Chapter 82 The beast in the shadow
The atmosphere back at the Mhlaba house was a chaotic blend of tradition and exhaustion. In the backyard, under the large white marquee, the air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and slow-cooked beef. The "catering site"—a row of massive iron pots balanced over open fires—was a hive of activity. My aunts and the neighborhood women, their aprons dusted with flour and their brows damp with steam, moved with a rhythmic precision that had survived generations of grief.
I stood by the long trestle table, my hands mechanically peeling potatoes alongside Maya. We didn't speak; the weight of the morning’s burial was still too heavy in our lungs. Every now and then, a neighbor would walk past, patting my shoulder or offering a quiet word of strength, but my mind was stuck in the mist of Avalon Cemetery. I couldn't shake the image of the white lilies or the man who had watched us from the cypress trees.
"Elena, pass me the salt," Maya said softly, her voice snapping me back to the present.
I reached for the container, but my hand froze mid-air.
Across the street, partially obscured by a rusted delivery van, a figure stood near the edge of the neighbor’s fence. He was leaning against a telephone pole, his black suit a sharp, jarring contrast to the sun-bleached walls of the houses. He wasn't moving. He was just... staring. Directly at our gate.
"Maya," I whispered, my voice dropping to a jagged edge. "Look. By the blue van."
Maya followed my gaze, her eyes narrowing. "Is that...?"
"It’s him," I said, the potato peeler clattering onto the table. "The man from the cemetery."
I didn't wait. I turned toward the porch where Victor and Vane were sitting. Victor was resting his legs, his crutches leaning against the railing, while Vane was checking something on his phone.
"Victor! Vane!" I shouted, pointing toward the street. "He’s there! The man in the black suit!"
Vane was on his feet before I even finished the sentence. His professional composure vanished, replaced by the predatory instinct of a man used to protecting the Blackwood interests. He vaulted over the low porch railing, his eyes locked on the figure across the street.
"Hey!" Vane roared, his voice booming over the chatter of the guests. "You! Stay right there!"
The man didn't stay. The moment Vane’s feet hit the dirt, the stranger turned and bolted. He didn't run like a common thief; he ran with a disciplined, athletic stride, weaving through the parked cars and the knots of mourners with terrifying efficiency.
"Sipho! Thabo! With me!" Vane yelled to my cousins who were standing by the gate.
A surge of adrenaline hit the yard. My cousins, fueled by a protective rage for their home and their fallen uncle, dropped their plates and scrambled after Vane. It was a frantic, dusty pursuit. I ran to the front gate, my heart hammering against my ribs, clutching the cold metal bars as I watched them disappear around the corner.
"Vane, be careful!" I screamed, but they were already gone.
Seconds felt like hours. The neighborhood fell into a hushed, expectant silence. Even the women in the kitchen stopped stirring the pots, their eyes fixed on the bend in the road where the men had vanished.
Then came the screech of tires.
A high-pitched, metallic squeal echoed through the afternoon air, followed by the roar of a powerful engine. I saw a dark, silver sedan—windows tinted black, plates obscured by the dust—fishtail out of a side street and hurtle toward the main road.
A moment later, Vane appeared.
He was walking back slowly, his chest heaving, his face flushed a deep, angry red. He stopped ten yards from our gate, his hands on his knees, his head hanging low as he fought for breath. Sipho and Thabo followed behind him, looking equally defeated, their Sunday shirts stained with sweat.
Everyone—the aunts, the neighbors, the elders—was already standing outside, their faces etched with confusion and fear.
"Where are they?" Maya asked, her voice trembling as she rushed to Vane’s side. "Who are they? Vane, did you catch him?"
Vane stood up, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked at the empty road where the silver car had vanished into a haze of heat and dust.
"I don't know, Maya," Vane replied, his voice ragged from the sprint. "He vanished. He had a driver waiting in a car that was built for a high-speed chase. That wasn't some local voyeur. That was a professional."
Victor had made his way to the gate, leaning heavily on his crutches, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line. He reached out and pulled me closer to his side, his hand squeezing my shoulder.
"There is something suspicious about him, Vane," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "He was at the cemetery. He left a wreath with no name. And now he’s here, watching our house? He knows something about my father. I could see it in his eyes."
"He didn't look like he was here to offer condolences," Sipho added, still trying to catch his breath. "The way he moved... it was like he was scouting. Like he was measuring us."
Victor looked at Vane, a silent conversation passing between them—one that bypassed the grief and went straight to the cold reality of their world.
"We must find out who that is, Vane," Victor said, his baritone voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "I don't care about the cost. Private investigators need to be hired immediately. I want a 24-hour watch on this house and on Elena’s mother. If someone is stalking this family on the day we bury Elias, they aren't here for a chat."
"I'll call the firm in Sandton," Vane nodded, his professional mask sliding back into place, though his eyes remained sharp. "They have former special forces guys. If that man is still in the city, they’ll find him. And I want the footage from the neighbor’s security cameras. Maybe we can get a partial on that plate."
"But who would want to watch us?" Maya asked, looking around the yard as if the shadows themselves were growing teeth. "We’re just a family in mourning. Dad was just... he was just a mechanic."
"Was he?" Victor asked softly, more to himself than to Maya. He looked at the house, then at the dusty road. "My father was terrified when he saw your father, Maya. And now a ghost in a black suit is haunting his funeral. We need to stop guessing. We need the truth."
I leaned into Victor, the warmth of his body a small comfort against the sudden, icy dread that had settled in my marrow. The funeral was over. The dirt was settled. But the silence my father had taken to the grave was being hunted.
"Vane," I said, looking at the man who had tried to chase down the mystery. "Be careful who you hire. If that man is who I think he is... he isn't just a ghost. He’s a memory that someone spent twenty-eight years trying to kill."
Vane gave me a solemn nod. "I know, Elena. Trust me. Nobody touches this family again."
We turned back toward the house, the aunts returning to their pots, the neighbors returning to their plates. But the peace of the afternoon was shattered. The "crisis" Eleanor had mentioned, the wedding the uncles demanded, the child in my womb—it was all being overshadowed by a silver sedan speeding away into the dark.
I looked at the empty telephone pole across the street one last time. The man was gone, but the feeling of his eyes remained, a cold, invisible weight that told me the burial was only the end of the ceremony—and the beginning of the hunt.