Billy
Hunger, Volume 2
Scott Richards
Published by Scott Richards, 2017.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Billy (Hunger, #2)
Bedlam had erupted on Umgeni Road that night, with the local fire crew desperately trying to limit the spread of the blaze that Billy started. First Aid and medical treatment was organised by the neighbours for the naked young white boy who had apparently jumped from the shattered front upper floor window, rather than be caught in the conflagration. He was hastily wrapped in a blanket to cover his nudity and then hurriedly taken off to hospital, still unconscious and bleeding from his wounds.
There was no subsequent investigation by the authorities into the deaths of two Indians, and no foul play discovered or suspected.
The fire, they decided, appeared to have started in the kitchen area from an upturned kerosene lamp and, besides which, no-one really cared about these brown-skinned trouble makers now; Ghandi was stirring them up to all kinds of mischief, and they were viewed as being almost as bad as the kaffirs.
Later, there was a funeral for the two Indian men, father and son, whom the investigating authorities thought had been overcome by fumes and perished in the awful blaze.
What was left of their charred remains was ceremoniously placed in the sealed back room of a neighbour’s house, facing south, with an oil lamp burning at their feet, for three days.
No-one noticed or questioned the obvious knife wounds on their burned and blackened flesh.
Then the corpses were bathed with purified water, dressed in new clothing and taken to the Shmashana at the river’s edge by a few mourners that had been paid for by the solicitor from monies left in the Valjee estate, and there, what was left of the bodies were burned in the traditional manner.
Fires had lain in his bed at Addington Hospital for several weeks, being attended on by a sprightly surgeon in his mid fifties, named Doctor William Addison. This was how he was addressed by peers and subordinates, but Fires began to know him simply as Bill, as he was nursed back to health, letting his broken body mend and his stitched wounds give way to scabs and then scars.
Fires’ mind relentlessly replayed the events of that night, over and over, in a seamless and endless stream of confused but distorted images that sometimes interweaved themselves with the death of his mother and father, and his journey from Pretoria to Durban.
The nightly mish-mash of horror and sorrow robbed him of his sleep, caused him to toss and turn fitfully in his cot, and to cry out or wail miserably during the rest of his confinement.
Days turned into weeks, and these gave way to months.
The nurses at the hospital were concerned for him.
Physically he was mending quickly, but his mental state seemed so fragile, especially during his waking moments, when he would sit and stare blankly beyond the foot of his bed into a void that none of them could peer into or comprehend, and there seemed very little that they could do to help him.
He wallowed in the memories of middle-class life in Bombay as the adopted son of Mohanlal Valjee, brother of Mohinder, and knew that all of it had been mercilessly ripped away from him, that only the ghosts remained.
Then, one night, as a summer thunderstorm had raged outside his window, he was looking out onto the Point and the ocean beyond, with skies that were black and balefully leaden and sundered only by forks of fierce lightning.
He wrapped his body in the mental armour of pure hatred, let the banner of vengeance drape around his shoulders, and stuffed all of his remorse and sorrows into the dead zone that he created within himself. He summoned up a new mantra that would sustain him in his thirst for revenge, taken from the teachings of the Indians who had adopted him and which he subtly altered to suit his desires:
'Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds, and I will have my vengeance...’
Prior to Fires’ final discharge from Addington Hospital, Bill visited him, accompanied by a short, squat and extremely obese Indian man who was wearing a cheap pin striped business suit that barely contained his girth, and who carried a battered old leather briefcase clutched to his chest.
He was sweating profusely, and his body reeked of garlic.
Bill introduced the man as Malik Rasool, Mohanlal’s solicitor, then made his excuses and left the two alone.
Malik seated himself at the bedside and began to fumble with the clasps of the briefcase, muttering softly and cursing his clumsiness, before pulling out a large wad of paperwork, which he deposited gently on top of the blanket, splaying his podgy hand over it and revealing several gold rings wrapped tightly around his fingers.
He looked into Fires’ face, smiled and said,
‘This is the last will and testament of the late Manmohan Mohanlal Valjee, your adopted father, and it is my sad duty to inform you of its contents.’
Fires merely nodded and waved for the man to continue.
‘I knew Mohanlal for a long time, and his tragic death, and that of his eldest son, has caused me much grief over the past months. My sincerest wish is that I did not have to undertake this onerous duty with you, but I must. It is the nature of my work, and it is my obligation to the man. I find this difficult and painful, but I trust that you will understand and bear with me?’
Fires nodded blankly, but then added softly,
‘My father and brother were good men, and I miss them both, but grieving will not bring them back to me. Please...continue, Meneer Rasool...’
Malik cleared his throat, patted the pile of papers once more and then spoke almost robotically,
‘In essence, this document provides you with a reasonably wealthy future, but there are certain conditions stipulated herein that I have to make you aware of. Would you like me to read the whole of the document, or simply the synopsis of its content?’
‘The short version will suffice...if you would.’
Fires watched the man fidget uncomfortably under his gaze and realised that Mohanlal and Mohinder had probably known Malik Rasool for a long time, that he was more like a family friend than a mere solicitor, even though in the years he spent living under the same roof as the Valjee’s, he had never seen Malik or heard his name mentioned.
There was sorrow in his eyes as he began to speak,
‘Mohanlal was an astute business man, but he was also a caring and loving father and husband. The death of his wife and children as a result of the plague made him all too aware of his own mortality.
He invested wisely, squandered little, and hoped that one day his accrued finances would pay for the education of his children. He wanted to ensure that they would go to university, and to make something of their life. Education, as he once said, is the finest investment a man can make, and it was for this reason that he set aside a fund to pay for it...’
Malik paused, looking over the sheet of paper at the young man laying impassively beneath the sheets and waiting for his approval to continue. Fires nodded for him to do so.
‘You are now the sole beneficiary to his foresightedness, Meneer Van Valjee, and the entire fund has been set aside and is to be used to pay for you to continue your education once you have finally left school here in Natal. It will pay for tuition and accomodation fees for the entirety of your university years, and, on achieving majority, the remainder will be signed over to you...If you choose to invest it wisely, it will also provide a steady income for you, and I will be on hand to offer advice on such matters, although I must stress that you may enlist the services of others if you so wish. I would not presume that...’
‘No, no, no, Meneer Rasool...’ Fires interjected, holding up his hands.
‘Malik, please...’ the Indian said flatly
.
‘No, Malik,’ Fires acceded, ‘what was good enough for my father will be more than adequate for me, and I will entrust you with this task, if you wish to administer my inheritance?’
‘That is most kind of you, young sir, and I will not disappoint you.’
‘I know,’ Fires smiled and patted the hand still resting on the wad of paperwork. ‘I know...but now I want to rest. Bill tells me that I am fit enough to be discharged in the morning, and I would like to be fresh...’
‘I understand perfectly, but...’ he rifled through his pocket and produced a small white business card slightly frayed at the edges and damp with sweat, ‘please come to see me when you are up and about and we shall clarify the details together.’
‘Thank you, Malik. I will...’
Fires shook his hand and watched him depart from the ward, and from the hitch of the man’s shoulders, and the inept fumbling for a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, Fires could tell that Meneer Rasool was crying...
Bill had helped Fires out of bed on the final morning of his stay at Addington Hospital, even though he was strong enough to do this by himself, and as he dressed, they chatted idly of things mundane, of his studies, his ambitions and ultimately how he felt now that he was fit enough to return to the outside world, to walk down the antiseptic corridors and out into the leafy tree lined drive of the hospital grounds.
‘So, what now, Fires? What does the future hold for you...?’
‘I think it will more than likely be University for me next, probably up in Bloemfontein, or somewhere pretty similar, and then, well, who knows...A career of some sort? I don’t really have any plans.’
This was a lie.
Fires had plans, but not the sort of plans that Bill Addison would like to know the details of. He had plans that involved pain and suffering, vengeance and retribution for those who had crossed him and hurt him in the past. He had plans of tracking down the black bastards who caused all of his misery and visiting his pent up rage upon them.
Bill Addison had made an entire career out of mending bodies and putting people back together, stitching and sewing shattered flesh and making it whole. He would not enjoy, or wish to hear, Fires’ plans to do exactly the reverse.
They shook hands at the gate, with Bill wishing Fires all the best for the future, then watching the retreating back of the young man whom he had spent so many hours bringing back to full health, playing chess with, chatting with and getting to know.
He walked with a slight limp, but that would gradually disappear, and the remaining scar tissue would eventually heal well enough to be hardly noticeable, but Bill was troubled by the final look in Fires’ eyes.
Fires smiled back at him affably enough on leaving, but the doctor felt that there was something hidden behind those eyes, something inside him that was looking out. Something that was not smiling, that could not smile, but that was lurking in shadow, watching and planning, calculating in a malevolent way.
‘Fires!’ Bill shouted to the diminishing figure, who half turned and smiled again before waving, ‘Be good, lad...I don’t want you back in here.’
Fires laughed,
‘G’bye, Bill...I won’t be back...’
‘No,’ Bill thought to himself as he walked slowly up to the hospital doorway, ‘I did not imagine it; there was an evil predatory gleam in that boy’s eyes...’
Fires spent the majority of his time up at the former Grey College School in Bloemfontein, immersing himself totally in education, enjoying the thrill of learning about the exciting new fields of science, of languages and philosophy, of anthropology and the law.
There were only ten lecturers at this blossoming University, and twenty-eight other students, so this made for an intimate learning environment that Fires relished. The lectures were always diverse, engaging and enthralling for him. He soaked them up like a sponge, but he also took time away at weekends to travel back to Durban and visit some of the seedier parts of town renowned for the roaming gangs of amalaita and drunken debauchery.
All of it was undertaken in the quest for knowledge of a different kind...
One weekend, he decided not to go back to Durban, but stop off in the old town of Pietermaritzburg instead, and to explore the wonders of the Natal Society Museum, which he had found both fascinating and fortuitous.
Whilst wandering aimlessly around the exhibits, and the echoing corridors, he chanced upon a short talk by a man named Frederick Fitzsimons about native snakes of South Africa, of their different venoms and the effects of them, demonstrations of milking techniques to extract venom and manufacture serum to negate the effects of their bite. He was inspired and enraptured by the short lecture, especially drawn in, and captivated by Fitzsimons’ Irish accent.
This was the most useful talk he had ever listened to in his life and he spent several hours afterwards questioning and engaging the man in conversation, before making his way to a cheap hotel and booking a room for the night.
Frederick Fitzsimons insisted that they have dinner together and Fires readily agreed. They shared a bottle of local red wine over a good steak, whilst Frederick liberally poured out his knowledge of cytotoxins, haemotoxins and neurotoxins to Fires.
The man was almost encyclopaedic when it came to his familiarity with the snakes of South Africa and Fires suppressed a fit of the giggles as he listened to him expounding and disseminating his knowledge with such enthusiasm.
‘Yes, venom contains more than twenty different compounds - mostly proteins and polypeptides,’ Frederick stated, ‘and has two main functions. Firstly, it provides immobilization of its intended prey, and secondly, the digestion of prey once it has been eaten. It is quite a complex mixture of proteins, enzymes, and various other substances but, basically the proteins are responsible for the toxic and lethal effect of the venom...They immobilise...’
Fires listened intently, nodding and smiling, encouraging this very affable Irishman to tell him all that there was to know about the subject, the watchful gleam never leaving the young man’s eyes as Frederick went on.
‘Some of the proteins in snake venom are very particular in their effects on biological functions, including blood coagulation, blood pressure regulation, transmission of nervous impulses or muscular impulses and have turned out to be pharmacological or diagnostic tools...They may even provide useful drugs for medicinal use....’
‘And these various proteins can be isolated, Frederick?’ Fires had pounced eagerly.
‘Oh yes, Fires, and quite soon we may even be able to synthesise some of them in the laboratory too...It could actually be the dawn of a whole new era of medicine stemming from the serpent that first tempted mankind into his original sin...’
Frederick had laughed heartily at his own joke, but this phrase set Fires’ mind off on a derailed tangent that proved to be almost too unpleasant to follow.
Dark memories erupted at the mention of sin.
Still, despite this, the evening passed far too quickly for him, and he soon found himself staring up at the ceiling of his hotel room in the darkness, plotting and planning his next move.
For his eighteenth birthday in April 1908, Fires decided to buy something special for the task that lay ahead of him and so he hopped onto a train to visit Cape Town’s metropolitan sprawl in search of what a colleague at University had assured him were usually referred to as “a sporting gentleman’s suppliers”.
He examined, tested and purchased the Giffard air rifle that had, according to the salesman, first been manufactured in 1889 and now possessed the additional refinement and improvement of a liquefied carbonic acid gas cylinder to power it.
The oily little man, sensing an imminent sale, then assured Fires that he could go up onto the veldt and hunt big game with this thing...it was a powerful weapon, and one that had to be treated with the utmost respect.
‘Yay-sus, man,’ he grinned enthusiastically, ‘you could probably stop a charging Cape buffalo with one of these things...’
Fires doubted this ridiculously boastful claim.
He had seen a charging Cape buffalo, and the salesman obviously hadn’t, but he paid for the gun, left the shop and then went back to the train station, calling in along the way at a medical outlet to purchase his final few supplies for the project.
On the journey home to Durban, he felt a smug and self satisfied smile creep across his lips and he dozed fitfully as the train lightly clickety-clacked along the cold steel rails, rocking him gently with its motion, but it was a dreamless sleep that left him fully refreshed by the time he alighted.
Clutching his purchases tightly to his chest, he weaved through the emptying evening streets to his rented apartment, unlocked the door quietly and slipped furtively inside to deposit his arsenal on the bed. There he unwrapped them, and then stored them lovingly in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe, secure in the knowledge that once this term at University ended in the winter, he would finally set his plan in motion...
Pietrus Mubizela was a dull-witted man of predictable habits and particular tastes, especially on Friday and Saturday nights, which would be spent, or wasted, in idle boasting, drinking beer or home-brewed rum, smoking hemp, and then going off in search of a good fuck.
He loved fucking the best of all.
Watching those silky smooth black township whores dance around him and shake their titties and fat backsides so invitingly for him.
He loved to sample their wares as well; to feel their breasts as he squeezed them in his hands, tugging and twisting the nipples to make the silly bitches gasp, the taste of their wet vaginas, and their welcome warmth as he pushed his hard cock inside them to hear them moan in pleasure, or scream in pain.
He didn’t care which, really.
Sometimes he’d pay them, and other times he’d just fuck them and then beat them when they asked him for the money.
Billy (Hunger Book 2) Page 1
