The Disappeared
Authors: Vernon William Baumann
The Disappeared
A Novel by
Vernon
William Baumann
Copyright (c) 2012 by Vernon William Baumann
All rights reserved. No part
of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the
author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Bishop is a fictitious town. All
her characters are likewise fictitious in nature and any resemblance to
persons, alive or dead, is purely co-incidental.
South Africans will please forgive
me the liberties I took with geography and socio-political realities.
Dedicated
to my love, my soul mate, my brokkie, my inspiration.
To
my beautiful wife, Rouxlien.
This
is your book, my darling.
The
first of many
.
Firstly, I would like to give thanks to God; my creator, my
source, my inspiration. I am grateful for everything, dear Father. I want to thank
Rouxlien, my beautiful and inspiring wife for her faith, support and love. This
is your book, my darling. To Wayne Myburgh, my dear friend and squash nemesis,
thank you for your input. As always, I value your ideas. To the Stander family
from Luckhoff, thank you so much for your continued interest and support. It
meant a great deal to me. I want to extend a very special thank you to
Professor Patrick Bizzaro from IUP for first introducing me to Kindle Direct
Publishing. Thank you so much for your interest, Prof. All the best to you,
Resa and the little guy. I also want to express special thanks Kerry Gower,
English teacher at St Andrews High School in Bloemfontein, for being the first
person to observe my writing talent. Thank you for taking the time to notice
and encourage me, Mrs Gower. I want to thank Clinton D’Oliveira, erstwhile
English teacher at Brebner High School, for your encouragement. Thanks for
structuring that English lesson around one of my poems. So that’s what literary
fame feels like!! I want to give a special thanks to the ladies in the Unit for
Academic Literacy at the University of the Free State for their interest and encouragement.
And last, but certainly not least, I want to say thank you to all those who
took the time and money to buy this book. Thank you so very much. Watch out for
my next novel, Daddy Long Legs, out soon!
Joshua Paul Kingsley
– Hitchhiker who spent the night
in Bishop
Lindiwe (
Lin-dee–weh
) Motaung
–
Recovering alcoholic from Johannesburg
Estelle van Deventer (Gogo)
– Elderly woman and ex-nurse.
Lindiwe lives with her
Inspector Jan Coetzee
– Bishop police station
commander
Wayne Duggan
– Local I.T. specialist and owner of
Internet Cafe
Minki
– 10-year old girl who keeps on having
apocalyptic visions
Constable Willie Jansen
– Local member of South
African Police
Eugene Collie
– Local police reservist
Peter Gibson Jones
– Bishop’s most successful realtor
Max Theron
– Spoilt son of Bishop mayor, Friedrich
Theron
Moira Billing
– Owner of local restaurant, the Abbot
Bridgette Le Roux
– Hysterical mother of twin boys
Katya Vladislavic
– Wife to Police reservist, ‘Vlad,
the Inhaler’
Mr and Mrs Sacks
– Jewish couple from Bloemfontein.
Mr Sacks works for Obsidian
Joyce and Thabo Mohapi
– Successful black couple from
Lesotho
Dora Cooper
– One of two wealthy heiress spinster sisters
John Robert Visser
– Lawyer for Obsidian Corporation
Piet Ryneke
– Manager of local Standard Bank
Mr and Mrs Lovisa
– Elderly couple and owner of arts
and craft store
Karen Villiers
– Secretary to Friedrich Theron,
Bishop Mayor
Stoffel van Vuuren
– Local handyman and alcoholic
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the lord my soul to take.
In the
beginning ... in the end
The woman lay motionless in the hospital bed.
She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t alive.
Around her
a huge bubble glowed in the darkness. A large dome. Big enough to contain her
bed as well as the array of medical machines around her. To her right, an
electro-cardiogram beeped at regular intervals. A little rectangular screen
displayed an electronic graph that peaked in unison with each beep. An IV drip
had been inserted into a vein on her left arm. Held in place by a translucent
plaster. An oxygen mask was placed over her mouth. The concertina of a respirator
rose and fell, sucking and gasping. Sustaining her life force. All illuminated
within the sharp light of the large PVC dome.
The dome itself
was located at one end of an enormous rectangular chamber with a high ceiling. In
dimension and size it resembled an aircraft hangar. Except for the dome, the
hangar was empty. Washed in a pool of light from an overhead lamp, the dome was
an island of illumination in a sea of near total darkness.
At the far
end of the hangar, high up against the wall, was a long observation window.
Behind it, a technician wearing light green scrubs was seated at a long console
deck. Several computer monitors sprouted from the deck. One monitor displayed
the output of various CCTV cameras while the other two indicated vital signs. Except
for the console, the small square room was bare. A door to the immediate left
of the technician opened. A tall bald-headed man with fashionable steel-rimmed
glasses entered. Like the seated technician, he was dressed in scrubs.
The man
closed the door and assumed a position behind the technician. He stared in
silence at the monitor that displayed the vital signs. After some time: ‘Any
improvement?’
‘No, sir.’
The techie answered without turning around. Silence. The bald-headed man leaned
forward propping himself up on one arm. He studied the monitors.
‘How long
has it been now?’
The techie
leaned forward and gazed at the lower left-hand corner of the middle monitor. ‘Sixty
two hours, sir.’
‘Any word
on her identity?’
‘No, sir.’
The other
man nodded slowly. ‘Inform me the moment there’s even the slightest change.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The bald-headed
man straightened, staring through the glass panel at the hospital bed in the
distance. The dome that contained the bed and the medical equipment glowed like
a ghostly half moon in the darkness.
Bishop,
he
thought to himself.
Bishop
. Who would have thought that a town with such
a pious name could suffer such a terrible fate.
He slowly
rubbed his eyes looking tired and stressed. He turned to hide his expression
from the seated techie. He walked slowly towards the door and placed a hand on
the cold aluminium handle. He paused. His brow knotted in bitter introspection.
Oh my God,
what have we done?
Joshua Paul
Kingsley awoke suddenly.
He felt
groggy. Disorientated. For a moment as he stared at a dark sky, only slightly
greyed by dawn, he realised he didn’t know where he was. He sat up. Leaves
brushed through his long blond hair.
He was
outside.
Outside?
What?
He looked
around in confusion. For a moment he felt sharp panic constrict his heart.
And then. Slowly.
Like an old dusty clock being wound up for the first time in years, it came
back to him. He had spent the night outside. Of course.
He relaxed.
Confused at his lapse in memory. Yes. He had been tired after a day of hitching
rides in the hot Free State sun. When night had settled he had approached the
outskirts of a small town.
No! That
was the previous day.
Or was it?
Last night he
–
Joshua felt
bewildered. What was going on? He realised he could remember only disparate segments
from the previous day. His mind felt like a muddy marsh on a hot and pungent
day. He tried probing his memory. But only vague and disconnected images
floated to the top.
How could
this be?
He stretched
his mind back into the past trying to remember the events of the last week. To
his growing consternation he found that all of the events of the past few days
seemed hazy and unsequenced. Distant. As if they had happened to someone else.
As if they were merely a pastiche of a hundred movies seen. A thousand stories
heard. Joshua slapped his forehead with an open palm.
What the
hell?
He looked
around. He was on a little ledge halfway up the bank of a river. The slope of the
embankment was covered by thick patches of wild grass and dotted with large
shrubs. Similar to the one he was now sitting under. At the top of the bank, a
row of huge eucalyptus trees towered above him. Everywhere flakes of old bark
and dried-up leaves covered the ground, forming a springy bed of organic
detritus. He stared at the cold waters of the rushing river. For some reason
the muddy torrent only served to add to his disquiet. He looked to his right
where the river curved out of sight. There, several weeping willows dipped
their eerie tendrils into the river water.
He didn’t know
where he was. And he had only the vaguest memory of how he had arrived here. He
needed to get going. Had to stay on the move.
Josh scanned
his surroundings and found his old duffel bag. It was scuffed and torn with
use. Several stains attested to long and often rough travels. He unzipped the
large bag and after rummaging for a while amongst bundled clothing extracted a
pack of Camel Filters and a folded map. He shook out a cigarette. And dug out a
Bic lighter from the pocket of his denim shirt. He cupped his hand over the tip
of the cigarette and lit it.
Damn! I
need to wake up. Wake up! Feels like I’m asleep ... dreaming ... feels like...
He inhaled
deeply ... and frowned. The Camel tasted strange; bitter and metallic. He took
the burning cigarette from his lips and studied it. He took another drag. Carefully
tasting the acrid smoke. That strange taste was still there. A quick flash of
irritation peaked in his mood. He hoped his Camels
hadn’t been ruined by
the weather. He sighed with uneven breath as he took another drag.
He smoked for
a while in edgy silence, staring with a furrowed brow at the riverbank. Trying
to collect his thoughts and prepare for the day ahead. But there was a slowness
to his thoughts that he couldn’t shake. His mind refused to wake up.
Damn
!
Why the hell was he feeling so groggy almost dizzy? It felt like he had been
drugged. Or just been woken up from a long deep coma. What the hell happened
last night?
Something
...
Joshua
unfolded the map. He laid it on the ground and traced his journey with a
finger. He looked up.
Bishop. Yes. That
was it.
Bishop
.
He studied the map. The R45 came from the north swirled through the little town
and headed back north forming a kind of a horseshoe. Immediately to the south
lay a large mountainous outcrop called Bishop’s Berg. A river – the Elandsriver
– swept in from the south hugging the mountain on its eastern side. As the
river reached Bishop it swerved sharply left crossing under both arms of the
R45. This effectively meant that both the eastern and western entrances into
Bishop crossed over bridges.
Something
...
Joshua flicked
the half-finished smoke into the river. He folded the map and shoved it into
the bottom of the duffel bag. He got up and carefully moved down the slope
towards the water. At the river’s edge he squatted. He took a big scoop of
water in both hands and splashed his face.
It felt good.
The cold sharpness of the water exhilarated him and dissipated his misty
grogginess.
He repeated
this several times until the denim of his long-sleeve shirt was wet all the way
down the front. That was better. Much better. He stood up and again surveyed
the scenery of the riverfront. He was immediately struck by how quiet it was.
Something
was ...
Almost deathly
quiet. Cemetery quiet. Like a school-ground during holidays. Like church on
Mondays.
He looked
first downstream and then upstream. He turned and looked at the mighty
eucalyptus rising from the top of the embankment. All the while inhaling deeply
and slowly.
What the
hell?
Joshua
suddenly realised it wasn’t the Camel
that tasted funny. It was the air.
There was something ... was it ... sterile about the air. Something ... empty.
And ... something else.
Something
was wrong.
He violently
shook his head trying to dislodge the bleariness.
Get a hold of yourself.
It was just paranoia. That’s all. Nothing more.
Right?
Just
good ole’ paranoia and a regular dose of nerves. Seven days on the run can do
that to a man. He grimaced. Just stress and paranoia right? That’s all.
But there
was
something. Wasn’t there? Something he just couldn’t put his finger on.
Josh turned
and walked – crawled – on hands and feet up the steep slope of the riverbank
until he reached his sleeping place. There he picked up a big green lumber
jacket – the kind with a German flag on the shoulder – and slipped into it. He
slipped the pack of Camels into his breast pocket. Zipped the duffel bag and
hoisted it over his shoulder. He began moving towards the summit of the
embankment.
Joshua Paul
Kingsley froze in place.
It wasn’t just
his imagination. Something
was
wrong.
2:34
They laugh.
It is the easy
uninhibited laughter of a close and intimate family.
Mommy’s gone
and done something silly again. She’s been charging her brand-new cell phone
all day. But she forgot to put the battery in.
They laugh.
Mommy too. The laughter is not derisive but gentle and shared. Daddy makes a
funny face. His eyes are rolling around while his tongue hangs out to the side.
It is corny and they’ve literally seen it a hundred times. But they laugh because
they are a close and intimate family. And they love each other.
Gran’pa laughs
so hard he starts choking. He clamps a hand down over his mouth. Blood spurts
between his fingers. He’s making gurgling noises as he drowns in the liquid
rising up in his throat.
They laugh. Gran’pa
too. Blood sprays the beautiful white tablecloth. It flecks mommy’s new blouse.
Mommy asks Sissy to get the
Bobotie
from the oven. She warns Sissy to be
careful and not to burn herself. ‘Please use the oven mittens, Sis,’ she says.
Mommy is very strict when it comes to safety around the house, especially in the
kitchen. Sissy sighs in exaggerated annoyance but she slips on the heavy
mittens nonetheless. She opens the oven door and carefully slides out the heavy
Pyrex dish. Mommy watches her closely. She pretends severity but in fact she is
very proud of Sissy.
Sissy places
the dish on the blood-flecked tablecloth. A steady trickle of blood has been
flowing from the corner of Sissy’s right eye. Now as she bends to place the
Bobotie
on the table the pressure ruptures the vein. A little geyser of hot blood
gushes from her eye and squirts onto the
Bobotie.
The blood settles into
the troughs and valleys of the
Bobotie’s
egg-based surface. Some of the
blood seeps into the mince fissures along the sides of the glass dish. The
Bobotie
is scalding hot and soon the blood starts boiling. Little red bubbles pop
and burst. The family members clap hands and cheer in mock ovation.
They laugh.
They are a close and intimate family.
Gran’pa is
convulsing as wave after wave of blood bursts from his mouth. Daddy claps Gran’pa
hard on the back. The force ejects an even larger jet of red blood from his
mouth. Two little red spurts shoot from either ear.
Boeta
who is busy
drinking Sprite from a glass, can hardly contain his laughter. He snorts
uncontrollably into the clear liquid. A squirt of blood colours the carbonated
liquid pink.
Mommy rises.
She wants to dish in for her loved ones.
Bobotie
is a family favourite
and she knows they are famished. Mommy is wearing a lovely knee-length skirt
from Penny
C. The crotch area of the skirt is stained with a large red
triangle. Blood is pouring down Mommy’s legs. She steps forward to reach the
large ladling spoon next to the Pyrex dish. She slips in the large pool of
blood gathering at her sandaled feet. She keels forward and her head slams down
on the pine table. The impact knocks her head back and she falls into the pool
of blood. The knock has broken her neck and she is floundering in the spreading
blood. She looks like a fish on dry land, thrashing about uselessly.
They laugh.
They are a close and intimate family. After all.
Gran’pa is
retching blood in huge heaving gasps. He sounds like a pump that’s sucking air.
The capillaries in his eyes thicken with each bloody wheeze. The little minute
vessels burst and blood soaks the whites of his eyes.
Boeta
can hardly
contain himself. This is better than
Planet’s Funniest Animals.
Snot sprays
the side of his glass. The snot is riddled with blood and pieces of gore.
They laugh.
Daddy is
laughing so hysterically that with each burst of laughter blood pumps
rhythmically from his ears. It looks like two bloody pig-tails. A greenish
liquid sprays from daddy’s mouth as his innards are liquefied. Sissy has both
hands on the table. She is supporting herself because the insane endless
laughter is making her stomach muscles ache. She is weak with hilarity. She
slips in the spreading blood oozing from Mommy. She falls forward. Her face
slams into the
Bobotie.
The hot mince shrivels her skin. Blisters grow
and pop. Sissy is still laughing hysterically. Every grunt of laughter injects
a stream of blood into the savoury dish.
They laugh.
Minki screamed.
And awoke.
She was
suffocating.
Suffocating?
Darkness was
closing in on her. And something was squeezing the life out of her.
She tore free
from her comforter and sat up in bed. It was a dream. It was all just ... a
dream?
It was still
dark outside. A full moon glowed marshmallow bright behind thick clouds and
only the softest light washed the darkness in her room. Minki pulled her knees up
to her face and hugged them tightly, sitting up against the headboard of her
bed. She realised she was shivering. At the foot of her bed lay
Yasmin
–
her Bratz
doll – wet with hot sweat.
It seemed so
real; so very real. She was scared. The image of the girl with her burning face
buried in the
Bobotie
dish kept looping in her mind. She felt like
crying. She wanted to run to her daddy’s room. She wanted him to tell him –
No!
She restrained
herself. No. That wouldn’t be a good idea. That would definitely not be a good
idea.
So ... she
clung to herself and let the darkness shield her.
It was just a
dream. And dreams can’t hurt people. No. Dreams don’t hurt people.
Soon sleep
came and overwhelmed her.
Insects
.
‘There’s no
way, Josh!’
They were
standing at the top of the creek; Joshua and his older brother David. Two young
adolescent boys.
During winter
– the dry season – the creek was empty. A deep jagged scar in the landscape.
But now a torrent of water tore through it.
The creek ran
through the property of Uncle Dolf. A spread-out smallholdings about twenty
kilometres south of Johannesburg. Joshua and David didn’t like Uncle Dolf. But
he liked their mom. Maybe that’s why they didn’t like him. The idea of their
mom being with any other man besides their father made the boys uncomfortable.
They didn’t know their father. Both boys were too young to remember the man
that had walked out on their mother all those years ago. But it didn’t stop
them from feeling resentful that another man was – potentially – about to take
his place. The fact that Uncle Dolf lived on a smallholdings – an adventure paradise
for two boys who had grown up in a low-cost apartment block – almost made up
for it.
Almost.
‘C’mon, Davey.
It’ll be cool.’ Joshua pointed excitedly at the fast-flowing water. He was the
bolder and more adventurous of the two boys. He was also considerably stronger
and physically more adept than his older brother. Even though he was more than
two years his junior.
