by Mike Nicol
She’d put money on it.
Standing, she looked round her apartment. Too bright. Solid darkness at the window. Sheemina shivered. Partly from the anticipation of Mace Bishop in her lair, partly from the cold. Turned up the heating, turned down the lights.
7:10 p.m. Three or four hours, she reckoned, before he’d show. He wouldn’t move until the good citizens were doped with sleep, the city gone quiet. Until then nothing to do but wait.
63
Vasa Babic, aka Max Roland, closed the door to his flat and smelt the stale air of his long absence. Musty. Listened to the silence. The clock in the entrance hall getting louder and louder. No other sound in the flat. He went through to the kitchen, put the box and the voice recorder on the table, sat down staring at them.
Thought about what the man had promised him:
New identity documentation.
Money. Two hundred thousand US.
An air ticket to a country of his choice.
‘And what must I do?’ he’d asked.
‘Kill Magnus Oosthuizen,’ the man had said.
‘Or?’
‘I call the bounty hunters.’
‘Why?’ he’d asked.
‘Why what?’
‘Why must I kill him?’
‘Probably because you’d want to.’ At that point, the man switching on the recording of Magnus Oosthuizen telling a woman how the defence committee had raved about his weapons system. ‘You hear,’ said the man, ‘your system is top of the pops.’
‘Who is the woman?’ he’d asked.
Been told: ‘His lawyer. Advisor. In your case his moral conscience. Hear this’ – Oosthuizen telling the woman that there was nothing do be done about Max Roland. In other words, he was off the radar. How convenient. ‘You see what I mean?’ the man had said. ‘Toast, my friend, is the current expression. He regards you as toast.’
Vasa Babic had made no comment.
The man went on: ‘Your partner, Vasa, is not a nice person. Not only for betraying you, for other things as well. Now: do you want your revenge? Or do you want the world to know what you did to little girls in the war?’
He knew the man was setting him up. ‘I have no guarantee you will keep your word.’
Again the smile. ‘No, you don’t. But what are your alternatives?’
The man had driven him to his flat. Given him the voice recorder and the box tied with string. The box on the table. He cut the string. In the box a short-barrel .38 fully loaded. He activated the voice recorder.
Magnus Oosthuizen saying, ‘His money will always be waiting.’ The woman saying, ‘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.’ A car door opening, Oosthuizen saying, ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’ The woman again: ‘The truth is the truth, Magnus. Sometimes it is worth facing facts. You used Max Roland and now you’re hanging him out.’ Oosthuizen unable to stop: ‘That is how you see it. I see it differently. We were partners, that partnership has come to an end.’ The woman’s laugh. ‘To your advantage.’ ‘So it would seem.’
Vasa Babic sighed. Everybody on his case. Sometimes he wished he could sleep, wake up in another world.
In the bedroom he flopped on the bed, tried to sleep, couldn’t sleep. Oosthuizen buzzing his thoughts. He betrayed you, Mr Babic. You used Max Roland and now you’re hanging him out. Let’s be real. Max Roland’s going down for life. We were partners, that partnership has come to an end. Fuck you, Magnus, he said.
Vasa Babic showered, cold water only. He dressed in jeans, a rollneck, a three-quarter-length leather jacket with a pocket big enough for the snub-nose. Shut up the flat. Another place he’d not be coming back to. In the underground parking he popped his car’s bonnet, reconnected the battery. Fired the Audi on the turn. Drove out into the evening traffic.
Remembered the man saying, ‘When you’re done, call me.’ The man giving him a cellphone. ‘Under names I’m A for aardvark.’ The man grinning at him. ‘Trust me, my brother, it will be alright.’
Twenty minutes later he drove into Oosthuizen’s street, parked outside the high white wall. Sat feeling the gun in his pocket. What was it the woman said on the recorder? The truth is the truth. He got out of the car, pressed his finger long and hard on Magnus Oosthuizen’s call pad.
No response.
Vasa Babic looked up at the camera. ‘I know you’re watching, Magnus. Let me in.’
A crackle at the voicebox. ‘I’m pleased to see they released you, Max. Shows what my people in high places can do.’
‘Yes, yes. Come on, it is cold out here. Let me in.’
The gate lock clicked open. Vasa Babic pushed at the heavy metal door, thinking, Sometimes, Magnus, metal is not enough protection. He walked up the path to the front door, knocked. Typical Magnus making you wait at the door as well.
The door opened, Magnus Oosthuizen standing there cradling the Chihuahua. The Chihuahua wearing a tartan coat, growling.
‘Chin-chin,’ said Oosthuizen, ‘it’s only Max.’
Vasa Babic pushed past Oosthuizen heading for the sideboard in the lounge, poured himself a whisky. Turned to face his business partner. ‘So,’ he said, ‘are we in business?’ – watching Oosthuizen sit in a leather lounger, pushing back to bring up the footrest. A man triumphant, arrogant in his success.
‘We might be,’ said Oosthuizen, the dog bolt-upright in his lap, still grizzling. ‘Sit, sit. Let me tell you. But first a toast.’
Toast. The man had said, You are toast, Vasa. To Magnus Oosthuizen you are toast.
Oosthuizen smiling at him, superior, self-satisfied, his glass raised. ‘To our system. We are about to pull off a major achievement. We’re a hit, Max. We’re going to make a lot of money. Ziveli, as you say. To life.’
Vasa Babic ignored him, drank off his whisky. ‘I have something you must listen to.’ He took out the voice recorder, clicked it on, watched Oosthuizen’s face swell red and angry.
Oosthuizen shouting, ‘What? What? What is that?’
‘You,’ said Vasa Babic. ‘It is you, talking to your lawyer. But wait there is more.’ He pulled out the snubnose. ‘Listen’ – on the recording Oosthuizen going, ‘If you are saying I arranged this, you are mad.’ ‘But I do,’ said Vasa Babic. ‘I do say you arranged it.’
‘No. Wait.’ Oosthuizen coming forward in his chair. ‘I am your associate.’
Vasa Babic, aka Max Roland, shot Magnus Oosthuizen Mozambican-style: one to the head, one to the heart, Oosthuizen sprawling back in the lounger. Shot the dog, too, a shot that took off the dog’s head, splattered bits over master and furniture. Its body jigging on Oosthuizen’s lap, like it didn’t know about death.
‘Crazy dog,’ said Vasa Babic.
He found the laptop in Oosthuizen’s study, stacks of US dollars in the open safe. Guessed there had to be maybe a hundred thousand in high denominations. The man A for aardvark had said, a plane ticket to anywhere. Argentina would be good. They’d like a weapons system for their next Falklands war. He laughed out loud. Dialled up the man.
A for aardvark said, ‘I need proof, Vasa, okay? Take a photograph of dear Magnus with the cellphone camera. I’m at Blues’ Vasa Babic heard Tina Turner singing. ‘You know, Camps Bay, the restaurant Blues?’
Vasa Babic said he did.
‘In half an hour. Okay. No later.’
Vasa Babic wiped down the whisky bottle, the glass he’d used, the door of the safe. Looked round the room, saw the remains of Oosthuizen’s dinner on the dining table. An uneaten chop on the plate. He ate that, realising he hadn’t eaten since the previous night with the black chick. Tami. He could do with a Tami.
Vasa Babic left Magnus Oosthuizen’s house securely locked. Walked down the path to the gate, stepped onto the pavement, pulling the gate closed. Was making for the Audi when down the street an engine fir
ed, headlights popped on, a big car wheel-spinning towards him.
Vasa Babic dropped the laptop and ran.
64
Sheemina February lay in the bath, topping up with hot water as the temperature cooled.
Before that she’d watched a rerun of Don’t Look Now on a movie channel. Buzzed on the love-making and the fear.
Afterwards, slotted Piazzolla into the sound system. Tango-walked to the kitchen, imagined she was staring down Mace Bishop.
She’d cracked another bottle of wine. A pinotage, heavy with chocolate. Drank off two glasses while she browned almond flakes in a frying pan, roasted a handful of croutons, waited for the risotto to soften.
She’d set for two, placed lighted candles either end of the table. In the middle, a single long-stemmed rosebud in a vase. Its colour the deep purple of her lipstick.
When the risotto was cooked, she’d slid the dish into the oven to keep warm. Taken her bath.
10:23 p.m. Not long now.
Wearing the long black dress and high heels, Sheemina February sat down to eat alone. Placed the revolver within reach. Sprinkled croutons and almonds and fine-grated parmesan onto the risotto.
She faced the darkened window, could see herself and the room mirrored there. The two candle flames suspended like holy visitations, her face between them, their flicker glinting in her eyes. Behind her on the granite countertop floated a scattering of tea lights. She raised her glass of wine, toasted her reflection.
‘To you.’
Sipped. Said, ‘And to your helpless future, Mace Bishop.’ Flashed on an image of a man in a wheelchair being pushed by his resentful daughter. The man’s hair unkempt, his legs covered by a blanket. His mouth tight, sour. The young woman thin-faced, her beauty blackened by her life.
Sheemina drank again. Set down the glass, toyed with her fork through the risotto. She tasted a mouthful, crunched on the croutons. It was good, she picked up the mushroom flavour in the rice, so earthy, almost truffle-like.
She swallowed without appetite.
‘Christa.’
Christa heard her father pause outside her bedroom door.
‘Christa.’
She didn’t answer, pretended sleep. Before he would’ve opened the door, come in. But that was before. Everything was changed now.
‘If you’re awake, I’m going out.’
She lay still, curled with her back towards the door. He hadn’t said he was going out. She knew he was going to see Tami.
‘Not for long. About an hour.’
Just go then. See her. The words coming loudly into her head as if she’d shouted them.
‘I’ll set the external alarm.’
She held her breath. The door handle clicked. He was coming in.
‘Christa.’
The door handle clicked again. She opened her eyes, expecting to see her father backlit, looming. The door was closed, edged with a thin light.
‘Christa, I’m sorry.’
She wanted to scream. Fuck off. Fuck off. Just fuck off. Go to your girlfriend. Ball her fists, howl for him to leave her alone. She thrust her face into the pillow, wrapped it round her ears. Lay there in the blackness, her heart thudding, her blood rushing in her ears.
When she raised her head the house was quiet. She heard the car start, drive away.
Good.
Her hands trembled in anticipation. From her schoolbag she took out the artist’s cutting knife she’d stolen from school. Loosened the knob, slid it down the plastic handle until the blade appeared. Gave the blade a couple of centimetres, tightened the knob. She tested the blade against the ball of her thumb, drawing blood instantly.
She sucked at the blood, the iron bitter in her mouth.
She would cut a cross on her inner thigh. A long-armed X. She’d never intersected her cuts before. She wondered how that would feel, the blade snagging as it sliced through the first cut. Would it hurt? With her father gone she could scream. Scream at the clean ecstasy of the pain. The bliss.
In the bathroom Christa pulled down her pyjama bottoms, kicked them away. She sat on the lid of the toilet, spread her legs. With her left hand smoothed out a patch of skin between her thumb and forefinger. Held the knife in her right hand.
Looked down at her skin: soft, brown, laced with faint pale scars. Lightly marked out the cross she’d make. The blade etching harmlessly over her thigh.
Then she cut. Sliced the span between her forefinger and her thumb. And screamed. Sucked in air through tight teeth. And cut again. And screamed.
Mace took the station wagon. Hesitated about the Spider: too obvious, remembered the starting problems. This sort of outing you didn’t want starting problems. Also seemed right to have something of Oumou’s along for the retribution. He got into the car: smelt clay, as if Oumou had just bought the stuff. As if it were the smell of grief. He placed the gun in the glove box.
As he drove out, Mace thought of Christa: she couldn’t have been asleep. She must’ve heard him saying he was sorry. So why didn’t she answer? Why was this desert opening between them? It hurt him, her anger, but what could he do? Everything was smashed. Ruined. The whole world painted black. Because he’d been too slow. Because he hadn’t got to Sheemina February first.
As he drove, Mace thought of Oumou: the nearness of her. How he’d glimpse her in a room, the swirl of her clothing. How he caught her scent about the house. Even now, even weeks later, she was there. Sometimes even her voice, sometimes he thought he heard her calling him. The way she did … had done … for a meal, or when she wanted to show him her work. So near. And yet gone. Gone to ash. And pain. And the hollow ache of absence. Because he’d been too slow. Because he hadn’t got to Sheemina February first.
She’d be waiting. He knew that. This was what she wanted. What she’d set up. So be it. The matter was in Fate’s hands.
He gripped the steering wheel, going too fast down Molteno. Hell with it.
Swung into Camp at the lights, accelerating through the dip, running an orange robot across Kloof to Kloof Nek, up the esses at the circle, swinging through the stone pines in the pitch black towards Camps Bay down below. No streetlights, no cars. On a hairpin felt something bump beneath the car. A cat? A night creature? Flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror: the darkness unrevealing.
Mace stayed focused. Kept his speed, working the gears through the bends. His cell rang, vibrating in his pocket. He ignored it. On Victoria turned right towards Bantry Bay into the cliffs of apartments, the heights of the rich.
He drove past Sheemina February’s block: no one about. Most of the windows dark, some lights high up opposite. No bother, Mace felt.
He drove on until he found a place to turn, then came back to park opposite the entrance.
His phone rang again: Pylon. Mace didn’t answer. Now was not the time. He worked his fingers into leather gloves, pulled a beanie over his ears. From the glove box took out the .22. Felt that the silencer was tight, released the clip, worked the slide. With the heel of his hand clicked the clip back into place.
‘For you Oumou,’ he said aloud.
The lyrics in his head: ‘I look inside myself …’
She could hear the phone ringing upstairs. For a long time. Then quiet. Then ringing again. But it seemed far off.
Her cellphone rang, vibrating on the bedside table, the ringtone: Don’t Cha. She ignored it.
Christa let the blood run over her thigh, drip onto the bathroom tiles. Drop by drop by drop: the splashes small and bright between her feet. Less than she’d expected before the stream coagulated. She felt wonderful. Light. Blissful. The sting of the slash marks prickling at her skin.
She laughed. Drew her big toes through the blood splashes, dabbed them on the tiles until the prints dried.
Then danced, remembering ballet steps from long-ago lessons, a fouetté, a pointe. Whirling, prancing, out of her bedroom, along the passage-way up the staircase into the lounge.
Putting on IAMX – I Like Pretending. Th
e drums coming up behind the rough voice. Are we pretending? Christa shuffle dancing now between the furniture, into the kitchen, round the island, until the song ended. She clicked it to replay. The dancing had started the blood again. She stood one-legged like a stork, staring out at the blackness, the trickles of blood inching down her leg. Chris Corner singing, ‘Confirm me into the deathwish …’
Sheemina February’s cellphone rang, loud in the stillness of her white lair, vibrating on the coffee table. She jerked away from a far place of heat and dust and pain, to pick up the phone. Mart. The time: 10:36. Earlier than she’d expected.
Mart said, ‘Your date’s arrived.’
Her blood quickened, thrilled in her stomach, a nausea making her light-headed. She swallowed, fought it down.
‘It’s no joke.’
‘Chill,’ he said. ‘Keep the ice maiden. It suits you.’
‘You’re out of sight?’
‘He won’t see me.’
She caught the irritation in his voice. ‘Mart,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Forget it.’
‘What?’
‘Not until I call, okay?’
‘I got that.’
She glanced round the room: the candles still alight. Her meal half-eaten. The wine bottle on the granite top in the kitchen. Her glass, half filled, on the coffee table. Everything as she wanted it.
‘He’s parked on the street near the entrance,’ said Mart. ‘Getting out now. Wearing the same gear as the last time. Like on the footage. The CCTV. Walking towards the foyer door. How’s he get in there?’
‘He’ll have a way.’
‘With the bloody code. He’s got the bloody code. Some security you’re paying for.’
‘I appreciate the running commentary,’ she said. ‘Bye, Mart.’ And got rid of him.
The moment.
Sheemina February unstrapped her high heels, left them lying beneath the table. High heels were not the shoes for a gunfight. She picked up the revolver, padded through to her bedroom.
