THE TEXT

The Life of Henry Fuckit
(1950 - 2015)

 

46   Twee meide met doeke

He had a three-litre Cressida, almost new, and when he touched the accelerator it leapt forward, heavy and powerful. As they headed out of town towards the highway they passed two women walking beside the road. He steered over to the side and reversed. "Hey I know this doedie. How about a quickie?" They got in the back and Mike Birkin drove off slowly, talking in an oily voice half over his shoulder and leering at them in the mirror. "Now what you girlies doing walking about in the hot sun? Hey? Looking for some nice white ous to just come along and ask you to a party? Ha ha ha." He pulled off onto a dirt road that began to curve back around the north side of the hill.

Henry turned to look at them. They were dressed similarly in pastel green and white gingham housecoats with white doeks on their heads. Quite young with smooth yellow brown colouring, high cheekbones and slightly negroid nose and mouth. They could have been sisters. Maybe they were. It was the younger, livelier one that Birkin knew. They smiled boldly and giggled but there was a wariness in their eyes, a conspiratorial hostility that puzzled him because he thought he recognized something in it.

Birkin stopped and reversed off the dirt road into some dusty grey bush no higher than a man's head. Twenty yards in the car was hidden from the road and there was a level clearing. They all got out and the master of ceremonies opened the boot, took out a neatly folded green tarpaulin and spread it out. With folded arms he leant against the side of the car with Henry, glanced at his watch and said "Okay, my skatties. Laat waai."

It was understood that they should keep their hair covered but otherwise they undressed completely. Standing naked in the bright sunlight, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the men to make a move, they again tugged at something in Henry's memory and it came to him suddenly. The two Gaughin women with peach blossoms, resigned yet resenting. The toiletry sales representative removed his trousers, underpants and shoes and began slobbering on the younger girl's nipples and inserting two fingers. Jesus, he couldn't just stand and watch. What the hell! He was supposed to be letting things happen. Follow the path, drift with the current.

The fuckeration was fully underway. Henry could feel the sun hot on his back, buttocks and balls. The three b's. Manfully he thrust and parried, sweat standing out on his forehead, sweat mingling between belly and body, pubis and pubis. The girl was passive. He pomped desperately, grunting, panting. Jesus, this is like fucking a tropical fruit, a pawpaw. Soft and unresponsive and yielding. Damn it! His cock was losing its rigidity. Christ! It was actually bending. He ceased his efforts.

Beside him Mike Birkin lay on his back and the little poesie was bouncing up and down doing all the work and even enjoying it. She began to gasp and hiss and cried out an urgent warning, "Ek kom, my baas! Ek kom!" Then a moaning scream.

"Wragtig, jou fokken hoor!" Angrily he pushed her off him, slapping her face with a double-action, open- and back-handed blow. "Moenie in my oor skreeu nie! Het jy geen respek vir 'n wit man?"

They all dressed hastily. Henry got his jeans on and threw the rest of his clothes onto the passenger seat and delved in his pack for the Bols. Number one priority right at that moment, he thought, as Birkin shook the dust off the canvas and folded it back into the boot, all the while muttering indignantly. The women stood sullenly watching, the younger one dabbing at tears mingling with the blood on her cheek where the ring had caught her. He slammed the boot shut and took from his pocket two five rand notes, crumpled them and threw them at the girls. As if at the push of a button, the flick of a switch, they began to shriek their hatred in a string of apt curses. Henry had found the bottle and closed his door just as the car roared into life and bumped and scraped up onto the dirt road. The wheels spun and the back slid this way and that as the V6 screamed in frustration trying to get a purchase on the road. Then the rear skidded beyond a right angle to the direction of the road and kept swinging so that the car slid through three hundred and sixty degrees, shot off the road into low bush, ricocheted off a boulder and graunched through a shallow ditch back onto the road with a great clattering of trailing metal undercarriage. The silencer was gone and the one year old Cressida, Toyota's flagship, sounded like a clapped out stock car. Henry was laughing and shouting with excitement.

"Put your foot down, ou pellie! Fucking fantastic! You're going like a Boeing! Aieee!"

He looked back but could see no sign of the women through the tumbled brown cloud of dust and pebbles. They squealed onto the tarmac, and soon the national road was swinging north. The last of the scrap metal had fallen off and they were roaring along at a hundred and fifty. Henry took a big swig from the bottle and coughed and choked.

"Bitch!" Birkin was still angry. Seething with injured pride, outraged sense of propriety. "Fuckin' bitch! Who she thinks fucking who?" He hit the steering wheel and the car nearly left the road.

"Hey, maybe SHE should've paid YOU. Want a dop?"

They were cutting through high granite hills. The Nababeep turnoff flashed by and then they were slowing for Okiep. At the petrol station they circled the car and got down on their knees to inspect underneath. The superficial damage was considerable. On Henry's side the back door was badly dented and wouldn't open, the front bumper was twisted and skew and the number plate was gone; both sides were deeply scratched the full length of the vehicle, and the exhaust system was no more. And the whole car had a thick coating of Namaqualand dust. But there were no oil leaks and the suspension had survived.

"I'll get it fixed in Windhoek. The insurance will pay. Company car, anyway." Birkin was offhand about it.

"Won't they ask you how it happened? Might not look too good on the claim form."

"Ag man, you don't think I'd be so fuckin' stupid as to tell them the truth? No. I'll cut a hole in the spare and say I had a blow-out."

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