by Andrew Brown
The fluorescent lighting in the passage was sparse, leaving patches of darkness interspersed with strobing white flashes as the long bulbs tried to light up. Many of the doors had no numbers, but he found the flat three doors down. The door was slightly ajar and he could hear voices from inside.
‘You are not welcome here,’ a voice – Ifasen’s – announced. Surprised that his presence was already known, Richard pushed at the door, revealing more of the interior. Then he saw that Ifasen was not talking to him, but had directed the words at a thickset black man: Mandla, from the nightclub. Mandla was pointing his finger at Ifasen and was about to say something in response when he became aware of the opening door. Richard stepped into the living room. His appearance was met by shocked silence. Ifasen stared at him in disbelief. Abayomi appeared at the kitchen door and stood rooted, her mouth comically open.
Mandla reacted first: ‘Hmmm, it is you. Join the party. I was just leaving.’ His finger was still raised toward Ifasen and he held it there, looking back at him fiercely. ‘Just remember, Obeyi. Just remember who you are.’ Then he pulled the two edges of his leather jacket together and pushed past Richard. The remaining three stood in silence, Mandla’s footsteps echoing on the hard floor outside as he strode away.
Abayomi – her voice taut – said something to Ifasen in Igbo, barely articulating the words. Her hands had started to tremble and she put one hand over the other to try to calm the movement. She kept looking at her husband, willing him to take control.
Ifasen started to reply, but cut himself short. He looked genuinely puzzled to see Richard. ‘Why are you here? I have been released and I did not have to pay any bail in the end. I reached an agreement with the prosecutor. The charges were taken away … dropped, you say. Do I owe you money for this perhaps?’ His English was cautious and polite.
‘No, Ifasen, you don’t owe me money; you owe me an explanation.’ Richard’s eyes darted from Abayomi to her husband and back again. She would not look at him. She waited, fearful, for her husband to understand. ‘He has no business here, Ifasen. Chei! Not in our home. He must go. Now.’ Ifasen frowned in irritation at her poor hospitality. ‘Please Ifasen,’ she begged. ‘Khalifah will be brought home soon. This man must leave.’
Richard held up his hand in a gesture of appeasement, although he could feel his anger mounting at the sight of the two of them together. ‘I haven’t come here to fight. I just need to know what is going on. My life has been turned into an ugly mess. And I can’t work out why. Or how. And you two have the answers to this. That is why I’m here.’
Ifasen looked more perplexed. ‘You told me that you had given money to Abayomi, for bail. How much did you give? Is it that money that you need back, now that I have been released? Is that why you are here?’
‘No,’ Richard said, also confused. ‘I never paid any bail money. I paid money that Abayomi needed for her refugee renewal.’ As he said it, he realised that he had forgotten about the money he had given to Sunday. He felt a renewed surge of anger. ‘That’s not why I’m here, although I would like that money back as well.’
Abayomi laughed incredulously. ‘Money for my refugee renewal? What are you talking about? My refugee status is valid for another eight months.’
It was Richard’s turn to look at her in disbelief. He started to stammer, but she cut him off with a single word: ‘Sunday?’
Richard nodded. Ifasen cursed under his breath. But Abayomi began to laugh, turning her head upwards to look at the ceiling. She laughed hard and tears started to streak down her face. ‘Oh my God,’ she spluttered, ‘oh my God.’
‘It’s all smoke and mirrors with you people,’ Richard erupted. ‘Do you think it’s funny? So Sunday conned me out of my money. I only paid it because of you. Because of us. And now you think it’s funny! For fuck’s sake!’
Ifasen moved in front of him, shaking his head. ‘No, no, no.’ His finger wagged back and forth like the tail of a dog. ‘You can’t come here into our home and speak like that. You must please leave. Sunday is a thief, it seems. We have now realised that he has stolen from us too. We will get your money back.’
‘I want my fucking life back, not just my money.’ Richard was bellowing, spittle flying from his mouth. Abayomi was still laughing, hysterical. Mocking him, Richard thought, laughing at his stupidity, his gullible European existence. For a moment, he imagined smashing his fist into her face to shut her up.
‘Who is your boss, Abayomi? Start there: is it that thug who was here just now? Is he the one pulling strings here? Tell me.’
She stopped laughing and wiped her eyes. Then she laughed again, sardonically. ‘Mandla? My boss? No, Richard, Mandla is just the bully boy. He does not scare me. He is stupid and slow and mean, but he is nothing. My boss is like the devil; he knows everything and he sees everything. My boss is a Russian devil. I think you know who he is.’
‘Stefan Svritsky.’ It was not a question but a dawning understanding.
‘Yes, your friend Svritsky,’ Abayomi said, angry now. ‘If you want to know, he paid for me to come to South Africa. He owns many girls and many women. They work in his brothels, on the streets, to pay him back. He asks for all his money back, three times over. Three times over we must pay him. We work for years just to pay him back. And it never ends. It will never end. Because I am educated’ – she spat the word out – ‘he put me in his business, Touch of Africa.’
Richard frowned, and Ifasen clucked his tongue in distress, holding his hands up to quieten his wife. But Abayomi continued, her voice faltering and the tears flowing freely: ‘Yes, he owns that too. And he always tells me … you want to know? If he doesn’t like my work any more, he will move me. To one of the other places in Sea Point. There I will give everything. Not just massage. There I will be given to many with dirty fingers and—’
‘Stop!’ Ifasen said, waving his arms now. ‘Stop this now. Not in my house. I will not have it any more.’
Richard’s head throbbed. He had hardly heard Abayomi. His mind was spinning with thoughts, flashes of conversations, events. Each time he had moved away, he realised, she had drawn him back in. Suggestions, contacts, promises of more. She had played him all along, in cahoots with her boss, setting him up to send his humiliation tearing through the trial like a missile. She was Svritsky’s willing weapon, his conspirator in his success. And he was simply a forgotten victim, irrelevant, save for what his demise could achieve for them. He saw it clearly now.
‘You … you fucking whore!’ He launched himself at her, first hitting Ifasen with his shoulder, sending him twirling ludicrously like a ballerina, clutching at the furniture to stop from falling down. ‘You set me up from the beginning … you and your charms … you …’ He lifted his fist, his arm shaking, waiting to strike. But her face was already broken, drawn and set in defeat, ready for the violence to fall. She was watching him with the same eyes that had teased him, her lips that had kissed him with such affection, her cheek that had rubbed gently against his. His held breath started to seep out in a low hiss as he began to lower his fist.
Before he could step back, something hard and heavy struck him on the chest below his outstretched arm, a solid blow that hurt deep in his lungs. He spun around in surprise, his hand clutching his burning side. Ifasen stood a little distance away, his face wild with fury, raising a wooden pedestal high over his head. Richard watched as the pedestal wavered again in the air. A small chip of veneer had come off one foot, exposing the cheap wood beneath the stain.
Ifasen was roaring at him, emitting a guttural howl. The noise was deafening, drumming on Richard’s ears. The moment seemed suspended in time, Ifasen howling, banshee-like, Abayomi screaming, and him standing still in the middle, watching them. He did not hear the crack of the door on its hinges or the thumping sound of footsteps coming up behind him. He did not see the raised gun behind his shoulder. All he felt was a hot wind, a painful blast of air in his ears. As the room fell still, he heard nothing but the dull pounding of blo
od in his brain.
The apartment filled with the acrid smell of cordite. The air seemed hazy in front of him. Abayomi’s mouth was open and he could see the pinkness of her tongue, but still he heard nothing. He could not understand how she was yelling without making any sound. Ifasen dropped the pedestal. It fell from his grasp as if he had never held it firmly, slipping loosely to the side. It hit the floor and splintered along the length of its top. Ifasen staggered backwards. His arms collapsed, hanging from his narrow shoulders. There was a look of bewilderment on his face. He appeared to stare straight through Richard, until his head flopped backwards. His body crumpled inwardly, imploding into itself. He tumbled down, his head smacking the floor squarely.
An arm grabbed Richard’s shoulder and propelled him to one side. Faintly, through the thudding of his own bloodstream, Richard picked up the sound of Abayomi wailing.
A man in a leather jacket advanced, his body poised and his firearm held out in front of him. He pointed it at the prostrate man’s chest, until he was standing over Ifasen’s form. Satisfied, he shoved the gun into his holster, kneeling down and placing his fingers against Ifasen’s neck. The man twisted his head around towards Richard and winked – a clear wink, deliberate, slow and conspiratorial.
‘Lucky for you I showed up, hey?’ the man said, pulling at his moustache. Richard’s ears still stung from the blast of the shot, and the voice sounded muffled and far away. ‘The little Nigel would’ve taken your head off with that thing …’ The man paused, then continued in a formal tone that was incongruous with the situation: ‘Inspector Jeneker. SAPS.’
The pedestal lay smashed on the floor, its legs broken and crooked. It looked inconsequential and delicate, like an injured animal with gangly legs. A red stain was blooming across Ifasen’s chest.
Abayomi was holding on to the door frame, sobbing. Her knees buckled and she slid down to the floor, her legs splayed out. Her cries tore into Richard, stabbing at him like short knives slicing into his skin, poking holes into him. He wanted her to stop, but did not know what he could say. He stood gaping at Ifasen’s unmoving body.
Abayomi spoke first, her voice trembling. ‘You were a test,’ she cried. ‘He told me you were special. A special friend. I had to prove that I could stay at the studio. To take the best care of you. That’s all. I don’t know why. I don’t know why. I don’t know why.’ The phrase became a mantra, whispered hoarsely through her tears. Her hand tried to reach out to her slain husband, but instead her fingers feathered the air, as if she were trying to will his body towards her. She stopped and looked up at Richard through bloodshot eyes. ‘And look what you have done.’
Richard needed to get out of the room. He made his way towards the door, holding his mouth to stop from vomiting, and fled. Through the open door into the passageway and down the stairwell, two steps at a time, his ankles jarring with each footfall. His shoulder scraped along the walls, tearing at the flakes of paint. The wind caught him as he ran out of the foyer doors, slapping his face with cold air. He half-closed his eyes and sprinted across the road towards his car.
A dark figure was waiting for him, leaning against a black Mercedes parked in front of Richard’s own SLK. The man stood upright as he approached.
‘Where you going? You think you are going somewhere?’ Mandla cut an imposing figure in the half-light, standing with his shoulders hunched against the driving wind. Richard hesitated, his car keys in his hand, his thumb playing across the top of the remote control.
The back door of the Mercedes opened. Svritsky emerged from the car, a cellphone to his ear. He was wearing a thick woollen top and tracksuit pants. He snapped the cellphone shut. ‘Ah, Richard, the man that makes this whole thing work. You cannot just leave. We need you a little longer, yes?’
Richard was tired of ranting, tired of his undirected, impotent fury. He wanted to cry and be held, to climb into a bed and sleep for a long time. He realised painfully how he missed Amanda.
‘Ah, Richard, my friend,’ Svritsky gloated. ‘You are an easy man. We know all the time that that man is the witness.’ Mandla snorted, gesturing dismissively towards the building. ‘You think you are clever, but it takes us no time to find out. No time. We know it all along. We just had to keep him quiet. He does what he is told and there is no problem. But just in case things go wrong, I hook you up for massage, yes? For – how you call it? – insurance. And you, you also do as you are told. It is just so … predictable.’
Richard scowled back at him.
‘She is good; it’s true. But you mustn’t be nasty, Richard. She never knew what was going on. She never knew what this is all about. No, no, no.’ Svritsky paused, taking out a cigarette and cupping his hand to light it. After a few attempts, the end flared as he drew in heavily.
‘But then that stupid husband of hers … he goes and gets himself arrested.’ Svritsky looked up at the apartment block – somewhere inside the policeman was busy arranging the crime scene. ‘And not even our good friend Jeneker can control him in prison. We think he might do deal, yes? So we decide to use our new weapon: you. The big lawyer, the clever lawyer with a hard-on. And he comes for free as well. It was a good deal, my friend.’
Svritsky chuckled, not a light expression of humour, but a dark, foreboding gurgle. ‘Good deal. Perfect. If you get him out, we take care of him. If you couldn’t get him out, it’s no problem … you see, we can still use you fucking his bitch as a reason to stop the trial. It doesn’t matter which way, she is going to save me and destroy her husband, without any idea. No idea. Women, eh! Can’t trust them, my friend, you just can’t trust women.’
Richard was stammering, still reeling. ‘How could you do this … to me? How could you do that to her?’
‘No, no, no, don’t you try and preach to me, my friend. What do you know about her? I am the one who finds her in Lagos, a snivelling girl, married to that useless man. She had no one, no one. Her mother … she is dead. And her father … well, we don’t talk about him, no.’ Svritsky pulled in a mouthful of smoke from the cigarette and let it escape like steam from his nose and mouth, billowing out into the night air.
‘What? What happened to her father?’ Richard almost screamed it out, desperate to know, but not to hear.
Svritsky looked at him queryingly; ‘Ah, you do not know.’
Richard looked away, realising his vulnerability. Svritsky was right: what did he really know about Abayomi? That he should hear the details from his nemesis saddened him. He shook his head.
The Russian smirked, pleased with the revelation. ‘Ah, you know … he makes trouble in Nigeria, her father. I know, I am there making business in military hardware. Someone told the militia men about her father.’
Svritsky paused, holding eye contact with Richard in a steady gaze. ‘She tells me, when she is fifteen they pull him out from the supper table, food still on his plate. They make her watch while they slit his throat and cut his guts out. Like a goat.’ Svritsky watched Richard shake his head and run his hands through his unwashed hair. ‘They say he was good man. But also a troublemaker. There is no room in this world for good men.’
Mandla said something guttural and dark in Zulu. Svritsky ignored him. ‘But I am the one who saved her, my friend. That husband … he was no good. A weak man. I help them to come here to a better life. With hope. And jobs. So don’t you be mister big lawyer with me, yes?’
Svritsky sent another stream of smoke out, whipped away into a haze by the wind. ‘Once you see this happen to your own, to your flesh and blood, survival it becomes everything, my friend.’ Richard saw a glimpse of something personal, a flicker of emotion he had not seen before in the Russian. ‘Anything is possible. There is nothing that you cannot do,’ he added.
A shopping packet glided past and hooked on Mandla’s leg. He kicked it off as if it were some dangerous animal. Svritsky paused until the commotion had died down: ‘But you know what, my friend? You have made my day, my good friend,’ he said. ‘You have made this a go
od day for me.’
‘What do you mean, Stefan?’ Richard could hardly bear to listen to any more, but he knew he needed to hear the whole story before he could start to sift through the scattered pieces and find his part in it.
Svritsky grunted and looked away.
‘What the fuck do you mean, Stefan?’
‘Okay, okay, relax, I tell you. The witness, he is lying up there with a bullet in his heart. And I did not touch him. No, it is a police officer saving you. The witness’s big lawyer. My old lawyer. My old lawyer who is fucking the wife of this witness. It’s good plan, yes?’ He let the cigarette drop from his mouth, a few sparks flashing in the wind as it hit the tar. The burning ember rolled along the roadway and disappeared under Richard’s car.
‘So you don’t go anywhere yet, okay, Richard? My good friend, this is where you are taking your bow.’ The Russian started clapping his hands together, a slow, deliberate smacking sound that whistled away on the wind.
EPILOGUE
RICHARD UNLOCKED THE door of the small office. The lettering on the frosted pane of the door still looked skew to him – ‘Calloway & Associates’ – but the glue had set firm and he could not do it over again. It gave him a small thrill to see his name written up in strong black letters. Sometimes he opened the legal diary to the list of attorneys, just for the satisfaction of seeing his professional details sandwiched between two larger associations in the list. The office was sparsely furnished. Half a dozen thin files lay on the desk, the sum total of his practice since leaving the firm. He had heard that, after he had left, the firm had finally appointed a new partner, giving the newcomer massive equity. But Quantal Investments had decided to go with one of the big national firms, wooed by their depth of experience and luxurious lunches. Selwyn Mullins had announced his retirement from practice.
