Yet Evil Remains - What Do You Do When the Law Fails You?

Yet evil remains

© Peter Cleary 2015

ISBN 978-0-9947119-4-6

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Published by Peter Cleary Books Mtunzini, KZN, 3867

www.peterclearybooks.co.za

peter@peterclearybooks.co.za

Cover photograph by Peter Cleary

Cover design by Jo Petzer of Cosmic Creations

Time past

It was an ordinary spring Sunday afternoon on the Highveld, warm and calm, the red tinted sky in the western hemisphere promising a serene end to the day.

Ethan and Rosemary Hart were mellow as they drove along the familiar roads after a long lunch with friends. Their son Robert was asleep on the back seat of the BMW, his long blonde hair hanging over his eyes. Every time Ethan caught sight of his four-year-old in his rear-view mirror he smiled to himself. The boy was the cutest child on their block, if not the whole world. He gestured to his wife: take a look at our son.

The son’s looks were clearly inherited. They were a handsome couple, the Harts, at the peak of their physical appearance. They were both in their early thirties, and as is so often the case at that early age, a supreme belief in self and place gave them a confident air. If sometimes they appeared a little arrogant it was not intended, only a reflection of the space they found themselves in: he a successful and already moderately wealthy investment broker; she a lawyer and soon-to-be partner in a small but high-class legal firm.

The BMW drifted off the NI and turned east along the Olifantsfontein Road. A few kilometres further Ethan turned on to the gravel road that led to their smallholding. He loved living in the countryside, although that description was a stretch as most homesteads comprised only a few acres. Nevertheless most of the inhabitants kept animals, often horses. There was always something new to see in the properties along the road. Most nights you could see scrub hares, running in panic in the headlights of the car before dashing off to the side.

He glanced at his wife and saw she had finally succumbed to the long lunch and wine. He touched her on the shoulder and her eyes sprang open.

Nearly home, Darling.

She smiled and stretched and turned to look at her son.

Wakey, wakey, Robbie. We’re almost home.

The Hart home was at the end of a panhandle, their white entrance wall and the double storey thatch roofed house beyond it provided an imposing presence at the end of their lane. Ethan had admired the house since he first saw it and it still gave him a thrill when he turned into the lane and saw it sitting there, a country presence.

When they were still distant from the gate he pushed the remote button and saw the first movement as the big metal gate responded. He had timed it perfectly so that it was fully open as they arrived and he drove through smoothly to the covered parking garage beyond and to the left, automatically depressing the remote to close the gate.

Ethan stopped the car and switched off the engine. That was the last normal thing that happened to the Hart’s that day.

The metallic banging at his window alerted Ethan to the danger. A man was standing there, pointing a handgun at him, hitting it against the window.

"Maak oop. Open the door." The instruction was muffled but the gestures told their own tale.

How had the man got there? For a while Ethan did not comprehend. Then he saw another man at Rosemary’s door. He knew instinctively he had to obey them; they must not be alarmed; they must not feel threatened and panic.

He looked back at the man at his door, probably the leader because he was at the door of the most danger.

Okay, he mouthed and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender whilst speaking to his wife and son.

It’s okay, guys. Just be calm. They’ll take the car and soon be gone. Don’t worry, Robbie. It’ll be okay, son.

He gestured to the man that he was opening the door and pushed the button to unlock the central locking.

The man immediately jerked open the door and he sensed the same thing happening at Rosemary’s door.

No shit now. Just sit.

He obeyed, trying to stay calm. Behave slowly and normally he told himself.

Give me your wallet and your watch.

Okay. My wallets in my back pocket. I’m reaching for it now.

He gave the man the wallet and started undoing the catch on his watch when Rosemary cried out.

Ethan, he’s taking my ring.

There was panic and despair in her voice.

Give it to him, Rose. Don’t fight it. Just obey them and this will soon be over.

But it was my mother’s.

I know, Darling, but do it.

He heard her cry of alarm and looked to see the man crudely pulling the ring from her finger. For a moment he nearly reacted to protect her and then the ring came off and the danger passed.

"Klim uit. Get out of the car."

He obeyed and saw that Rosemary was also climbing out on her side of the car. It meant she was out of sight and he did not like that. He did not want that to happen with Robbie.

I’m going to get my son out, he told the man, and opened the back door before there could be any protest at his action. He was not going to allow them to kidnap his son.

Come on, Robbie. Don’t be afraid, Boy. It will only be a moment and these men will be gone.

Despite his words he saw that his son was almost paralysed with fear and he had to lean in and draw him from the car.

Their hijacker gestured with his pistol.

Lie on the ground. Here. You two.

Would he shoot them when they lay helpless on the ground? He decided he had no choice but to obey. The robbers would get in the car and drive away and it would all be finished.

Come, Robbie. Let’s lie here.

He called out to his wife who he could not see.

Are you alright, Rosemary?

Yes, she replied, her voice so strained his heart went out to her.

Ethan was down on his knees when he heard the growl and turned his head in time to see Max, their Alsatian, charging towards their attacker. He screamed a command to the dog.

No, Max, no. Get back, boy. Get back.

The dog kept coming and he heard the shout of consternation from the hijacker and then the shot.

That first shot was the loudest because it was so unexpected. It seemed to batter the eardrums and then everything seemed to move in slow motion after that.

The dog was hit but not mortally wounded and he stopped his attack and started retreating, whining pitifully. The man shot again, deliberately and spitefully and perhaps in fright. The dog fell to the ground.

Robbie screamed and ran towards the prone animal. Ethan tried to grab him but was too late.

Stop, Robbie, stop. Stop now.

The boy’s panic and despair was now full blown and he continued to run towards his pet, crying out pitifully.

Ethan looked towards his attacker and saw him raising the gun to shoot again. He came from the ground in one movement and dove for the man’s gun hand but not before the weapon fired again. Then he was face to face with the man. The gun was between them and they battled for control. His assailant was smaller than Ethan but sinewy - the iron strong sinews of a working man.

He heard other gunshots and the desperate cry of his wife but he had to concentrate on getting the gun. They struggled back and forth and then fell to the ground with Ethan on top but the gun still between them. The man was strong but Ethan had the desperate motive of a man defending his family. The hijacker tried to bite his face and he smelled the fetid breath, like a wild animal’s.

Finally he managed to turn the gun towards the man and he shot him in the lower abdomen. Then he was free and as he stood up he shot him again, this time pushing the muzzle into the man’s chest.

Ethan was turning to face the other assailant when he received a tremendous blow to the back, so powerful it threw him against the side of the car. At first it merely numbed him, then the pain hit, a burning like he had never experienced. It was almost debilitating but he would not allow it. He had to defend his wife and son.

But when he turned back to face the other gunman he found he had little control. The other hijacker was running towards the gate and then he saw the third man, standing at the gate, standing in front of the eye of the remote control of the gate, keeping it open.

That was the one who shot me, he thought, and then his legs gave way and he fell on his face on the brick paved driveway.

Desperation drove him to try and regain his feet but in the end all he could do was raise his head to look. Everything seemed elongated with his eyes so close to the ground.

His wife and his son were both in front of him, on the ground, both still. He saw the blood, so much blood, and he knew he was alone in the world. Perhaps he would soon join them for he could not keep his eyes open. A strange lethargy overcame him. It was not unpleasant. It was even welcome.

Time Present

1

It began to dawn on him that he stood a real chance of dying from the drink or the emptiness. They fed on each other, those two evils. He drank to get rid of the emptiness in his soul and in doing so often entered the realm of profound despair.

The thought of dying was of no great consequence but recently he had begun to think it would be an embarrassment to do so.

For a time after he arrived in Tarkastad he had work to do. Old clients who insisted he continue to handle their portfolios. He had the qualification and the resources of his old firm but he did not have the inclination. It needed research and it needed contact with the market men and he could not do that.

He knew the work was shoddy and he talked himself out of the job, got each of them to switch to other brokers, old friends he knew would look after them well.

That left him with only his own investments to manage and that was hardly a full-time job. He was reckless but lucky and he doubled his money in the three years. Twenty six percent compound interest. He should have been proud of himself but didn’t really care.

He had arrived in Tarkastad seemingly by accident.

When he came, three years earlier, he had no intention of staying. Back in those days his movements were motivated more by a desire to get away from something rather than an intention to go somewhere. He was driving from Queenstown to Cradock when he drove through Tarkastad and saw some people on an enclosed verandah of a small hostelry. It was around midday and they were drinking. He stopped his car, right there before the building, found an empty table and ordered his first beer.

On that first day he drank until they told him the bar was closed upon which he asked them for a room and moved right in; he did not even get his luggage from his car until the next morning.

It was likely his intention to leave that next day, or the following. And the days grew into years and he began to feel the town was his home. It had much to offer, he thought. He liked the easy nature of the people and the slowness with which everything was done. He was in no hurry so the pace suited him just fine. And the people did not pry; they had a natural reserve and a sense of decency which meant he was not asked what secrets he hid.

In particular he liked Tarkastad for the beauty of the countryside. When he had lived in Johannesburg he had tried to capture the feel of the countryside by living on a smallholding north of the city. It was the best he could do, living on the outskirts of a metropolis.

Tarkastad was not an imitation of the countryside, it was the real thing: the majestic mountain range that formed a backdrop to the town and glowed orange when the setting sun struck the rock cliffs along the summit; and the valleys choked with acacia trees and shrubs and the arid veld elsewhere, monotonous and timeless with only the occasional aloe to break the monochromatic vista.

But for reasons he could not fathom, he had recently begun to be assailed by feelings of helplessness.

It was a new feeling, to be concerned about his mental state. He had been recovering in both body and spirit and had set no time limit on the process. He would take all the time he needed and he would live in the present and not challenge himself with thoughts of the future nor torment himself with thoughts, images or dreams of the past.

He ordered his second bottle of wine and let himself dwell on the new problem, oblivious to the movement of people in the street off the verandah.

The problem was one of conscience. Why he should suddenly concern himself with questions of appearance or propriety he had no idea. For some reason the idea of dying of self-indulgence in a town where no-one really knew him was too awful to contemplate.

Somehow in that trance-like state before he got too drunk for coherent thought he found the answer. He was ready to move on. Not physically as in find a new town, but he was ready to enter life again, ready to take a chance again. Enough time had passed since that fateful day.

But what was he to do?

The idea of physical work seemed attractive. Meaningful work not just some exercises on a gym floor. The work needed to be essential and routine and the routine part of it needed to be critical so that he could not shirk it. It occurred to him that the work on a farm would meet those criteria. He could work on a farm, or even more enticing, he could buy a farm.

He found no impediment to that idea. Of course he knew little of farming for keeping a few sheep and horses on a smallholding in Halfway House hardly qualified, but the need to learn new things was also an attraction. And he knew this area in all its seasons, from the heat and big thunder storms of mid-summer to the sometimes blizzard conditions of winter.

He decided to start the search for a farm the next morning. And in the spirit of that intention he also decided he would cut down on his alcohol consumption from that day forth.

It was the first real decision he had made since he came to that small rural village more than three years earlier.

2

Julia Claasen came to Tarkastad after her divorce. She didn’t move far, just 80 km from Cradock. But that was intentional for she made a living selling real estate, specialising in farm sales, and she knew the Tarkastad area and of even more import, the buyers knew and trusted her.

Being a farm girl herself she also knew more than most about animal husbandry and that knowledge was also invaluable in her chosen profession.

The bachelors of Tarkastad and the surrounding farms counted themselves fortunate that she divorced Braam and came to live among them. Most of them knew him and his bruising tactics in the rugby scrum and his hard drinking and womanising. It had been inevitable that a classy girl like Julia would eventually find him out and get rid of him. The only surprising thing had been how she had ever become entangled with such a man.

Unfortunately for them and their ambitions she was not ready for any involvement.

The only man who piqued her interest was Ethan Martin.

Like everyone in the village she speculated as to his past. Unlike most she used the technology and googled his name and found nothing. That surprised her for he was obviously a man of means. The lack of any entry only added to the intrigue.

Julia had been in the company of others when Ethan had also been present in the room and she overheard him talking a few times. Her impression was of a man of intelligence and modesty but clearly with a background he wished to hide. He was a tall man who obviously was in need of a square meal and with dark good looks despite the ravages of the life he had led for the last years.

He caught her looking at him once and she sensed the spark between them before he looked away, seemingly in some confusion.

Despite her interest in Ethan she could never condone the abuse he was putting himself through, no matter how she romanticised the likely cause of his semi-hermitic life.

And then that morning he walked into her small office on the main street of the town. She stood immediately and came around the desk and extended her hand in greeting.

Good morning, Ethan.

Good morning, Julia.

At least he knew her name; obviously he was not so out of touch with the world around him. His hand was large and dry and the handshake firm. His eyes seemed clear and she gained the impression he was more in control of himself than when she had seen him previously.

Won’t you take a seat and tell me why you’re here.

He sat before her desk.

Before you answer, would you like some tea or coffee?

She felt she was babbling and waited on his reply.

Yes, I’d like some coffee please, black no sugar. And I’m here to buy a farm.

Ethan remembered well that glance between them, and the guilt he had felt. He had left the room as soon as he could, not willing to risk a repetition of that loaded look and the complex questions which it raised.

The previous evening, when plotting his moves, he had given serious thought to doing the farm search without her to avoid the possibility of an attraction which would disturb his equilibrium. He had discarded it as childish. Besides, in the new spirit of taking his chances again, this was what he needed to do: put himself back into circulation for human contact and the emotions of the past that such contact could raise.

He watched as she fussed with the kettle in the corner of her office. She had an aura of fresh wholesomeness and her demeanour made her appear younger than her years which he took to be a few years less than his.

When she handed him his coffee and sat across the desk from him he realised that if he stretched his legs out they would touch hers beneath the wooden top and he moved his chair back. To his embarrassment she seemed to notice the move and he was sure she understood why.

So, Ethan, you want to buy a farm?

Yes.

Why?

What kind of question is that?

Yes, sorry. It seems a bit blunt. But I can help you better if I understand your motives. For example, is it necessary that it be commercially viable immediately, or are you prepared for a longer term return, or perhaps you want a farm for the lifestyle benefits and the returns are not that important to you?

Ethan had not considered all those possibilities. He wanted the farm as an instrument to start his return to normal society. He wanted it to give him a purpose and a routine, a driven routine. But he could not tell her that.

I’m not entirely sure. It must at the least give me a living.

Have you farmed before?

No.

Not at all? Never lived on a farm?

He felt like walking out of her office. Why probe like this? Then his business sense came back and he knew she was right to qualify him like this if she was to find him what he wanted. He would have to share a little.

I lived on a smallholding once. Outside a big city. And we. He stopped himself; no plurals.

I had horses and sheep and of course dogs. I learnt a little about how to tend to them and what to do when they got sick. A few things like that.

Julia had noticed the hesitation. She didn’t want to spook him. She would have to be careful. Perhaps it would be better if they got into her pickup and went out visiting a few of the farms she had on her books. Let him expose his motives in the discussion which would follow on the merits of each.

I have two farms which we could visit immediately and a few others which are possibilities. Should we go and visit the two? See what sorts of options are available to you?

He had not considered the possibility of immediately looking at farms. Not today. But why not?

Yes, maybe that would be the best thing to do.

Good, let’s go. We’ll take my pickup.

They both stood and she opened a drawer in her desk with a key and removed an automatic handgun which she placed in her voluminous satchel. The sight of the gun gave him a bad fright.

What on earth do you need that for?

She saw his extreme tension. He had gone white and she knew it had brought back something