Author Topic: The Smithfield Townhall Mystery  (Read 1290 times)

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Offline Jeannedarc

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The Smithfield Townhall Mystery
« on: September 07, 2015, 01:16:24 PM »
I was travelling from Pretoria towards East Londen to chair a series of meetings on the Promotion of Access to Information Act and in particular the outcome of the moderations on the MPAT PAIA standards. For some or the other very silly reason I decided to drive down to East Londen instead of flying, the silly reason being I just love driving and in particular my newly acquired sportscar. Ahh yes, I bit down on the bullet and bought me a Porsche Boxter GTS, a very nimble little two seater car packing quite a punch in the power department. And the sound of its six cylinder boxer engine is to die for.
   Cruising along the N1 highway and for whatever reason there was very little traffic so I depressed the accelerator deeper into the plush carpet with the engine singing along on a throaty F#. A peek at the speedo informed me I was cruising along at almost 200km/h, causing me to slightly ease off on the accelerator and with fables of “previously caught by the Rangers of the Highways and By-ways” playing off in my head. 120kph now feels as if I’m on the back of a snail just as a distance marker flashes by briefly stating “Smithfield 150km”. A little less than an hour and I might have the pleasure of a warm meal and a good red wine and a decent bed to lay my head to rest.
The raspy grunge of ACDC’s Thunderstruck bellowing from the Bose surround sound system almost seems to be appropriate just as a blindingly blue-white flash of lightning streaked across a sky filled to the brim with ominous blue-black storm-pregnant clouds. Merde but it really is a nasty storm moving in I think as another bolt of lightning races to mother Earth at the speed of light. And this is not the best of roads I’m travelling on what with all the potholes and road-works and it’s narrow too. And there is not a filling station in sight where I might stop over till the storm has passed, not that it will pass on by the looks of it. “The silence before the storm” springs to mind as I observe the fields and the sky, the total absence of movement in the trees, no birds visible at all.
   A road sign appears in the headlights of the Porsche, indicating East Londen to be 600 odd kilometres away. I certainly will have to look for a place to have something to eat and drink with hunger pangs shooting through my stomach. I remember from the map on my GPS there’s a “dorpie” named Reddersburg on my route and I should be able to find a restaurant of some sort there. Reddersburg is, according the information sign about 50km away and the time is 16:45 on the clock. Exiting a bend I saw the dim lights what appears to be a hamlet – could it be Reddersburg at the same time as a “Welkom in Reddersburg” sign appears in my headlights. Slowing the Porsche down to 60, I see a Shell sign on the left. Might as well fill her tummy up too, seeing as I’m going to have something to eat. Pulling in at the filling station and stopping at the pump, I ask the pump attendant, a very old and wrinkly Madala to fill up the Porsche, with 95. Eish Merrim, sy’s darem banja mooi, hierie mouster, the old man says as he gently placed the nozzle in the filler pipe. Baie dankie, Madala. Ja she is a beaut.  Madala, is there a restaurant or roadhouse close by? I am quite hungry and it’s still quite a drive to East Londen. Dja Merrim maar dissie n restaurantie, nei dis a kafie wat hom maak die takaways en ammeskie die Merrim soek ok die wine, die offsales is next door die kafie, net da oerkant die pad. Merrim moet bietjie gou maak, darrie Griek hy close 5 O’clock. Looking at my watch I see I have ten minutes to get to the off sales and café, but then it is only across the street. Rushing over and into the café with minutes to spare, I realise I shouldn’t expect any gourmet dishes from this “restaurant”. ‘Allo Madame, I can help yes? Says a voice from somewhere in the obscure twilight of the café. Yes please, may I have two double cheese burgers to take away and two soda waters? Tell me I say; are you also the proprietor of the off sales? Ah yes is my store, I get you something from bottle store, Mr Greek asks. Yes please, I would like a bottle of Bushmills 10year malt, if you have and it’s also to take away. Hey Sophia, we have customer she wants two double cheese burgers she is to take away. I go look for whiskey. Oi you are lucky Madame I have your whiskey and here is your burgers yes. That is R150 for the burgers and the whiskey, soda water is on house. How much is the whiskey I ask, knowing full well 10year malt is about R500 a bottle? I find bottle in back full of dust and cob webs so bottle very old so I make price of R90 for bottle. Oh you are a dear I say as I hand over the cash. Goodbye.
   Exiting the hamlet’s boundaries, I pressed down on the accelerator and in desperate need to get to Smithfield and a stopover, a possible hot shower and a bed. Outside the Porsche, night has descended faster because of the brewing storm with the ink-black night all the more pronounced by the almost continuous lightning flashes casting grotesque ghostly images from trees and rock alike. Drops of rain, as big as grapes; starts to cascade from the clouds, sounding like a waterfall against the body of my Porsche, forever increasing in intensity. Visibility flew out the side window of the Kraut with the de-mister on full to stop the windows fogging up, the racing headlights just about useless. Needless to say my speed dropped down to a crawl – there is so much water on the road the Porsche will want to change gender and become a boat. What felt like hours in the fleeting rain, I almost missed the welcome sign to Smithfield, no lights to be seen glimmering, anywhere.
   At last a bit of light glowing! The building appears to be big, it might be the town hall itself. If there is light then there must be an official, who can direct me to the nearest guest house. Coming to a stop in front of this building and in the open, no shelter under which I could leave the Kraut. Getting out of the Porsche in normal circumstances is not an easy feat, getting out of her in this storm is going to be an almost impossibility, with her being so low slung. Good lord it is raining so hard I might even drown trying to get out, drenched I’ll definitely be as will the innards of Krautie. Oh well let’s get out and in under roof.
   I’ve never gotten out of little Gretchen this fast considering the fact that I’m not the smallest of girls around and Gretchen’s close proximity to mother earth. Grabbing the bonnet and opening in one swift movement, I grab my gear, close the bonnet and stormed to the door. Extending my hand towards the door, I realise the door is slightly ajar. Opening the door, I notice the innards of the whole building appears to be sort of glowing, a soft reddish glow but from no specific light source; causing the hairs on my arms to stand to attention. As I turn around to close the door, I notice my Porsche to be almost invisible through the rain and I do not cast a shadow. It’s as if the reddish glow is held prisoner within the confines of the city hall. O well, let me look for a place where I could make my bed and then I need to get out of this wet, drenched clothes. My food, the two double cheese burgers would be soggy and cold at this point in time, but that will be rectified by a few wee drams of single malt.
   Having found a place for my bedding and into dry clothes with a Bushmills in hand, I set about on a discovery tour of the city hall, if that is what this building is. There is indeed a hall and a stage to the front of it with heavy brocade curtains, almost blood-red-black in colour, hanging from the stage façade. A few chairs scattered about creating the impression of disuse, but then this is Smithfield and usage is different from other places. Who am I trying to kid? Grabbing a chair, I walked back to where my bedding is. I also have this distinct feeling of being watched, even though there is no-one in sight, the fine hair on me arms still standing to attention and it definitely is not from cold. And my TAG HEUER tells me it is close to the hour of 10. Into the sleeping bag it is after I realise there is no light to switch off.
   I must have fell asleep as soon as my head laid itself on the pillow I think as I’m struggling to contemplate what it is that awoken me from such deep sleep and at the same time realising it actually is quite cold even inside the sleeping bag, my breath a cloudy vapour over my mouth. Looking about I make out flickering shadows being cast against the walls as if from candles or paraffin lanterns. It is still raining but not as hard as earlier the evening. Thinking at first it must be my imagination, only to realise it is not my imagination it definitely is the voice of someone pleading, or so it sound to me and he or she sounds as if pleading for its life. Then the doors of the hall creak-squeak oh so slowly open, but I surely have closed them I think to myself. The sound of heavy footsteps and booted at that reverberates through the hall, heavy hollow booming, going on for what seemed to be an eternity and the scraping of chairs over the floor. The flickering light constantly casting grotesque shadows, horrible, against the walls. 
    Something is in the happening in this hall and pleasant it is not as fear flows in ice-cold rivulets down my face, from my breasts and forming puddles in whatever hollow it can find on my body. I want to get up to see what is happening – a woman’s curiosity perhaps, at the same time I’m as if nailed to the wooden floor. The drone of men’s voices, deep basso, echo through the hall bouncing off walls. Trying my utmost best to make as little a sound as is possible, I manage to creep out of my sleeping bag. It must be the kitchen where I laid my sleeping bag judging by the old black coal-stove against the opposite wall. Slowly oh so slowly I start moving towards the doorway between my “bedroom” and the main hall from where all these voices emanates, praying as I go along that the floorboards not creak. One never knows who it is in the next room and whether they would react kindly to an obvious intruder on their turf so to speak.
   Reaching the door, I ever so slowly stuck my head out from behind the doorjamb. The moment my eyes set sight on the scene in front of my eyes, every bit of hair, strand was standing on end; I was overcome by fear, primal fear welling up from deep inside of me. Was I swallowed by a sort of time warp that took me back in time, back to the late 19th century. Sitting in a row behind a long table of rough-hewn wood, about a bakers-dozen bearded men, their eyes cast in shadow. Their beards hiding their mouths, touching the crossed bandoliers full of bullets on their barrel chests. How is it possible? Am I finding meself smack bang in the “Boer War?” My mind says it’s not possible with my heart calling me mind a fucking imbecile. Clearly this is, must be a war council or military court in session although I cannot see any accused, not yet anyway. And these men are armed too, their rifles in upright position against the table, each rifle to the right of its owner.
   As I was gazing at this council or tribunal or court, four men walked, not past me, but through me, my legs turning to jelly, fear knotting my stomach. I want to scream but no sound escapes my lips, drier than a desert. Two of the men, who just walked through me, are youngish, younger than the others and from what I can see, no bearded faces. Their hands are tied up in front of them, their clothes in tatters and bloody. They are being pushed shoved by huge burly bearded men, one each side, rifles clamped in hands the size of hams. As if choreographed, the two young men starts pleading, abruptly silenced by meaty fists slamming into their faces. Hou julle bekke julle vuilgoed, the obvious leader of this show says in a booming voice. Julle sal net praat as daar vir julle gesê word, julle donnerse hanskakies, verraaiers.
   Swart Hans, Piet Petoors, vertel vir ons waar het julle hierdie twee lamsakkige drolle gekry? Ja Oom Hendrik, sien, ons het so onderlangs verneem dat dié tweetjies, KleinJan van Oom RooiGert en sy hanslammetjie Gertjie Griesel baie lekker kuier daar by daardie Ingelse generaal, ja daardie generaal wat halwe dag te perd suid van hier sy plaas het. Ja daardie een wat hy so goedsmoeds ge-annekseer het van Lang Koos Karelse. Ek en Piet hier het toe so bietjie verken en ons het toe wragtig die tweetjies daar op die generaal se plaas gevind, lekker hand om die blaas met die ou generaal en ook baie daning met sy dogters. Julle lieg skree Kleinjan, ons . . . en hy sak op die grong neer van ‘n vuis in die wind. Met geweld ruk Swart Hans hom weer in ‘n staande posisie. Good God I think, this is horrendous, it is beyond brutal. Barbaric if you ask me and how do I stop this? Only to realise these men walked into the hall – through me. There is nothing I could do. I have to sit through all of this barbaric play. I’m a spectator, sitting in the box so to speak in this sadistic play.
   After a few minutes of silence barring the whimpering of the two so-called traitors, “Oom Hendrik’s” voice booms, breaking the pregnant silence. Ek gaan nie eens vra of julle tweetjies iets te sê het nie, julle het nie ‘n enkele keer die waarheid gespreek nie. Wat meer is – die getuienis teen julle is oorweldigend. Die vonnis vir ‘n verraaier is die doodstraf maar nie voor ‘n vuurpeleton nie, dis net vir waardige dapper krygers. O nee, julle gaan soos skape keel-af gesny word en selfs dit is miskien nog te goed vir julle. Swart Hans, Piet, voltrek asseblief die vonnis, ja hier in die saal voor die krygshof. Dis ‘n openbare teregstelling die. With those words spoken, as if from one mouth the most horrible unearthly cry erupts from their mouths, agape in terror. Suddenly possessed of power worthy of the devil himself, KleinJan jerks loose from the grip of Swart Hans, turns around and flees directly in my direction; only to be caught in the kitchen. Swart Hans summarily grabbed him from behind, pulls his knife from its sheath and slit KleinJan’s throat, blood spraying everywhere, squirting, the pungent coppery smell of fresh blood overwhelmingly mingling with the smell of fear, faeces. Almost simultaneously Gertjie is gripped by one of the court and having his throat slit by Piet Petoors. Kom manne, sê Oom Hendrik, laat ons hierdie twee sleg moere aan die Bloekom hier voor hang as voorbeeld vir enige ander wat verraad idees mag kry.
   With those words spoken, all the men took up their rifles, with two grabbing Gertjie, pulling his dead body along with two others grabbing hold of Kleinjan, unceremoniously pulling his body through the closed kitchen door. As these bloodthirsty bearded men were on their way out, the one called Oom Hendrik stopped right next to me, looking me in the eye, nodding his head as if in recognition and walked on. Then there was no sound at all. Not the sound of their boots on the wooden floor, nor a spoken word between them and not the sound of a single letting out of breath. Gone is the flickering of lantern light. Gone is the red glow the hall was clad in. The whole of the building in absolute ink-black dark, so dark I cannot even see my hands right in front of my eyes. I realise I’m lying in a crumpled bundle on the floor and I’m deathly cold. A sudden flash of lightning lights up the inside in ghostly white, casting strange looking shadows all over. I can’t remember how I got to my sleeping bag and how I ended up inside it. I do remember lying in my bag shivering both from a terrible fear and I must assume being cold, my head inside the sleeping bag, eyes tightly shut. Not that it would deter any murderous fils de putain. I must have dosed off again sometime in the night for the morning sun woke me up. The storm during the night something of the past, a mere remembrance.
   Getting up from the floor, I realised the storm might be a thing of the past but my ghastly experience during the night is not to be relegated to the past. It is lying over me as thick and heavy as the London particular. Just thinking causes my hair to stand on end. Looking around me as I gathered my things, I see only a dilapidated building, dust and cobwebs everywhere. The only thing present from the experience is the coal-stove standing as silent witness against the wall. The almost blood-red-black curtains hanging from the façade on stage in shreds with some of the flooring missing. No evidence of chairs and tables in the hall itself and as I turn around to exit, I notice the doors at the entrance hanging lopsided on broken hinges. The smell inside all musty and reeking of animal urine.
   At last I’m out in the morning sunshine, everything looking sparkling bright and new. Having a mind of their own, my eyes search for and find the blue gum tree, searching and finding no bodies hanging from its boughs. With a shiver I open the Porsche bonnet putting my gear inside. Closing the bonnet, something catches my eye near the top of the bonnet at the passenger side. With trepidation I move closer for a better look – it’s the print of a hand, a large one at that and bloody. But how can it be – it was raining through the night; my hair standing up and shivers running up and down me spine. Jumping or rather sliding into the Porsche I turn the key and with a rumble-growl my kraut starts. I suddenly realise that there is virtually no road, just two tracks partially covered with grass and weeds and there is also the distinct lack of other buildings and houses. Turning into the tar road there is only one thought milling in my mind – get the fuck away from here as fat as you can. Gretchen’s cute behind snaking wildly from side to side as I accelerate like a bat out of hell.
   Somewhere down the road towards East Londen I was wondering whether I was dreaming, having the granny of a nightmare or did I really experience the gruesome play? Involuntary my eyes stray to the left top side of the bonnet only to see a bloody hand print . . .

Offline PM

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Re: The Smithfield Townhall Mystery
« Reply #1 on: September 07, 2015, 02:44:39 PM »
Ek het gou iets kom soek op die forum toe ek hierlangs geroep word.  Moet drieuur op 'n ander plek wees.  Sal later met al my aandag lees.  Lief jou.
Om te weet is om te verstaan.