[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon Read online

  ***

  After a sunrise breakfast with Brian, Garrett decided to leave early. He wanted to see at least two of the orphanages today and have a chat to the people in charge. The first one that he figured on seeing was on the outskirts of Pretoria, about an hour’s drive away. The second was in Krugersdorp, sort of on the way back but still another hour’s driving. Not for the first time he blessed the man that had invented the satnav as he followed the many twists and turns to get onto the main highway to the city of Pretoria. He stopped to refuel before he hit the main road.

  The harsh African sun reflected off the white-gray concrete highway and assaulted Garrett’s eyes like a laser. He squinted as much as he could without actually closing his eyes and reminded himself to buy a pair of sunglasses at the first opportunity.

  The concrete surface rumbled loudly under the wide off-road tires and set up a resonance that made Garrett’s jaw ache. The noise combined with the sunlight led to a grinding headache within less than fifteen minutes. Garrett pulled in at a roadside service station and picked up a packet of ibuprofen, washing down four with mineral water before he had even got to the till. Then he noticed a rack of sunglasses. They were cheap but claimed to have Polaroid lenses so he picked a pair in the style of Rayban Aviators and paid for them along with the pills and water. Then he sat in the Jeep with the engine running, air conditioner on full, for five minutes while the painkillers took effect. He picked the price tag off the sunglasses, put them on and got back on the road.

  As he approached the outskirts of Pretoria the satellite directed him, via a myriad of back roads, to the Sunlight Childrens’ Home Pretoria. In contrast to Manon’s place of work this was situated on a smallholding. A plot of dry earth with a rambling whitewashed bungalow in the center.

  There were obvious extensions to the original building erected from corrugated iron sheeting with plastic covered windows. But the area was neat and tidy. Whitewashed stones lined the driveway and it was obvious that the dusty garden had been recently swept, the marks of the broom’s bristles still etched into the thick dust, the air hot and still.

  As he drove down the driveway the Jeep kicked up a cloud of red dust that hung motionless behind him. When he stopped the car and got out the dry heat hit him like a hammer blow and he felt the sweat on his body evaporate instantly. Garrett turned to look at the dust cloud that he had created and marveled at its stillness. Nothing moved. There was no sound. It was as if he had been transported to some alien world where there was no life. No movement except from himself. Then he heard a dog bark. And children’s voices and, all of a sudden, the place was teeming with sound and life. Kids ran out of the front door towards him, dogs came from around the back of the building, barking and jumping. Tongues lolling, impossibly long, from panting mouths.

  Behind the children came an old man. Dressed in a black suit, so old that it was now a shiny dark green. Bent over he was, and walking with the aid of a stick but his huge size still apparent. His head bald, shiny as a teacher’s apple, his beard long and white but for the area around his mouth that was stained a dark yellow from the pipe that seemed surgically attached to his lips. Clouds of smoke billowed around where he walked, like some sort of rain god. Thor. Or even Odin. And when he stopped and spoke his voice reinforced the image. A deep, gravely baritone. His words clipped, precise. English not his native tongue.

  ‘Good day, my son. How may we be of help?’

  Garrett walked towards him and held his hand out. ‘My name is Garrett, sir. I am a friend of sister Manon.’

  The old man grasped Garrett’s hand. A rough leather glove stuffed with pebbles. His handshake was eye-wateringly firm.

  ‘Come inside, young man. It is cooler in than out.’

  They walked back inside, the children and dogs thronging around them. The kids wide eyed and staring at the newcomer. ‘Come,’ he continued. ‘We will sit in the kitchen. Agnes will make us some tea.’

  He waved the dogs and children off with his stick as they walked down the dim corridor. ‘Go. Go away. Voetsak. The grown-ups are busy.’ The noisy throng melted away leaving behind a strong smell of dog that competed on even terms with the tobacco smoke.

  The old man pushed open the door and ushered Garrett into an enormous kitchen. Two ancient coal stoves stood against the far wall and the center of the room was filled with a rough wooden trestle table that was placed diagonally across. Twenty or so mismatched chairs were positioned around the table and at the one end sat a large colored woman in a bright pink dress. Around her head she had wound a turban of purple and her fingers were covered in silver rings. She was probably the hugest female that Garrett had ever seen. Her massive bosom rested on the table in front of her and the flesh bulged around the silver rings like over baked bread rolls. She was chopping carrots, her movements deft and economical, belying her vastness. When she looked up at the old man her smile lit up the room like a lighthouse in a storm. Her teeth strong and white, her face a symphony of laughter lines and happiness. She stood up to greet Garrett. She was taller than he had suspected. Fully six foot. A towering work of art in bright pink. ‘Hello, sir. My name is Agnes.’

  Garrett hurried around the table to grasp her hand. ‘I am Garrett.’ She held his hand for a while and looked deeply into Garrett’s eyes, her haze almost hypnotic. But not aggressive. Searching. And then she nodded in approval. ‘You have traveled here from afar, young sir.’

  Garrett nodded. ‘From Johannesburg.’

  She laughed, still holding his hand. ‘Further than that.’

  ‘London?’ Asked Garrett.

  She nodded. ‘Further than that even. Much further. But you still have far to go. Never mind, sit down. Agnes will make you some tea and it will all seem better.’ She turned to the old man. ‘You too, Hartvig. Sit.’ She finally let go of Garrett’s hand and swayed over to one of the stoves, collecting a teapot full of water on the way.

  While Agnes busied herself fixing the tea Garrett told the old man about sister Manon and her suspicions that something was awry with the missing children. However, Hartvig’s response took him by surprise.

  ‘I have met sister Manon. A lovely child. God has blessed her with both beauty and principles. However, in this she could never be more wrong. ‘

  ‘How do you know?’ Asked Garrett.

  ‘Well,’ answered the old man. ‘For a start, no children have gone missing from this home. Not for the last ten years. Not ever. And as for her missing ones, it is a sad and simply fact that sometimes these street children that we save prefer their lives on the street. There is no great conspiracy, no ring of kidnappers or such. Simply the knowledge that not all enter God’s house willingly. Tell the good sister to concentrate on her flock. Tell her that sometimes the wolves of temptation and sin descend upon us and take some of our sheep away and there is nothing that we can do about it. It is natures, and God’s way. In time they will return…or they won’t.’

  Agnes placed a tray of buttermilk cookies on the table and a mug of tea in front of each of them. The tea was bright orange, stewed rather than drawn, made with sweetened condensed milk, the steam as fragrant as boiled sweets. It was delicious and Garrett complimented her. Hartvig puffed furiously on his pipe, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs like a cigarette smoker. ‘Used to have tea like that on the whaling boat back in the day. As strong as the word of the Lord and as sweet as any of his angels. Better than a shot of rum.’

  Garrett raised an eyebrow. ‘You served on a whaling ship?’

  ‘Chief mate. Until the early seventies when whaling stopped in Durban. I turned to the cloth then. Dedicated my life to the Lord. His strength has kept me young. How old would you say I am?’ Hartvig jabbed his pipe at Garrett.

  Garrett gave it some thought and then chopped off about a thousand years. ‘Seventy five?’

  ‘Ha. Ha and ha. Eighty-three. And as fit as a fifty year old. The Lord’s doing.’

  Agnes raised her one eyebrow and gave Garrett a wink. ‘Any m
ore tea?’

  ‘No thank you,’ Garrett declined. ‘Places to go.’

  Hartvig leaned forward and shook Garrett’s hand without rising. ‘Good luck my boy. And remember to tell Manon, tend to her flock.’

  Agnes led Garrett

  t from the room, her hips brushing the door on each side as she sashayed through. When they got out of the front door she lent over to the young man. Conspiratorially. ‘He’s a liar you know.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Ja. He’s eighty-nine. Takes off six years every time. Thinks that I don’t know. Silly old man.’

  ‘But you love him.’

  Agnes shrugged. One shoulder only. Like a small girl denying that she had a boyfriend. ‘He is a good man.’

  Garrett gave her a hug and walked to the Jeep. As he put the keys into the door Agnes called him back with a hiss and a crooked finger. He strode back to her side. ‘He forgets sometimes. He doesn’t mean to. He is almost ninety after all.’

  Garrett didn’t respond.

  Agnes looked guilty. At odds.

  ‘Some of the children have gone missing.’

  Chapter 5

  Garrett drove back through his own dust. Before he got to the highway he passed a big white van coming the other way, on the side written in red, Mister Sweets Food Wholesalers.

  Soon the Jeep was on the main road heading towards Krugersdorp. Driving on the rumble inducing concrete highway. But the cheap sunglasses were doing their job and Garrett had worked out how to plug his iPod into the sound system so the seven speakers were pumping out one of Berwalt’s overtures played by the Gavle symphony orchestra. Garrett liked Berwalt, considering him to have been a composer well ahead of his time. Even now unjustly ignored. Brian could never understand why Garrett listened to classical music, and the fact that he favored such obscure composers irritated him all the more. The Dentist was more of a German heavy metal fancier. Bands like Rammestein and Totenmond. Vicious, grinding music. Every bar a call to arms. Whereas Garrett found his classical music a balm for his soul, cool and comforting. They both, however, agreed that all other modern music was shit. Three and a half minutes of over-composed triteness vomited up by whoever the next Bieber clone was.

  The Gavle orchestra started the second movement. And the road rumbled beneath him, drawing him closer to the next Sunlight Orphanage.

  ***

  The Krugersdorp branch of the children’s home was built on a steep hill, so from the front it seemed small. An average three-bedroom house. But when Garrett pulled into the driveway it became apparent that the house continued down the hill in a world war two concrete bunker style. This home had a different feel to the last one. Empty soda cans crunched under the Jeep’s tires and plastic supermarket bags festooned the barbed wire fence in a post apocalyptic version of Christmas. Flapping in the breeze like colorful birds caught in a multitude of snares. Blues, reds and yellows, beating out their lives as they tried to free themselves from the rusty strands of steel.

  First he tried the doorbell, a small steel button recessed into the door. But when he didn’t hear a corresponding ring inside the house he knocked as well. A plump middle-aged man with a large round, fleshy face and a tiny retrousse nose answered the door fairly quickly. The effect was entirely disconcerting. It was as if someone had stuck a doll’s nose onto an adult size human being. He had a heat rash or perhaps simply a large crop of pimples on the right hand side of his face. And the hand that he proffered in greeting was limp, flabby and lifeless as an old slice of microwave pizza. But his voice was liquid gold. A light tenor, pleasing to the ear and soul alike.

  ‘Good afternoon, good sir. I am father Cornelius. Is there any way in which I may assist you?’

  Garrett nodded. ‘I am a friend of sister Manon. I wonder if we could have a quick chat, father.’

  The father nodded. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  The house was badly lit and smelled institutional. Boiled cabbage and harsh antiseptic.

  ‘Come. We shall talk in the common room. The children are in a prayer meeting with sister Dorcas while I was taking time to catch up on some of my paperwork.’

  The priest led the way to a room that hosted a haphazard scattering of threadbare armchairs, cushions and blankets. In the one corner was a small old-fashioned television set with a makeshift set of bunny aerials sticking out of the top. A wire coat hanger and some aluminum foil. Round face sat down in an old wingback and gestured towards another. Garrett sank into the chair that had been indicated and started his tale immediately, not wishing to spend longer than necessary in this depressing place.

  The priest listened intently while Garrett spoke, his hands steepled together as he leant forward in his chair. At the end he nodded, his look thoughtful, his face round, pink and porcine.

  ‘Yes. We have had a few children go missing.’

  ‘More than a few. Twenty or so in recent months.’

  The priest shrugged. Weary. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. Whenever one of ours goes missing we wait for twenty-four hours and then we inform the police.’

  ‘Do the police ever find anyone?’ Asked Garrett.

  ‘Not really. But sometimes they return of their own accord or I assume that they find a life elsewhere.’

  ‘Or they die.’

  The priest lent forward even further. ‘What was that?’

  Garrett stood up. ‘Or they die. I’ll show myself out, father.’

  As Garrett strode from the house he knew that he shouldn’t be blaming the priest for his frustration. The father was doing a job few others would. But how, he wondered, could people accept the loss of these children so easily. At what stage did they become meaningless? Mere numbers in the balance sheet of life. Present. Not present. Dead. Alive.

  He slammed the door behind him and stood breathing deeply for a while until he noticed the five men grouped around his Jeep. He could see straight away that this was trouble and his body immediately jumped up a level, raising his adrenaline, restricting the flow of blood to internal organs and flooding the muscles. Step one; scan the rest of the area to determine if this small group was the only threat. Step two, approach the source and ascertain the level of threat.

  Garrett walked up to the group. Hands by his side. Expression confident but not aggressive.

  ‘Can I help you gentlemen?’

  One of the group, a black man, six foot, stood forward.

  ‘Reckon you can, boy. Give us the keys for the Jeep and then we’ll take it from there.’

  Garrett ran his gaze over the man. He was obviously the leader. The leader always speaks first. He was armed. Garrett could see the butt of a semi-automatic pistol sticking out of the waistband of his shorts. A quick second glance confirmed it to be a Government Issue 1911 colt 45. The hammer was down so it wasn’t cocked and locked. Of course it may still have a round in the chamber but Garrett would bet against it. The rest of the group clustered behind the leader in a V formation. Like flying ducks. The analogy brought a smile to Garrett’s face

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘Nothing. Look, I’m very busy. Could we move this whole thing along?’

  The leader drew the Colt and pointed it at Garrett’s face. ‘Give us your keys and then we will decide what to do to you.’

  Garrett had been shot a total of eight times before. All of the incidences occurred in the first few years of combat. Since then he had experienced only minor injuries. That was because his body had learnt. Reactions had been honed, scalpel sharp. Thought was no longer involved. Muscle memory was everything. To think was to die. His reaction was instant and complete. No holding back. With his right hand he grabbed the top slide of the weapon and pushed back hard. At the same time he grasped the bottom of the pistol and ejected the magazine before depressing the slide stop and whipping the top slide off the receiver. This left the leader with a handful of wood and metal with no discernable function whatsoever. Garrett, however, had a weapon. The top slide was six inc
hes of hardened steel weighing in at a little over half a kilogram. He held it gripped in his fist, a half-inch nub of steel protruding out each side to strike with. Using an overhand right he smashed the tip of the slide into the bridge of the leader’s nose, shattering the bone. He sank to the floor like a corpse.

  Spinning hard, Garrett struck the man to the left of the leader in the hinge of his jaw, the blow striking with enough force to splinter the lower mandible and detach it from the skull. He then stepped back and to the right and jabbed the end of the slide into the third assailants Adam’s apple causing him to drop to the floor, clutching his throat in panic as his airway closed up. A quick front snap kick to the head ensured that he stayed where he was.

  Then Garrett stepped back. Reassessing. Thought catching up with action.

  He stared at the remaining two men and shook his head. ‘Go home. It’s finished.’

  Neither of them moved. And then the one reached behind his back, lifted his shirt, and drew out a machete. Twenty-three inches of high carbon steel with an eighteen-inch blade.

  The force of memory brought on by the sight of the weapon made Garrett take a step back. … the children lay on rush mats on the floor, their foreshortened arms wrapped in bandages…he held up a hand towards the man with the blade, his face white as a shroud. ‘Stop. Go now. Please.’

  The assailant mistakenly took Garrett’s reaction as a sign of weakness. Fear.

  The blade glinted in the sun. Blood, thick and purple dripped off the handle. Around him, screams of agony. Gibbering. Begging for quarter. But there was no quarter. There was no mercy. And the blood sprayed high…retribution.

  The man raised the machete above his head.

  And the beast roared and smashed down the gate. Garrett simply stepped forward. Pushing up against the blade-wielder and thereby negating the man’s advantage. You cannot swing a machete at someone who is close enough to you to dance.