The night is calm with a warm breeze stirring dust devils in the parched soil, forcing litter in its path to take flight and casting it into the night. Newly installed power lines bring much needed electricity to the surrounding townships and the now enormous electric oasis shimmers in the distance as the ground releases its heat from the exceptionally hot and cloudless day. It is at this time that one realises the sheer scale of the surrounding townships, growing daily with the influx of migrants compounded by the African tradition of producing large families in the hope that at least one child will be successful enough to support the family.

The farm settles down after a long working day and the corrugated roof and wood beams snap and crackle as they cool and contract. The sun quickly disappears on the horizon in an array of orange hues and the sound of the dogs barking from nearby smallholdings floats on the night air. The high-pitched cry of a bush baby echoes in the distance. From the main road, a vehicle turns into the drive, its headlights beaming through the tall grass and heads toward the main house. The silhouette of a driver bounces in the cab, the vehicle hurtling over underlying rock and a dust cloud billows behind it blanketing everything in its path. Coming to a quick halt at the top of the drive, tyres skidding and sliding on the concrete, the dust soon follows enveloping the entire back porch. Charles slowly climbs out of the cab, the suspension squeaking, and a security lamp triggers casting a beam across the back garden. He stands for a moment staring into the distance and lets out a long sigh, slams the car door shut and makes his way to the screen door leading through the kitchen at back of the house. Suddenly from out of nowhere, dark figures appear and rush toward him. He curses and they stop short, blinking against the dust and the bright light. A thin smile breaks across his face – man and beast love this game and tails swish happily slapping each other in the face. The excitement at seeing their master can’t be contained and licking, always licking, loving the taste of the salt on his skin. Elias, the gardener, spends much of his laboured morning picking up after this lot, swearing in his native Zulu, wondering where it all came from. He was positive that he was not feeding them that much and appealed to master Charles if he could lower their food intake. To rub it in, they preferred to vacate themselves in the areas where he had already cleared the weeds or recently mowed the lawn. Excitement contained, the fuss dies down and all is calm again with the dogs following their master into the house. He makes his way into the living room, scotch in hand jingling with ice cubes and settles on the couch with the smaller dogs joining him at his side and the larger at his feet. He kicks of his shoes, lights a cigarette and draws a close to the day.

Young kameeldoring with their long white thorns serve as a natural boundary to the property with the odd ‘wag ‘n bietjie’ scattered here and there, so named for the time taken to release yourself when caught up in its tiny thorns. Adjacent to the farmhouse is a modest three-bedroom cottage that I share with Charles and his cousin Stephen, whilst the main house is occupied by Charles’ mum, sister and another tenant Joe. Lying in bed, I wonder what it is that woke me but being quite drowsy, I shrug it off and quickly drift off to sleep again. I dream that the Rottweiler is licking my toes as she so often does in the mornings when she is let into the cottage, but then awake with my foot being shaken and the sound of a man’s voice. Blurry-eyed, I lean up on one arm and sensing someone standing at the end of my bed, I kick away in panic. I reach for the bedside lamp, falling to the floor and bring the lamp crashing down with me. Shit! The main light turns on and it is Joe.

“Christ Joe! You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing?”

He is visibly upset and tears well in his eyes. “Charles is shot,” he says, bent over and supporting himself against the wall trying to catch his breath.

“What”, I ask. And it dawns on me that I am clearly not going to get any sleep tonight and feeling rather annoyed I manage to shake off some of the drowsiness. “What’s the time”, I ask still a little fuzzy.

“Charles is shot“, he cries. “Come on”, gesturing for me to join him.

Still not quite comprehending what he is saying to me, I jump out of bed and grab my trousers from the stool at my desk. Fumbling with the buttons and hopping on one leg, I follow Joe down the hallway. “What do you mean he is shot”, I ask, trousers on and now not bothering with the buttons. Violent scenes flash in front of my eyes, blood splattered walls, a tied up body wrapped up in bed sheets – the kind of scene you see in crime dramas, bullet shells everywhere and forensics swabbing every surface. Stop it, stop it! Get a grip! But when I reach the bedroom entrance, I find everything in its place. The bedding is neatly folded back and has perfectly squared hospital corners as the maid was taught to do, the pillows are fluffed up and it is abundantly clear that Charles did not come home last night. Is this some sick joke or an elaborate hoax that the guys are quite capable of pulling after a night’s drinking? I look at Joe, his expression unchanged and tears running down his face. I realise that something is not quite right. As tidy as the room is, Charles’ bedside drawer is open and take a deep breath reminding myself to breathe.

“Where is he”, I ask, the adrenaline now pumping. A thick lump cramps in my side and my chest is closing. I feel like I am about to pass out and throw up at the same time. Grabbing my arm, Joe pulls me toward the living room, feeling my way along the passage wall as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Coloured spots swim in front of them. Reaching the glass front door, I look out and all I see are lifeless shadows. I step out into the light of the moon, my bare feet touching the cold concrete floor of the patio, find it quite soothing and helps clear my head. But a strange sense of euphoria and hysteria washes over me with a mix of fear, ecstasy and anxiety. Where did that all come from, I thought? A strange wave of emotion and my mind drifts back to the first day as a conscripted army recruit where I fired my first weapon. Sure, as a youngster I fired pellet guns and smaller shotguns but this was an R4 assault rifle, an automatic. Firing single rounds at a target of a soldier was exhilarating but then we were given orders to waste the rounds as they had expired. Switching the rifle to automatic, I fired and almost lost grip of the weapon as it bolted upwards but had an orgasm on the spot. I literally came in my camo’s and couldn’t fathom it. But standing here now, here was Charles’ body. Emotionally, I felt overwhelmed and imagined this to be the tipping point. Either you go over the edge or manage to hang on to just enough of your sanity to bring you back. His head is slumped to one side leaning against one of the pillars supporting the patio trellis. His body lifeless, arms to his side, palms up and legs sprawled out in front him but on closer inspection, it appears as if he is still breathing. I bend down to check his pulse and he slides away from the pillar, head hitting the brick paving. Fuck me. “This is all too much”, I whisper and shaking my head I reel back, my body trembling.

“He’s gasping for air”, shouts Joe but I’m too afraid to touch him. Will he wake up? Is he already suspended between here and there wherever there might be? The thick wine of life now black in the moonlight, splattered on the pillar behind him, disappearing into the cracks on the patio floor. I see the exit wound, a gaping hole matted in a soup of flesh, hair, skull, brain and blood. “Call the police, I think he’s still breathing”, I shout. The pistol next to his body winking in the moonlight.