by Mike Nicol
She sat down opposite him with her back against the wall.
‘Cosy, isn’t it? You and me. Together.’ She put the gun on him. ‘In case you weren’t counting, two more left inside so keep calm.’ Smiled at him, lowered the weapon. ‘Mace, Mace. Take your mind back. Back to those days in the MK camps when you were earning a living by way of smashing people’s hands.’ She held up her gloved hand. ‘Remember doing this? Remember afterwards, when you came to me?’
Mace spat. ‘Bullshit.’
‘Ah, you’re listening.’ Sheemina cocked her head. ‘Interesting, our position now, isn’t it? You know Mace for all your rep – gun-runner, good man in a tough spot, sharpshooter, ace security guy – I got you. Me. Just like that. Wasn’t even a major effort. Here you are, the great Mace Bishop, man down having taken lead. Twice to be precise. And I’m not even hurt. Makes a girl wonder how you stayed alive this long.’ She looked at him. ‘Tongue-tied? Then, the great Mace Bishop never was an orator.’ Gave him her purple smile. ‘By the way, you approve of the dress, I assume? You seemed to like it when you were here before. On your snoop trip. That’s why I’m wearing it. Specially for you.’
Giving him the full-on stare, no smile now.
‘Mace, back to that night in the camp when you came to me. Wanting to fuck me.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Wanting to fuck me, Mace. I could tell. In your eyes, I could tell. I got to see that look a lot of times, in men’s eyes. In Membesh. In Quatro. That’s what our heroes did for fun. To pass the time. The big boys. The big boys you see nowadays in their Armani suits. They’d get that look. Come into our cells to pick a woman like they were picking fruit. I’ll have that one. You. Collect-a-cunt’s what they called it. Nice, hmm? After that recycling thing. Collect-a-can. I can hear them laughing.
‘But let’s not go there. It’s ugly stuff. The sort of stuff can make you want to get even. Makes you fantasise about revenge. My stuff, Mace. Thanks to you.
‘That night. I’m lying there naked on the mattress with my broken hand throbbing. Throbbing like I hadn’t known pain before. So sharp, so constant, so everywhere in my body death would’ve been a mercy. I remember thinking that. Thinking please kill me because then I wouldn’t be in pain. Pain so bad I couldn’t see properly. Everything was blurred. Even you at first. Standing next to me. This white angel with all the blond hair. The devil angel. Staring down at my body, my breasts, my thighs. You remember you crouched down, touched my cheek. Then my nipples. Softly with the tips of your fingers.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘You wanted to, yes. Running your hand over my breast very lightly, all the way to my stomach. Very gentle was my white angel.’
Mace groaned, tried to shift his position. ‘In your dreams.’
‘It happened, Mace. That’s what you did. You know, I know. That’s why you stole my nightie. To remember that night. To take you back. To the smell of pain and fear and sex. The heat. The sweat on my body. Dark stuff, Mace.’
‘No.’
‘No what?’
‘Crap. It’s all crap. It’s your fantasy.’
‘I don’t think so. Troubling thing is, Mace, your gentleness. That’s what I remember. How gentle you were, for a rapist. Afterwards, the others, they wanted something different.’
‘Ah fuck.’ Mace grimaced with pain. ‘Jesus. Fuck you.’
‘Not this time, cheri. Although …’ She sighed. ‘Another day, another place, who knows? You’re a sexy man. You get a certain type of woman horny. Me. Oumou. That American bitch, Isabella. Tami. All the casuals I don’t even know about. Testosterone Mace. That was it, you see. Thing is, Mace, you brought a lot of trouble into my life but sometimes I wonder if maybe, if maybe without my broken hand, my Mace-Bishop-smashed-hand, I would’ve got where I’ve got. Know what I mean? You gave me credence. Credibility. Sick. So sick. Funny thing is, Mace. Afterwards, in Quatro, I never thought of you again. There wasn’t some deep dark vengeance thing in me, I just wanted to survive, to live again. Not until all those years later when I met you with that stutterer, what’s his name, Ducky Donald’s boy, then I thought about it. When there you were, you and Oumou and little Christa in my city. Then I thought about it. A lot. And you know what? The more you get into it, the revenge thing, the more it becomes its own beast. Takes on a life of its own. That’s why they say, you want revenge, buy two coffins. Which is probably true mostly. Except this time it’s not. Tough luck.’
She stood, straightened her dress. Glanced down at Mace. ‘God you look pathetic. Pain is a smashed hand, Mace. Not two little bullets. Come on, be a man.’ She prodded his wounded leg; Mace bit down on a scream.
‘Anyhow, before we move to the grand finale, I have a secret for you. Something else you won’t appreciate, but what can I do? History is history. Fact is fact. Fact in this instance, Mace cheri, is bashing my hand to pulp didn’t get you what you wanted. Didn’t get you the truth. Fact is, you know, I was an agent. That hated type, an apartheid spy. How about that? And nobody ever knew for sure. Here’s this traitor with a Maced hand waltzing about in their midst and they never knew. I was good. You have to admit, I was good. I’m still good. End result? I got information on all the big players. Both sides. The lowdown. The dirt. Which, I’ve found, is a misnomer after all. What it’s actually is paper. You know, paper in the stock market sense? Like a share that can be converted into money. Hard cash. That’s what I got. Come the new country I ditched the whiteys, bedded down with the darkies. Hardly difficult seeing as they’d bedded me already. I snuggled up, got even more paper on them: who got arms deal kickbacks, who got lifestyle changes, which gangster bought presents for which cabinet minister. You know, that sort of thing. Who got farms, cars, houses, holidays, directorships. Whose family ended up with the major contracts. Long and short, who put their pudgy fingers in the state’s till. So much of it going on, you keep your eyes open, at some point you’re going to score. What can I tell you? In this world, the rich and powerful are the ones with the lowdown. Probably it’s always been like that. So there you go, Mace. Story of my life.’
She smiled at him.
‘Now, cheri, we get to the hurting part. I’m going to need you to turn over so I’ve a good shot at your spine.’
Last chance. She was within reach. If he caught her ankle he could bring her down, get her gun. In the tumble things could go any way. Any way was better than her way.
Mace swung at her with his good hand, leaning hard on the leg wound. Pain howled through his body. His fingers grasped her leg. He pulled but his strength was gone.
Sheemina February jerked herself free, stepped back.
‘Not a good idea. Either you help me here, Mace, or we’re going to have problems.’
‘Maybe I can help?’ said a voice.
Mace focused through the agony at the shape in the lounge: Mart Velaze.
Sheemina pivoted. ‘Mart, I told you. Stay out of it.’
Mart standing there with a gun in his hand. A Ruger, Mace reckoned, .22 with a silencer. The assassin’s gun.
‘I know,’ said Mart, ‘but I’m here now.’
‘Go,’ said Sheemina, waving him away. ‘This’s my play. This’s the way I want it.’
‘I don’t think so, baby,’ said Mart. ‘I mean, I got no candle for him’ – pointing his gun at Mace, Mace thinking, Jesus the guy’s going to shoot me – ‘but you need help here. He’s a wily bugger, is our friend Mace. Even shot up.’
‘Back off, Mart.’
Mace scheming he could try another lunge while she was distracted.
Mart shouting, ‘Watch it, he’s gonna grab you.’
Mace making his move, swiping his arm through empty air.
Heard Sheemina February laugh. ‘Enough now, Mace. Accept your situation.’
‘That’s Mace’s thing,’ he heard Mart say, ‘not ever giving up.’
The voices coming from a distance.
Saw Sheemina February looking down at him, not hatred in her e
yes but amusement, her bright lips parted, a glisten on her teeth.
‘Oumou,’ he said, the name faint, so faint he wasn’t sure he’d said it.
Mace shifted his gaze from Sheemina to Mart. Mart’s lips twitching in what could’ve been a smile, like he was holding back, trying not to grin. Mace squinted. Mart blurring, coming in and out of focus. Becoming a shape Mace wasn’t sure was there at all. He blinked. Sweat stinging his eyes, making them water.
‘Don’t cry, Mace,’ said Mart. ‘Be a brave cowboy.’ Mart raising his gun arm.
Sheemina saying, ‘Mart back off. This’s my gig.’
Pain tore through Mace blacking his vision. The voices of Sheemina and Mart at the edge of the blackness. Not the words, just the sound of Sheemina strident.
Then Sheemina saying, ‘I’m losing patience.’
Mart coming back, ‘He’s all yours. Forget I’m here.’
Mace snapped on him again. Mart in full clarity: his lips become a grin. His eyes dead brown. His gun arm up. The gun pointing. Mace tried to speak. To say, ‘You bastard.’ The words in his head, banging in his head: you bastard, you bastard, you bastard. But he couldn’t say them loud enough. Could only force a whisper.
‘What’s that?’ Mart saying. ‘What’re you on about? Speak up, bru.’
‘Enough.’ Mace seeing Sheemina February bending towards him, bringing her gun in close.
Behind her Mart still in clear vision. Even the tightening of the guy’s skin on his knuckle, squeezing the trigger.
The gun firing.
Mace jerked. Saw muzzle smoke. Heard the lead punch home.
Mart putting a single shot smack into Sheemina February’s head. From no more than two metres. Sheemina February not even making a whimper.
Mace seeing her folding towards him, like she wanted to kiss him. Her weight warm and dead over his body. ‘How sweet,’ he heard Mart say. ‘Two lovebirds.’ Mart suddenly in his face, Mart crouched, whispering at him, ‘Don’t worry buta, I’ve called an ambulance, okay. Take this’ – folding the fingers of Mace’s good hand round the butt of the Ruger – ‘it’ll look better.’ Mart picking up the Browning. ‘I’ll have that’ – backing away.
Mace got the Ruger up enough to squeeze the trigger. A click.
Heard Mart laugh. ‘Buta, don’t be a moegoe.’
65
Treasure said to Pylon, ‘Give them a break. It’s half past ten.’ She and Pylon and their children playing happy family in the lounge, more worry in Pylon’s heart than he’d known ever. Treasure shifted the baby from one boob to the other. With her foot poked at Pumla doing homework on the floor in front of the TV: Don Johnson in white with his gat pointed at the baddies. ‘And you young lady, bed.’
Pumla coming back, ‘Aah, ma. My homework’s not finished.’
‘Don’t “aah ma” me. Off. Now.’
Pylon saying in Xhosa, ‘Why’re they not answering any of the phones?’
Pumla saying, ‘Can’t I …’
‘No.’ Treasure giving her another prod. ‘If you’d watched less TV you’d have finished. Go’n. Upstairs.’ Switching to Xhosa to answer Pylon. ‘Maybe they’re asleep. You considered that?’
‘The state they were in? No ways. You saw him, how he left here with Christa. The guy’s strung out. Desperate. He could do anything.’
‘So’s Christa,’ said Pumla.
Pylon looked at her. ‘What d’you mean? The hair shaving thing?’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t really …’
Treasure reaching out for her daughter’s arm. ‘Pumla, can’t really what?’ Pulling her in. ‘What’s happening?’
Pumla close to tears. ‘It’s just …’
Pylon and Treasure staring at her. ‘What?’
‘I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.’
‘Drugs,’ said Treasure. ‘Is it drugs?’
Pumla shook her head.
‘Something was done to her? She’s doing something? Like cellphone sex? There’s a video clip on the internet?’
‘Save me Jesus,’ said Pylon.
‘No …’ Pumla letting the tears roll.
‘Pummie,’ said Pylon. ‘Please. Something’s wrong here. You’ve got to tell us.’
‘She’s cutting herself.’
‘What?’
‘With a blade. On her legs.’ Pumla in full flood. ‘It’s horrible.’
Treasure brushed tears from her daughter’s face. ‘You’ve seen the marks?’
‘Yes, yes, lots of them. Inside her thigh.’ Pumla rubbing the inside of her own thigh. ‘Scabby. And some of them still bleed. She likes it. She says it doesn’t hurt too much. That you get this like buzz, that you’re powerful. That you can do anything. You can make yourself bleed.’
‘Wait. Slow down, okay. Slowly.’ Pylon standing, cradling his wounded arm. ‘When, when did she tell you this?’
‘Today. This afternoon.’ Pumla collapsed onto the couch beside Treasure. ‘It’s horrible, horrible, horrible.’
‘Tula, sisi’ – Treasure snaking an arm round her daughter, the baby grizzling at the movement. ‘How long’s she been doing this?’
Pumla snivelled, shook her head. ‘Not long. Since Oumou was killed.’
‘Chrissakes.’ Pylon wheeling about the room. ‘I’m going. Now. To their house.’
‘Pylon.’
‘Where’re the car keys?’
‘Pylon.’
‘Where’re the car keys? Dammit, where’re the car keys?’
‘Pylon. You can’t drive. You’ll have an accident.’
‘Where’re the car keys?’
‘Pylon. Stop it. Stop.’
Pylon stopped, staring at her, his good hand held out. ‘We’ve gotta go there, Treasure. Please.’
She unplugged the child, gave him a sour look. ‘Alright. That’ll be all of us. Baby and Pumla.’
‘It mightn’t …’ Pylon began, changed his mind. ‘Sure. Fine.’
Treasure drove, Pylon in the passenger seat, Pumla in the back plugged into her iPod, beside her the baby strapped in a car seat.
‘I could’ve done this,’ said Pylon, ‘without bothering everyone.’
‘No doubt,’ said Treasure. ‘Very macho.’ She put foot up Paradise Road towards the Rhodes Drive intersection, the light red. Nothing ahead of them, Pylon getting a grip on the armrest in case Treasure had to brake. Fifty metres out the robot went green, he relaxed. ‘What I want to know,’ Treasure said – winding the speed to a hundred and ten through the forest stretch – ‘is what’s going on? What’s happened? With you and Mace?’
‘Nothing,’ said Pylon.
‘Rubbish.’
‘Nothing we can’t sort out.’
She glanced at him. ‘So it’s major.’
Pylon coming back an octave too high. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. It’s not major. It’s not anywheres near major. We’ve hit some trouble, that’s all. Nothing new. We’ve been there before. We got through it, we can get through it again.’
‘Sounded major. The tone of your voices.’ Treasure taking the S-bend at the university with some tyre squeal. ‘So what’s the trouble? Like what kind of trouble’re you talking?’
‘You know … difficulties. Business issues. Jesus, Treasure, d’you want chapter and verse?’
‘Yes. Actually yes.’
‘Here? Now?’
‘Why not? There’s something else you want to do?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Naturally.’ Treasure keeping the clock at one-ten past the Mill, the wildebeest slopes, into Hospital Bend. ‘I’m listening.’
Pylon clucked his tongue, gave her the Reader’s Digest version, sans the Cayman boogaloo, bringing the sorry tale to an end as Treasure came off De Waal slowing for the speed camera beneath the stone pines. She didn’t say anything when he’d finished. Didn’t look at him. Kept her eyes on the road, her hands fastened to the steering wheel. Only on the Molteno rise, saying, ‘You’d better sort it, Pylon. For all our sakes.’
She came slowly towards Mace’s house.
‘And now?’
Pylon lifted a remote, the street gate rolled back. Treasure drove them in.
‘Wait here,’ he said.
Treasure made a move to open her door. Pylon stopped her.
‘Not a good idea.’
She raised her eyebrows but sat tight.
Pylon was out of the car fast, his arm strapped across his chest, juggling keys to the house from his jeans pocket. Realised as he inserted the key his hand was trembling. Realised he was expecting various kinds of horror. Maybe even the typical story: father shoots daughter, commits suicide. The common theme. He paused. Could hear some pop band belting it out.
Pylon unlocked the door, pushed it gently. Despite the music heard the alarm peeping. He shouted: ‘Christa! Christa!’ Paused. Not expecting Mace around with that racket. ‘Christa, it’s Pylon. Where’re you, sisi?’ He closed the door, heading for the alarm pad in the kitchen. Only after punching in the code, noticed the blood spots on the floor.
‘Christa!’ – hopped down the stairs two at a time to her bedroom, thinking, Fuck it, he hadn’t got his gun back. He went through the door with his good shoulder, the door banging back against the wall. ‘Christa!’
Christa lying on her bed, the duvet patched with blood. Slashes on her thighs, cuts across her wrist. Veins not arteries.
He found a pulse in her neck. Whispered, ‘It’s Pylon, sisi. Talk to me. Come on, sisi. Let’s have you back with us. You gotta talk to me.’ Patting her cheek with his good hand, watching the flicker beneath her eyelids, her eyes popping open. ‘There we go.’ Smiling at her. ‘You gave me a fright there, sisi. Like heart-stopping. Come on, sit up. Hey, Christa’ – Pylon drawing her up, hugging her. He could feel her shuddering against his chest, sobbing deeply. He let her drain it out, minute after minute. Only when she’d stilled said, ‘Where’s Mace?’
Got her sobbing intake of breath, ‘W-with Tami.’
‘With Tami? At the hospital?’
Christa nodding.
