school, catered for weddings, funerals and all the rest.

A brief sadness crossed the pastor’s face. I was. She’s gone now. Cancer.

Intrigued by this brief window into someone else’s pain, Julian said, So you know how it feels then.

How what feels, Julian? Pastor Jonker spoke evenly but he looked puzzled.

To be abandoned, Julian found himself saying. He could have bitten his tongue. He looked up at the bland white ceiling with its televisions on rails and lights in plain fittings.

Do you think you’re abandoned? the other asked gently.

Julian, still looking determinedly at the ceiling, had not replied. His emotions were all over the place; he didn’t know whether it was the drugs or his circumstances. He decided it was the drugs.

I understand it’s a miracle you survived, Pastor Jonker continued. Julian wondered briefly who the man had been talking to but Ian was speaking again: You’ve been given a second chance. It’s not something everyone gets.

Julian frowned, shaking his head slightly, wondering how long the visiting hour still had to run. Pastor ‘call me Ian’ Jonker never gave up. Other beds in the small ward were surrounded by flowers, fruit baskets and cards. Julian had an unopened box of chocolates on his locker; the nurse had brought them earlier and hadn’t said who they were from. He hadn’t had any visitors for a while. The last time, he’d been told the others were being deployed to South Somalia, some hush-hush job. He wondered vaguely if the chocolates were from Ian Jonker; the pastor had recently remarked on the absence of cards and other get-well paraphernalia around the wounded soldier.

Julian’s body had pretty much healed, save for his face. He hadn’t looked in a mirror since it had happened. On the rare occasions when he risked a glance, most of his face was hidden under bandages, which was the way he’d decided he liked it. But, as he recovered, he was beginning to feel a restless energy that had nowhere to go. Now the clergyman was saying, You could do something meaningful, you know. Being invalided out needn’t be the end for you.

Julian determinedly ignored him, wishing the visiting hour would end. The ward was busy with family and friends visiting their loved ones. In the group around the next bed, he’d earlier noticed a young lady showing her father her engagement ring. Wolfie bought it for me, dad. Isn’t it huge? He had felt the self-pity threatening, as it had increasingly the last few days. The doctors were talking about removing the bandages completely, letting him see his remodelled face for the first time.

He said fiercely, Mr Jonker, that’s all very well but I’m going to be... Well, I’m not going to be so easy on the eye, am I? Who’s going to employ someone who looks like a stitched-up scarecrow?

Quietly, Pastor Jonker said, Have you thought about why you survived? That you were possibly saved to do something specific, something special?

I haven’t been saved! Julian argued loudly. People turned and he lowered his voice. I’ve been in hospital for months. My friends, they’re living their lives. They’re all in Somalia or the Ivory Coast or somewhere, making a difference. I’m shackled to a bed in a military hospital. I’ve been consigned to the scrap heap as far as anyone’s concerned...

No one ends up on the scrap heap of life, Pastor Jonker inserted with quiet vehemence. "No one. God has a special purpose