South Africa, 2003.
Meet Basher Morgan. An ex-SADF Regimental Sergeant Major retired from the battlefields of Southern Angola and living in quiet poverty on his mountainside farm.
Enter Melda Blake. A ruthless and seductive property tycoon that desperately needs his land to build a golf course and will stop at nothing to get what she wants.
Corporate skullduggery versus a grizzled two-fisted throwback. All’s fair in love and war… but who will triumph in the end?
That meets all the requirements for a blurb. Creates interest, makes characters more real by giving them a name, establishes a bit of conflict, but leaves you having to read the book to find out what happens.
Thanks Gyppo. I really need to do something with this MS other than to think about giving it yet one more edit. I wrote it part-time in 2011 to save my sanity without setting out to write an actual book but 103 000 words later, there it was. It was why I originally joined MWC in 2012, for advice etc, but that fizzled and I composed poems instead. Somebody was saying something about endings, when I realised I had written the last line I went whoo-hoo with arms in the air… then I wrote the epilogue.
I kind of edited in chunks as i went along but I’ve also done several full MS edits. At one point, I decided to change all the dialogue tags from doubles to singles…manually…for some reason I couldn’t use Replace All. People tell me it’s quite funny in places - I went for satire but perhaps it’s more slapstick. I’m going to post a couple of chapters from about three-quarters of the way through, when things are finally starting to get serious.
Chapter 55
On Saturday evening, Colin Burns was ambivalent about the sudden influx of additional guests that Melda Blake had produced after the abrupt departure of Piet Mlungu. True, he had filled more rooms in the pre-Christmas lull and that was always welcome. On the other side of the ledger the new arrivals, all in their mid-twenties, were of a type unfamiliar to Colin but who nevertheless made him uneasy with their bristly heads, goatee beards and thick necks and shoulders.
They exuded a menacing atmosphere of casual lawlessness and potential violence that made Colin distinctly uncomfortable, although they hadn’t actually done anything overt other than pad around like hungry leopards in a cage and drink considerable amounts of tequila and beer.
Two of them had had a brief but vicious scuffle in the parking lot upon their arrival in a sinister looking large black BMW with heavily tinted windows and black rims.
Colin had begun to feel like a high-school waiter at a bouncer’s convention awash with alcohol and steroids. Two combined substances, he understood from his reading of men’s health magazines, which ultimately feminised the male body.
Colin decided it would be prudent to keep this information to himself as he collected the brutes’ empty beer bottles and pizza boxes, and removed the overflowing makeshift ashtrays from the previously non-smoking TV lounge which they had appropriated as their club room.
‘Shut the door behind you, Cedric,’ commanded the leader of the Mediterranean-looking group, ‘and don’t disturb us, we’re about to have a meeting. Tell Melda we’re waiting for her.’
Melda studied the group of thugs she had conjured up by contacting Gino. They looked like typical city heavies, full of rough braggadocio and churlish contempt for the rustic lodge and its bucolic surroundings. They eyed her up and down lasciviously and exchanged glances that evoked intimations of gang rape as a leisure activity.
Melda ignored their brash regard and spoke to Gino. ‘Lose the gorillas,’ she said. ‘They can go and pat a donkey while we have a chat.’
Gino cut his eyes at the swarthy foursome and gestured with his head to indicate they should leave him alone with the busty businesswoman.
After they had trooped out noisily and shut the door quietly, Melda picked up the remote and banished Oprah Winfrey. Silence and cigarette smoke hung in the room as she pondered the wisdom of unleashing Gino and his wolf-pack. There was no going back after this. She was about to cross a line into unfamiliar territory. So far, it had been just business, including bribery, corruption and manipulation, yes – but nothing beyond certain loose norms. Gino operated in a darker world where blood and violence were common currency. Melda steeled herself with the thought of how past empires had been built by overcoming the strong and trampling the weak.
Gino stubbed out his cigarette in the howdah of a ceramic elephant. ‘So what’s the job, Melda?’ he asked. ‘You said something about that hillbilly causing problems with the development?’
Melda hesitated one last time and then nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We had a deal signed, that day you and Patty and Benjy came to get me from the farm, remember?’
‘I don’t forget a sucker punch.’
‘Right. Well, there was a technical difficulty with the contract. Morgan pulled out of the deal which has left all of us, including your investor, up shit creek.’
‘After you let him fuck you sideways.’ Gino’s eyes glinted with something.
Melda spoke frankly. ‘It was just the cherry on top for him and I was stuck there for two nights. I tried to seduce him into signing a new, airtight agreement last weekend but it didn’t work out because someone petrol-bombed the house we were in just as I was getting him ready.’
‘Who petrol-bombed you?’
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anymore. After that, he turned nasty and uncooperative and the whole thing fell flat. We have to get that land, Gino, otherwise…’
Gino grimaced. ‘I put my cock on a block for you with that extra million five you needed. Are you telling me it’s gonna get chopped off because of that asshole?’
Melda nodded. ‘They’ll probably cut off my tits,’ she said in solidarity.
‘What’s the plan? I know you, you always have a plan.’
Melda nodded in acknowledgement. ‘The plan’s in play. I used my contact at the local council to force an auction on the land this coming Wednesday.’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘The auction’s the deadline for him to pay the arrears rates. If he gets it right, it’ll be the end of the road for us.’
Gino frowned. ‘Does he have the money? How much is it?’
‘Just over a hundred grand. We don’t think he has it. According to the background check, all he gets is a small monthly pension, and he has zero credit.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is that I’m concerned he’ll be able to raise the money somehow and pay the demand. According to what I’ve heard, he’s not in town so he’s obviously up to something.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘What we need to do is to intercept him when he comes back. I can give you a description of his bakkie. It’s a big old green one, sticks out a mile.’ Melda consulted a slip of paper. ‘A Ford F250, registration NTG 17426.’
Gino took the note as Melda continued. ‘You need to keep an eye out for him on the incoming road. It’s the obvious route back whether he’s gone to Jo’burg or Durban. And you need to watch the road past the development and the farm itself in case he comes another way. He’s unpredictable. Keep an eye on the Pig & Swan tavern in town as well. Once you’ve located him then you can get him.’
‘What do you mean, “get him”?’
‘I don’t want to take any chances with Basher Morgan; he’s caused enough chaos in my life already. You grab him and hold him up somewhere until I’ve bought the property at the auction. Keep whatever cash he’s carrying as a bonus. He might even have the hundred with him. I know he lifted fifteen K off that idiot Piet Mlungu before he left.’
‘He robbed a black guy?’
‘No, Mlungu’s white.’
‘Okay, speaking of money, the rate is a thousand per day for each of the guys and two for me, alright?’
‘Fine.’
‘Plus expenses.’
‘Fine.’
‘In advance.’
‘No, I want some results first. Once I’ve bought the property at the auction, I’ll pay you triple what you’ve just asked, how’s that?’
Gino grinned. ‘It sounds good. How about if we disappear him for good? Stop him complaining afterwards. What’s that worth?’
‘I’m not asking you to kill him,’ said Melda sharply.
‘Might be a lot easier. Might be what it takes.’
‘You do what you have to do. Just stop him from going to the council and paying in the money.’
‘What if someone else pays it in or there’s a bank transfer?’
‘We can’t cover everything. Mlungu will let me know if there’s a funds transfer to the council in Morgan’s favour which will then get temporarily lost in the system until it’s too late. But I don’t need Basher kicking up a fuss in the meantime which is why you have to make sure and get him under control. Keep him under wraps and find out what he’s been up to.’
‘A pair of broken legs will stop him farting in church. Then we’ll make him sing. Remember that freak we did for you?’
Melda gave a tiny nod. ‘You can contact me on this prepaid phone from now on.’ She recited the number and Gino entered it into his phone.
‘Watch out for Morgan, he used to be a boxer,’ Melda cautioned.
‘Big deal. Did he ever take on five streetfighters with weapons?’
‘He was in the army too.’
‘All the ballies were. Still crying into their beer about it. Means fuckall to me.’
Melda tossed her mane of semi-artificial hair. ‘Very well. Is everything clear, Gino?’
‘I know what to do.’
‘Then take your merry men and go and do it.’
Chapter 56
After Basher had completed his illegal exit from the harbour the ocean swells humped and slid beneath them as The Swift Lady breasted them with ease.
They steered NNE and the skyline of the city’s beachfront, backlit by the fading twilight that cast its pink fingers on the dark green and somnolent sea, slid slowly away to port in a studded prickle of diminishing lights.
Zoё stood in the prow as Basher steadied the helm and rolled with the motion of the boat in the wheelhouse. The diesel engine of the sturdy little boat thudded steadily as they headed purposefully into the deepening dusk.
Basher cut the engine, when, according to the GPS and its waypoint of the Umhlanga Rocks lighthouse, they were fourteen nautical miles offshore. The radarscope was set to emit an audible warning of the approach of any shipping or small craft.
Zoё joined Basher in the little cabin as he cracked a bottle of Scotch and poured them each a healthy and fortifying dollop.
‘When will he wake up?’ asked Basher.
Zoё looked at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t be much longer now.’
‘Then we better get him set up before he starts running around the boat like a turkey in December.’ Basher downed the slug of whisky.
They tipped Mikey out of the canoe and unrolled him from the Rasta flag which Basher reflected would make an appropriate winding shroud for Mikey.
Basher and Zoё hoisted Mikey into the angler’s fighting chair, snipped off the cable ties, ripped off the gag, and duct-taped him securely to the chair at wrists, ankles and abdomen like a very reluctant dental patient.
They sat in the cabin and had another drink while they waited for Mikey’s consciousness to join them.
‘We need to do some homework,’ said Zoё.
‘Cover our tracks, you mean.’
Zoё nodded. ‘If we had planned this from the outset, before you arrived at The Digs, we would have set it up a lot neater.’
Basher shrugged. ‘Life isn’t neat.’
‘I’m okay; Chloë doesn’t exist. She disappears at the same time as Mikey goes down, no worries, just another mystery and there’re a million fingerprints in that house.’
Basher grunted his assent. ‘Yah, that’s good. I left a few dabs around the place myself.’
‘The local plods will hardly stir themselves over a missing druggie but your bakkie’s a problem.’
‘Because Mikey probably gave the registration to his other cop pals and they might be upset enough about his absence to run a check?’
‘Yes. And there’s Herbie as well who can lead them to you. People saw the two of you rock up together. The cops might actually bother to put two and two together and question him.’
‘Don’t worry about Herbie. I spoke to the… his father today. They sent a fast car to collect him. If they ever question Herbie he won’t give me up.’
‘Can you trust Herbie’s father in the future?’
Basher thought about it for a moment. ‘He’s a man of honour and we go way back, so yes, I trust him. It won’t be a problem.’
‘There’s still your bakkie, though.’
‘You’re right. It’s going to have to go, just in case. Shit – and I just forked out for a new radiator as well.’
‘What’s its provenance? Can it be traced back to you?’
Basher laughed. ‘Hell, no. That was a PB bakkie that was confiscated and impounded at Oshikati after a roadblock found a couple of AKs under the seat. I saw it there months later and decided to claim it. I gave a sergeant two weeks leave to drive the thing to South Africa for me after the Tiffies had gone over it.’
‘What’s a PB bakkie?’
‘Plaaslike bevolking. Local population.’
‘Okay. The number plates?’
‘Fake, along with the disc. No one’s ever bothered me about it.’
‘You’ll still have to get rid of it.’
Basher sighed, ‘Yah. I know.’
Zoё was silent for a few heartbeats. ‘I’ve got a proposal for you, seeing as how this is all down to me and my problem.’
Basher shook his head. ‘No, don’t worry about anything. You saved me from Mikey and put the dope deal together for me and saved the farm. An old bakkie’s cheap at the price.’
‘Just hear me out.’
‘Alright, I’m listening.’ Basher reached for the whisky bottle.
‘Okay. First, just leave the bakkie in the garage where it is. I’ll arrange to have it disposed of.’
‘That sounds like one less headache.’
‘Then I want you to have the tow-truck,’ said Zoё earnestly.
‘Fuck, are you serious?’
‘Yes. The thing’s been compromised since Sugamoney and his cronies got a look at it. A re-spray and a new name won’t be enough. We’ll get a new one.’
‘What will the Brigadier say about that?’
Zoё lifted a shoulder. ‘Not a problem, pocket change for him. My dad was fond of Debbie, almost like a second daughter to him.’
‘Don’t burden him with the knowledge of what we’ve done.’
‘I won’t. But he knows I was undercover at The Digs. When he sees me back and hears that something’s happened to Mikey, he’ll know.’ Zoё paused. ‘So what about the truck?’
Basher didn’t have to think about it for long. ‘Hey, that’s a great offer. I accept. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. So that’s everything sorted. If you do pick up any hassle with the cops, phone me. We’ll help you.’
‘Maybe. But if I do get into shit, I won’t pull you into it. That’s a promise.’
As they sat back there was a groan and muttering from Mikey who then began to shout plaintively.
‘Show time,’ said Basher, and made his way onto the afterdeck and switched on the deck lights.
Mikey looked spacey but recognised Basher immediately. ‘Badger!’ he cried out with relief. ‘What the fuck happened? Are we are on a boat? Why are we on a boat? What’s happening? I’m tied up!’ Mikey thrashed feebly against his bonds.
Basher delivered two heavy-handed slaps to Mikey’s face. ‘Wake up sunshine,’ he said roughly.
‘Ow! What the fuck are you doing, man? What’s going on? Let me go!’
‘Shut up,’ said Basher, and cracked him another pair of slaps to the head.
Mikey looked dazed. Blood leaked slowly from his mouth. His eyes were wide and shaded with dawning fear. ‘HELP!’ he screamed. ‘HELP!’
Basher hit him squarely on the nose with a short jab. ‘I told you to shut up,’ he said. ‘We’re at sea on a boat where no one can hear you. Every time you scream for help I’m going to punch your nose. Got that, Pavlov?’
Mikey nodded. Blood from his nose ran over his mouth and dripped from his beard. Droplets sprayed as he spoke. ‘What do you want? Let me go! Who the fuck are you?’
‘A good question. I could be just a hick geezer with a cargo of wheat that’s ripe for the plucking by you and your cop connections.’ Basher looked at him fiercely. ‘Go half-half and toss me into a South African prison for the rest of my useful life. Wasn’t that the idea, Mikey?’
Mikey stared at him in shock. ‘How the fuck do you know that? Wait! It isn’t true, Badger!’
‘Too late,’ said Basher. ‘Guilty on count one.’
‘I’m not guilty! – what do you mean, count one?’
‘Case closed. Next charge.’ Basher nodded at Zoë who walked into the periphery of Mikey’s vision and then stood before him.
‘Hello Mikey,’ Zoё said quietly in Chloë’s voice.
Mikey blinked in confusion. ‘Who the fuck is this bitch?’
Basher hit him on the kneecap with a fish club. ‘Contempt of court,’ he said in a ringing bailiff’s tone overlaid by Mikey’s shriek of agony. ‘Don’t do it again.’
Zoё waited until Mikey’s sobs had subsided. ‘Don’t you recognise me, shithead?’ she asked.
‘No. But… your voice is familiar…’
‘I’ve been living in your commune for three months as a dumpling named Chloë.’ Zoё angled her face into the light.
‘Chloë?’ Mikey’s bloodied visage registered puzzlement. He glanced at Basher. ‘I don’t understand. Who are you people?’
‘Friends of Debbie Swift,’ said Zoё.
Basher saw something flit across Mikey’s eyes. A flash of startled guilt chased by a shadow of fear. It was enough for him. He snapped on a pair of medical gloves and hauled out the bolt-cutting shears he had purchased and carefully cut off the small toe on Mikey’s bare right foot despite his screams and struggles.
‘Just going to do the other foot for you, Mikey,’ said Basher nonchalantly. ‘Wouldn’t want you to have a limp or anything.’
Mikey screamed. He heaved and thrashed in pain and panic. He curled his remaining toes as he begged and pleaded for mercy.
Unperturbed, Basher performed the crude amputation on the corresponding digit and allowed it to fall to the deck.
‘Okay Mikey,’ he said, snapping the bloodied jaws of the bolt-cutters idly. ‘This is what we know. You made Debbie pregnant and then you made her disappear. We’d like to know what happened in between. While we’re waiting for you to tell us, I’m going to cut off your toes one by one. And then your fingers. You’ve got a minute or two to think it over while I wash the deck.’
Basher started the boat’s engine and switched on the pump for the spray-hose neatly coiled on a bulkhead. He hosed Mikey down, rinsed the deck and chased the pink residue overboard through the scuppers with the pressurised jet of saltwater. ‘There you go, chum,’ he said.
Basher went into the wheelhouse, put the boat in gear and allowed the vessel to idle forward at docking speed.
‘Ready to spill the beans?’ he asked, re-emerging.
‘Fuck you! I don’t know anything! Debbie was pregnant, yes. It could have been mine, who knows, but she ran away!’
Basher held up the bolt-cutters. ‘Wrong answer.’ He positioned the jaws around Mikey’s big toe on his left foot.
‘Wait! Wait! I’ll tell you, don’t hurt me anymore!’
Mikey confessed. Yes, he had made her pregnant. She wasn’t the first girl it had happened with at The Digs. But the stupid bitch wouldn’t go for an abortion. What was he supposed to do? Become a father? No fucken way.
‘What did you do?’ asked Zoё.
‘I had to do something. So I slipped her some roofies one night. We went for a drive in the bakkie. It’s got a canopy. When she conked out I put her on a mattress in the back.’
‘Go on.’
‘I took her to this ex-abortionist. Some old bag that legalisation had put out of business. She was a little drunk maybe and out of practice. Something went wrong and Debbie started bleeding. It wouldn’t stop – it was the old lady’s fault!’
‘Where did this happen?’ Zoё was cold and grim.
‘Gimme some pain pills. And bandage my toes first. I’m in major pain here!’
Basher pulled out a pair of fencing pliers and crushed a knuckle on Mikey’s right hand. ‘That’ll take your mind off your toes for a bit,’ he said. ‘Now answer the question.’
Mikey roared with pain and outrage. ‘NO MORE!’
‘Talk.’ Basher held up the pliers and bolt-cutters.
‘What was the question?’ Mikey was sobbing.
‘Where did this abortion happen?’ Zoё resumed her interrogation.
‘In the back of the bakkie, in the woman’s garage, at her house. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. The woman told me to take her to hospital, so I left.’
‘And then?’
‘I don’t know what happened. I drove around for a bit, trying to think. When I stopped to check on her…’
‘Yes?’ Zoё was icy.
‘She wasn’t breathing.’
‘You fucker! You piece of shit!’ Zoё grabbed the fish club and wildly rained blows onto Mikey’s head and body. ‘I’m gonna kill you!’
Instead, Zoё dropped the club and turned away with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands shook as she wiped her face.
‘What did you do with the body?’ asked Basher remorselessly.
Mikey groaned. His face was battered and his voice was thick and bleary. ‘I phoned this guy. A customer of mine. He works in a funeral parlour. A real weirdo. We cremated the body. In the middle of the night.’
‘Want the name?’ Basher looked at Zoё.
Zoё shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter about the accessories. It was Mikey’s crime. He was the prime mover.’
‘What about the ashes?’ Basher asked Mikey.
‘I don’t know. He got rid of everything.’
‘You paid this guy?’
Mikey nodded. ‘With stash.’
Basher switched on the pump and rinsed Mikey off with the pressure cleaner and flushed the deck again. Mikey’s toe stumps had bled a lot.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mikey. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘No you’re not,’ replied Basher. ‘You’re only sorry you got caught.’ He collected a filleting knife from the boat’s tool locker and sliced through the duct tape binding Mikey to the angler’s chair, carelessly cutting shallow slices into Mikey’s flesh in the process. ‘Get up,’ he said, dragging Mikey from the chair.
Mikey tottered painfully to his feet. He swayed and weaved as Basher guided him to the transom.
‘Sit there,’ commanded Basher and stepped back.
‘What’re you doing?’ asked Zoё.
‘I’m going to shoot him with this.’ Basher suddenly pointed a lethal looking pistol at Mikey. ‘On the count of three. One, two – ’
Mikey flung himself overboard with a wail and a splash. His head bobbed above the surface illuminated by the deck lights as he slowly fell astern in the boat’s gentle wake.
‘Enjoy your swim, Mikey!’ shouted Basher across the watery expanse.
‘Where the hell did you get a gun from?’ asked Zoё, turning to look at Basher.
Basher raised the pistol and shot her between the eyes.
Zoё gasped and then wiped liquid from her face. ‘You bastard! A water pistol!’
Basher chuckled. ‘It seemed appropriate.’
Zoё looked back at the dark ocean. ‘He’s a dead man, isn’t he?’
‘Put it this way, the water’s been chummed, he’s bleeding, concussed and fifteen kays offshore in a sharky sea at night. He’ll need a miracle.’
‘We killed him.’
‘It’s justice. An eye for an eye. Besides, he jumped overboard.’
‘He did. What am I going to tell her folks?’
‘You’ll figure out something.’ Basher was hosing everything down. He threw the rubber gloves into the sea but thriftily kept the new tools.
Zoë’s face was pinched and pale. ‘I’ve seen lots of bad shit on patrol but this was a bit heavy.’
‘It was justice. Swift justice. Vengeance.’
‘Yes, vengeance.’
‘You okay?’
Zoё nodded. ‘Yes. Let’s have a drink. More than one.’
Hm. I see the paragraph/dialogue indents are lost when cutting and pasting.
Well, that was intense, but enjoyable.
Shooting Zoё was a really nice bit of deceit 
Yeah, finishing a novel is a big deal, to us anyway. Editing, for me, was a daunting task. Having to constantly reread became a real chore. I left it alone for a few months, but when I returned I really started to enjoy it. 18 months later, and countless reads/minor edits later, I’m loving it even more.
One problem with edits is whose advice do you take. The few friends/family that read it didn’t give any suggestions, besides my wife saying (on numerous occasions) ‘Oh Colm, you can’t say that!’
A guy I’ve known for a while (lives in Spain), who’s an amateur writer, and who encouraged me throughout the six month write, would make suggestions I didn’t always accept. In the end he got so frustrated he terminated our friendship. His input was always appreciated, something I constantly reminded him of.
I wonder how I’d react to a professional editor (to get it published) if they told me to make changes I really couldn’t stomach?
Not that that’s going to happen. Being a 60+, cis male, white, entitled, without any physical or mental disorder and no prison time, I haven’t a hope.
But then again, maybe it’s pure shite, and doesn’t deserve to be published. After all, even the ugliest baby is beautiful to its mother.
I’ll keep pestering agents and publishers though 
Thanks for your comments, Colm. Yah… we’re not going to get any publishing deals anytime soon. The alternative route/s of self publishing are well established - just avoid those places that promise everything, and do it yourself. I forget the name now but there is a POD setup that’ll print and supply individual copies by mail at a pretty reasonable price, and you set the selling price over their cost price. Or you can order copies for yourself at cost and flog them in whatever ways you can dream up. Give away to friends and family.
I sent my MS to some local literary agents who said they couldn’t consider representing it as it needed editing, by them of course. I could see the con but thought a professional edit would be beneficial. It wasn’t, on multiple levels.
I shared chunks of the MS with several friends, during the writing, and asked for and received opinions and criticism which was helpful, you know the drill. Differing takes, of course.
I always had the idea that this would make a good movie and sort of wrote it from that angle. After finishing the first draft, I edited it myself until I wanted to vomit, and then sort of forgot about it for a few years. I nearly lost the entire MS at one stage due to some circumstances but then Keri got hold of the print shop in Mossel Bay where I’d once had a copy printed out, and retrieved it - the day before it got wiped according to their controlled demolition of old stuff on record. Plenty of yarns around this manuscript but anyway.
Why don’t you drop a couple chapters here of your MS so we can have a read?
I was just going to, but realised this is area is unprotected. If a potential publisher ( ) checked, they’d see my MS (in part) had already been ‘published’
I’ll DM a few pages.
Mm, good idea, the publishing firewall is an excellent feature here.
Hey Marc, please can you consider creating a prose space in the Member’s space? And if so, can you move my related posts there? Thank you, Mark.