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Dirk and I are twins, but as brother's, our relationship was more like that of Cain and Abel or Jacob and Esau. I, like Esau, am a Hunter by nature, and in this overly civilized age, by hobby also. Dirk on the other hand is an unambitious, door-mat variety. Mamma's child.
I was Dad's son, all passion and ambition. Fortunately Mom died first, so when Dad died, the lion's share of the inheritance went to me. Dirk only got the art works and the piano. The company, the farm, and all other holdings came to me. Naturally this led to more than a little bitterness between us.
Dirk, for once, even had the guts to swear at me in the lawyers office when the will was read. Quite rude for a twerp his size, but a box about the ears left him crying for momma. With all the power in my hands at last, nothing mattered. After setting the company on a new course, settling the estate. Selling off unnecessary holdings, deadwood etc. I was headed for a weekend of hunting at the farm in the North-Eastern Transvaal. The world was mine!
Dirk's last words to me as I left the lawyers office stuck in my mind as I drove up from the Cape. "Francois, I fear for you, even as I hate you. For in a dream I saw you dead in a hangman's noose. As your twin, I warn you.". As we were twins, somehow we often knew what was happening with the other. But the world was too good, and spring was turning the willows in the vlei's too green to be bothered but such things. I had laughed in his face and walked out.
Late that night I was in the lowveld again, driving through a thunder-shower up the farm road to the Old house. All the servants had gone to bed, so I followed suit. This time taking the master bedroom.
As I was sleeping, a flash of lightning drove an image into my dreams, a picture of Dirk, Dirk lying in my arms, dying and crying out to me, crying for punishment of the bastard who had killed him. I woke yelling, "I'll get him! Nobody kills my twin, don't worry Dirk, I'm here!" But there was nothing but the rain on the window panes, and the distant growl of thunder.
The next morning the bright, storm-scrubbed air drove all memory of the night before away. So after a hearty breakfast and packing my bags, I drove off in the Land-Rover into the hills after the game. Kudu was what I was after. A nice fine Kudu bull to grace my office wall.
I can still remember the hot still air, the way the Kudu bull looked, half sensing danger, and the kick of the rifle against my shoulder. It was a fine trophy.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept dreaming of Dirk. Dirk as a little boy, whining and crying. Dirk as a student, all arty and farty. Dirk in the lawyers office, face pinched and angry. Dirk lying bleeding on the tarmac. Dirk in hospital, dying in my arms, crying out for revenge, cursing his murderer. Dirk been knocked deliberately by a white bakkie into the stream of oncoming traffic. In that dream I even saw the registration plate of the murder vehicle.
I woke screaming with rage and fury. It was 3am. I dressed and sprinted to the car, and roared down the drive way. I had Dad's red Ferrari and knew how to drive it. Ten hours driving was the fastest time I had ever heard of for that trip, and that was by a team of drivers taking shifts. I was going to beat that record.
By 10am I was in the Karroo. Heat shimmering off the long open road. I had no rest the previous night and was struggling to keep awake, the heat shimmers making the road ripple before my eyes.
I jerked awake as the I felt the rumble of the gravel shoulder under my wheels. It was too late. The car dug into the soft gravel, veered uncontrollably to the left and rolled over and over.
I lay there dazed, drifting in and out of consciousness, images of Dirk flickering through my mind overlaid by surreal images of the upside down Karroo landscape. I kept hearing Dirk cursing his murderer.
A vehicle drew up next to me. Some one got out, walk to my car, bent down and said, "Is you alright hey?"
I shakily replied yes, and he helped me out the wreck. Amazingly, apart from a few bruises and scratches and mild concussion, I was unhurt.
The image of Dirk in hospital flashed before me again, and the rage filled me. I flung my helper to the ground and leapt into his vehicle and drove off leaving the shocked farmer waving frantically behind me.
I drove like a maniac, still shocked and concussed. I was no longer driving in my cool, expert racing style, but desperate, dazed and wild. I screamed through the streets of Cape Town, breaking traffic laws, scattering pedestrians, scaring cyclists, forcing vehicles off the road. Somewhere in the CBD, some twit jay-walked in front of me and got the fright of his life. On I drove past the docks and into the Arty area of revamped warehouses where Dirk lived. Dirk's stylish "garret" was empty. Nobody at home. He must be at the hospital. I ran back to the "borrowed" vehicle and drove cursing, swearing and pleading through the stolid rush hour traffic.
I arrived frantic at casualty, begging for my brother. The startled paramedics said he had just arrived and was in a coma in intensive care.
I sat next to him all that night. Listening to him deliriously moaning and muttering and cursing. In the morning he died. Just before he died he opened his eyes, looked at me, and cursed me.
I sat there numbed. Unnoticed, a policeman was standing at the doorway. "You are under arrest."
The family lawyer was most unhelpful. Dirk had discovered that our mother's inheritance had bought all the wealth into our family. When mom died, she had left it all to Dirk and nominated our father to act merely as guardian until we were 21. Dirk had just left the lawyer's office and was crossing the street when he was run down.
Now that I can think calmly and clearly, I can see in my mind's eye that the pedestrian I "scared", wasn't just "scared". I had, in front the lawyer's offices, knocked my brother into the stream of oncoming traffic. Even the bakkie that I had stolen matched my own dreams.
At dawn, as Dirk foresaw, they are going to hang me.
There is an old Islamic tale that our coloured nanny once told us. 'A man in King Solomon's court, saw Death staring at him angrily. So afraid of this was he, that he ran to King Solomon, and begged him to use his mystic powers to send him to India, far from Death. The King granted him this, then sent for Death.
"Why were you angry with this man?", asked the King. "I was not angry", said Death, "but surprised. For Allah had told me to take this mans life today, in India. And I was surprised to see him here in your court."
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