and
well-travelled clothes – tended to stand out in a place like this. In his
present situation, the last thing Joshua wanted was to stand out.
He walked
slowly studying the eastern glow. It was early. He didn’t carry a watch but he
guessed it was just after six. The way he liked it. Better to avoid any
unnecessary contact; keep it to a minimum. You never knew. So far he had done a
good job of staying low-key ... undercover. But that was only because he was
careful – and extremely paranoid.
What are
you going to do now, Josh.
Damn, it was
quiet. Too quiet...
Josh thought
about his experience earlier that morning. The same sensations came flooding
back to him. The deathly quiet that hung in the air like a heavy velvet
curtain. The strange taste. The insects – the damned insects! And the empty
trees. What the hell was that about? What was going on here? Joshua stopped and
stretched expansively trying to ease the sense of foreboding that clung to him.
He inhaled deeply. He allowed loose thoughts to float through his mind as he
tried to transcend his sense of dread. Josh reckoned he had travelled almost
600km in the last few days. At least. He had specifically taken a roundabout route
trying to throw the bloodhounds off the scent. So to speak.
What are you
going to do now, Josh?
It was now
about seven days since his escape.
The Great
Escape. From Westville.
Whaddaya
think of that, Davey?
Seven days
since his escape. And they must know that he would head towards the big
metropolis of Johannesburg. Towards his brother. Surely. Joshua suspected they
would be searching the highways and other major routes heading for Johannesburg
– a co-ordinated dragnet; maybe a couple of roadblocks. Whatever the case,
Willems wasn’t going to let him get away. Not this time.
A vivid image
of the Warden of Westville Reformatory popped into Josh’s mind. The sinewy
scrawny man with the long neck and the ridiculously small head. Old Warden
Willy Wanker Willems. He who always smelt like mothballs. Who sported permanent
sunburn on his giraffe-like neck. The unpleasant little man who strutted around
like Napoleon Bonaparte. Yet who always appeared much more spiteful and vindictive
than imperious.
‘There are two
rules here at Westville, Kingsley,’ Willems had said to Josh on his second day
at the maximum-security facility for wayward boys. They were sitting in his
bland office with its view of the fenced-off Westville courtyard. Josh was
sitting stiffly in one of two straight-backed G.I. chairs while the beanstalk
warden, in his ill-fitting green uniform, was seated on the edge of his large
desk. Josh sat awkwardly, feeling crowded by Willems who was stretched out on
the desk like a bizarre (and duck ugly) parody of a supermodel; thin long legs
languidly crossed. ‘Rule One: whatever I say is law.’ The warden smiled pleased
with himself.
No ways;
not this old speech. Joshua could see what was coming from a mile away. This
is like a B-grade movie starring Michael damn Ironside or that Blonde Karate chick.
‘Rule Two:
when in doubt ...’ Willems paused for maximum effect. ‘Refer to Rule One.’ He laughed
rapaciously. To Josh it sounded like a sick mongoose that was choking on a
rattlesnake – a rattlesnake with a bad case of flatulence. ‘Aw come on, Kingsley,’
Willems said slapping Josh playfully on the leg. ‘Relax. I’m just joking.’ If
the tap on Joshua’s leg was supposed to make him loosen up it had exactly the
opposite effect. He tensed up like a drawn bow in the hands of an experienced Khoi-San hunter. Willems leaned forward. ‘You know, I really like you ... Joshua.’ Josh
realised the revolting forty-something man was trying to appear friendly and approachable.
What he got instead was insect-like predator closing in on his prey. ‘I can see
you’re a good ... boy. A good boy who’s just taken a few wrong turns in life.
Am I right ... Josh?’ Joshua stiffened. The implied familiarity in the use of