by Javi Reddy
“It’s about time.”
James felt the shame take over but proceeded nevertheless. “How did you know it was me?”
“Footsteps towards my direction at one in the afternoon? You snuck in before the change of guard outside. And you wanted to come before the schools close. Before the madness hits the streets. Funny, hey? You’re the only criminal I know who prefers broad daylight.”
Jay turned to face him. The boy had not had a haircut in months, with his hair well down to his shoulders. He’d not shaven either, so for a kid of 17, his face was decorated with patches of thin hair rather than the coarseness of a proper beard. He looked like George Harrison’s younger, Indian brother.
“Listen, I just want to…”
Before James could finish, Jay leapt up off the swing and pounced on him. They hit the ground with the bag landing a few feet away. Jay, on top, was possessed by a sinister trance. He pierced James’ eyes with a look fit for killing. “Coward. What are you doing here?”
He tried to strangle James, but his arms were frail, and his grip lacked conviction, even though his glare stated otherwise. He could easily be tossed away, but James let him have his anger. He had not had human contact for a while. Jay raised his hand and made a fist. James closed his eyes and did not even flinch, as he awaited impact.
“What’s in the bag?” Jay suddenly asked.
“It’s for you.”
“You think a gift is going to make it all right?”
“You have no reason to trust me. Not after what happened. Or what you think happened.”
“I know what happened. Save your lies.”
“Well, I don’t. All I know is, what everyone thinks about me is far from the truth.”
“So, what have you come here for? Forgiveness?” Jay got off and knelt on the grass.
“I’m not a criminal, Jay. I know, I know. Every guilty man says that. And it usually falls on deaf ears, especially when I have no proof. But I have this feeling that I was framed.”
“Oh, you have a feeling? Well, then you must be right. How did I ever doubt you before?”
“You of all people should understand.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it’s like to be unfairly labelled. Remember that dark feeling? Well, that’s what’s happened to me. On a whole new level.”
“Don’t talk about my problems. And don’t make them seem like they’re not as serious as yours.” James put his hand up as means of a feeble apology.
“No, no, I’m not saying that. Each man’s battle is tougher on himself than it would be on anyone else.”
“How philosophical of you.”
It was strange, being on the receiving end of sarcasm for once. But James gladly relinquished the status quo. The sparring had to happen before Jay let him in. Before he was allowed to be heard. “In all honesty, we’ve both been screwed over. Accused cheater—that’s a terrible label to have under your name.”
“I’m not a cheat!” Jay glared at him once more.
“The emphasis is on accused. For both of us. I’m innocent. Like you. Let me help us. I can make this right.”
“How? You got a time machine as well in that bag of yours?” James walked right up to him.
“I will make sure that justice is served. For you and me.”
Jay turned to the oak tree and rubbed his finger over the bumpy trunk, staring at it for as long as he could. “My own father, James. How could you?”
James’ father taught him many things. But he was fairly sure that murdering someone else’s father was not one of them.
Chapter 2
23 September 2013. 1:30 PM
“Have you been sleeping enough?”
Jay stared blankly back at James without answering.
“Are you still having that dream?”
“Yes.”
“The one where you’re falling?”
Jay turned his back on James once more.
“How many other dreams of mine do you know, murderer?” It hurt. Especially, when he said it.
“I want to go and lie down,” the boy said authoritatively.
“Do you mind if I escort you back to your room?”
“It’s your life.”
James walked behind him, giving him the necessary space. Once inside, James marvelled at his room. He gazed at the pictures of Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great and Socrates hanging on the wall. He took notice of a shiny silver tea set proudly sitting on the counter and the dozens of books that were neatly stacked next to it. There were no posters of half nude girls. There were no clothes hanging from the fan on the ceiling. Just a little haven of culture. James’ abode was more of a candidate for a teenage slum.
Before lying down, Jay removed his sports jacket to reveal his sleeping gown. The gown made it seem as though he was in a ward. The look was complete when he popped a few pills into his mouth before tilting his head back against a large pillow on the bed. He eyed James wearily.
“James. James Tait. How have the police not found you yet? All I have to do is pick up the phone and you’ll be outta my life for good.”
“That’s up to you. But before you do, I need you to hear me out. If you’re still not interested, then you can do whatever you want with me.”
Jay stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, before nodding slowly. “Fine. But it makes me sick just looking at you.”
James bowed his head.
“You have five minutes to tell me your story. Make it quick. Also, make me a cup of tea.” The kettle was in the room, plugged in next to the silver tea set. James boiled the water and placed a tea bag in one of the silver cups.
“Might as well make yourself a cup. It may be your last.”
It wasn’t long before they were both sipping and sitting in a brief silence.
“It’s a twisted irony,” Jay finally said, “that the person I loathe the most is the only one who has come to visit me. Where is everyone else?”
“I’m sure others must have been here. Those suits outside don’t make it easy. You were probably resting when your visitors were outside.”
“Or falling.” Jay adjusted his pillow so that he was as upright as possible. “How long have I been here, James?”
“You don’t remember?”
He shook his head as if James should be the one in a gown.
“Jay,” James approached him with caution, “what do you remember?”
“Stuff, I guess.”
He put his hand on Jay’s shoulder.
Jay pushed him off. “Here. This is for you.”
James unzipped the bag and handed over the object from inside to Jay. The delight on Jay’s face was irrepressible. It was shortly followed by disgust. He threw it away and it hit the frame next to his bed.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
James picked up the frame from the floor and restored it to its original place. The glass had inevitably cracked, but he still sat it up properly by Jay’s bedside.
“Believe it or not, your reaction is encouraging,” James smiled.
“What?”
“It means you remember something. Please, you must tell me,” James said with a tinge of nervousness creeping into his larynx, “what do you remember about this?”
He dared to put the gift back in front of Jay. He had to gamble, he had to venture. The boy did not become enraged this time. He looked at it, almost in the same manner that a parent looked at their new-born, and began to remember.
4 June 2013 (A few months ago). The Artists.
Rosebank was filled with artists. Special people who could do special things. Wander through its mystical passages, and you may just find yourself in the company of enchanting individuals. Chefs who’d piece together unique culinary creations, homeless people who performed acrobatically on the road, jazzy masks and wooden ornaments smiling and greeting those that breezed through the markets. As you ambled through the streets, the buildings even seemed fri
endly. They refused to look down on you ominously, as other Joburg buildings often did. They welcomed you to be a part of their buoyant city. If you found yourself there, you may have just been inspired by the artists.
Jay Chetty felt, breathed and revelled in the art of this city. His city. Was he inspired by the art around him? Or was he art himself? He was not sure yet. What he did know was that he carried on his shoulders the hopes of many. Today, he ran until he threw up. And then, he ran a little more. No one told him to. He just did it because it’s what he did. As he ran, he saw all their faces, their expressions, in his head. His people.
He stared at the ground and the ball that lay there.
Get your body over it, he told himself. Don’t lean back. Otherwise, this is all just a waste of time. For you and for Rosebank.
His concentration was broken.
"Holmes picks up the ball just inside his own half. He beats two men and finds himself in space down the right flank. He plays it into Chetty who shields the ball from an opposing defender before playing it back to Holmes. Holmes bamboozles the left back with a couple of step-overs.
“He floats the ball into the box. It’s all so cluttered. But Chetty leaps above everyone. It’s in! It’s in! What a header! What a way to win the game! These two have done it again!”
Jay gave off an impish laugh.
“You never stop believing in us, hey?”
“My man, with me supplying you the goods, how can I not believe? It’s simple: I cross, you score.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Keith was not as tall as he was, but he had a good build for his age. In fact, he was slightly more muscular than Jay. He was the jester. Apparently, Jay was the solemn one, which suited them both just fine. Every good friendship needed to be balanced. Complimenting each other was the key—even more so on the field. Keith was right—he crossed, Jay scored. They couldn’t do both.
“Have you heard what they’ve been saying?” Jay mentioned as he began to stretch his hamstrings.
“They’re saying that this is the best team Rosebank have had in a while. They’re saying that this is the best team Zondi has ever had.”
“Really?” Keith said as he placed his hand on Jay’s shoulder for balance before he stretched his quad. “And who’s saying this? The opposition I hope!”
Jay just shook his head and smiled.
“Jay, if they’re saying that about us barely midway through the season, imagine what they’re gonna say by the end of it all!”
He winked at Jay.
“That’s the problem. Complacency. I don’t want us shooting ourselves in the foot.”
“Then just shoot for the goal! Here…”
He rolled the ball into Jay’s path, as he’d done so, many times before. At practice, at matches, in their favourite park; Jay struck the ball, true and hard. Although there was no goalkeeper, the rifling of the ball against the net always felt right.
“You just keep shooting like that, and there’s nothing else to worry about,” Keith patted him on the shoulder.
It was an hour until kick off, which meant it was time for Jay’s pre-match ritual. He walked to the middle of the field and sat in the centre circle. Fiddling through his iPod, he finally found what he was looking for. It wasn’t long before The Beatles’ White Album was stringing through his ears. He closed his eyes and there was nothing else. Not the crowd beginning to gather in the stands. Not his team-mates idly continuing with their warm up. Not even his father’s voice. Just the music.
All he saw was white. The album was white, the lines on the field were white, the net he always managed to hit was white and the colour of his shirt that defenders tried to chase was white. It was everywhere. The whiteness—the purity that cleansed his mind. He was ready. He opened his eyes. From then on until that final whistle was blown, all he would choose to see was glory. If he got it right again, all the opposition would see was Rosebank, pure and beautiful Rosebank, celebrating their latest victory.
“Bring it in!” Coach Zondi yelped out to his players. They huddled together around their beloved leader. He was a short and stout man with a greyish moustache and was rarely seen these days without his red peak cap perched on his head.
“Now, listen up, because I’m not going to say this again. This is Rosebank High. This is not HEAT magazine. Whatever the grapevine has been passing off recently as ‘credible information’ is absolute bull. You are not the best. You’re only as good as your next game. If we let go of our great start to the season by slacking off in these next few games, then we will be remembered for absolutely nothing. I look around this circle and I see winners. Not a bunch of nothings. So, if you can promise me that you will try harder in every game, chase down every ball as if it were your last and turn the ‘almosts’ into the ‘somethings’, then I can promise you that by the end of the season, this will be the Rosebank that we all want to be a part of. This will be a Rosebank to remember.”
Zondi had an extremely hard exterior, but the boys would not have had it any other way. He may have been decades older than them, but he still found a way to relate to his players. They coined the name OMZ for him (Old Man Zondi). It may have seemed like it was malicious, but such was the bond they all shared. It was a name that they used for him with great reverence.
He was right— he was always right. Being good now meant nothing. It was whether they were good enough to come to the end of the season that counted. He looked around at his teammates—they were with him. He looked at Keith—he was always with him. He was not alone. He was surrounded by artists. They were Rosebank High and they were here to paint another masterpiece.
Watch that scoreboard.
23 September 2013. 1:57 PM
“The game, it was so important to you. I’m glad you remember that much,” James told him. “That was never the problem.”
Jay sat up straight on his bed, rubbing his temples.
“Jay,” James joined him on the bed, “you had a lot of good people by your side. Keith, Coach Zondi. Life used to be good. I just want things to return to normal for you.”
Jay rolled his eyes.
“Yes, what a pretty picture my life was.”
He looked at the frame that he’d cracked earlier. “The thing about pictures?”
James leant into him, urging him to go on. “The prettier the picture, the easier it breaks.”
James leant back, nodding lightly. Jay rubbed his temples again before eventually finishing his tea. “So, what now? You’re the one that wants to win me over. What have you got? What’s your master plan?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. I thought I could hear your side first. And by your side, I mean stories that perhaps could unveil what we’re looking for.”
“So, you want me to do all the work?”
“No, no, of course not. It’ll seem like that for now. But if we can patch together the events leading up to our current demise, then we will have a better chance of figuring everything out.” Jay shot him an icy look.
“I did not kill your father. I will prove it to you and to the world. And we’ll find out how you yourself were framed. You’ll see.”
“You’re so confident. Stupid but confident. You really think it’s all gonna work out for us?”
The guilt rose through James again, this time migrating from his darkest depths all the way to the tips of his treacherous fingers. Scepticism was meant for an adult, not a child. “Time for another cuppa. I’ll make it myself this time.”
Jay lumbered towards his silver tea set. James moved out of his way without even thinking twice. Watching him hit the tea hard made James want to indulge in something else. Vodka.
“If you don’t mind then, Mr Chetty, I’ll be heading off.”
Jay shrugged, his full attention now dedicated to making his tea.
“You’ve achieved nothing here today. I still think you’re a murderer. And if you come back here, I’m definitely going to call the police.”
“You may not believe me. But I believe in you. I know you’re not a cheat. And if I’m really guilty, walking in here is really stupid.”
“Well, maybe you’re just that stupid.”
“There is so much that doesn’t add up here. So much that we can try to work out together. Give me a week. Or even a few days. If we don’t uncover anything, I’ll go to the station myself.”
Jay sipped his tea and stared into space. “One week. Only because no one else comes here, and I guess you’ll keep me sane ’til then.”
“Thank you. Oh, and one more thing, where can I leave your gift?” he asked Jay hopefully. James looked at the football in his hands and its perfect stitching and consistent black and white patterns. His nails ran through the grooves once more. If only Jay Chetty were as simple as this. If only life, both of theirs’, were that simple. The world was supposed to be black and white. Good and evil. But it wasn’t. It never was. What about all of those in between? What about the grey areas? Perhaps, they resided within this boy’s mind. The truth was there. It had to be. The missing colours could be painted out by unlocking this little artist’s mind.
“I don’t want your gift,” Jay told him frankly.
“I understand.”
James bowed his head once more as he made for the door.
“I don’t want your gift, because I remember much more than you think I do, James.” James stood idly in the doorway.
“So, what’s the problem then?” he arched his eyebrow in confusion.
“The problem is, for some reason, there is something very important that I can’t remember.”
James looked at Rosebank’s kid superstar standing right before him and saw something in the boy’s eyes that he’d not seen today. Fear.
