Phoenix Resurrected

by Oliver T Spedding

  Adrenalin coursed through my whole body as I walked along the pavement. The pressure and excitement that I’d felt before, during and after attacking Mister Eksteen began to take its toll. I felt drained. My heartbeat was still racing and I was sweating profusely. I began to shiver as the shock of what I’d done hit me. Bile welled up in my throat and I had to swallow several times to prevent myself from vomiting. I stopped in the shade of a shop awning and forced myself to relax. Gradually my heartbeat slowed and the coolness of the sweat drying on my skin rejuvenated me. The shivering stopped and I began walking again. There were many more people walking on the pavements and cars driving by in the streets than earlier but nobody took any notice of me. I headed home.

  I walked into the deserted house and closed the door behind me. I went into the lounge and stretched my arms above my head to relieve the tension in my body. I dragged the rucksack off my back and dropped it onto the floor. I sat down on the couch and took a deep breath to calm myself further. I lent down and began to open the rucksack. I hauled out the briefcase and snapped open the catches. I turned it over and poured the contents onto the carpet.

  A thin wad of banknotes in different denominations, fastened with a rubber band, fell onto the carpet together with a bank deposit book. I frowned and turned the briefcase around and looked into the dark interior. It was empty. I picked up the bank deposit book. The amount of cash would be in the book so I wouldn’t even have to count it. I opened the book. It was a brand new book and only the first page had been filled in. It had today’s date on it and Mister Eksteen's bank account number. I looked at the total in the right-hand corner; eight hundred and fifteen dollars. I couldn’t believe it. I had expected at least ten times that amount. Then I remembered that many of the races on Saturday had been won by the favourites or other fancied horses at very low odds, including the Charity Mile race, and not a single outsider had won a race. This meant that the bookmakers would have had to pay out a lot more money than usual. Unfortunately, as only the first page had been used, I was unable to compare the total on the page with previous deposits.

  Leaving the cash lying on the carpet, I stood up and went to the kitchen. I switched on the kettle and made myself a mug of coffee. I went back to the lounge and stood looking down at the empty briefcase. I had to get rid of it. I could burn the deposit book but the briefcase was too big. If I tried to burn it, it would create a lot of smoke which would undoubtedly be noticed by the neighbours. And dumping it in a pavement rubbish bin would be very risky. Eventually I decided that the best way to get rid of it would be to leave it on a bus. It would most likely be found by the cleaning staff that evening and either stolen as it was empty, or placed in the lost-baggage office where it would most likely remain for years. But, so that the neighbours wouldn’t see me carrying it out of the house, I put it back into the rucksack. I would leave the rucksack with the briefcase inside it on the bus.

  I left the house with the rucksack slung on my back and walked to the nearest bus stop. From the timetable in the shelter I saw that a bus was due in ten minutes. I put on my fake glasses and waited. When the bus arrived I climbed on. There were only three other passengers and the conductor on board. I sat down near the back of the bus, well away from the other passengers and pushed the rucksack under the seat. I purchased a ticket from the conductor and waited until the bus reached the next stop. As the vehicle slowed I stood up and walked to the door. I was just about to step off the bus and onto the pavement when I felt someone tap me on my shoulder. I turned around quickly. The bus conductor stood smiling at me, my rucksack in his hands.

  “You forgot this.” he said.

  “Oh, thank you.” I stammered as I took the rucksack and stepped out onto the pavement.

  As I walked back home I realised that leaving the rucksack and the briefcase on the bus had been a silly idea. I hadn’t even thought of wiping the two items to get rid of my fingerprints that would surely have been on the briefcases smooth metal handle and on the plastic straps of the rucksack. And then I realised that the rubber truncheon was also in the rucksack and my fingerprints would also be all over its smooth surface. There would also be some of Mister Eksteen’s hair and skin on it. Back in the house I stashed the two carriers into the cupboard in my old bedroom and locked it. Until I found a safer way of disposing of them they would have to stay there.

  I put the thin wad of banknotes into my wallet. I was bitterly disappointed. Eight hundred and fifteen dollars was peanuts. I would never be able to get my betting program started with that. I berated myself for not having taken more notice of the race results on Saturday. I picked up the bank deposit book and hurled it against the wall. It fell down onto the floor behind the couch. I stalked out of the lounge and went into the kitchen where I made myself a sandwich. As I sat at the table eating, I shook my head in frustration. I had to have money; but where could I get it?

  ***

  “So, what did you do today?” Cindy asked as I sat down at the kitchen table where she was busy preparing our evening meal. I took a sip of my beer and lit a cigarette.

  “Nothing much.” I said. “I spent quite a lot of time on the internet looking for a job but there’s just nothing that I’m qualified to do. All they’re looking for are accountants, pharmacists and advertising copywriters."

  “I told my manager, Mister Botha, that you were looking for a job but at the moment Checkers is only looking for people to do menial jobs like shelf-packing and offloading groceries from the trucks of the suppliers. I’m sure that’s not the type of work you’re looking for.”

  I nodded and took another sip of my beer. In the silence that followed I wondered what Cindy would say if I told her that I’d spent the early part of the day robbing an old man of his money.

  “Why is there a pair of broken glasses lying on the coffee table in the lounge?” Cindy suddenly asked. “They haven’t even got lenses in them.”

  I looked up at Cindy and frowned. Then I remembered that I’d left the fake glasses that I’d used during the robbery on the coffee table.

  “Oh, I found them lying on the pavement in front of our gate.” I lied. “I meant to bring them in and throw them in the rubbish bin but I must have got distracted and left them in the lounge.”

  Cindy nodded and went on preparing the food. I got up and went to the lounge. I brought the fake glasses back and dropped them into the kitchen rubbish bin. I had to be more careful, I warned myself. Mistakes like that could get me into trouble. I had to think more carefully before I did anything. And I had to put more thought into covering my tracks.

  After we’d eaten our meal I took two more beers out of the fridge and we went through to the lounge to watch the seven o’clock news on the television. There was nothing of interest to me until the last news item before the weather forecast.

  “Early this morning a prominent horse racing bookmaker in Windhoek West was killed when he was mugged by what the police believe was a lone assailant. Mister Edward Eksteen was walking to the nearby bank with the weekend’s takings when he was attacked.” the announcer said. “There were no witnesses to the robbery but the police are following up on several important leads. They are also looking for any information that might help them in their investigation. If you were in the vicinity of John Meinert and Albrecht Streets in Windhoek West between eight and nine o’clock this morning and noticed anything suspicious, please contact Captain Williams at the Windhoek Central Police Station or ‘phone him on...”

  At first I felt quite shocked that I’d killed Mister Eksteen, but I quickly recovered. The old man meant nothing to me. He’d been friendly and helpful but that was normal for people looking to take your money. And maybe I wasn’t directly responsible for his death. Maybe he’d fallen and hit his head on the ground after I struck him. I felt sure that I hadn’t hit him hard enough to kill him. Or maybe he’d had a heart attack from the shock of being robbed. That surely wouldn’t be my fault. But, until I knew otherwise, I wasn’t prepared to ta
ke responsibility for the old man’s death. I had hit him with the truncheon, but I hadn’t hit him that hard.

  “Did you know that man?” Cindy asked.

  “Vaguely.” I said. “I placed a few bets with him but apart from that I didn’t know him at all.”

  What worried me though, was that the announcer had said that the police were following up on some vital leads. Were they bluffing to try and frighten me into surrendering myself or were they hoping that I would panic and do something rash? I wondered if there was any way that I could find out more.

  I got up from the couch and went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door. I sat on the edge of the bath and thought back to the attack on Mister Eksteen, trying to think of where or how I could have left any clues as to my identity. Perhaps someone who knew me had noticed me waiting outside the betting hall on the morning that the old man died. But then I remembered that I’d been wearing my ski mask rolled up to just above my eyes. That would have made it difficult for anyone to recognise me. Apart from that, I couldn’t think of anything that I had done that would have given the police a lead as to who had attacked and robbed old Mister Eksteen. Satisfied that the police were bluffing, I stood up, flushed the toilet and returned to the lounge.

  At first I resolved to stay away from the betting hall but then I realised that by doing that I might create suspicion. I had been going there regularly for almost six months, so I was obviously quite well known and if I now stopped going there straight after Mister Eksteen’s death, people might begin wondering why.

  Although I had placed all my bets in the past with Mister Eksteen there were five other bookmakers in the hall and it would be natural for me to now place my bets with them. And, even though I had no money to bet with I felt that I had to still go there every week, even if it was just to avoid creating suspicion.

  One of the South Africa’s premium horse races, the J & B Metropolitan, was scheduled to take place early in the New Year and I felt certain that this was my opportunity to hit the big time. Although the race was still almost two months away, I began to study the form of the horses that had been entered, as well as the records of the jockeys and trainers. I reasoned that the more I knew about them, the better my chances would be of selecting the winner. I wasn’t interested in horses that ran the places. I was only interested in the winner.

  At the same time that I began studying the form of the horses I also began working on the problem of where I was going to get the money to place on my big bet. I knew that, as I was still under the age of twenty one, I couldn’t approach the bank for a loan even though I had the house that I could use as surety. I also couldn’t sell any of the items in the house. Eventually I came to the conclusion that my only hope of getting the stake money that I needed was to borrow it from a private money lender. There were several companies that gave unsecured loans but most of them required that you have a job and that you sign over the rights to your salary in case you defaulted. I didn’t have a job but I did have a house and its contents that I could use as security. Naturally these money lenders charged interest on their loans that were far higher than the banks did and also used extremely violent means to recover their money from delinquent and tardy clients. But, I realised, this was the only source of funds available to me.

  I went to the snooker saloon and spoke to the owner, Manny Soldatos.

  “I need to borrow some money.” I said. “I’m too young to get a loan from the bank. Do you know of a money lender that I can go to?”

  "There are several in the area.” Manny said. “But are you sure that you want to use one? These guys charge ridiculously high interest and if you don’t pay the instalments on time they send their thugs to get the money and hurt you at the same time. If you do borrow money from them, are you sure that you can pay it back with the interest? If you have any doubts about being able to pay back the money on time, don’t borrow it. You’re young and these guys can easily cripple you for life.”

  “I’ll be able to pay the money back.” I said.

  “Okay.” Manny said. “But don’t say that I didn’t warn you. The man you should go to is Rocky Bogdanovic. He’s a Yugoslavian and his office is in Main Street. It’s right next to the nursing home. A small shop with “LOANS” on the window. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.” I said and turned to leave.

  “By the way.” Manny said. “That guy Bruce that you beat up is still in a coma in hospital. Did you know that?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “That’s what happens to people who attack me.” I said.

  ***

  Rocky Bogdanovic reminded me of a fish. He was completely bald. In fact, he didn’t even have eyebrows. His pale yellowish skin was stretched tightly across his face, giving it a strange sheen, as if it was wet. Two deep wrinkles ran from the corners of his mouth straight down on either side of his chin and disappeared under his jaw line. His expressionless pale blue eyes bulged out of his face and his tiny nose was flat and red. His thick blubbery lips were pink and moist and his tiny ears stuck out from the sides of his head like little handles.

  Anticipating that he would question me closely about the reason that I wanted the loan and how sure I was that I could repay it, I had come prepared.

  “Why did you come to me?” he asked. “Why didn’t you go to the banks?”

  “I’m an orphan and I’m still a minor.” I said.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m nineteen.” I said.

  “How much do you want to borrow?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.” I replied.

  “That’s a lot of money for a youngster like you to want.” Rocky said. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I want to start my own business.” I said.

  “Doing what?”

  “I can get hold of a large consignment of office copy paper at a really low price.” I lied. “I’ll sell it door-to-door to businesses at a good profit.”

  The expressionless fish eyes bored into me.

  “Where are you going to keep this paper?”

  “In the garage at my house.” I said.

  “Your house?” Rocky asked. “I thought you were an orphan.”

  “I am.” I said. “I inherited the house from my aunt.”

  “And I suppose you want to use the house as surety.” Rocky said.

  I nodded.

  “I’m not interested in that type of surety.” Rocky said. “Takes too long to liquidate. What about the furniture?”

  “The furniture’s old but in good condition.” I said.

  “Okay.” Rocky said. “I’ll send someone to your house to value the furniture. If its value exceeds the loan and the interest then we’ll do a deal.”

  “What’s the interest rate?” I asked.

  “Ten percent of the outstanding amount per week.” Rocky said. “And the repayments are one thousand dollars a week plus the interest. Take it or leave it.”

  I gave Rocky my home address and left.

  When I got home I calculated that the loan of ten thousand dollars would cost me five thousand five hundred dollars in interest and had to be paid back over a period of ten weeks. It was outright theft but I had no option but to accept. As long as the horses that I chose won I would easily be able to pay back the loan and if I took the loan a week before the big race I would be able to pay it back after a week and the interest would be a measly one thousand dollars. At no time did I ever even consider what would happen if the horse I chose didn’t win. But, with all the information that I was gathering, whatever horse I chose would win. I knew it would.

  I searched the internet for information on the horses, jockeys and trainers that would be participating in the J & B Met and compiled a database for each one. Two huge muscled men wearing tight T-shirts, blue denim jeans and dark glasses came to the house and inspected the furniture. They were intimidating and aggressive and simply walked into the house when I opened the front door, not even gr
eeting me. Shortly after they left I received a call from Rocky Bogdanovic.

  “My boys tell me that the furniture’s good enough to be used as surety for the loan.” he said. “But if you removed any of it from the house before the loan has been fully paid you’ll be in big trouble. Do you know what I’m saying? Now, when do you want the money?”

  The J & B Met was scheduled to take place on the twenty sixth of January, the last Saturday of the month.

  “I can only take possession of the copy paper on the twenty fourth of January.” I replied. “So I’d like to get the money on the twenty third.”

  “Okay.” Rocky said. “Wednesday the twenty third of January it is. Come here to my office at ten o’clock in the morning. And bring your I.D. book. I need to keep it until the loan's been repaid.”

  Fortunately Cindy had not been at home when Rocky’s two thugs came to inspect the furniture. I was determined to keep my plans a secret and not even tell her when the race was over and my horse had won. I kept the data on the race participants that I’d collected locked in one of the drawers in my desk and even deleted my internet roaming history, although I knew that Cindy would never spy on me. Ever since I was a child I had been secretive and loathed to disclose things about myself to others.

  By the Monday before the big race I’d whittled the field down to two possible winners. The favourite was Pocket Power, the previous year’s winner at one to three on but I had my doubts that he could win a second time. In recent times only one horse had managed to win the J & B two years running. The other horse that interested me was Big City Life, an outsider, but with form that indicated that he was improving and had an excellent chance of winning. Big City Life’s odds were twelve to one.

  On the Wednesday before the big race I went to Rocky Bogdanovic's shop, signed the papers that he proffered, left my identity document with him and collected the cash.