Billy (Hunger Book 2)

by Scott Richards

  That way he could spend what he’d just saved on another one.

  Saturday night was always a two fuck night for him, and then he’d either wander around town trying to score some hemp, or stagger back to his squalid little kaia, depending on how much he’d drunk or smoked, to collapse onto his rough-made cot and sleep through most of Sunday.

  He lived on the outskirts of the township in a makeshift building that constantly needed repairs doing on it, but it suited him and he didn’t really give a shit as long as he could get enough cash to get drunk, stoned and fucked at the weekend. Being in the local amalaita gang had helped him with this too, stealing and robbing others, beating them to a pulp with his izinduku if they resisted, but tonight was a pretty piss poor Saturday night, with only one whore for the taking, and she’d insisted on the cash up front and run off before he’d had the chance to beat the little shit and get his cash back. He realised that he shouldn’t have smoked that last joint or drunk the last rum. It had slowed him down and he felt groggy and tired, needing to sleep it off.

  He lurched through the entrance to his kaia and was about to hurl himself onto his cot when the white man stepped from the deep shadows, lifted his hands and aimed something at him.

  He instinctively recoiled, but he did so far too slowly, as a spray of viscous liquid hit him in the face and swilled over his eyes, causing instant and intense burning pain there.

  He couldn’t see a thing now, only a blur of motion as his own izinduku caught him at the side of the head, sending him tumbling to the floor in unconsciousness.

  Fires was not worried that the blow might have been fatal, but was pleased to find that it rendered Pietrus unconscious.

  When he came to, the black man’s eyes were blazing agony and he was tied in a seated and cross-legged fashion to one of the uprights of his kaia walls, naked and with a thick cord around his neck. His wrists were strapped to his ankles and he could not move to wipe the tears streaming from his swelling eyes.

  A voice murmured malevolently to him in the darkness,

  ‘It hurts, doesn’t it, Pietrus Mubizela...?’

  ‘Who the fuck are you, man, and what have you done to me...?’

  ‘Oh, I’m your worst nightmare, Pietrus.’

  Pietrus was about to start shouting for someone to help him when he felt something icy cold being held at his throat, and quickly realised that this was not a good idea.

  It was actually only the nozzle of the syringe that Fires had used to spray the venom at him with, but this dumb kaffir didn’t know that, and never would.

  ‘I am retribution, Pietrus, but I have merely come to ask you some questions, okay...?’ Fires lied.

  Pietrus nodded, sensing salvation and freedom in return for a little knowledge. He grasped at the lifeline he was being offered.

  ‘Okay, boss...’ he acceded.

  ‘Good...Now, at the moment you have a small dose of modified spitting cobra venom in your eyes, which is why they hurt, but if you do exactly what I ask you to do and help me, then I can rinse them for you, give you some antidote and save your sight...or you can remain silent, tell me nothing and be a blind man for the rest of your days...Got it?’

  ‘Yes, boss...Please...I’ll tell you anything. Just ask me...’

  He groaned in abject fear.

  He knew that if he was blinded, life as a beggar on the streets would not be easy or pleasant for him, and he would be a target for anyone wanting revenge upon him.

  The kaffir was pleading and begging, but Fires felt nothing, viewed it as merely the mewling whines of the condemned man and could not even summon up any contempt for this worthless creature.

  ‘Okay, Pietrus...I think we ought to start with a little chat about a botched burglary that you were once involved in...’

  ‘Burglary, boss...?’

  Fires pressed the cold glass a little deeper into his throat.

  ‘Okay, okay...what burglary, man...?’

  ‘A couple of years ago...It was an Indian family on Umgeni Road.’

  ‘Oh, fuck. You mean the one that Amos ruined by slitting that fat Indian pig’s throat, and knifing the other one...the one who was fucking the white kid...Yeah, I remember that night...’

  ‘Good...Who is Amos...?’ Fires pressed, resisting the temptation to smash his fist into this evil black face.

  ‘Amos Wutanashe, boss...fucking head case kaffir, he is. Likes to play with knives...he’s a dumb fuck...a thug...’

  ‘I want to know who else was there, Pietrus...I know there were at least three of you...’

  ‘Billy...Billy Mafokeng...He was there too...But, he’s smart, boss. He’s a really clever kaffir, man.’

  ‘Not too clever for me to find though, eh, Pietrus...?’

  ‘No, boss...I can tell you where to find them both....but my eyes, boss...My eyes...Please make it stop...’

  Pietrus gave Fires all the information he wanted, wondering why he was so interested in the burglary, and secretly hoping that either Amos would prove to be far too strong, or Billy would be far too smart for this stinking white man and that he’d get himself killed by one of them.

  That would serve him right, too, for making his eyes hurt so much.

  ‘Fucking hell...’ he thought, ‘they were burning now...’

  He desperately wanted the pain to go away, but the white man had more dumb questions for him.

  ‘You were the lookout for the robbery then, were you...?’

  ‘Yes, boss...Just the lookout...I didn’t kill no-one. Honest, man. I only took the money and I ran.’

  ‘I believe you, Pietrus...I believe you,’ Fires cooed soothingly.

  ‘So, you’ll rinse my eyes now, boss...? Please...?’’

  Pietrus heard rustling sounds as the cold sharp thing was removed from his throat, and he hoped that the white man was going to take away the pain from his eyes, rinse off the venom and give him an antidote.

  He was completely unprepared for the knife being thrust between his teeth and into his mouth, pushed under his tongue, severing it and slicing it at the back of his throat, as the white man’s fingers grabbed the tip and yanked it from its root.

  He tried to scream, although the noise he made was muffled and muted to a low gurgle as blood poured into his throat.

  Fires was about to discard the tongue, then decided he would sauté it later, maybe with some fried onions and liver, so he rummaged in his knapsack for a sheet of brown paper, then carefully wrapped it and slipped it into his pocket.

  He ignored Pietrus’ bubbling sobs.

  A cloth was retrieved from a side pocket of the bag and hastily tied over Pietrus’ mouth, immediately turning it crimson as it absorbed the steady flow of the man’s blood.

  The soft voice of the white man was close in his ear as he tried not to choke on his own blood, tried peering out through the ruin of his eyes that were now painfully swollen and showing tell-tale signs of edema, chemosis and irreparable damage.

  Fires was very pleased with the effects of the modified venom and made a mental note to inform Frederick about it the next time he wrote to him.

  ‘You wagged that tongue once too often, Pietrus, my friend, and I just can’t run the risk of you telling Amos and Billy of my intention to visit them, can I? But don’t worry about your eyes, Pietrus. The venom doesn’t actually cause any permanent damage once the pain and swelling have finally subsided...’

  Pietrus felt something being piled onto his lap.

  It was coarse and rough, like strips of wood and cloth.

  He wondered what the fuck this crazy white man was doing to him until he smelled the alcohol.

  ‘You like a drop of rum on a Saturday night, don’t you, Pietrus?’ Fires hissed into his ear.

  Pietrus heard the bottle emptying and felt the splashing of the cool liquid over his head, his torso and finally his lap and with sudden dread realised what was about to happen to him.

  He began to struggle in a futile attempt to dislodge the kindling, to
be free: squirming frantically and twisting against his bonds but to no avail. Fires had tied the knots far too securely.

  Pietrus wanted to scream and to beg for his life but found that he couldn’t. The smell of alcohol in his nostrils was so overpowering and sickening that it made him gag, and he was almost choking on the fumes and the blood in his mouth, made worse by the cloth tied over it. He knew that the pile of wood and rags nestling in his lap and rubbing over his groin were soaked with it as well.

  He struggled in futility against the bonds, but Fires continued to speak to him, unconcerned at his plight.

  ‘When a human body burns, Pietrus, the outer layers of skin begin to peel in the heat, and then, after around five minutes, this will split and allow the underlying fat to ooze and ignite...the kindling in your lap will act as a wick for the flames, and you will burn like a candle for me...Perhaps for hours.’

  Fires stroked the match against the wall of the kaia, shielded his eyes against the sudden flare as the flame blossomed, took one last look at the pathetic traitor and murderer, bound and gagged before him; this assassin, this burglar, this piece of garbage and knew that he felt absolutely nothing for him.

  He casually dropped the flaming match into Pietrus’ lap, picked up his bag of equipment before turning and walking out of the kaia as the almost transparent bright blue-tinged tongues took hold of the kindling and Pietrus’ flesh.

  'Now I am become Death,’ Fires whispered to the darkness, ‘the destroyer of worlds, and I will have my vengeance...’

  Outside, in the still night air he had laughed loudly to the stars as he heard the sounds of the thrashing body burning behind him...

  The journey Fires made a few days later up into the Transvaal by train was a tedious one and a little tiring, so he booked into a small hotel in Middelburg for the night.

  Then, the following morning he breakfasted early, left the hotel and set off with his gun and modified ammunition in his knapsack as though going out on an expedition into the bush to hunt game, informing the desk clerk that he would be gone for a couple of days, but would hopefully be back with a trophy or too.

  The desk clerk had smiled affably, waved as he departed and then wished him, ‘Happy hunting....’

  The hotel manager tried to be helpful the previous night and told Fires of some of the best hunting spots to be found close by, and Fires nodded his head to him blithely as though he was interested, even jotted down directions in a small notebook.

  There was a lush grass-covered hillock overlooking the township that proved to be the ideal spot for Fires to watch and wait for his prey, scanning the area and looking around through the small field binoculars he had brought with him.

  Amos was a huge man, and had altered little since the night of the burglary when he plunged that vicious butchery knife out through Mohinder’s chest. The thought of his step-brother, Mohinder, and his untimely death was not a pleasant experience and so Fires quickly pushed it down into the memory file that he was gradually creating within himself, sliding the unbreakable lock closed and preventing it from resurfacing unless he wanted to access it again.

  He watched Amos casually strolling through the gathering gloom to his kaia, dressed in a pair of scruffy overalls, tattered, lace-less boots, and carrying a large bag over his shoulder.

  Most of the itinerant kaffirs on the Veldt carried as many of their possessions as they could around with them during the day, mainly to prevent theft, but also in case the prospect of a better job in another state came to their attention, so Fires assumed that it was merely filled with the man’s clothing.

  Fires had spent many hours at weekends out on the deserted lush grasslands that surrounded Durban, practicing with the rifle and experimenting with the pellets, with the intention of improving both his aim and the payload, using pigs’ heads that he had bought from a local butcher as a target.

  He had discovered that by making the pellets out of thin layers of papier-mâché and then applying a final layer of lacquer, they were capable of carrying the liquid payload when fired, but on impact the point would only penetrate sufficiently to allow the contents to be injected as the lacquer casing collapsed and shattered into small granules. It was perfect for his needs.

  He set up the small one man tent, clambered into his sleeping bag and retired for the night, sipping down a half bottle of beer as a nightcap.

  The following morning, he ate a light snack of sandwiches from a greased brown paper parcel that the hotel had packed for him, humming softly as he slurped at the last frothy dregs in the bottle of warm beer from the night before, savouring the sour sweetness as it trickled down his throat.

  Now he was ready.

  He passed some of the spare time by sunbathing naked outside his tent, relishing the warmth of the heat against his flesh and the cool grass under him, remembering the day when he swam in the river on his way to Durban, and dried off in the sun with the hard and unyielding rock beneath his buttocks.

  Then he dressed and made himself ready for the kill.

  He primed the rifle, testing it by firing a slug at a nearby bush and watching in satisfaction as the bark had splintered and shot out fragments at the impact, making very little sound at all.

  He lay on the edge of the hillock once more and waited...but not for long.

  Amos sauntered nonchalantly into view in the gun sights; swaying slightly and obviously a little drunk as Fires took aim, tracking the lumbering movements of the man until he was about to enter the kaia. He squeezed the trigger gently, felt the slight kick of the stock against his cheek and the soft ‘phut’ of the discharge, and then he watched as Amos lifted his right hand to the back of his neck, as if stung by some bothersome insect.

  Fires put the gun to one side and then watched him through the binoculars.

  Amos pulled his hand away from the wound and examined it to see that it was smeared with his own blood, and then he wiped the back of his neck once more, feeling at it and rubbing at the wound, possibly even finding the remnants of the spent and misshapen pellet abrading his clumsy fingers.

  Fires watched impassively as he examined his fingers once more, shook his head and lurched forward into his kaia.

  Fires unpitched the tent, packed away all his equipment, left his knapsack wrapped and camouflaged next to the bush he had shot at for practice, and then waited until dusk before stealthily making his way around the main township buildings. He carefully dodged and weaved through the tangle of ramshackle huts, keeping to the lengthening shadows to find the kaia, and then quickly slid in through the entrance...

  Amos had been day-dreaming idly in his drunken stupor about the possibility of murdering his boss, speculating on how it would feel to grip the little Afrikaaner’s weasel throat and squeeze the life out of him, or perhaps snap it like a dry twig, or to run him through with the knife and stop the relentless whippings he received from the man. The constant shouting, beating and kicking had become more irritating as the weeks rolled by. The work was always hard, the hours long and the pay pathetic.

  Oh, how glorious it would feel for Amos to have that scrawny and wrinkled neck in his hands right now and be able to feel it break.

  Whup!

  Something stung the back of his neck viciously, snapping him out of his reverie and making him reflexively clutch at the wound.

  ‘Fucking shit, man...That hurt...’ he mumbled to no-one.

  He looked at his hand and saw that he was bleeding, wiped it on his overalls and then felt at the wound again.

  It had made quite a hole back there on his neck, and it also felt like there was something hard in the wound, but when he looked at his fingers, he could only see tiny particles of something unusual, not like the sting that an insect would leave in the flesh.

  In his drunken state, he couldn’t quite see well enough to make out what they were, but the pain was increasing rapidly in his neck now and he felt giddy and nauseas as the burning sensation spread.

  His vision started to blu
r, and he wanted to lie down and stop the world from spinning, so he stumbled clumsily into the kaia and slumped onto his cot. He raised his arm and put a tentative hand to the bite and found it had swollen but was now almost too painful to touch, and his heart was hammering loudly in his chest, making him feel dizzier and almost passing out.

  ‘Fucking shit, man...’ he repeated.

  He soon discovered that he was as weak as a kitten when the white man entered his home.

  He initially tried to get up from the bed, but found that his body failed him, his limbs were unresponsive to his commands and they were twitching uncontrollably. His chest felt too tight to breathe as he wheezed and pleaded through the muscular constraints for the white man to help him, but he merely looked impassively down at Amos, smiled, and then casually began to rummage through the hastily discarded work sack.

  The man appeared to be looking for something in particular, as he set about casting aside the soiled work clothing and accumulated paperwork, until he pulled out the knife.

  Amos was writhing around painfully as the man slowly approached him, but he found that he couldn’t co-ordinate his movements on the cot anymore and merely lay there defenceless and helpless.

  The stranger stood over him and waved the knife in his face.

  ‘I’ve seen this blade before, Amos,’ the man stated in a matter-of-fact tone that was full of ice and menace.

  Amos tried to speak but found that his chest hurt as his lungs tried uselessly to force out the air to form words, his jaw was slack and producing incomprehensible and meaningless blubbering sounds.

  The man continued, ignoring his attempts at speech,

  ‘I’m the white boy from Umgeni Road....Remember me...? I’m the one you sent backwards, out through the window, after you’d slaughtered those two Indian men...’

  Amos was struggling to master his own body and paid no attention to the inane ranting of the white man.

  Why wasn’t he helping?

  ‘Cytotoxin is coursing through your veins,’ the stranger continued, ‘and you are going to die, Amos. You are going to die in what can only be described as abject misery and prolonged pain, but not from the snake venom that I shot you with.’