After a sleepless night, Thomas stumbled bleary-eyed to the vehicle depot in a pair of jeans and a hibiscus-covered Hawaiian shirt. The jeans were his own but the shirt had been issued to him by the quartermaster with the assurance that it was the next best thing to camouflage – though Thomas couldn’t help feeling it was some kind of joke at his expense, a surf-style shirt for the kid from surf city.
Skeletor was already there, standing at attention in the semi-dark with his bedroll beside him on the tarmac. He was also in civvies, in worn jeans and a black shirt that hung loose over his gangly frame and didn’t quite reach his belt, and it was only when Thomas came closer that he saw what it was: the Bob Marley T-shirt.
Too tired even to be disgusted, Thomas lay down. He rested his head on his own bedroll and tried to squeeze some sleep out of the morning.
‘Up!’ Skeletor shouted.
Thomas rolled away from the impending boot and opened his eyes to take in the vehicle puttering out of the pre-dawn fog, a set of dim headlights doing little to illuminate the road. As it pulled up beside them, its engine suddenly cutting out, Thomas stood, gathered up his bedroll, and saw that the thing wasn’t exactly military issue. It didn’t even look roadworthy. It was a white Datsun bakkie, the pickup truck beloved of farmers on a budget and found on every South African road. This one was outlined in rust, bald around the edges of the tyres and minus a set of number plates. Worse, Thomas knew, was that it didn’t have four-wheel drive.
‘Great.’ Thomas pictured them stuck in a donga while those little wheels spun uselessly and vultures circled overhead, licking their beaks.
‘You get in first.’ Skeletor took both their bedrolls and hoisted them in amongst the jerry cans and boxes weighing down the back of the truck. ‘I’m not sitting next to the black. He probably stinks.’
‘Skeletor, bru. You’re wearing a dead man’s shirt and you’re worried about how someone smells.’
‘You think I’m some kind of animal?’ Skeletor looked hurt. ‘Feel.’ He grabbed Thomas’s hand and pressed it against the damp fabric of the shirt. ‘I washed it first.’
Thomas recoiled and rushed to get into the cab. Offering a friendly ‘Howzit’, he slid into the middle of the mock-leather bench seat and arranged his legs around the gear lever.
From the driver’s side came a heavy silence.
Thomas turned and said, ‘I’m Thomas.’
The man didn’t so much as blink. It was hard to get a decent look in the dim light, but he was old, possibly even in his mid-twenties, his cheeks lined with initiation scars and mouth surrounded by patchy, non-regulation stubble.
Slowly, in the manner of a Victorian explorer first encountering a native, Thomas repeated his name: ‘Tho-mas.’
‘I heard you the first time.’
Thomas kept smiling, eager to make a good first impression on his travelling companion. ‘Um, what’s your name?’
‘Maxwell.’ His hair was defiantly long, each frizzed strand maybe a full centimetre in length, almost forming an afro.
‘And where are you from, Maxwell?’
‘Durban.’
‘Hey, me too! That must mean you’re a Zulu. Sawubona. Unjani?’
‘I speak English,’ Maxwell said, which was probably for the best because Thomas had just exhausted all of his Zulu.
‘Is it all right if I call you Max?’
‘No.’
Thomas accepted this with a nod. He could understand why Maxwell sounded a little bit cranky. After all, no-one in their right mind likes to wake up before the crack of dawn to do anything, let alone venture into terrorist country. But he had a feeling that once they were underway the guy would lighten up and become a friend, maybe even a smoking buddy. Before leaving, Thomas had transferred the rest of his weed into a plastic bag and tucked it into his right sock. He could feel it now, the bulge against his ankle: his escape plan for if things got too heavy.
Skeletor slid in and slammed the door.
‘This is Maxwell.’ Thomas threw a thumb to his right. ‘Maxwell, meet Skeletor.’
Skeletor kicked the underside of the dashboard, making the whole truck rattle. ‘Will this skedonk get us to Angola?’
‘I don’t know,’ Maxwell answered. ‘I came in last night from the main base, to bring the mail. When I got here they took away my truck. They told me to pick up an unmarked white bakkie in the morning, take two men over the border. And here I am.’
‘Do you know how to get there?’
‘I’ve been to the operational area many times. Too many times.’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘But never from this direction. They told me there’s a map and compass in the cubby hole.’
‘Well? Then what are you waiting for, boy?’ Skeletor slammed his palms on the top of the dashboard. ‘Drive!’
Maxwell, his face expressionless, stared across at Skeletor.
Skeletor stared back.
Thomas, caught in the middle, tried to defuse the sudden build up of tension: ‘Skeletor, you forgot the magic word.’
‘Now!’ Skeletor screamed.
‘Yes, sir.’ Maxwell spoke evenly, betraying nothing as he turned the key in the ignition.
Like a chain smoker getting out of bed, the truck wheezed and spluttered to life. Then it coughed, shuddered and died.
‘Engine’s still cold.’ Maxwell tried the key again, this time revving repeatedly to keep the engine going, and jammed the gear stick into first.
They were off, crackling over gravel.
Skeletor settled back into his seat, pushing Thomas’s arm out of the way to get more comfortable.
Thomas made no comment. He hadn’t joined the army to fight with anyone.
They puttered past rows of bungalows where troopies were only now emerging for another day of patrols, boot polishing and 2.4-kilometre runs. A guard gave a half-hearted salute as they passed through the gates.
Then they were in the desert, rocks and sand speeding by.
As the sun rose, gently warming the cab, Thomas felt his tiredness begin to thaw. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. Here they were, three guys with a full tank of petrol, heading far away from Moon Base Alpha. He had weed. In his pocket was the mysterious pink envelope, a treat he was saving for when he had a moment to himself. With a little luck, he might even have time to do some drawing.
Skeletor may not have been the most sensitive soul in the world, but he must also have been touched by the significance of the occasion. He looked back over his shoulder and gave a wistful sigh. ‘I’m going to miss that place.’
‘Me too,’ Thomas murmured, ‘like I’d miss a hole in my head.’
It didn’t take long for the rising sun to make a sauna of the truck as they headed east, following the straight line of sand that was their road.
Thomas, stuck between Skeletor and Maxwell, was already sweating heavily, but at least he wasn’t out on patrol. To liven things up, he said, ‘Hey, do you guys want to play I Spy?’
Skeletor sneered. ‘No.’
‘How about we tell jokes to pass the time?’ Thomas launched into one: ‘An Englishman, an Afrikaner and a Zulu are driving in the desert. All of a sudden their truck breaks down.’
The cab was silent, an invitation, in army terms, for the story to go on.
‘They’re miles from anywhere,’ Thomas continued, ‘with no food, no water, nothing. So they get out and walk – it’s the only thing they can do. They walk for hours and as they’re about to collapse, the Zulu discovers a gold lamp in the sand. He rubs it and a genie appears. The genie tells him the lamp is good for three wishes. So the Zulu says, “I wish I was back home in Durban, drinking a cold beer and surrounded by beautiful women,” and, kazam!, he disappears. Then the Englishman rubs the lamp, wishing that he too was having a drink in Durban, surrounded by beautiful women, and, kazam!, he disappears. Finally, the Afrikaner is left on his own in the desert. He gets hold of the lamp and gives it a rub. He thinks hard before he says, “Ag, I miss my friends so much, I wish they were back here with me.”’
‘Very funny, surfer boy.’ Skeletor wasn’t laughing, and neither was Maxwell.
There was nothing left for Thomas to do but stare blankly at the scenery of scraggly farms and broken fences, and wait. He spent the time wondering about his letter, hoping that soon, maybe when they stopped for a toilet break, he would have enough privacy to read it. He should have read it last night, even if its bright pink presence provoked jeers from the barracks crowd. Growing impatient, he started tapping out a rhythm on the dashboard.
Skeletor slapped his hand away.
Turning to his right, Thomas said, ‘So, when were you last in Angola?’
‘Two years ago.’ Maxwell gave this answer without taking his eyes off the road. His SADF browns were faded and worn – anonymous. On the sleeves and chest were darker, rectangular patches surrounded by loose threads, places where badges and insignia had been torn off.
‘What’s it like there?’
‘Dangerous.’
Thomas waited for elaboration, but all that came from the driver’s side was the silence of a man in concentration. He didn’t know much about driving, but to him it didn’t look like there was much to concentrate on. The road shot straight ahead, all the way to the horizon. ‘Like how?’ he asked. ‘Is it full of landmines?’
An elbow dug into his ribs.
‘Leave him alone, surfer boy. He’s trying to drive.’ Skeletor craned his neck to read the speedometer. ‘And while we’re at it, you can go faster. We want to get there before the war is over.’
Maxwell kept the truck at the same speed. ‘We might hit a pothole.’
‘I’m not asking you to speed up, boy. I’m ordering you.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Maxwell coaxed the truck’s engine into a low roar, making a motion-blur of the fences marking the roadside.
‘That’s better.’ Skeletor went back to staring out the side window, but not before giving Thomas a conspiratorial smile.
Thomas cringed. He wished he’d had time to warn Maxwell about their companion. But then Maxwell, unsmiling and unblinking, looked like he’d encountered a few Skeletors in his time.
Maxwell spoke: ‘Why do you want to go to Angola?’
‘None of your business,’ Skeletor said.
‘We’re delivering a secret message,’ Thomas blurted out, because to him they were all on the same team, but he received an elbow from Skeletor as he said it.
‘And what is so important about this message that it cannot be transmitted over radio?’
‘Just keep driving,’ Skeletor said.
‘I was wondering the same thing,’ Thomas said, eager to use this opportunity, now that the guy was opening up, to get to know Maxwell. ‘I mean, what’s the point of having codes and things if we don’t use them?’
‘Communist spies are everywhere.’ Skeletor’s words came straight out of an army indoctrination speech. ‘They might be listening in on our radio frequencies.’ He arched his eyebrows at Maxwell. ‘They might even be sitting beside us.’
If Maxwell was rattled by the insinuation, he didn’t sound it. ‘I’ve been in this army six years.’
‘I thought you would have learnt a little respect by now,’ Skeletor countered.
It was left to Thomas to defuse the situation. Leaning between them, he said, ‘Guys, I’ve figured out why they won’t use the radio. It’s typical army logic, isn’t it? Why do something the easy way when you can send three men instead? This mission is one big rondvok.’
‘Watch your language!’ Skeletor’s voice detonated in the close confines of the cab. ‘All you need to know is that this mission is of the utmost importance to national security. You can be sure of that. Now I’ll have no more nonsense from either of you. Am I understood?’
‘Ja, whatever,’ Thomas muttered, feeling like a scolded child when they were the same age.
‘Yes, sir.’ Maxwell went back to keeping the speeding truck on the road.
‘And put your foot down, boy. Is this really the best you can do?’ Skeletor was answered with a terrible crunch.
Thomas was thrown forward, his nose smacking into the dashboard, his vision turning suddenly into a bright white wall of pain.
‘Jesus!’ Skeletor screeched. ‘What’s happening?’
The truck was spinning freely. From his precarious position, face pressed against the dashboard by centrifugal force, Thomas watched Maxwell’s forearms break out into knots of muscle as he wrestled with the wheel. A slithering noise rose up, a broken tyre struggling to grip sand.
As they bumped off the road, Thomas bounced back into his seat. They skidded to a halt between the goalposts of two gnarled trees. The smell of scorched rubber filled the air. Dust was all around them.
‘Now look what you did.’ Skeletor pressed his hands together and looked heavenwards. ‘You made me take the Lord’s name in vain.’
‘I warned you this would happen.’ Maxwell threw open his door and rushed outside.
Thomas staggered out after him, full of near-death dizziness, and flopped down to recover under the dappled shade of one of the trees. His nose, when he felt it, wasn’t bleeding or broken, but it hurt. He wondered how bad an injury had to be before they sent you home. He hoped he didn’t have to find out.
Skeletor shouted over the truck: ‘You did this on purpose, didn’t you?’
‘You should have listened to me.’ Maxwell was looking at the torn tyre. ‘The damage could have been worse.’
After a series of heavy footsteps, Skeletor dropped down to the ground beside Thomas. ‘Surfer boy, you see what he did? I’m telling you, man, he did it on purpose.’
Thomas kept his eyes on the torn band of rubber around the front right wheel. ‘Skeletor, you really should have listened to him.’
‘Not you too.’ Skeletor sighed. ‘This is all I need. A mutiny.’
They sat and watched while Maxwell fetched tools and the spare wheel from the back. Ordinarily Thomas would have helped him, but he was still recovering; the fiery pain across his face only now turning to a dull throb.
‘Hurry up,’ Skeletor shouted as the equipment was carried to the front of the truck. ‘We’re not sitting out here for our health.’
Maxwell shot Skeletor a sharp glance then went back to work, spinning the handle of the jack, raising the nose of the truck skywards. He undid the old wheel and rolled it off into the desert, then bolted on the new one. After letting the truck sag back to the ground, he went into the back.
‘One way or another,’ Skeletor whispered, ‘I’m going to sort him out. He’s too cheeky for his own good, that boy.’
Thomas could hear clanging and the sliding of boxes as Maxwell replaced his tools. Then he heard another sound, a clicking noise that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Skeletor shot to his feet. ‘What are you doing in there?’
Maxwell reappeared, his face grim.
‘I knew it,’ Skeletor said, raising his arms.
Thomas sat rooted to the spot, waiting for the shot that would end all his dreams. Good artists died young, he knew, but he would die before he even became an artist.
In his hands Maxwell carried an AK-47 assault rifle, the very weapon they had been warned about in training: the gravedigger, the insurgent’s friend.
‘You’re a terrorist, aren’t you?’ Skeletor asked.
Maxwell shook his head.
‘Then put the gun down,’ Thomas said. But as the AK swung towards him, he quickly added, his voice a squeak, ‘Please.’
‘This is Sector 10,’ Maxwell said.
‘So what?’ Skeletor‘s skinny body was drawn to its full height, but a telltale film of sweat had broken out on the back of his neck.
‘It’s not safe here.’ Maxwell twirled the AK-47 around so that it sat horizontally in his hands. Then he sent it flying through the air towards Thomas and Skeletor.
Skeletor caught the rifle with the practised ease of a rugby player.
‘Keep that with you at all times,’ Maxwell said, delving once again into the back of the pickup.
‘Yes, sir,’ Skeletor hissed after him. ‘You don’t have to tell me that.’
Thomas got to his feet and skulked towards the cab, anxious to be out of the way as Skeletor went through the workings of his new toy.
Maxwell, brandishing a rifle in each hand, intercepted him. ‘Do you know how to use one of these?’
‘I think so.’ Before Thomas could say that he didn’t actually want one, a rifle came spinning his way. He reached out and grabbed, but the thing slipped through his fingers. Picking the AK-47 off the floor, blowing away the dust, he found it lighter than his R4, and smaller too. He looked down the barrel, at the metal wedge on the end, hoping he would never have to see that view again. Startled at a sudden thump of gunfire, he cried out, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Making sure the black didn’t sabotage my weapon.’ Skeletor fired off another round, aiming for the more distant of the two trees.
‘Stop it!’ Maxwell shouted, waving his own assault rifle.
A look of delight on his face, Skeletor rattled off a burst of three bullets, chopping tree bark into splinters.
‘You must stop,’ Maxwell pleaded. ‘Someone will hear.’
‘Come make me, boy.’ Skeletor held his rifle high against his shoulder, like a huntsman after big game, as he searched for another target. The weapon may have been a gift, but that didn’t mean he was going to be grateful.
Thomas was about to intervene when he caught sight of something out of place in the landscape, a faint puff of cloud hanging low on the road behind. He watched for a few seconds, to be certain that it was what he thought it was, then shouted: ‘Car!’
The other two abandoned their standoff to follow the line of his finger along the road. The dust cloud was heading their way.
Thomas and Maxwell rushed to their seats. Maxwell shoved his rifle into the gap between his body and the door, before starting the engine.
Thomas kept his own rifle on his lap.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Skeletor was still outside.
‘Get in.’ Thomas leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘They must have heard you firing.’
‘No.’ Skeletor stayed put. ‘I’m in command and I say we wait right here and see who it is.’
‘Come on, bru. If it’s terrorists they’ll kill us on sight.’
‘What if it’s not? I’m not running from our own soldiers.’
Maxwell revved the engine.
Thomas tried once more: ‘How do you think this looks, bru? We’re out of uniform, near the border and armed with AK-47s. Our guys wouldn’t think twice before shooting us.’ He didn’t say it, but that’s exactly what Skeletor would have done.
On the tips of his toes, Skeletor watched the approaching cloud. Then he scrambled to his seat and shut his door. ‘I’m only going along with you because the mission comes first.’
Maxwell reversed, changed gears and slammed down on the accelerator, clearly more worried about their pursuers than potholes. They shot off down the dirt road, the truck’s chassis rattling from the abuse, its old engine straining to bring them up to top speed.
Leaving his rifle on his seat, Skeletor leaned out the window to get a better look.
Thomas stared up at the rear-view mirror. Through the dust and smoke spewing out the back of their own vehicle, it was difficult to tell exactly what was behind them. All he could see was the top of the trailing dust cloud as it approached. A sensation gnawed at the pit of his stomach, what it must feel like to be a farmer seeing a swarm of locusts growing in the sky. ‘They’re getting closer,’ he said.
‘I know.’ Maxwell was watching the mirror too.
‘Faster!’ Skeletor screamed from outside, his T-shirt fluttering like a black flag.
Maxwell’s leg was stiff against the accelerator. ‘I’m going as fast as I can.’
‘Then pass my rifle,’ Skeletor shouted.
‘But you said they might be on our side,’ Thomas shouted back.
‘At this stage I don’t care who they are,’ Skeletor screeched above the wind rushing past the window. ‘I’m a reasonable man, but if they want to follow me they must expect to get shot.’
The last thing Thomas wanted was to witness was another killing. ‘Come inside, bru.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
‘Sir,’ Maxwell called, ‘we don’t want to get into a fight if we don’t have to. Remember the message. That is why we’re here.’
At this appeal to reason, Skeletor slid back to his seat. He looked over at the driver’s side and said, ‘I don’t need advice from anyone. And if you think that I’m going to—’
He was cut off as the truck shuddered over a rough patch in the road.
Thomas kept his eyes on the mirror, trying not to think about what would happen if they hit another pothole. With the truck rattling from exertion and the dust cloud drawing ever nearer, he found his hand reaching for his pocket. He had wanted to wait for the right moment, but this might be his last chance to read the letter.
‘Sealed road up ahead,’ Maxwell said, and a second later the truck shook over a seam and onto tarmac, and their ride suddenly became smoother.
Without the handicap of the dust thrown up by their own tyres, Thomas could now see exactly what was chasing them: a wide, white saloon car, a rattling soapbox on wheels, of a vintage even older than the truck. And it was gaining on them.
‘I’m going back outside,’ Skeletor said, heaving up his assault rifle and turning to the window.
‘Wait.’ Keeping his gaze on the mirror, Thomas gripped the Bob Marley T-shirt, made a bunch of it in his fist, and pulled.
In the front seats of the Cortina sat a man and woman. They were laughing. Neither of them was really watching the road. Their attention seemed to be on something in the back seat. All of a sudden a face appeared between them, making the couple burst into another fit of laughter, their car swerving from side to side.
‘Let go, surfer boy. You’ll ruin my shirt.’
‘Wait, man. Please.’
The Cortina came right up close to the truck, filling the mirror. Thomas could now see that the face between the couple belonged to a little boy. He was playing peek-a-boo with his parents, disappearing back and forth behind their seats. He was the reason the driver wasn’t paying attention to the road, why he had come so close to the truck and not noticed the maniac in the Bob Marley T-shirt that had earlier been hanging out of the window.
‘Surfer boy, I’m going to count to ten. If you don’t let go by then, I’ll kill you.’
‘It’s a family.’ Thomas pulled harder on the shirt, twisted the fabric. ‘Not terrorists. The only thing they’re guilty of is dangerous driving.’
Skeletor crushed up against Thomas for a look through the rear-view mirror. ‘That’s what they want you to think.’
A great peel of laughter erupted from Maxwell. ‘Aish, Skeletor! Not every black man is a communist.’
In the mirror there appeared an orange blinking light, diluted by the sun to a pale shade of yellow, as the driver indicated to overtake.
Veering the pickup truck to the gravel shoulder and still smiling, Maxwell let the car through.
Thomas and Maxwell waved at the family as they passed. The parents waved back and the little boy made faces. Then Thomas noticed that Skeletor wasn’t joining in.
He was staring straight ahead and grinding his teeth, stewing in his frustrations. ‘Slow down,’ he snapped when they were back on the road. ‘Do you want us to hit a pothole?’
The Cortina sped off into the borderland.
Once again, they were alone on the road.