Chapter 2

Laingsburg Lodge. The next morning.

Dawn broke bleak, and scattered clouds hung in the sky like the remnants of yesterday’s battle. The storm had passed — at least, the brunt of it. Pools of water dotted the ground, bearing testament to the torrents that had lashed through the night. The wind, though diminished, still had enough gusto to send stray plastic bags and discarded food containers tumbling along like wayward tumbleweeds. The air held a nippy edge, each gust biting with just enough force to remind you that summer wasn’t quite ready to claim the throne.

To the south, southwest, and west, the horizon wore a thick white scarf of fog draped across the distant mountains. Rain likely waited somewhere along the highway, ready to ambush weary travellers. Cape Town was still 263 kilometres away. The GPS, ever the optimist, promised three hours and thirteen minutes to Noordhoek Beach — if the traffic gods were merciful. If I left at nine, I’d land at the Sacred Mountain Lodge just in time for lunch. That was, of course, factoring in the Cape Town traffic that turned even the best-laid plans into an urban safari.

“Good morning, Roy.”

The voice was soft, almost tentative, pulling me from my highway reverie. I turned to see Fiona, her blonde hair loose and flowing over her shoulders like liquid sunlight. She’d traded the practical wear of yesterday for a designer t-shirt, a breezy skirt, and sandals with a slight heel that gave her just a touch of extra height. She was the picture of casual elegance, and I found myself blinking as if the scene might dissolve into a mirage.

“Good morning, Fiona,” I said, shaking off my surprise. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a log ... eventually,” she replied, her lips curving into a sly smile. “After I read ‘Shadow Rider’ up to chapter six...” She let the words hang there, like a cat batting at a dangling string.

“And you didn’t like it. Sorry,” I said with mock humility.

“On the contrary, my dear Watson,” she giggled, and the sound was unexpectedly delightful. “If I hadn’t fallen asleep from exhaustion, I’d probably still be reading. It’s spellbinding!”

I thought: “Twenty-seven-year-old professors still giggle? My, my!”

Her cheeks tinged pink, but I carried on unfazed. “So, does the lodge just happen to have a copy of my novel lying around?”

“No, Doofus. I logged onto the university’s electronic library and borrowed it using my profile.”

“UP has an electronic copy of my book available?” I asked, astonished.

“Yes, in the literature department. Lucky me.”

“And here I thought university libraries were just stuffed with dusty handbooks and academic papers.”

“They are,” she replied, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “but they also keep a selection of novels as examples.”

“Examples of what?” I asked, almost regretting the question as soon as it left my lips.

“Examples of how NOT to write novels,” she said, deadpan. But her façade cracked, and moments later, she burst out laughing.

“Shall we get breakfast, or have you already indulged, Miss Bad Example?”

“Sorry, but you left yourself wide open for that one,” she said, brushing a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear, her grin still in place. “And no, no brekkie yet. I looked into the dining room and didn’t see you, so I came out to check the weather.”

“Then let’s go. I’m starving, and I suppose you’ll need some energy for the road.”

“I still need to stop by the bank, replace my cards, get a new spare tire, and sort out a sim-swap and a new phone,” she said as we walked toward the dining room together.

“That’s going to keep you busy for a while.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “And then it’s still three or four hours to Cape Town.”

“Work or pleasure?” I asked.

“Work. I’m visiting museums and both the varsities of UCT and Stellenbosch.”

“Sounds like fun for you,” I chuckled. “Why didn’t you just fly and rent a car there?”

“I’m taking a few days off at the end of my working trip to visit my mom and dad in Jacobs Bay.”

“That’s on the West Coast, past Langebaan and Saldanha Bay?”

“You know the area, Roy?”

“I’ve passed through on trips to Garies and Springbok. Beautiful area.”

“Well, we might run into each other there ... if you’re around.”

As we entered the dining room, I pulled out a chair for her near the window, offering us a view of the rain-kissed garden.

“We might just,” I replied. “Now, what’s your breakfast poison? Sweet, savoury, or somewhere in between?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Surprise me, Mr. Bad Example. Let’s see if you’re better at ordering breakfast than writing novels,” she quipped.

Okay. Challenge accepted!

After breakfast, Fiona and I stepped out into the cool morning air, the sky now a touch brighter but still moody with scattered clouds. The garden glistened with last night’s rain, drops clinging to leaves and catching stray rays of sunlight that dared to peek through the cloud cover.

Fiona sighed, brushing her hair back as she turned to me. “I still have to deal with the bank, find a spare tire, replace my phone, and, of course, report the robbery to the police. That’s going to take at least two to three hours. Maybe longer.”

“Sounds like a day filled with joy and bureaucracy,” I teased.

Her lips curved into a wry smile. “Joy isn’t exactly the word I’d use. But yes, a long day ahead.”

She paused, then added, “I still need to pay you back for helping me with the lodge.”

I shook my head, smiling. “I tell you what — when you’re in Cape Town, call me. You can take me out to lunch or dinner, and we’ll call it even.”

Her brow furrowed, and she crossed her arms, fixing me with a sceptical look. “Roy! That wouldn’t even cover half of what you spent. Dinner doesn’t equal lodge accommodation, and besides, what do you think my husband would say?”

“You’re married. I thought as much. Treasures like you won’t be running around unattached for long.”

Her laugh echoed around the garden. “No, Roy, I’m not married and neither do I have a boyfriend. Not even a boy that is a friend. But still dinner won’t make up for what you spend on me. And for that I am truly thankful.”

“Okay, fine,” I said, feigning deep thought. “Throw in a movie, and we’ll call it square.”

Fiona tilted her head, her expression shifting into something I couldn’t quite read. Then she asked, almost hesitantly, “So ... you’d like to see me again?”

I met her gaze evenly. “Friends do that, you know?”

Her lips quirked. “Like a friendly get-together or ... a date?”

“If you want to call it a date, then a date it is.”

She laughed, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Fine, Mister Roy Reasor! Then it’s a date. Just remember, I’m a nerd, shy and not good at dates.”

I chuckled, watching as she loaded her bags into her the back of her Land Rover. The back door slammed shut with a definitive finality, rattling the two jerry cans locked in the carry cradle, and she turned back to me with a grin. “See you in Cape Town, Roy. Don’t get into trouble on the road. And watch out for wayward lost waifs.”

“Or nerdy tomboys! But no promises,” I shot back, waving as she and her Land Rover rolled out of the lodge gates and disappeared toward the centre of town.

With Fiona gone, I turned back to the task at hand. My overnight bag was all that remained. The rest of my luggage was already packed into the SUV, waiting patiently like a loyal steed. I grabbed the bag, tossed it into the back, and slid into the driver’s seat.

At twenty minutes past eight, I hit the road, the GPS chirping directions as I pointed the SUV southwest along the N1 highway. The sprawling plains and rugged terrain unfolded around me, the sky an ever-changing canvas of grey and blue.

The small, historic town of Matjiesfontein was the first to wink at me from the horizon, its Victorian charm briefly visible before the road swept me onward.

Matjiesfontein shone white on the left side of the road in the bleak sunlight that managed to break through the clouds. Matjiesfontein is located about one kilometre from the highway, and if you don’t turn off toward the town, you just fly past it at 120 km/h, never knowing about the rich history of the place.

Neither would you know of the playful and mischievous ghost haunting the Lord Milner Hotel. And neither would you have known about the historic collection of pee-pots under the railway station platform — everything from humble tin and enamel ones to exquisitely decorative porcelain pieces. Hundreds of them! A peculiar claim to fame, but one that always made me chuckle whenever Matjiesfontein came to mind.

Touws River came and went in the blink of an eye, a quiet settlement flanked by rolling hills. The two towns in South Africa where the main railway lines converge are Touws River and De Aar.

For many years, as you rounded the bend in the N1 towards the town of Touws River, you were faced by hundreds of old decommissioned steam engines parked head to tail along the shunting yard tracks, just rusting away. Now they are gone. A few got a new lease on life with private operators like Rovos Rail. Some became tinned food containers ... How sad.

De Doorns and Worcester followed, each nestled amid the wine country, their vineyards starkly bare in the winter light. By the time I reached Paarl, the N1 began to transform, expanding into a six-lane freeway that promised the chaos of Cape Town ahead.

Traffic was already picking up as I approached the Mother City, its iconic flat-topped mountain shrouded in the remnants of yesterday’s storm. The sea air mingled with the damp scent of rain-soaked earth, and I found myself looking forward to the next chapter of the day.

Making good time, I reached the guest house just before 13:00, checked in, and was shown to my suite. This would be home for the next week while I explored the Cape Peninsula coast from Cape Point toward Bloubergstrand and Melkbosstrand.

There were a few little coves and attractions off the beaten track that I needed to investigate and fully document, and the thought of unravelling their secrets was enough to spur me forward. But for now, I had to settle in and prepare for the next leg of the adventure.

But here I am. Sacred Mountain Lodge, Noordhoek Beach — and perhaps another encounter with Fiona awaited.

I must have been tired, or maybe it was the higher atmospheric pressure here in Cape Town conspiring against me. My body wasn’t having it. All I wanted to do was sleep. Sure, I knew I’d acclimatize in a day or two, but until then, I’d have to drag myself into action.

You don’t really notice it, but there’s science at work here. Down in Cape Town, water boils at a perfect 100º Celsius. Up in Gauteng? A mere 90º Celsius. A little detail, but it is nature flexing its laws. The higher the atmospheric pressure, the higher the boiling point. I remember my science teacher demonstrating this back in school. He boiled water at room temperature by lowering the atmospheric pressure in a sealed contraption. Imagine the wide-eyed kids watching that. It was like magic! Well ... nerdy magic, but still magic.

Speaking of science — here’s a tidbit for you. Everyone knows Mount Everest is the tallest mountain peak in the world at 29,035 feet above mean sea level. Right? But — and this is where it gets interesting — Mount Chimborazo in Ecuador is actually the closest point to space. Why? Because Earth isn’t a perfect sphere; it bulges out at the equator. So, Chimborazo, at only 20,702 feet above sea level, sticks its summit closer to the stars than Everest ever could. Go ahead, Google it. I’ll wait. (Also, now I wonder: how long would it take to boil water for coffee up there?) Anyway, enough nerd talk. I turned my attention to my equipment. Let’s see ... tablet, laptop, two trusty Nikon cameras, an array of lenses, GPS loaded with maps of the West Coast, and my pocket recorder. Everything seemed in order for my little expedition.

As I packed my gear away, my phone buzzed. Private number? Great, probably someone trying to sell me solar panels or extend my car’s warranty. But curiosity won.

“Hi there! This is Roy...” I answered, trying not to sound too wary.

“Are you rescuing damsels in distress?” a sweet voice chimed in my ear.

“Nope. No damsels in distress around here,” I replied, already smiling.

“So, are you settled in?”

“Yes. And you?”

“Got everything packed and sorted. Now I’m hungry...”

“I know a great spot for a flame-grilled burger, but it’s a three-hour drive,” I teased.

“This is Cape Town. Seafood. I crave fish and chips,” she declared.

“I know just the place! Mariner’s Wharf in Hout Bay.”

“I know it! Meet you there?”

“It’s a plan.”

“It might take me half an hour to forty minutes to get there. I’m staying at a B&B in Bergvliet,” she said.

“Nice neighbourhood. Here’s what you do: Take Lady’s Mile Road north, then turn left onto Constantia Main Road. That’ll take you over Constantia Neck and straight into Hout Bay. At the traffic circle turn right and at the next t-junction turn left. Mariner’s Wharf is on your left past the huge sand dune that once was the yacht club.”

Giggle. “Got it. See you in thirty or forty minutes,” Fiona replied.

“I’ll wait in the parking area.”

“Okay. Bye!”

And with that, she hung up. Right. Time to get moving. I grabbed a pair of denim jeans, socks, sneakers, and a golf shirt. Casual but presentable. Good enough for a quick seafood dinner.

From Noordhoek, I only needed to hop onto Chapman’s Peak Drive. A scenic twenty-minute drive tops. The kind where you roll the windows down. Let the salty sea breeze hit your face and try not to get too distracted by the jaw-dropping views of the Atlantic crashing rhythmic against the rocks at the bottom of the sheer cliffs.

Fish and chips at Mariner’s Wharf? Cape Town was already working its magic.

A Telephone conversation between party A and party B.

The call came through on a burner phone, the kind that didn’t leave trails and wouldn’t ring twice if you missed it. The man leaned back in his chair, his face bathed in the dim glow of a single desk lamp, and pressed the phone to his ear.

“She had a slight problem on the road to Laingsburg,” the voice on the other end began.

He sat up straight, his hand tightening around the phone. “What sort of problem?”

“She blew a tire. Three boys stopped to help her. Changed it for her too. I didn’t interfere.”

“Good. Stay under the radar.” His tone was sharp, but a flicker of unease crept in.

“The issue is,” the caller continued, “they didn’t just fix her tire. They made off with her handbag and cell phone.”

“They robbed her?”