Night of the Black Bastards (An Action-Packed Thriller) (31 page)

The radio burst into life: “Control, this is Bravo Lima 14, we need back up! Back up Control, send us back up!!”

Sergeant Night looked at his crew and simultaneously they walked fast to their vehicle, Stanislov taking his assault rifle back from Student Constable Dlamini on his way.

“What’s going on Stani? What’s happening? asked the student.

“We are responding to the most important call you will ever here!” said Stanislov.

Constable Shaka stopped momentarily and spoke to young Nkosinathi and his friends. “You boys must go home now and don’t let us see you here later or ever again. If we do we will arrest you immediately for loitering and you will be introduced to real prisoners who have no choice but to dress like prison wives. And Nkosinathi, you are a good Zulu boy, don’t be influenced by these white kids or those American rappers. There is nothing African about dressing like little insecure thugs! Be proud boy and show people your face and let people know that you have nothing to hide!”

Night thought about his partner’s parting words to the young men and he thought about the rioting that had occurred in London - more like shopping with violence he had heard it more accurately described. What drew his thoughts now were the remarks of a respected historian who appeared on a television talk show discussing the rampaging. Night had agreed with almost everything the man had said except that the young blacks and whites who took part in the thuggery had done so by adopting black culture. Black culture of gangsterism, rap music and materialism obsessed with brands, baggy jeans and hooded clothing.

Well in all his life Michael Night had lived in Africa he had never experienced a “black culture” like that. A more apt description, Night thought, would have been to say that the rioters had adopted an American gang culture of foul slang vernacular and bad body language, perpetuated by the idolised “gangsta” rappers and hip hop stars who sang about slapping their bitches up and putting a bullet in a police officer’s head or rather “busting a cap in his ass.”

There was nothing African, if black could mean African, about the London riots. It was down to poor parenting, a welfare state and the constant bombardment of negative, destructive music let loose upon Britain’s youth. Noise that applauded sin and encouraged anti-social behaviour. Left unaddressed, there was more shopping with violence in store for the Great British Capital.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

“Okay Bravo Lima 14 where exactly do you need back up?” asked Lisa the channel 26 Controller.

“It’s outside the Game store in Wynberg Control, I don’t know the exact address but we need back up now!” said Student Constable Lubu of Bramley Police Station.

“All right, stand by Bravo Lima 14, I will arrange back up. Any Bravo Lima vehicle that can provide Bravo Lima 14 with back up at the Game store in Wynberg come in for Control.”

“Control, this is Bravo Lima 14 again, we have the other two Bravo Lima vehicles on duty with us already. We need more back up!”

“Okay roger that Bravo Lima 14 I will send more vehicles.”

“Any November Whisky, Lima X-ray, or Sierra Delta vehicles that can respond to back up for Bravo Lima 14 at the Game Store on Louis Botha Avenue please do so.”

Night picked up his radio. “Control, this is November Whisky 50 we are already en route and will break in about six Mikes. Please may I have permission with all responding vehicles and with Bravo Lima 14.”

“Go ahead November Whisky 50. All other non-responding vehicles stay off this channel. If you need to get hold of me do so by phone. Go ahead November Whisky 50 the channel is yours.”

“Thanks Control. Bravo Lima 14, November Whisky 50” said Night.

“Send.”

“What’s happening?”

Student Constable Brian Lubu of Bravo Lima 14 keyed his radio microphone but said nothing. The sounds of a person screaming and people shouting and swearing could be heard. This continued for a few more seconds then the radio went dead.

“Bravo Lima 14, November Whisky 50.”

No response.

“Bravo Lima 14, November Whisky 50.”

No response.

“Bravo Lima 14, come in for November Whisky 50.”

No response.

“All vehicles on this channel proceed to the Game store in Wynberg. The shop is on Andries Street just behind Louis Botha Avenue nearest corner 6th Street. I repeat the shop is on Andries Street just behind Louis Botha Avenue nearest corner is 6th Street in Wynberg.”

“Bravo Lima 14, come in for November Whisky 50.”

“Send November Whisky 50.”

“What’s happening man?”

The radio remained silent once more.

“Fuck it! These fucking rookies have no idea what they are doing! Damn it, FUCK!” screamed Stanislov in the back seat, his blood now boiling.

“Bravo Lima 14 remain calm and tell me what is happening?”

The Bravo Lima vehicle’s radio was keyed. Background noises could be heard. Finally.

“Mob Justice. Mob Justice November Whisky vehicle and to Control and all vehicles responding. We have one hectic case of Mob Justice going on here. It’s bloody bad hey okes, you guys better get here quick hey cos these guys are dying quick quick” said Sergeant Bradman.

“Brady is that you?” said Night.

“Ja boet it’s me hey. Sorry about my shark boetie but he is shitting himself. First Kangaroo Court he has seen and one oke has already been necklaced hey boet.”

“Roger that Brady but are you boys all right?”

“Ja we are fine boet. If these fuckers try anything with us we will blow their fucking heads off but you know how it is hey boet they are not after us, they are after the robbers and they are killing them one by one. We just need the numbers to control the crowds if we are to save any of these okes.”

“Okay my brother we are en route and we have some rubber. Stand by and hold tight, more back up should be arriving from everywhere my brother.”

“Thanks Mike. More of our okes are arriving. Some Hotel Papa just arrived. Fok me it’s a bad one hey Mike – these guys tried to rob the store and the civilians stopped them after an innocent kid was shot in the head. The one oke, the main robber, he is burning now as we speak, it smells hey. Fok me, anyway you will see for yourself when you arrive. More back up coming, I can see Lima X-ray vehicles now…”

“Control. Hotel Papa One break Mob Justice.”

“Control. Hotel Papa Three and Eight break Mob Justice in Wynberg.”

“Control. Lima X-Ray 100 break for back up for the Bramley Vehicles.”

“Good old Villa” said Shaka.

The call for backup was to reinforce three police units based out of the small Bramley Police Station. They were dealing with a case of Mob Justice. An occurrence that was becoming more and more common in South Africa as incidents of violent crime continued to rise to epic proportions and as faith in the country’s justice system continued to deteriorate.  They had initially responded to a call of an armed robbery in progress that had come through straight to the police station, therefor not being heard over the police radio channel. Once on scene they had found one young girl had been shot in the face and was dead. Initially they had calmed the scene on their arrival but the first responder, a young inexperienced Constable and his Metro crew member failed to act swiftly to remove the main suspects, who had been overpowered and apprehended by onlookers, from the scene of the crime. The crowd’s anger caught flame.

Before the veteran Sergeant Brian Bradman, who was at one time stationed at Norwood Police Station, could arrive and deal with the situation the Kangaroo Court was already in full session.

The untested first responders had been overwhelmed by the vigilante crowd and their service pistols taken from them. The first of the five seized criminals had been shot and killed – the mother of the slain young girl had been given the Metro policeman’s weapon by the other vigilantes and she had unloaded it into the body of the shooter, who begged for forgiveness as she did so claiming he was only aiming for the unarmed security guard who had also been shot in the incident. The first responding police officers had run back to their vehicle to seek refuge and could do nothing as they sat and watched events unfold while waiting for assistance.

Upon Sergeant Bradman’s arrival he had immediately instructed his student, who was also undergoing field training, to call for backup. Sergeant Bradman had set up a perimeter and shut down access to the huge supermarket’s parking lot and main store, ensuring that the mob couldn’t get any bigger and that the vigilantes couldn’t get away.

Necklacing means to place a tyre around the head and body of a person and set the tyre and person on fire.

After the first criminal had been shot to death and the first on scene police members had escaped to their vehicle, the angry horde had taken their time with the remaining four suspected criminals. One of the men had been identified as the leader of the gang by his cohorts. The crowd swiftly determined that this man should be executed by fire. A taxi driver in the crowd happily offered up the spare tyre he kept in his vehicle for just such an occasion. A jerry can of petrol was quickly seized from the store -- volunteered by one of the checkout cashiers ---and the gang leader had been set ablaze. Meanwhile the residual gang members were being flogged by sjambok, bare fists and people’s shoes.

By the time November Whisky 50 arrived on scene, which had taken longer than they had anticipated – 14 minutes – because of heavy traffic and the fact that Constable Shaka had taken a number of wrong turns, a detail that earned him a severe ear bashing from Constable Stanislov, the suspected  armed robbers were all dead. And Hotel Papa and the other responding vehicles, 26 vehicles from all over Johannesburg in total had already broken on scene and still more were responding.

Sergeant Night had always particularly appreciated the response a call for backup would gather in Johannesburg. He always thought to himself that if ever a criminal or citizen did something wrong they should hope and pray that they didn’t force a police officer to call for back up. A call for backup would summon a blue army that would descend upon the enemy with great vengeance and little mercy.

November Whisky 50 arrived on scene to find five dead criminals, their bodies in a circle at the centre of the superstore’s parking lot. Four of the corpses surrounded a fifth which lay frozen in a kneeling position charred white and ashen from being burnt alive. The burning man had only moments earlier been put out by Sergeant Bradman with a fire extinguisher that he had taken from the store. The tyre was still visible around his neck. The other men had either been shot to death or had been beaten so badly with weapons of fist, stone and brick that they had bled out. Death by loss of blood.

Kangaroo Courts usually delivered a swift, emotionally charged, unbalanced and uniquely African form of justice. It was all over in under 25 minutes. At the moment the armed robbers walked in and attempted to rob a store with only two guns and three knives, an alert licenced gun owner swung into action. The Good Samaritan had placed his gun to the head of one of the robbers which allowed  other members of the public to tackle and apprehend him. The other armed robber was responsible for the additional two bodies on the scene – the little girl and the unarmed security guard.

“Shooting the little girl is what got these men lynched” said Colonel M.D. Elvis of Hotel Papa One.

“Aandag!” commanded Night. And the Sergeant and the crew of November Whisky 50 stood to full attention and saluted the Colonel.

Colonel M.D. Elvis was one of the most distinguished officers in the South African Police Force. He was old school Highway Patrol and a man of immense experience. He commanded great respect from all who served under him as the head of the Johannesburg Highway Patrol and from all who knew who he was and what he had achieved as an officer of the law. He was a small man, no more than five foot six. He was lean and strong.  Of mixed race, he sported a moustache and a policeman’s short haircut. He had a bullet hole scar on either side of his mouth – from where he had been shot 15 years earlier while on a routine traffic stop on one of Cape Town’s Freeways. The Colonel had operated as a patrolman in all the major cities of South Africa – something no other man had done. Luckily the bullet entered cleanly through one side and exited as efficiently through the other. The suspect who shot the Colonel was polite and seemingly harmless as he sat behind the wheel of his luxury car. The Colonel was about to let the man go free of any ticket or penalty. When the Colonel had lifted his head to tell his crew that all was okay the suspect produced his firearm and shot the Colonel once in the face. He then turned the gun on himself and blew his own brains out. It was such a pity, the Colonel would say, as the car’s interior was ruined -- a brand new Mercedes Benz apparently.

Night thought that the incident had left a deeper emotional mark on the great Colonel. He hated talking about the incident and was also one of the nicest and most honourable men Night had ever known. Like General Arosi Colonel Elvis wore only field rank insignia, not ceremonial and always underneath his bulletproof vest – not over it like the majority of the pompous officers who performed street duty.

As always the Colonel returned the salute in the prescribed format of standing to attention himself. Another simple act that earned him further respect. Astonishingly, most officers never returned or even acknowledged the sign of discipline and respect. Night imagined that they must have thought the salutes were a birthright. 

“Sergeant Michael Night, or is that Captain?” said the Colonel with a wry smile.

Once again Constable Shaka and Stanislov looked at each other with curiosity written on their features.

“It’s not official yet Colonel so Sergeant will do just fine. Thank you.”

“Indeed Sergeant. How are you my friend?”

“I am good thank you Colonel and a damn site better than those poor bastards” he said while pointing to the remains of the slain criminal suspects.

The wind turned and the foul smell of the burnt flesh reached the nostrils of the chatting police officers. Dlamini immediately turned around and threw up onto the cold cement parking lot floor. Night and the constables all put a hand to their mouths to block the smell. The Colonel was unmoved.