The Prey Read online

  ‘Actually, it’s –’

  ‘Why is Global Resources raping South Africa’s iconic national park?’

  Kylie was getting annoyed at the trainer. She knew it was only role-play and she had been in more stressful situations before – both in training and in real life – but she suspected he was going harder than was useful, possibly because she was the only woman in the room and on the exec team. ‘We’re not raping anything. If I could just finish what I was –’

  ‘Yours is the same mining company that’s recently been exploring in other parts of Africa, isn’t it? How much does Global Resources expect to make off the backs of poorly paid African workers this year?’

  ‘Our mines in South Africa were spared the strikes and violence that plagued other operations in that country last year because our workforce is treated with respect and we have negotiated mutually agreeable pay packages with our people.’ Finally, she thought, she was getting it together. She added: ‘Our financial position is particularly strong given the demand for resources in developing countries.’

  The interviewer nodded. ‘Yes, and China and India’s hunger is going to cost South Africa one of its great wilderness areas.’

  ‘You’re putting words in my mouth,’ she said. He smirked at her and she felt like punching him in the face. She could feel the sweat pricking at her armpits and beading on her top lip. She’d stared down unionists over enterprise agreements, green activists over open-cut mines, and politicians over the mining tax, but those were real negotiations, where Kylie had at least been treated with respect, even if her views weren’t popular. Kylie was also conscious that her boss and the rest of the exec team were watching her, like Roman spectators at a one-sided gladiatorial contest.

  ‘How safe are Global Resources’ mines?’ the trainer asked, changing tack just as she was formulating something to say about profits and demand for minerals worldwide.

  She reached for a lifeline. ‘I’m pleased you asked,’ she said, smiling. ‘Our mines are very safe. Safety is our number one priority.’

  ‘In Australia perhaps, but what about Africa? Isn’t it true, Ms Hamilton, that nine workers were killed in workplace accidents in South African mines last year?’

  She stared at him.

  ‘Well?’

  He trotted out his make-believe questions like he was some hotshot investigative reporter, but the truth was he hadn’t worked as a journalist for years. Kylie, on the other hand, had seen what was left of a man when his remains were dug from the cab of a truck that had just had five tonnes of coal dumped on it by mistake. This was bullshit.

  ‘Ten,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry?’ said the trainer.

  ‘Regrettably, ten people were killed in our coal and goldmines last year, not nine, and that is ten too many.’ She paused. ‘And it’s Doctor Hamilton, if you don’t mind.’

  The man glanced at his notes, then looked up at her, this time meeting her eyes for the first time. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  Kylie unclipped the microphone from the lapel of her jacket, picked up her now lukewarm coffee, stood up and went back to her seat.

  The trainer rubbed his hands together. ‘Next victim.’

  Kylie had volunteered to go first but now Jan Stein and Jeff Curtis looked at each other. They’d just seen her demolished on camera by a one-man wrecking ball and neither wanted to go next. Kylie thought Jan would have had bigger balls. She opened the workbook the trainer had given each of them; as a senior member of the team she would be required to face the media more often and now that the shock of the pretend interview was over she was looking forward to mastering a new skill. If she had a chance at a second interview, and she suspected this would be part of the training, Kylie wanted to be able to nail it. She had not got to where she was in this male-dominated industry by backing down from confrontational situations.

  ‘My turn,’ said Musa. He was beaming. Kylie looked up from the course notes as Musa got up, adjusted his silk tie and buttoned his suit jacket. He was the smartest dressed man in a head office full of suits – some of them very expensive. By contrast, Kylie’s approach to her wardrobe could be described as pragmatic at best. While she had an office in the company’s Sydney headquarters, in Macquarie Street with a view out over the Botanic Gardens to the Heads, she spent most of her time on the road and on-site at the company’s mines. There she wore steel-capped boots not stilettos, and the standard uniform of blue overalls with a yellow high-visibility vest ringed with reflective panels – a uniform she felt far more comfortable in than the navy A-line skirt suit she’d thrown on for today’s training session.

  Musa took a seat in front of the trainer, threaded the lapel microphone up under his jacket and carefully attached it to his perfectly tailored grey suit jacket. Kylie felt sorry for the man already, he was about to be eaten alive.

  ‘OK,’ said the trainer, ‘we’re rolling. If I could just start by getting your name and –’

  ‘My name is Musa Mabunda,’ he spelled in a clear, deep voice, his delivery slow and precise, yet not laborious. ‘I am the Manager of Corporate Communications for Global Resources in South Africa.’

  ‘Mr Mabunda, how can your company rape –’

  ‘Perhaps I could start by giving you an overview of our plans for a new mine in South Africa – a mine that will uplift an impoverished community, provide valuable resources and income which will aid the development of the new South Africa and be a world-class model for safety and environmental protection.’

  The trainer tried to interject, but Musa had the ball and he was running with it. Kylie smiled. The former journalist tried again to ask one of his barbed questions, but Musa raised his voice ever so slightly and continued his monologue.

  ‘First, the site of the proposed new Global Resources coal extraction facility is not, I repeat, not in the Kruger National Park. It lies to the west of the park on a former game farm that was returned to its rightful owners, the Shangaan people, back in 2009. The traditional owners of this land own the mining rights, not the national parks board of South Africa.

  ‘This proposal has been the subject of an exhaustive environmental impact statement and Global Resources has not only met, but in fact has exceeded the requirements placed on the company by government in terms of air and water quality management, economic upliftment of local communities and wildlife conservation conditions.’

  ‘But –’ tried the trainer.

  ‘Further,’ Musa continued, ‘this project will employ nine hundred formerly disadvantaged South Africans.’

  The trainer looked at his notes. ‘There were ten fatalities in South African mines last year. What guarantees can you give that –’

  ‘As a company, safety is our number one priority and I can assure you that Global Resources works tirelessly to educate our workforce and to continually review our operations in order to improve this part of our business and ensure our people go home from work at the end of each shift as fit and well as they started.’

  Kylie was impressed by Musa’s performance, but as the corporate PR man, this was his bread and butter. She had paid careful attention to the way he had steered the interview away from the trainer’s inflammatory line of questioning and back to the company’s key messages. She looked over to her CEO, Jan Stein, and saw that he was grinning broadly.

  ‘Well, I think we’re done here,’ said the trainer.

  Musa unclipped his microphone and stood up. Jan, the naturalised Australian from South Africa, started to applaud. Jeff and Kylie joined in. It was all bullshit, Kylie thought, but it was damn good bullshit. Musa winked at her as he took his seat beside her.

  3

  ‘Zama zama’ said Barrica, as his headlamp played over the body at his feet. Themba was dry-retching, having just thrown up his breakfast.

  Chris held his hand over his mouth and played his lamp across the dead man. Decomposition accelerated underground, aided as it was by the heat. The corpse was so swollen that the dead man’s ta
ttered and threadbare overalls had started to split. His mouth was stretched in an obscene grin and his fingers were like plump black sausages.

  Chris composed himself, then looked over to Barrica. ‘Ja. But odd they didn’t leave him somewhere easier for us to find him like they usually do. They couldn’t have known we’d be inspecting this site any time soon.’

  Themba looked up. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  Chris explained that the zama zamas, the pirate miners who worked the madala side as industriously – sometimes more so – than Global Resources’ legitimate employees, often suffered workplace fatalities, but usually the bodies were dragged to a working part of the mine, or even as far as the main shaft, so they could be found by the next GR shift and returned to the surface. No one wanted to work around decomposing corpses a kilometre and a half underground. Not even illegal miners.

  ‘What do they die of?’

  Chris shrugged. ‘Everything. Accidents, exposure to harmful chemicals such as mercury in the extraction process, heat exhaustion, AIDS – and lately cholera and carbon monoxide poisoning. These guys live underground for weeks or even months at a time – many don’t survive.’

  ‘We need to get back and report this, baas,’ Barrica said, yet even as he spoke the words he was stepping around the body and heading deeper into the darkness.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Barrica held up a hand to silence Chris. He glanced back and put a finger on his lips and switched off his lamp. Chris immediately did the same, then reached out to Themba and switched his off too. ‘Shush,’ he said to the young man, and dragged him to the side wall of the tunnel and down to his knees.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Themba whispered.

  ‘Quiet.’ Chris felt the fear rising in him. Now their lamps were extinguished he could see a pale flicker of light further down the tunnel. It wasn’t as dark as it had seemed. There was someone down there. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered to Themba, and crawled towards Barrica.

  He groped ahead of him and felt the big security guard start as his hand found his body. ‘You said it yourself, we need to get out of here,’ Chris whispered.

  ‘They are close,’ Barrica growled. ‘Listen.’

  Chris heard the voices now, speaking in Portuguese. Mozambicans. In recent years the South African government and the unions had insisted that seventy per cent of a mine’s workers had to be South African citizens, and over time this had meant that many Mozambicans had lost their jobs and turned to illegal mining. Sometimes they returned as zama zamas to the same mines where they’d once held honest jobs.

  Behind him, Chris heard footsteps, a stumble and a curse. Themba was making a run for it in the dark.

  ‘Ola!’ a voice called. Light flickered off the rock walls. The man was probably carrying a candle. Shit, he thought to himself, this was not going well.

  His peripheral vision was suddenly lit up and Chris looked back to see that Themba had switched on his headlamp. It was bobbing away from them, the bright light bouncing off the side walls as he ran.

  ‘Fok, no,’ Chris cursed under his breath.

  A series of explosions rang out, the crack and thump of passing bullets pounding Chris’s eardrums. He flattened himself onto the floor as sparks bounced off the walls and a muzzle flash seared his eyes. Someone was shooting at them, with an automatic weapon by the sound of it.

  ‘AK-47,’ Barrica said, his summation punctuated by a three-round burst from his own assault rifle. ‘Fall back!’

  Chris needed no urging. He crawled on his hands and knees over the jagged floor of the tunnel, scrambling as fast as he could. The AK fired again and a stream of red-hot fireflies whizzed over his head. He was glad he’d stayed low. Themba, however, was still running, and Chris saw his lamp pitch to one side, then fall.

  ‘Themba!’ he screamed.

  Barrica returned fire. ‘Run, check the young one. I will cover you,’ the security guard shouted out through the chaos.

  Chris forced himself up and started to run on feet that felt encased in lead. He’d had a dream like this, where he was being chased by a man with a gun and he couldn’t make himself move fast enough. He tensed his muscles, waiting for the spear of pain in his back that would pitch him into the abyss of death. ‘Themba!’

  His foot collided with something slightly yielding and he fell forward onto the rotting mass of the dead miner. He yelped as he scrambled to get up. Something popped and a hiss of foul-smelling gas jetted up into his face. He put his palm on an arm, or maybe it was a leg, and felt the putrid skin slide away from the body. Covered in slimy, stinking fluid he finally managed to stand. He stumbled a few more paces, got clear of the corpse and glanced back to see if Barrica was following him.

  The guard’s R5 chattered again, silhouetting Barrica in flashes from the muzzle.

  ‘Grenade!’ Barrica shouted. He turned to Chris and started to run towards him. The homemade bomb, a stick of dynamite with a burning fuse in a can packed with nuts and bolts and screws to act as shrapnel, bounced on the floor of the tunnel behind Barrica and erupted. Barrica was blown forward, arms outstretched, as Chris was knocked off his feet and thrown onto his side. His ears rang and he felt like he’d been kicked and punched all over. He crawled towards a shard of light – from the door where they’d entered the chamber – and saw the beam of Themba’s light fixed horizontally across the floor from his helmet, which lay beside the young man. He covered a few more metres before he reached Themba, who was sprawled on the rock floor, face first, and placed his fingers on his neck. He couldn’t find a pulse. Chris half-rolled the fallen man and gagged. A bullet had drilled a hole in the back of his head, and the exit wound had ruined his once handsome face. Chris had feared death underground for so long – virtually every time he ventured below the earth’s surface – but it was not supposed to be like this.

  ‘Bastards!’ He tried to stand, but crumpled to one knee when his left ankle buckled. He started to hobble, but was knocked to the ground by something shoved into the small of his back.

  Chris rolled over and squinted as a miner’s lamp was turned on and shone in his face. A man in overalls stood over him, pointing an AK-47 down at him. He smiled. ‘Bom dia, mister.’

  *

  Kylie had started to take the media training seriously after her initial humiliation by the trainer. She still didn’t like the man, nor the media, but she was fast gaining an appreciation of the skills she needed to master if she was going to be the public face of Global Resources. And she also had to ensure that she wasn’t perceived as the weak link in the management team. She’d fought too hard to get where she was to be defeated by a day-long PR course.

  Jan had followed Musa into the trainer’s hot seat and while he hadn’t done nearly as good a job at getting his messages across and batting away difficult questions as Musa had, their chief executive had acquitted himself well. Certainly, Kylie knew, he’d done a better job than she had. Kylie was never happy coming second, not even to the boss. She would bring her A game when it was time for the second interview, which the trainer had told them would come at the end of the day.

  As far as Kylie knew, no one had mentioned to the trainer that the reason she was here was because Jan had told her he wanted her to take over those media interviews he would normally handle. When Jan had poached her from a competitor five years earlier, he’d been full of promises about the amazing opportunities ahead of her. But in the first few years her career had stagnated and she had spent three years longer than she wanted to managing the sustainability division when she really wanted to be at the coalface – and to join the executive team. Finally, a month ago, Jan had given her the EGM position she should have gotten years earlier. She was glad she’d stuck with it, but now she knew the pressure was on – she had to prove to the others that Jan was right to promote her. She had to prove it to Jan, too. And she had to prove it to herself.

  ‘Do you think the gender of the potential spokesperson has any bearing on how t
he journalist will conduct the interview?’ she interjected.

  The trainer swung in his chair to look at her, and gave a little smile. ‘Since I don’t work for Global Resources I don’t feel the need to be particularly politically correct in answering this question. So I’ll say yes, it does.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Jan asked.

  ‘I mean that Kylie here would be a perfect spokesperson for your company. She’s female and attractive – definitely not what your average journalist or Joe Blow thinks of when they try to picture a miner.’

  ‘OK,’ Kylie said, ‘but don’t you think the journalist would see this for what it is – using a woman to try and soften the image of a company that’s copping a lot of flak in the press?’

  ‘Yes, they will, and it may make the tone and the line of questioning even harder, particularly if it’s another woman interviewing you.’

  Kylie folded her arms. ‘So you don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re saying a journalist may be straighter with a man representing a mining company.’

  ‘What I’m saying is that there are some who will try their damnedest to expose your being wheeled out to face the cameras for the cynical tokenism that it probably is.’ He paused. ‘Just being honest,’ he added.

  Kylie looked at Jan. He was straight-faced. She’d just been utterly undermined by an outsider, yet Jan remained silent. Not for the first time, she wondered whether he truly believed in her, or if he had only wanted her to do more media work because she was a woman and he thought that might soften Global Resources’ image during a tough time.

  Jan put his fingertips together and rocked back in his chair. They all looked at him. ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ he said, looking first to the trainer and then to Kylie, ‘but there were three people in line for the Executive General Manager role. When I interviewed all of them I told each of the candidates that part of the duties of the EGM would be to engage with the media and progressively take on more and more of the media interviews that I’ve been doing as a matter of course. I don’t think I’m particularly adept at dealing with the media, and neither do some of our shareholders. The two men who were in line for the position – a significant promotion I might add – both said they wouldn’t be comfortable dealing with the media on areas outside their direct area of expertise. In short, Kylie here was the only person with the gumption to take on this job.’