Crooks and Straights

by Masha du Toit

  Where should she start?

  “It’s about my brother. Nico.”

  “Ah.”

  “Special Branch are after him,” said Paddavis smugly. “Told you.”

  Gia turned quickly to him. “How do you know?”

  Paddavis shrugged. “Been listening. Been watching.” He curled his tail around himself, and examined his nails. “Saw the sniffers banging about.” He gave a delicate shudder. “No good ever comes of sniffers.”

  Gia turned back to the caretaker. “It’s true,” she said. “I think Special Branch are after Nico. They sent a letter. He’s got to go in for testing at Valkenberg.”

  The caretaker went very still.

  “Somebody,” said Gia, “a, um, a friend, suggested that you might be able to help.”

  “I cannot help you with Valkenberg,” said the caretaker softly. “That is a place of endings.”

  Gia felt an uncontrollable shudder go through her.

  A place of endings.

  She pulled herself together and plunged on. “My friend thought, that maybe, you might, you know— be able to tell me who could help me?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “I think I should speak to the, um Belle Gente,” said Gia. “They could help, couldn’t they?”

  She ignored Paddavis’s smirk.

  “They could, if it suited them,” said the caretaker. “But they’ll ask a price.”

  Gia was not sure how to answer, and in fact, was not sure if he expected an answer. So she just sat and watched him. The light bulb made a small cave of light around them, casting everything else in deep shadow. A flutter caught her eye, and she looked up, expecting to see a moth attracted to the light.

  A very large moth.

  It took her a moment to realise what she was looking at. It was the haarskeerder, hovering in the dusty air just at the edge of the circle of light.

  “Oh!” she said, half rising. “There she is!”

  The caretaker lifted his hand, and the haarskeerder swooped in and perched on it.

  Gia stared in wonder. The creature was just as strange and marvellous as she’d remembered— more so now, as she looked in perfect health. Her wings, which had been pale wisps, glittered now with refracted colour.

  “She’s been staying here with you?”

  The caretaker nodded. “She’s too young to go off on her own yet.”

  The haarskeerder jumped off his hand and, wings spread, glided down to his knee.

  “Paddavis tells me you rescued her,” said the caretaker. “But after all, it was your cat that caught her. And your kind that destroyed her nest.”

  Once again, Gia was not sure how to answer.

  What did he mean ‘your kind’?

  “I’ve been putting out food for her,” said Gia. “I didn’t think she could survive, away from her nest.” She glanced at Paddavis. “But I don’t think she got much of that food. It was you, wasn’t it, cleaning the dishes.”

  Paddavis grinned at her.

  Her gaze was drawn back to the haarskeerder. “Is it safe to look at her?”

  “She won't dazzle you,” said the caretaker. “They only do that if you threaten their nest.” He held out a knuckle, and the haarskeerder rubbed her cheek on it. “And this little one doesn’t have a nest. All by herself.”

  The creature started to gnaw on his finger. Her teeth looked sharp, but the caretaker seemed unperturbed.

  “So,” he said. “Young Nico.”

  Paddavis, who’d been scratching behind one ear, looked up.

  “Those silvers won't let him go, once they got him,” he said. “And he’s crook, all right.”

  The caretaker gave him a quelling glance, but Paddavis did not seem to notice. “They won’t even need to test him, they’ll see as soon as they look.”

  “Silvers?” said Gia. “That’s— Special Branch?”

  “Yep,” said Paddavis. “Or anyway, the Pure ones. Thought your Mom was one at first, what with that silver on her arms. But I soon see she’s not one of them.”

  Gia frowned. She’d never thought about her mother’s silver jewellery in that way. The Purists, with their silver salute, were a relatively new thing, and Saraswati had worn her bracelets for as long as Gia could remember.

  “But what can I do, then?” she asked. “If you can’t help me contact the Belle Gente?”

  The caretaker looked up. “I did not say that I would not help you.”

  Gia, whose heart had been sinking, felt a surge of hope. “So you’ll tell me what to do?”

  The caretaker was looking at Paddavis now.

  “Brakman,” he said. “You should take her to see Brakman, Paddavis. He’s the man for this kind of job.”

  Paddavis looked irritated. “I should, should I? And why is that?”

  “Don’t you owe the girl a favour?”

  Paddavis pulled at one ear. “Hmm,” he muttered. “Right.”

  “Can’t you just tell me where to go?” asked Gia.

  Both of them shook their heads.

  “Brakman will not see you without me there,” said Paddavis. “Suspicious old dog, is Brakman. Paranoid.”

  He grinned at Gia. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind going to see him. See how the old fart’s getting on.”

  -oOo-

  All Paddavis would say about Brakman was, “You’ll see when we get there.”

  Gia knew he lived in Rosebank, but Paddavis refused to take a taxi, so they would have to walk all the way there. She considered asking Fatima for a lift, but then she pictured Fatima’s most likely reaction to Paddavis. With the exception of Ben’s talent, Fatima tended to treat anything to do with magic with disgusted scorn. And maybe it was better not to involve too many people in this meeting.

  Paddavis was excited by the prospect of the walk down to Rosebank.

  “Not far,” he said. “Through Salt River, then down next to Liesbeek. Haven’t been that way for years.”

  Saraswati was still out, so Gia left a note that she’d gone for a run.

  “I’ll go on your shoulder,” said Paddavis, and that is what he did, one hand resting on her head. Gia supposed that he was doing his invisibility trick, because nobody so much as glanced at them.

  The streets below Eastern Boulevard were new to Gia.

  As they crossed Woodstock Main Road, Gia began to feel a little uneasy. This part of town was much the same as Walmer Estate, a poor neighbourhood. There was a lot of rubbish lying around, and the sidewalks were greasy with ancient filth.

  Most of the people seemed harmless though. Just normal people going about their daily business. But not everyone seemed equally approachable.

  As she drew near Salt River Circle, she saw a group of young men lounging on a street corner. They had not noticed her yet, but they would soon enough, and she wondered if she should backtrack and choose another route. There was something about the way they stood, all attitude and arrogance, that made her very nervous.

  “Paddavis,” she muttered. “Can you include me in your invisibility thing? Make them not notice me, or something?”

  “I can,” said Paddavis. “As long as you don’t bump into people. That makes them notice.”

  There was no sign that he’d done anything until she was quite close to the group. Then it was their lack of reaction that convinced her Paddavis’s trick was working.

  It was uncanny. Usually, they would be eyeing her up and down. There would be remarks, whistles and catcalls. Even attempts to block her from walking by. She’d have to play that frustrating old game of ignoring them, while they did, and said, whatever they pleased. Now they simply acted as if she was not there.

  It was the strangest feeling. She found herself slowing down to enjoy it, staring at the young men without being seen in return.

  “Don’t push it,” muttered Paddavis, and she picked up her stride and left them behind.

  Now that she felt safe from notice, Gia found that she enjoyed the walk much more. She adm
ired the hand-painted signs outside the hair salons, boasting of the variety of styles they could achieve. There were tailors displaying brightly patterned men’s shirts, grubby little stalls where you could recharge your texter, and a martial arts club named The Moroccan Royal Panther Society.

  Scents wafted from every door she passed. The pungent smell of offal and cabbage cooking. The chemical sting of hair straighteners and hairspray mixed with incense and boxer cigarettes. The wet, dark green pong of marijuana. The shops here had visible wards up above their doors, horseshoes and wreaths of rosemary.

  A splash drew her attention to a row of plastic buckets filled with live snoek, their black backs gleaming in the sun as they struggled, drowning slowly in water not even deep enough to cover their bodies.

  Paddavis pointed out things she might have missed, and explained them to her.

  The streamers that fluttered from some of the lampposts were coded messages, a system used by the local magicals. The tiny glass vials that rolled under her feet, crunching into glass-dust, were the cast-offs of the spore-junkies and sparkle-heads.

  They crossed a bridge and the landscape changed. The path ran along a grassy bank next to a broad, shallow river.

  “Liesbeek River,” said Paddavis. “All kinds of people live here. But you won't tend to see them in daytime.”

  Despite that rather unsettling idea, it was pleasant walking next to the river.

  “Tell me about the Belle Gente,” she asked.

  Paddavis had moved to the crook of her arm, which made it easier to talk to him.

  “Pah,” said Paddavis, and pulled a face. “They’re mostly uitlanders. Foreigners. Don’t know anything about how things work here.”

  “Aren’t you an uitlander yourself? Don’t you come from Britain or somewhere like that?”

  Paddavis shot her a disgusted look. “I come from Ireland, thank you very much.”

  “So doesn’t that make you a foreigner too?”

  “Not any more than you are a foreigner.”

  “Okay. So I was born in Italy. But my parents were born here, and their parents too.”

  “And I’ve been living here since before your grandparents’ grandparents were born.”

  “Oh.”

  They reached a place where the grassy bank widened. There were people here, walking their dogs or sunning themselves on benches.

  “So, the Belle Gente are foreigners, then,” said Gia. “But who are they?”

  “That’s the question,” said Paddavis. “Nobody really knows. There are rumours. About the leaders. The old ones. They haven’t been here long. Things were getting too hot for them over there, so they come here. From China, Russia, Germany, all those places.”

  “So the leaders are all foreigners? Aren’t there any South African, um, old ones?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t think so. Too easy here in South Africa. No need to get organised.” He gave a snort of disgust. “During the struggle, it was all ‘crooks and straights together’ and ‘sentient rights for all’. And after we overthrew the old regime, the straights seemed to keep their promises. I mean, some people squeaked that there weren't enough crooks in parliament, but there was all this talk about the ‘new South Africa’ and the new constitution, everything bright and shiny. So most of us didn’t really pay attention.

  “Things were pretty good. Who cared what was happening overseas? I didn’t. And then, of course, they all started coming here. All these refugees. No wonder the straights started getting antsy, what with sniplisters and bonecrunchers and whatever-all slipping over the borders.”

  Gia listened, fascinated. This was a completely different perspective on the history she’d learnt at school.

  “We never learnt about magicals helping during the struggle,” she said.

  “Exactly,” said Paddavis. “I’m not surprised to hear that.”

  “What is a bonecruncher?”

  “Ghoul. Looks like a human, but you can tell him by his big jaw. And the smell. Poof! They do stink.”

  “Are any of the, um, crooks that I’m likely to meet South African? I mean, indigenous South African?”

  “Indigenous? Not many anymore. Some little ones. Snaartjies, vlêrremeisies, roos-dorinkies, streepies, that kind of thing; you see them if you look. Haven’t seen any others for years. Used to be, you could count on seeing a vrekker or a slaap-suster even just walking down Main Road. I remember there was a takman living down in Roodebloem ’till just a few years ago. Maybe if you went out into the country, you’d still find them. Kurk-trekkers, seepmeide, krapsoeitjies, suurklokkies…” He sighed and fell silent.

  “And this Brakman we’re going to see. He’s one of the high ups in the Belle Gente?”

  This made Paddavis laugh. “What, Brakman? No, he’s just a cypher.”

  And more than that, she could not get out of him.

  -oOo-

  Gia was beginning to wonder just how long the walk would be, when Paddavis told her to cross one of the bridges that spanned the river into Rosebank.

  This part of Rosebank looked old and unchanged. Most of the houses were behind high walls or screened from view by their lush gardens. The houses were large and luxurious, but many showed signs of neglect, and one or two were clearly abandoned.

  Paddavis directed her into a road that ended at a block of flats, three storeys high. The fence was rusty and patched in places with rolls of barbed wire, and weeds sprouted in the cracked concrete. There was a gate with a bank of buttons and nameplates, and it was some time before Paddavis spotted the right one.

  “There,” he said, pointing. The button number was twenty-seven, and the label had “B. B.” written on it in faded pencil.

  “That’s him,” said Paddavis.

  Gia hesitated, suddenly unsure.

  “Go ahead— push it.”

  She did. Nothing happened.

  “Hold it longer.”

  Gia obeyed. Still nothing.

  “Try another one.”

  “Which one?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Gia pushed a bell at random, and after a few seconds the speaker crackled.

  “Um, Hi!” said Gia. A voice spoke, lost in static.

  “Hi, I’ve— I’ve lost my key,” said Gia. “Can you let me in?”

  To Gia’s surprise, the gate clanged and the lock released.

  They took the stairs to the second floor, and found number twenty-seven. This time Gia pushed the doorbell without being prompted. A curtain stirred in one of the windows.

  “He’s home,” she said.

  “Of course he’s home,” said Paddavis. “Where else would he be? Put me down.” He scaled the burglar bars and hammered on the door. “Brakman!” he shouted. “It's me, Paddavis. Stop messing about and let us in.”

  After a long pause, a key turned in the lock.

  By now Gia was thoroughly nervous, and ready for any strange creature, but the face that appeared around the door was that of an old man, with pale, watery eyes.

  “You’re not Paddavis,” he said looking up at her grumpily.

  He wore a woollen cap with long flaps that fell down on either side of his face, which struck Gia as odd in the late-summer heat.

  “No, she’s not, but I am!” said Paddavis. “Come on, Brakkie, let us in.”

  “Oh. There you are.” The old man wrinkled his nose at Paddavis. “What do you want?”

  “caretaker sent me.”

  “Caretaker?” Brakman peered at them for a few more suspicious moments. “Oh. Very well then.”

  The door closed and Gia thought he’d gone away again, but then she heard the chain release and the door opened all the way.

  “Wait a moment, wait a moment.”

  Brakman sorted through his keys and unlocked the burglar gate.

  The rest of him was just as odd as the glimpse Gia had already seen. He was twitchy in a way that made Gia think of a small dog, one of those that limped for no reason. His clothes were clean but faded,
and he wore a pair of gloves that matched his woollen cap. She felt the drag of disappointment. How on earth could this ridiculous little man help Nico?

  “Come in, come in,” said Brakman impatiently.

  He led Gia down a short passage and showed her into a room, with Paddavis following close behind. There was nothing much to see. Only a filing cabinet, a trestle table with a computer on it, a chair, and a sofa.

  “So what do you want?” said Brakman. “The caretaker sent you?”

  “That’s right,” said Paddavis, who’d already made himself at home on the sofa. “We need some records wiped.”

  Brakman frowned. “Wiped? I can’t help you with that.”

  “Of course you can,” said Paddavis.

  “Um,” said Gia quickly, as the little man drew himself up in irritation. “We’re sorry to barge in on you like this, Mr Brakman. But we don’t have much time. The caretaker told me that you are the only one who can help me, so I’m sure you are very busy. I hope we did not interrupt anything important?”

  Brakman stared at her for a moment in surprise. “Oh, no, not really. Just routine stuff.” He sniffed and peered at her. “Caretaker said I was the one, hey? Always like that. Jump when things get ugly, and forget about you the rest of the time.”

  Gia did not know how to respond to that, so she said nothing.

  “Oh, sit, sit,” he said, waving a hand at the sofa. “Might as well get it over with.”

  There was a nest of blankets on the sofa, and Gia felt sure that this was where Brakman spent his nights. One corner of the room was piled high with pizza boxes. The air was stale, and she wished she could open a window. Brakman pulled up a chair for himself and sat there, glancing from Gia to Paddavis, who was bouncing, grinning at some private joke.

  “So, what’s this about then?” said Brakman.

  Seeing that Paddavis was not going to help her, Gia took the plunge. “I need help to get my little brother out of testing by Special Branch.”

  Brakman’s eyebrows went up. “Why do they want to test him?”

  “They think he’s crook,” said Paddavis while Gia was still looking for words. “And he probably is. A bit like you. A useful crook. Useful to them. So we need to wipe his records, as soon as he’s got any.”