Marabou Stork Nightmares (8 page)

— The Marabou Storks.

— I hear that there is one you're interested in? The leader?

— You hear correctly.

—I want to help you take him out. I'll put all my resources at your disposal.

— Well, we need a couple of pump-action shotguns, some maps . . . explosives . . .

— Anything! Dawson bounded across and shook my hand. — Well, as they say, let's kick ass, or rather, you chaps kick ass. I'm going to disappear for a while. It's, eh, the family; slightly jittery about all this. We also have a hostile media to contend with.

Dawson barked instructions to Diddy to kit us out, and we were off.

The Marabou Stork is a predator. The Marabou Stork is also a scavenger. These qualities make it detested and despised by human beings. Humans are into animals whose qualities they covet, and hate ones whose characteristics they vainly like to feel are not at all 'human'. The world we live in is not run by cuddly, strong bears, graceful, sleek cats or loyal, friendly dogs. Marabou Storks run this place, and they are known to be nasty bastards. Yes, even the vulture does not get such a bad local press.

Fatty Dawson was sold on the concept of taking out the leader, creating a vacuum, and watching the birds turn on each other and tear each other apart in disarray. I knew that this would not happen. I knew that these birds were far more sophisticated and organised than Dawson gave them credit for. Dawson was from the west; he didn't understand these creatures. Another leader would swiftly emerge. You couldn't eradicate the Marabous, they were purely a product of their environment, and this scabrous environment totally supported them. The best you could hope for was to perhaps force them into a temporary migration. Nonetheless, I was happy to let both Dawson, and my guide Sandy, believe that the eradication of the leader was an appropriate strategy for ridding the Emerald Forest of the Marabou Stork.

For me it was personal. There was only one Stork I wanted, one of those beasts which had to die. I sipped some cool water from my canteen. My lips had dried in the heat. I removed a tube of Vaseline from my coat pocket to apply to them, just as Sandy emerged naked from the river, where he had been taking a dip to gain respite from the omnipresent heat.

He looked at me tensely, then glanced around at the deserted wilderness. There was nothing and nobody about for miles. He rolled his eyes naw he

– One could think of other uses for that, Roy, he smirked – – – – – – – – naw didnae roll

his eyes

Sandy and I

urnae like that it wis jist mates muckin aboot– – – –DEEPER

DEEPER

DEEPER– – – he quickly got into his clothes.

Sandy and I were well-kitted out for the task at hand. Tooled up with rifles, shotguns, explosives and carrying absolute
stacks
of provisions: jam, English Breakfast Tea, tins of beans, soup, desserts, all that sort of stuff. Stuff that doesn't go off in this confounded heat.

I did, however, notice some reticence on Sandy's part concerning what on the surface seemed to be a fairly straightforward task.

— What's your opinion of Johnny Stork, Sandy old man? I asked him.

— They are evil incarnate, Roy. They have to be stamped out for the good of the game, Sandy replied, ashen-faced.

— You don't have any concerns about us not being up to the task do you, Sandy? I enquired.

up – – – – time will tell.

— Time will tell, he said up grimly, time will tell. – – – – – – up

What the fuck is this?

— But I think he's going to come out of it. There's definitely increased signs of brain activity. I wouldn't be surprised if he could hear us. Take a look at this, Dr Goss . . .

FUCK OFF!

The cunt wrenches open my eyelids and shines a torch into them. Its beam shoots right down into my darkened lair and I skip into the shadows to avoid its light. Too quick for these cunts.

—Yes, we're definitely getting some sort of reaction. A very positive sign, says one of the doctors, I forget their names, they all sound the same to me.

— I don't think you're doing enough to help us, Roy. I don't think you're doing enough to get well, says the other. I'll call him Middle-class English Cunt One and the other Middle-class English Cunt Two in order to differentiate them.

— I think we have to increase the stimulus and the number of tests, says Middle-class English Cunt Two.

— Yes Dr Park, says Nurse Beverly Norton.

— Those tapes his family brought in. Keep them going, suggests Middle-class English Cunt One.

So I'm to be subjected to increased harassment, and my energies, which should be concentrated on getting me deeper, deeper into my world, my story, my hunt, now have to be diverted into keeping these fuck-wits out.

— Listen Roy. We're doing our best for you. You have to want to get better, says

Middle-class English Cunt One, bending over me. I feel his rancid breath in my nostrils. Oh yes, just you keep that up ya cunt, because if I do come out the first thing ah'm gaunny fuckin well dae is tae rip yir fuckin queer English face apart wi ma chib . . . but fuck, naw man, naw . . . ah'm gettin too fuckin close tae the surface, cause ah feel masel at the top ay the ladders which run up the side ay the deep deep well, half-way down being my lair, further down still the beautiful blue skies of Africa, the world ah just drop into but now I'm right at the fuckin top, right at the top, pushing at the trapdoor and some shards of light are coming through . . .

I feel
his rancid breath

DOWN

DEEPER

DEEPER – – – – –

—Funny, I thought that there was something there for a bit . . . must just be my imagination. Anyway, let's move on. Thank you. Nurse.

Exit the bools-in-the-mooth cunts.

—Did you hear that Roy! Two doctors today! Dr Park and Dr Goss. And they're pleased with you. You have to work a little bit harder though, lovey. I'm going to put on the nice tape that your mum and your brother made for you. That brother of yours, Tony, is it? He's a saucy one and no mistake. I think he's interested in some of our younger nurses. Anyway, here you are:

The minute you walked in the joint, I could see ye were a man of distinction, A real big spender . . .

Thank you but no fuckin thank you Bev-ih-leey, chuck. Bring back Patricia Devine. Come back Patsy, Patsy De Cline, all is forgiven . . .

Suppose you'd like to know what's goin on in ma mind.

DEEPER

DEEPER

DEEPER– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –Peace.

Our first home in South Africa was a few rooms in Uncle Gordon's large house in the north-eastern suburbs of Johannesburg. Uncle Gordon was fond of saying that we were as 'far away from Kaffirtown (Soweto) as it was possible to get and still be in Jo'burg'.

Though I was just a kid, my impression of the city was of a drab, bleak modern place. It looked spectacular from the sky as we circled over it on our way to landing at Jan Smuts International Airport, named, John proudly told me, after a South African military man who was a big pal of Winston Churchill's. It was only when we saw it from the ground that I realised it was just another city and that they all looked better from the sky. Close up, downtown Johannesburg just looked like a large Muirhouse-in-the-sun to me. The old mine dumps provided a diminishing backdrop to the ugly skyscrapers, highways and bridges which had long replaced the shanty homes of the first gold pioneers who made the city. I was so disappointed as Ma had told me on the plane that it was called the City of Gold, and I had expected the streets to be literally paved with the stuff and the buildings composed of it.

Gordon's place in Kempton Park was certainly salubrious enough, but all there seemed to be at the end of his driveway was a tree-lined road leading to more houses and grounds. No kids played on the deserted streets, the place was dead. I just stayed in most of the time, or played in the garden, hanging around with Kim. It was okay, though: there were plenty of things to see around the house.

Gordon lived on his own with his black housekeeper, and it seemed bizarre that he should keep on a house of that size. It was probably just to show the world how much of a success he was, financially at any rate. Emotionally, life in the Republic had not been so rewarding for him. There had been a wife, but she had departed long ago, all traces of her obliterated. Nobody talked about her, the subject was taboo. I'd put the shits up Kim by telling her that Gordon had murdered her and buried her body in the grounds. This was plausible, given the way Gordon appeared. Straight away I clocked him as a true Strang: weird as fuck.

On one occasion I took my tormenting of Kim too far, and she freaked really badly, spilling the beans, resulting in me getting a good slapping from my Ma. As she belted me, I remembered Vet saying: — I'm only daein this cause if yir faither finds oot n he does it, ye'll ken aw aboot it. That was true as Kim was my Dad's favourite and teasing her always carried the extreme risk of incurring his wrath. While it was quite a healthy slapping, I took it with a sense of relief, recognising the truth in her words. She was actually doing me a favour and I sensed her heart wasn't in it; but unfortunately she was instinctively quite good at violence. She stopped when my nose started to bleed heavily. Though my ears rang for a few days I didn't even sulk or feel bad about her or Kim after. Everyone seemed lighter, happier. It was a good time.

I knew fuck all about politics at the time, but even I soon sussed that Uncle Gordon was what I suppose I'd now call an unreconstructed pro-apartheid white supremacist. He had come to South Africa about fifteen years previously. His story, which he was fond of telling anyone who'd listen (I heard it literally dozens of times that year) was that he and two of his pals were sitting in the Jubilee Cafe in Granton, thinking about what to do to with their lives. They thought of emigration to Canada, Australia or South Africa. They decided to take one each and Gordon arbitrarily picked SA. They were supposed to report back to the Jubilee in ten years' time, but they never showed up. The cafe had shut down anyway. — We were silly laddies, Gordon remarked, — but it was the best break I ever had.

Even at the time, as an eleven-year-old, I thought that his story was romanticised bullshit.

There was no doubt that Gordon had done well, at least materially, from the system. After taking a few menial but well-paid-compared-to-the-blacks-doing-the-same-thing sort of jobs, he set up a property management agency in Johannesburg. It took off, and he diversified into property development. By the time we arrived, Gordon had this large suburban home, a mansion, really, and a fair-sized timber farm out in the veld of the Eastern Transvaal, on the road to the Kruger National Park. He also had offices in Durban and Cape Town as well as property interests in Sun City.

I think the old man thought that he was just going to walk into a top job in Gordon's business. I can recall Gordon saying to him over breakfast, — Look John, I'll get you fixed up here. Don't worry about that. But I won't have you working with me. I'm a great believer in keeping business and family apart.

I remember this fairly vividly, because it resulted in an argument, and the recurrence of the tense atmosphere I was used to feeling at home and had naively thought that we had left behind in Scotland.

Kim started crying, and I recall putting my arm around her, displaying a tenderness I didn't really feel in order to try and shame my parents into stopping shouting. It proved completely ineffective. I sat with a sad, baleful expression watching the tears roll down my sister's large face. Vet's pus was pinched with tension and John and Gordon both shook visibly. This was the beginning of the end of my father's South African dream.

Dad eventually landed a job as a security guard in a supermarket at a shopping mall in a white working-class district a few miles away. Gordon assured him that it would just be a temporary measure; a first step on the ladder, as he put it. He got Ma a job, typing and filing at a city-centre office in a business run by a friend of his.

I was due to start at the Paul Kruger Memorial School with Kim in a couple of weeks' time. Bernard had enrolled at the Wilheim Kotze High, while Tony had found, again thanks to Gordon, a traineeship as a chef at a hotel in the city.

Before we started school, however, Kim and I were left at Gordon's with Valerie, the large African woman who was his housekeeper. She was very cheerful, always singing us Bantu songs. She had left her family to come and work here, sending the money back out to the place she came from. We quickly built up a relationship with her, as she was warm and friendly and made a fuss of us. This ended abruptly one day; Valerie suddenly acted cold, off-hand and distant, telling us to get out from under her feet. Kim was puzzled and saddened at this change, but I knew that Gordon had spoken to her.

Later on, my uncle, who had taken a particular interest in me, came home and took me aside, ushering me into the large garage which adjoined his house. — I don't want you getting friendly with Valerie. She's a servant. Always remember that; a servant and a Kaffir. She'll never be anything other than that. They seem friendly, they all do, that's the way with them. But never forget, as a race, they are murderers and thieves. It's in their blood.

He showed me a scrapbook he kept of cuttings from newspapers which highlighted what he referred to as 'terrorist atrocities'. I recollect being frightened and fascinated at the same time. I wanted to sit and read the scrapbook from cover to cover but Gordon snapped it shut and looked me in the eye. He placed a hand on my shoulder. His breath smelt sweet and rancid. — You see, Roy. I'm not saying Valerie's like that, she's a good person in many ways. But she needs to be kept in her place. Don't let all that cheerfulness fool you. She's got a chip on her shoulder. They all do. These people are different to you and I, Roy. They are one stage up from the baboons you'll see out in the veld. We had to take this land and show them how to develop it. We made this beautiful country, now they say they want it back. His eyes grew large, — Do you understand me?

— Aye, I nodded doubtfully. I was staring at the black hairs which grew out of his nostrils and wondering when we would get to see the baboons out in the veld.

— Think of it this way, Gordon continued, smugly inspired, — if a nasty, stupid, lazy, bad-smelling person had an old garden shed that was falling to pieces and wasn't being used, then you come along and say, I can make something of this shed. So you take on the responsibility of making the garden shed into something better. You put your heart and your soul into rebuilding it, and over the years, through your sweat and toil, it becomes a grand, beautiful palace.

Then the lazy, stupid person with the dirty-coloured skin which gives off a bad smell comes along and says:—That's my shed! I want it back! What do you say?

— Get lost! I said, eager to impress.

Gordon, a thin, spindly man, with tired, watery eyes, which could suddenly glow with violence, beamed and said: — That's right! You're a true Scotsman, Roy! A real Afrikaaner! He smiled at me. Gordon always seemed to hold you in his gaze a second or two more than felt comfortable. I didn't know what an Afrikaaner was, but it sounded alright; like a true Scotsman.

I started to look at Valerie in a different light. She had had babies in the bush, knowing that she couldn't feed them, because as Gordon had explained, blacks couldn't organise themselves, couldn't do anything right. Even the good ones needed white people to look after them, to provide them with jobs and homes. It was important not to get too friendly with them though, he told me, because they got excited and reverted back to a primitive state. — You remember your dog, Winston, wasn't it?

— Yes, I said. Winston Two was in kennels somewhere. He had to spend six months in quarantine before he could join us. I was not looking forward to his reappearance.

— Remember you got him all excited?

— Yes.

— What happened?

— He bit me.

Of course, Winston did more than just bite me, he practically took my leg off. Even now, three years later, after skin grafts and intensive physio, my limp was still apparent.

Gordon looked at me intensely, – Kaffirs are like that.

You could do with some meat on these bones, Roy Strang. We're going to have to make sure you eat. That's what we're going to have to do. Yes we are.

Leave ays alane ya fuckin daft cow

DEEPER

DEEPER

DEEPER– – – – – We're driving back out through the shantytown and heading towards Lake Torto in an attempt to pick up the trail of the Stork.

Sandy was recounting a tale from his lion-hunting days: — I recall one little girl running through the village crying: 'Simba mamma wae!', which means, roughly: 'A lion has one's mother', and sure enough, this beast had seized the child's mother by the thigh and bitten the poor woman through the neck. On hearing our cries, it had dropped its kill and made off into the long grass. I headed after it, making speedy progress through the foliage in time to see the brute entering a thicket on the other side of an open range. Taking a steady aim, I fired, the bullet striking the beast and rolling him over. The blighter rose instantly, however, and unfortunately my shot with the second barrel wasn't so keen; I completely missed him. Crossing the clearing, I heard a growling challenge. Imagining that the brute was severely wounded and would before long succumb to the effect of the bullet I'd dispatched into him, I considered that discretion was the better part of valour and thought it prudent to retrace my steps for about thirty-five yards and simply await developments.

— Crikey, I said, enjoying the scent of eucalyptus in my nostrils, — What happened?

— Well, after a lapse of about an hour I became a tad restless and decided the time was ripe to explore the bush. Of course, I fully expected to find the blighter dead. All was silent, so I cautiously entered the dense undergrowth and began to follow his trail. He had clearly lost a considerable amount of blood and appeared to be limping badly. After a few yards of progress I could discern the tawny form of the lion, crouching completely motionless, head between paws, eyes glinting in the shade and staring steadily at me; but the thing was, the bugger was only about ten blasted yards away!

— Gosh . . .

—Well, I raised the bloody rifle pretty damn sharply, but without giving me time to aim and fire the bloody brute somewhat unsportingly charged at me, roaring savagely. I promptly let him have it, the bullet striking the left side of his head and smashing his shoulder. My third shot knocked him down and I thought; that should be
quantum sufficit,
but I'll be blowed if the bugger wasn't straight up again and coming on as strongly as ever!

— Bloody hell, Sandy, what did you do?

— It wasn't what I did, old man. I was rather fortunate that Tanu, a stout-hearted native from the village, had followed me, and the brave chap raised his spear and drove it with all his might into the brute's shoulder. The lion seized my courageous ally, though this gave me time to reload and I took up position and furnished the brute with the contents of my second barrel. Another shot finished him. God, I remember the celebrations in the village. They were overjoyed at the news of the killer lion's demise. They fashioned garments from its hide and amulets from its bones and we indulged in some pretty damn prodigious beer-drinking that evening!

— How was the native chap?

— Tanu . . . dear Tanu . . . unfortunately the poor blighter didn't survive the mauling, Sandy said, tears welling up in his eyes.