A State Of Sin Amsterdam Occult Series Book Two, Mark Hobson [notion reading list txt] 📗

and her uncle chatted away, both completely comfortable in each other’s company, an easy rapport that they shared and enjoyed. Yet Bart barely joined in, their voices were just a faint murmur as his concentration was elsewhere. He stared out of the window into the night, seeing the moths fly by in the truck’s headlights but not really noticing them.

A feeling of dread had been building up inside him all day long, leaving a solid knot of tension deep in his stomach, so much so that he felt queasy and nauseous. He suffered in silence. If the others knew, if they even suspected how he thought about tomorrow’s hunt, then his Uncle Johan would admonish him severely, maybe even mete out a physical punishment. And his sister would laugh and ridicule him something rotten, the way she did whenever he cried or withdrew into his private little world. Lotte could be incredibly cruel like that. Her spitefulness, her name-calling, was horrid at times, even though deep down he knew she loved him. So Bart kept his thoughts to himself as they drove through the black night.

They reached the outskirts of town and drove by the white suburbs and gated-communities, the expensive homes with their swimming pools and barbeques and private security firms, and then drove along the narrow road that ran parallel to the main N3 Toll-road that bisected Mooi River. Passing a truck stop and then the tiny police station with its rifle range, they soon turned right and followed the road across the bridge over the modern motorway, and entered the poorer eastern section, where the blacks lived.

Sitting quietly in his seat Bart observed through wide eyes this sudden transition from wealth and comfort to poverty and hopelessness, from those that had a bright future and the security that their privilege brought, to the poor black community with no prospects, no hope, just a lifetime of struggle, beaten down over years of neglect. The change was stark and a shock to those unprepared for it, and it brought a lump to his throat and a tremble to his lips.

Bart glanced sideways out of the corner of his eye at his Uncle and sister. Uncle Johan was unfazed, he was humming to himself and his fingers were drumming along the top of the truck’s steering wheel. Lotte’s face was blank, totally devoid of expression, her small mean mouth just a tiny gash in her pretty face.

Bart turned away lest they see the pain on his face.

On the hillside here, a small township had sprung up over the years, a collection of shabby huts and dilapidated shacks, an area of poor lighting and high crime. They drove by a few people loitering at the kerbside – “fucking floppies” as Uncle Johan referred to them – and then turned off the road into a tiny parking area in front of a small building.

The hand-written wooden sign above the door read: DABULAMANZI’S TUCK SHOP.

Looking out through the windscreen Bart saw it was a run-down liquor and food store that had obviously seen better days: the window was boarded over, the few advertising signs were either rusted brown or pockmarked with bullet holes from passing drivers, and the door was shut with a notice telling customers to ring the bell to gain entry. There were no other vehicles parked up, just a low wall with a couple of men sitting and drinking from a shared bottle. A single lamp buzzed and hummed with nocturnal insects.

Uncle Johan wound down his window and leaned his elbow on the sill.

“Hey!” he called across to the men.

One of them looked up. The other was too drunk or stoned to care.

“Come here my friend.”

The man, a tall and lanky individual in his mid-twenties Bart guessed, came ambling across, a nervousness brought on by experience making him hang back as he approached their truck.

“You looking for work?” Uncle Johan asked gruffly.

“Yes sir,” he responded, his voice little more than a whisper, his eyes downcast.

“Well I need some help on my farm for a few days. Odd jobs around the place. I’ll pay you well, and it includes food and lodgings for a couple of nights. You interested?”

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” the man said, but he glanced back at his friend.

“Just you,” Johan told him. “Best get in the back, then.”

Just like that, Bart thought to himself.

.          .          .

They rose at 5am the following morning, so as to avoid the worst of the mid-summer heat.

A low-lying early-morning mist hung in the valley bottoms and shrouded the rolling countryside around the farm, lending a chill to the air, but this would soon burn off once the sun climbed higher. It promised to be a scorching hot day.

The ideal time for hunting was before noon. Therefore they had brought the man out from the old stable block where he had spent the night tied and gagged, and bundled him into the back of the 4x4 Hilux pickup. At Johan’s instructions, Dalton the gardener had briefly removed the gag to allow him to drink some water, and the man had used the opportunity to quietly plead for his life, his eyes looking at his captors beseechingly.

Ignoring him, Johan had told Dalton to stay in the back.

“If he gives you trouble, just kick him.”

Then he and Bart had climbed into the front, and off they set.

Johan explained the rules to Bart as they drove along. They were simple, and fair. They would travel to a chosen starting point several miles from the farm buildings, deep into the hilly countryside and well away from any main roads and prying eyes. This was private land which had belonged to the family for generations, and so what went on here was nobody else’s business, he explained.

Once at their destination they would set their quarry loose and give him a thirty-minute head-start, which was only right considering that he would be on foot and they, Johan, Bart and Dalton,