by Mike Nicol
Mace pressed in the security code on the keypad, heard the mechanism click open. He scoffed at the CCTV in the foyer with his gob of chewing gum still stuck over the lens. But he stepped into the corridor, he stepped into showtime. Even so, no worries. All the cops would see when someone got a whiff of Sheemina February’s rotting corpse and the whole crime scene thing kicked in, would be a man head down in a beanie. The killer’s entrance. The killer’s exit.
He moved quickly inside, the foyer light snapped on. The lift doors opened: Mace reflected full-figure in the mirror: beanie, black leather jacket, black leather gloves, black jeans, black trainers. Quite the man in black.
He took the stairway, going down the two flights jauntily, no care in the world. At the door onto Sheemina February’s level, he paused. Listened: no movement other side. From somewhere, faintly, the explosions and sirens of a cop show on TV.
He opened the door into the dark passageway, the light clicking on as he entered. Twenty smooth paces past the green door with its large number. The cop drama being played out inside the apartment. He grinned, there’d be the real thing going down inside their neighbour’s apartment in the next two, three minutes. And it’d be his gun, on Sheemina February.
Wop.
Wop.
He got to number eight: Sheemina February. Rolled his beanie down into a balaclava, listened with an ear pressed against the door for any sound. Nothing. But he knew she was there. Had to be. Her SUV on the parking deck, her way of telling him she was waiting. Sitting on her white sofa tense, nervous, dry-mouthed, waiting. No doubt with a gun in her hand, but waiting. Better to have surprise on your side. To go in fully loaded.
Mace pressed a short hook needle from the lock pick into the door lock. When it caught, tightened the screws. In less than a minute he was easing the door open, the .22 with the can in his right hand.
He stepped into Sheemina February’s apartment, closed the door quietly behind him. Paused there, listening. The sound of the sea suddenly loud. He frowned at the tea lights scattered about the kitchen to his left. Probably ten, fifteen of them giving a liquid hesitant light as if he were under water.
‘Mace Bishop,’ said a voice above him. The confident voice of Sheemina February, brown, honeyed.
Mace glanced up, in the corner above the door saw a small speaker.
‘I’m not going to welcome you. Although I should. You’re the first guest I’ve ever had. How quaint it should be a man with a gun. And what sexy gloves. Snap, Mace. Just like mine.’
She could see him. That was something he hadn’t considered, that she’d have the rooms dotted with spy cameras.
‘Well. Don’t just stand there. Come in. There’s wine on the counter, a rather nice pinotage, Diemersfontein. You know the one that tastes like chocolate and roasted coffee beans. Pour yourself a glass.’
Mace scanned the kitchen on his left. The camera could be hidden anywhere: in a downlighter socket, in an alarm sensor.
She read him. ‘It’s in the alarm sensor,’ she said. ‘How professional you are. The consummate security consultant, getting the lie of the land.’
The alarm sensor on the wall opposite the door.
‘Nice gun, Mace. But then it’s what one would expect of an arms dealer.’ She sniggered. ‘Apologies, former gun-runner. I suggest you put it down on the countertop. Leave it next to the wine cooler when you pour yourself a glass.’
Mace made no move to oblige. Stayed fixed to the spot. She had to be in the bedroom, assuming she was in the flat at all.
‘Come on, Mace. Lovely as it is to have you here, we’ve got matters to settle.’
Take out the sensor, that’d even the situation. Then it was two steps down a short passageway to her bedroom. The door opening onto the bed. On the left the cupboard. On the right a door into the bathroom. Trouble was the moment he opened the bedroom door he was exposed. She could nail him twice before he even saw her.
‘Mace, cheri. That’s what Oumou called you, didn’t she? So French. For an Arab. She was Arab, not so? Or one of those Mali mixed-bloods. Not that I can talk on that score. We had that in common she and I. Mixed blood. You fancy the latte types, Mace? Got a thing for our exotic skins?’
Mace let it ride, the taunt about Oumou tightening his chest. But he didn’t move. In his pocket his cellphone vibrated.
‘Oh come on, Mace. Say something. Get with the programme. Are you going to keep that balaclava on all the time? It’s very macho. Very de rigueur. But entirely unnecessary. Believe me, what you think’s going to happen, isn’t.’
Christa stared through her image reflected in the plate glass window at the city lights below. Her shaven head, harsh, unforgiving. Her pyjama top riding high on her thighs above the slashed X, dried runnels of blood streaking her leg. She saw neither herself nor the city.
The high had gone, left her abandoned. She wiped a welling of tears from her cheeks, swallowed to ease the nausea in her gut. Bent down, flopped onto the kelim curling herself into a ball, the ache for her mother more painful than the sting of the cuts.
Cat2 found her, nudged a cold nose against Christa’s chin. Nudged harder until Christa brushed her away, the cat protesting in her strange strangled sounds.
‘No,’ said Christa. ‘No.’ Cat2 swiping out a paw as Christa pushed herself upright, the cat’s claws raking her ankle. Christa didn’t feel the scratches.
Downstairs in her bedroom, she keyed her father’s number into her cellphone. Heard it ring three times then go to voicemail. She thumbed it off without leaving a message.
‘Papa,’ she said aloud, dropping the phone onto her bed. ‘Please, Papa, leave her, come home.’
From upstairs came Chris Corner insistent and mournful. Chris seriously out of it. His voice resounding in Christa’s head. Like he was inside.
Christa headed for the bathroom, the artist’s cutting knife lying there on the side of the bath. She picked it up, ran the blade under the hot tap.
Behind the IAMX chorus girls she could hear the phone ringing.
Sheemina watched the balaclavaed man on the screen of her small monitor.
What was his case, standing there like a statue?
‘Are you going to remain there all night, Mr Bishop? I told you, I’m in the bedroom. You know where it is.’
Mace unmoved.
‘I have a present for you, Mace. Want to know what it is?’
She watched him. He was listening. Who would have thought that the man of action would be so inactive.
‘It’s an exchange really. An exchange for my nightie, the negligee you took last time you were here. Remember, the black silky one.’
Ah, that got a twitch of his shoulders.
‘Taking a lady’s nightie’s not on, don’t you think? Bit kinky smelling her underwear like that. What’s it with men, this smelling? Going around nosing chairs where a woman’s sat. Very animal. What d’you smell, hey, Mace? In my thong. What d’you smell? Besides softener. You can smell a woman? Me? My animal scent? That turn you on, Mace? Give you a twitch in your … What shall we call it? Your manhood?’
No response.
‘You’re returning the negligee, aren’t you? I’m sure you are. Well, you want to know what turns me on? It’s you, Mace. You in a Speedo. You look closely at the picture I’ve got of you, as I’ve done, oh yes, many times, you can see the head of your prick. Very pretty. So, Mace, what d’you think I’ve bought you?’
She paused. No reaction from the figure on her monitor.
‘I’ll tell you, save you the suspense. A new Speedo, Mace. That’s what. A little black Speedo. Which, I was hoping, as we girls do, was hoping that you’d model it for me. What do you say? Actually, thinking about it, we could both be models, Mace. How about that? You in your costume, me in my negligee. How’d you like that, Mace? That gets me excited.’
Mace Bishop standing there.
‘No. Mace Bishop, the man without feelings. The man who doesn’t get worked up even when his victims scream
and cry and beg.’
She paused.
‘Enough of the sweet talk. Here’s the thing, Mace. Here’s what I am going to do to you. I am going to put you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Make you dependent on everyone. Won’t your young daughter like that? How’s she doing, Mace? Such a pretty girl so screwed up.’
She watched Mace, the fingers of his free hand balling into a fist.
‘Ag shame. There’s things I know about your daughter, you don’t, Macey boy. Things a father should know if he was paying attention. You’ve got to watch closely, like me. I watch you both very closely.’
Watched him release his fingers.
Sheemina sat with her back against the wall on the far side of the bed, the smallest target possible, a clear line of sight to the door. The revolver in her lap, both hands wrapped around the grip. The monitor balanced on the bed at eye level. If Mace stepped into the doorway back lit he’d get two bullets: right shoulder to take out his gun arm, slide down, put one in his right thigh. If she hit the knee that’d be good too. This sort of situation, she reckoned, even the great Mace Bishop couldn’t react fast enough to get one off. He’d see the muzzle flash but that’d not be useful. If he came in low this could be a challenge, but she didn’t see him doing that. He’d push open the door, step in expecting her to be in the bathroom. Expecting she’d use that door as a shield. How wrong he’d be. She smiled. If she could get him to move. Mace Bishop still standing there like some weird sculpture of a thug.
‘What I said frighten you, Mace, cheri? Which one the most: the modelling? Or you in a wheelchair? Your future?’
He moved, took off fast. Sheemina brought up the revolver to point at the doorway, rested her elbows on the bed. The man was like a cat, she couldn’t hear him.
Mace headed for the sensor, smashed the lens. That evened up the situation.
‘Oh very smart, Mr Bishop. Very clever,’ came her taunting. In stereo: her voice from the bedroom, its electronic version from the speaker at the door.
She’d be on red alert now, expecting him to come in gun blazing. She’d have the advantage, know where he was while he was shooting in the dark.
He waited. One minute. Two minutes. Checked the time on his watch, the second hand circling slowly.
Mace faced down the short passageway to the bedroom door at the end, slightly ajar. He pictured her in there: probably in the bathroom, the obvious place was in the bathroom. She wouldn’t be in the obvious place. She’d be down behind the bed or off left, protected by the door swinging open. That’d be her advantage. Where he’d have positioned himself.
Three minutes.
Amazing she’d let the silence run that long.
Another minute. The only sound the wash and break of the surf, even that was muted.
Mace kept still. Not a chirp out of her. He checked his watch: five minutes. He could wait. See how long it took to break her. He shook his head at the way she’d run her mouth. Not the cool chick she thought she was. Silence would stress her out. Mace let the seconds pass.
At seven minutes he reached over for the bottle of wine, clinked it against the glass as he poured.
Still had the bottle in hand when she said, ‘Drinking up some courage, Mace? Not got the balls for this, cheri?’
Mace smiled. Touched his forefinger to his tongue, chalked up one on an invisible board. He faked a cough, feeling the play had swung in his favour. True enough. Sheemina coming in on cue.
‘Too heavy for a beer man, is it, the wine? Gun-runners not got the palate for fine wine? Sip it, Mace. That’s what you do with wine. Try not to gulp and sluk.’
He set down the glass on the granite countertop, loud enough for her to get the picture.
‘Better, isn’t it, my way? Another tip. Hold the wine in your mouth before you swallow.’
Mace nodding his head, yeah, yeah.
‘How’s that? Tasty? Well, at least paraplegics can still drink wine.’ She splutter-laughed. ‘Through a straw.’
Silence. The loud break of a wave, the hiss of it running onto the rocks. Mace glanced at the red hand on his watch: not quite thirty seconds, she was back at him.
‘Come on, big boy. Time we did this.’
Yeah, thought Mace. Time. He grabbed a seat cushion off the leather sofa, surprised at its heaviness, the sofa scraping on the floor at the movement.
‘What’re you doing?’ said Sheemina. ‘Rearranging my furniture? I don’t need that. It’s the way I like it.’
Got to a point, Mace thought, where talk revealed the nerves. At that point you’d lost it. He reckoned Sheemina February was at that point.
Holding the cushion in his left hand, he started down the passageway. Paused outside the bedroom door. Thought, shit, you need to switch off the downlighters. Was as good as catching him in a spotlight the way she’d arranged it.
Mace left the cushion outside the door, walked backwards to the lounge. He tried a couple of switches but none of them worked the passage lights.
Heard Sheemina laugh. ‘The switch is in here,’ she said. ‘Be my guest.’
Mace cursed.
‘One of the little design eccentricities. Useful, though, for times like these, don’t you think?’
Mace tracked back, lifted the cushion in his left hand. Gripped the .22 in his right. He planted his feet, counted one, two, three, swivelled to the right from his waist to get some momentum going. On three, swung the cushion hard against the door, the door bouncing back, the cushion flying on into the room.
Sheemina’s first shot went through the cushion, the lead smacking somewhere high on the wall.
Mace saw the muzzle flash behind the bed. Awkward. Had to step half into the doorway to make his shots, wop, wop, grouping them close together. Knowing he’d missed. That he was wide open.
Sheemina’s second shot taking him in the upper arm. The impact staggering him, spinning him against the doorframe.
Mace sucked in air, the Browning falling from his grip, like his arm wasn’t his anymore.
Sheemina’s third bullet smacked bang into the back of his thigh.
Mace went down, hot pain driving through his body. Again heard Sheemina February’s laugh.
‘I’d say stick with the day job, Mace. Hitman’s not your scene.’
Christa drew the blade up her inner thigh. She’d not cut her right leg before because of the angle. Until now. Until she’d sat on the edge of the bath looking at the smooth unmarked skin, realising if she sliced upwards it would work.
Pricked the blade into her flesh. Not so much as twitching at the cut. Then pulled it sharply opening an angry tear across the softness. The slash beading with blood.
She got the surge. The flash. The hit of happiness. The stinging, the rawness making her laugh out loud.
Upstairs IAMX cranked loud: ‘The whole world’s insanities.’
Christa sang a beat behind: ‘The bleeding hearts …’
‘… and tragedies.’
The choir coming in: light voices hopping across the words.
Christa looked at her wrist: the blue lines faintly beneath the skin.
What if …?
What if she cut across them?
‘The deathwish.’
He watched the blood spreading.
A dark patch on his black jeans.
Shit, he thought, shit, Mace, you walked into this.
With his good hand he gripped his wounded leg.
Didn’t stop the pain or the blood.
If the bullet had holed an artery …
He didn’t want to think about that.
About bleeding out. About the next twenty minutes.
He couldn’t feel his right shoulder.
He could see his right hand but he couldn’t move his fingers.
His gun was an easy reach from his right hand.
If he could slide his fingers there.
If he could …
The pain pulled at his face.
Mace squeezed his eyes s
hut, thought, bitch.
Said, ‘Fuck it.’
Tried to reach the gun with his good hand.
Watched Sheemina February shift it away with her bare foot. Sheemina on the phone said to her neighbour, ‘Mrs Lewis, don’t worry. I heard the shots. Four or five, yes. Yes. I’ve called the police. Yes, they’ll send a van. Should we meet them? I don’t think so. No, no need for that. What? Maybe someone’s wounded? I wouldn’t imagine so. I think probably it was just a thug on the road passing by. A gangster. You know how it is these days. Probably firing into the air. Yes, yes. You’re right, they shouldn’t. It’s dangerous. But I wouldn’t worry, Mrs Lewis. Leave it to the police. Okay. Okay. Surely, put him on. Mr Lewis! No, Mr Lewis, once one person has reported it that’s enough. I don’t think you should worry. Alright. Let them handle it. You were watching Miami Blues. Sometimes there’s no difference, is there? I mean between that and what you see on the news. I agree, it’s confusing. This sort of behaviour? No, I don’t think the cop shows influence it. Yes. That’s true. Sheer madness. Yes, it’s what we’ve become. A violent nation. Well, not all of us.’ She chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t want to include us in that would you? No, not at all. Night, Mr Lewis. Okay. I’ll check my door’s locked.’
She keyed off the phone. Said, ‘Good to have socially responsible neighbours, don’t you think? Concerned people. Most people don’t want to know. Too scared they’ll get involved in something.’ In a single swipe pulled off his balaclava, threw it aside. ‘That’s better. There’s a pretty boy.’ She stared down at Mace, Mace half-propped against the wall, clutching his leg with his good hand. His face tight with pain.
‘Oh, come on, Mace, be a big boy, you’re not going to die.’ Sheemina stood back. ‘The leg’s a nasty one I have to admit. But you’re hardly going to bleed to death from that or the shoulder. So grow up.’
She watched him try to grab his gun, inched it away beyond his reach with her foot.
‘Besides, pain’s useful, it keeps you alive. Now listen, we haven’t got too much time.’
