Black Heart

by Mike Nicol

  ‘Magnus,’ said Sheemina February.

  ‘The man they wanted to put in prison for God knows what reasons, anything they could think of: anthrax bombs, germ warfare. As if I was an evil man. These same people now fawning at my feet.’

  ‘Magnus.’ In front of them a boy was feeding the remains of his hamburger and chips to the seagulls, the birds screeching in to snatch the packet out of his hand. The boy ducking, laughing at the mayhem. It made Sheemina smile.

  ‘Magnus,’ she said, ‘I’m pleased for you. But there’s a thing here: what about Max Roland? His rendition.’

  Oosthuizen turned his head to look at her. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I know about Max Roland, Magnus. Some things I don’t know, but I do know about him.’

  Oosthuizen nodded, went silent.

  ‘Whatever he has done, he is your colleague.’

  ‘There is nothing I can do about Max. I have spoken to some people. But their hands are tied. Perhaps as a lawyer, you could intervene.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘Well then what?’

  ‘I cannot help Max anymore. What has happened is unfortunate.’

  ‘You could also say convenient.’

  Oosthuizen raised a finger at her. ‘Look. I won’t have that crap. Alright.’ He froze into a glare, Sheemina returning it.

  ‘Don’t point your finger at me.’ She reached out and pushed his hand down. ‘I am not one of your minions, Magnus.’ She watched Oosthuizen straighten in the seat, stare for long moments at the ocean. ‘I know Max Roland is a war criminal,’ she said. ‘I know his name is Vasa Babic. I know he is wanted by the Tribunal.’

  ‘There is nothing I can do about that.’

  ‘You’ve kept him hidden for many years. While you were developing the system.’

  ‘There was always a risk.’

  ‘Was there?’

  ‘The Tribunal sent people hunting for him before.’

  ‘But Max was never to be found. Until now. Until this moment when everything is done.’

  Oosthuizen spun on her again. ‘If you are saying I arranged this, you are mad.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not going that far, I’m not saying that, Magnus. What I’m saying is that you’ve turned your back on him.’

  ‘His money will always be waiting.’

  ‘Will it? Come now. Let’s be real. Max Roland’s going down for life. Twenty years at least. That’s a long time for you to disappear. In twenty years, with this deal, you will be very rich. In twenty years, as they say in the cowboys, your trail will be cold.’

  Oosthuizen opened the car door. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’

  ‘The truth is the truth, Magnus. Sometimes it is worth facing facts. You used Max Roland and now you’re hanging him out.’

  ‘That is how you see it. I see it differently. We were partners, that partnership has come to an end.’

  Sheemina February laughed. ‘To your advantage.’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘To your advantage, Magnus. You’ve dumped him, Magnus.’

  ‘You cunt,’ said Oosthuizen.

  ‘Oh, really. The dreaded c-word. When you don’t know what to say, use the c-word. Very nice. Don’t get shirty with me, Magnus. Remember who’s been helping you lately. Remember who put you onto Mace Bishop to protect your asset.’

  ‘That arsehole. Don’t talk to me about that arsehole. What good was he?’

  ‘He kept them away from Max for long enough. You got your system and you got rid of Max.’

  Oosthuizen slammed shut the door, glaring at her through the glass. ‘As I’ve said once so I’ll say again: you’re a cunt, Ms February.’

  ‘You owe me,’ she said, buzzing down the window. ‘You owe me commission, Magnus. Don’t forget.’

  He gave her the finger.

  Sheemina watched him get into his Hummer, the Chihuahua yapping with glee. He drove off, spinning the wheels on the gravel, small stones pinging against her car.

  Sheemina February took the digital recorder from her jacket pocket, replayed the conversation.

  ‘The truth is the truth, Magnus. Sometimes it is worth facing facts.’

  She phoned Mart Velaze. ‘All yours,’ she said.

  60

  When they got home, Mace said to Christa, ‘I can’t deal with this sulking, okay. Put the lip away.’ The two of them in the lounge, Mace glaring at her, Christa staring at the floor. ‘So I was late, I’m sorry. I’ve got stuff happening and it’s difficult doing it all.’

  Christa spun away from him, headed for the staircase, Cat2 following.

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ said Mace. ‘You can’t just walk away from this.’ A couple of paces and he’d grabbed her arm. ‘Listen to me, okay. Just listen to me.’ Shaking her.

  ‘Papa,’ she pulled loose, ‘you’re hurting me.’

  ‘Well stand still so I can talk to you.’

  Mace watching her turn on the waterworks, tears that made him feel like shit.

  ‘Where were you? Where were you that you couldn’t pick us up on time?’

  ‘At the hospital, okay. I was at the hospital. Tami’ – Mace seeing the name jolt in Christa’s face like he’d smacked her.

  She flung down her school bag. ‘Tami, Tami, Tami. I hate Tami.’

  ‘She was shot, Christa. She might die.’

  ‘My Maman did die. My Maman is dead. Why don’t you cry for my Maman? Why don’t you hurt like me?’ Christa collapsing on the floor, sobbing.

  Mace looked down at her. Thinking, this is awful. This is the last thing I need. He crouched. Put a hand out to touch her shoulder. Christa squirmed off across the floor.

  ‘Don’t touch me. Leave me. Go to your girlfriend. You like her more than me.’

  Mace pulled his hand back as if his fingers had been scorched again.

  ‘What? What’re you saying?’

  ‘You said you were going to shave your head. You said you’d do it this afternoon. So that we can both remember Maman. You said. You said.’ The sobs shuddering through her body. ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘Christa,’ said Mace. ‘Christa, listen to me. I said I’d do that. And I will. But not while you’re like this. Not while you’re …’

  ‘I hate you.’

  The words punching into Mace. He jerked back, staggering to his feet. ‘You’re upset,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  Christa scrabbled onto her knees. Stared up at him, her face ugly with unhappiness. She snatched up her schoolbag, rushed for the stairs. Mace heard her bedroom door bang closed.

  He felt physically sick, as if he could puke. His mouth dry, his hands sticky. He took deep breaths to settle himself. Closed his eyes to see Oumou gazing at him, such sadness in her face. ‘Please,’ he said to her. ‘Please come back.’

  ‘Maybe then I’ll fade away hmmm, hmmm, hmmm …’

  He opened his eyes on the neatness of his living room. The room he and Christa seldom spent time in anymore. On the coffee table Oumou’s vase empty that’d always had flowers. On the sofas the silk cushions she’d bought at the Red Shed market. He swallowed hard, headed for the kitchen. Cat2 at his feet, making her strangled cry.

  Mace brewed himself coffee, went outside to stand beside the pool looking down on the city. The sky had cleared, the buildings gleamed in the afternoon light. The view that Oumou couldn’t get enough of. The view that the bank could snatch away. On the grass he found shards of the mug he’d hurled against the wall. He’d thought things were bad a few days ago, they were worse now. Far worse.

  Mace, in his bedroom, opened the built-in cupboard, pushed aside a rack of Oumou’s dresses to get at the gun safe. Keyed in the combination, swung the door open on his own private arsenal. Pistols, revolvers, boxes of ammunition. The gun he was after was a .22 Browning Buckmark that he’d taken off the body of Spitz-the-Trigger after Spitz had killed Oumou. He reckoned it had to be a gun supplied by Sheemina Febru
ary, so altogether fitting to put it back into the loop by using it to nail her. If ballistics ever got round to an analysis after they’d dug the slug out of her head, they’d get really excited. Because this Browning Buckmark had killed before. Specifically when Mace’d had Spitz shoot the dude Obed Chocho. A nice touch, Mace thought, to recommission it for the killing of Sheemina February.

  Nice gun too. Smart black finish. He closed his fist round the grip. Hefted the pistol. Good balance, soft rubber grip firm in his grasp. Curled his finger round the trigger. Known to be one of the best triggers in the business. Pointed the pistol at his reflection in the full-length mirror. The black O of the barrel dead centre of his forehead.

  Said out loud, ‘Jesus, Mace, what’re you doing, putting a gun on yourself?’ He lowered his arm. Stood looking at his image in the mirror, the gun at his side. A duster coat and a hat and a good pair of boots, he could join the Wild Bunch. The way he felt, not a bad idea.

  He burrowed back in the safe for a cleaning kit and a box of ammunition and the silencer. Took these and the gun through to the kitchen, Cat2 winding about his feet, pestering for food with her wheezy meow. Mace cracked a can of tuna, watched the cat attack the chunks. Thought: Cat2 was another of Sheemina February’s victims. Wasn’t anyone in his family she hadn’t put the black mark on. He picked up the gun, jacked out the cartridge and slipped the shells out of the clip, arranging them in a row on the granite top: rimfire Long Rifle loads. Checked the chamber, one ready and waiting. The way Spitz had left it. He ejected it.

  Mace pulled the slide, lifted the slide lock. Among its plus points, the Browning was an easy clean. He took a brush to the breech, ran a bore snake through the barrel. Simple as that. From the box of ammunition, fitted ten rounds into the clip. Not that Mace didn’t trust Spitz’s stock, just that he trusted his own more. He pushed the clip into the butt. Heard it click home. Screwed the can to the barrel. Ready to rock ’n roll.

  All he had to do now was wait.

  ‘Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, I see a red door and it has been painted black.’

  61

  The German, Jakob, was driving the hired Benz, this time Kalle squinting at the GPS system. Both of them smoking. Both of them fighting against too many whiskies. A carton of take-away coffees lay on the back seat.

  ‘Turn here,’ Kalle said. ‘This is the street.’

  Deep suburbia: high walls, electric fences, tall trees hiding the street lights.

  ‘This is impossible,’ said Kalle. ‘The street lights are useless. The houses have no numbers. How do we find number twenty-two? We can ride up and down here all night.’

  Jakob crawled the car, made no comment. The headlights snagged a parked Audi – the only car in the street. ‘Mr Babic’s car maybe?’

  ‘Stop,’ said Kalle. ‘Let me walk.’ He got out, disappeared into the shadows.

  Half an hour earlier, a maudlin Jakob and Kalle had been three whiskies down in the hotel bar. Their fourth being served as Kalle’s phone rang.

  The voice said, ‘You want Vasa Babic? He’s at this place now’ – gave an address that Kalle scrawled on the back of a coaster.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said. But the phone was dead, the number withheld.

  Kalle swallowed the last of his third scotch. ‘Chin-chin,’ he said to Jakob, ‘we have news of our man.’

  Jakob frowned, dubious. ‘Someone phones and we trust him.’

  ‘Why not? What else can we do?’

  ‘Get drunk.’

  ‘No,’ said Kalle. ‘If we do not try this, we will always wonder what we missed.’

  Jakob said, ‘Ja, okay.’ They’d knocked back the fourth whisky, shrugged into their macs.

  Now Kalle stepped back into the street, pointing at the Audi and the house behind a high white wall. Jakob waited for his partner to get into the car.

  ‘There it is. Number twenty-two. And the car is very warm. What now?’

  ‘We wait for him to come out.’

  ‘Or we go in and fetch him?’

  ‘We wait.’

  Kalle shook his head. ‘Wait. Wait. Wait. All we do is wait.’

  Jakob drove on fifty metres, U-turned to park the car facing the Audi. The men fired up cigarillos, drank their coffee, listened to a mental health programme on the radio.

  ‘The whole country should be listening to this,’ said Jakob.

  62

  Sheemina February, in Levi’s and layers of jerseys, her feet buried in sheepskin slippers, stood on the balcony of her apartment watching the sun slide into the ocean. Looked like an egg yolk, sticky, glistening. Tomorrow when it rose everything would be different.

  She thought of Magnus Oosthuizen. A foolish man. Strangely naive, given his deep dark past. They’d played him like a fish.

  A cold came off the sea, ached in her battered hand. For the better part of three quarters of an hour she’d stood out there staring over the water, washing her thoughts with sauvignon blanc.

  Hard to believe it was almost at an end, her blood feud. Although there was always Pylon. He might want to settle the score. Let him try. He was next on the tick list.

  So, Mr Bishop, now was vengeance time.

  Sheemina swallowed off the remains of the wine in her glass. Time to put him in a wheelchair. His business reputation ruined. His buried treasure confiscated. The bank after his house. His daughter traumatised. Couldn’t have turned out better. She clicked the fingernails of her good hand against the rim, red flashes like her thoughts. Anticipating the moment: the gun shot, the kick along her arm. The blood blossoming on him.

  Sheemina February laughed out loud. The blood blossoming on him. Like plum-red rosebuds. The fear on his face as she came closer, closer, stood over him. Reached down and stroked his cheek.

  She shivered. Part excitement, part cold. Cape Town cold. The damp cold that got into your bones, froze you from the inside. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms. Yes, stand over him, reach down, touch him. Mace Bishop at her feet. She closed her eyes: saw him lying wounded, helpless.

  She shivered again, shook her head, throwing off the fantasy. Enough. She needed to focus. Get in the zone. Get ready for the big date.

  Sheemina February went inside, closed the sliding door on the grey twilight. Phoned Mart.

  ‘Doll,’ he said. She flinched, didn’t like that, the familiarity, but let it ride. ‘You’ve had second thoughts?’

  ‘To a degree,’ she said. ‘You still in that cafe?’ Could hear chatter and music, Tina Turner belting it out, this time, surprise, surprise, Goldeneye.

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So what’s the deal?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, ‘I need a head’s-up.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Discreetly.’

  ‘Aah, doll.’ He put on hurt. ‘I’m a professional. Nobody sees me.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before. Famous last words, the spy’s epitaph.’ She poured a glass of wine, estimated another glass left in the bottle. ‘What I want’s a warning. The moment Macey-boy arrives, it’d be handy to know that.’ She swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘Can do?’

  ‘Was going to anyhow.’

  She let that ride too. ‘Only, Mart …’

  He cut in: ‘Discreetly. Ja, I know. I’m an old hand, Sheemina. I can suck eggs.’

  ‘Good.’ She paused. Tina Turner telling her a bitter kiss would bring him to his knees. No kidding. ‘And you don’t come until I call. Got that?’

  ‘Loud and clear.’

  ‘I’m serious, Mart. Doesn’t matter if it takes me an hour, two hours, all night, you don’t come until I phone. Understand. You come before that I will not be amused.’

  ‘So you’ll do what? Shoot me?’

  She glanced at the revolver lying beside her laptop. The gun he’d got for her. ‘Could happen. Don’t try your luck.’

  He laughed. She didn’t.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do that for you.’

  ‘Like now.�
�

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Like when I’ve finished eating. Boss.’

  She ignored the sarcasm. ‘Enjoy. I’m cooking risotto. A new recipe with roasted almonds.’

  ‘Lucky Mace.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s going to feel like eating.’

  Sheemina cut off Mart going ‘Aaaah’, Tina Turner triumphant, the target in her sights.

  ‘You and I both,’ said Sheemina February.

  She settled at her desk, ran a finger lightly over the touch pad of her laptop, brought up the CCTV footage of Mace breaking into her flat. She held her breath. Mace Bishop, the balaclavaed man. Sexy man. Right from those days in the camps she’d felt it, his allure. Well, now he was all hers. She paused the last image where he’d rolled down his beanie into the balaclava that covered his face, then looked up at the camera, like he was looking at her.

  She ejected the disc, slotted in the one from her internal surveillance system.

  On screen Mace moving into her open-plan lounge by torchlight. Running his fingers along the back of her white sofa, walking over to her desk, opening drawers, rifling through her papers. Moving on. Taking in the empty space in her collection of cut-throat razors. She liked that moment, the moment he realised the missing blade was the one that’d slit his wife’s throat. Watched him draw back. Suddenly agitated: glancing left and right, the torch beam all over the place. Then moving off quickly, bumping against the couch, as he headed for her bedroom.

  She held her breath. Felt her heart rate rise, an electric tingle twitch the fingers of her broken hand. She crossed her legs, clenched her thigh muscles. Watched the balaclavaed man stroke her dresses, put his hand into her underwear, come out with the satin thong. Hold it up. Rub the material between his thumb and fingers. Smell it. Crush it into his fist. Then find the negligee beneath the pillow.

  Sheemina February locked her legs tightly. She tracked back to where the balaclavaed man brought the thong to his face, paused it there. She would get him to do that again. She wondered if he’d bring the negligee. When he lay at her feet would she find it in his pocket?