Black Heart

by Mike Nicol

‘Not the hospital,’ he said. ‘Not at this time of night.’ Pylon thinking, Sheemina February.

  ‘When did he go out?’

  Felt the shake of her head.

  ‘Half an hour ago? Hour ago?’

  Caught Christa’s ‘Not long.’

  Too long. What’d Mace said, Bantry Bay? Victoria Road. Estate agent Dave’d given him an address in Bantry Bay.

  ‘I’m gonna find him,’ he said to Christa. ‘Treasure’s here and Pumla. They’ll look after you. Okay?’

  She nodded, at the movement a smell of sweat coming off her scalp.

  Thursday, 28 July

  66

  KOSOVO’S COMMANDER DEATH ARRESTED

  Vasa Babic, who was on the run from the International Criminal Tribunal in the Hague, has been apprehended in Cape Town after being spotted at the airport by a Cape Times reporter.

  Officers for the Tribunal confirmed that he was arrested last night and is being held in custody pending his rendition to Holland this evening.

  It is understood that Vasa Babic has been living in Cape Town for some time under the name Max Roland.

  Babic faces charges of crimes against humanity, including murder, rape and torture perpetrated during the war in Kosovo. Because of his alleged brutality he was nicknamed Commander Death.

  Americans found shot

  The bodies of an American business couple were found in the grounds of the mothballed Athlone power station yesterday. They had been shot execution-style.

  The couple, Mr and Mrs Silas and Veronica Dinsmor were part of a BEE consortium planning to develop casinos in the rural areas.

  A lawyer for the consortium, Ms Sheemina February said, ‘This is a tragedy. Our crime situation is completely out of control. Not only were the Dinsmors going to invest financially but they had useful experience as they have been running casinos in the Native American areas of the United States for two decades.’

  Ms February said the casino roll-out would bring jobs to many poverty-stricken areas.

  According to a police source, a syndicate might have targeted the Dinsmor couple in an attempt to extort money.

  Meanwhile a Youth League spokesman has warned that foreign investment could ‘steal’ resources.

  ‘Foreigners must watch out,’ he said. ‘They are stealing our land and our jobs. They are the new colonialists.’

  Weapons system awarded to European consortium

  The defence committee announced last night that it had awarded the contract for the weapons systems to be installed on the new frigates to a European consortium.

  A spokesperson for the committee said that the weapons system was highly sophisticated and was already being used by the German and French navies.

  She said that installing a tried and tested system had numerous advantages as there would be no teething problems which often proved expensive and time-consuming to eradicate.

  ‘We expect that our frigates will be fully functional within the next six months,’ she said.

  Along with the weapons system comes an attractive offset component which will be of benefit to both the manufacturing industry and the labour market as it is expected to create 50,000 new jobs.

  The controversial arms deal that led to the acquisition of the frigates was also ‘sweetened’ with offset opportunities. Few of these components have materialised.

  A South African weapons system designed by Magtech was also considered by the defence committee. The spokesperson confirmed that this would have cost less than the system designed by the European consortium but that it was untested and had lacked the offset advantages.

  Magtech CEO Magnus Oosthuizen could not be reached for comment.

  Shots at luxury apartment

  Police and paramedics were called to a Bantry Bay apartment late last night after shots were heard. Police confirmed the incident but could not release any further information.

  Tuesday, 2 August

  67

  Early morning: Captain Gonsalves had a techie run some grainy black-and-white CCTV footage showing a tall man in an anorak, a beanie on his head, face-down, walking towards the camera.

  ‘What you wanna see this for, it’s not your case?’ said the young techie in front of the computer screen. He twisted round to look at the police captain standing behind him.

  ‘No good reason.’ The captain was shredding a cigarette. ‘Just sommer for fun. Before it gets lost.’

  ‘Why’d you say that?

  ‘Just sommer for fun.’

  The techie shrugged, turned to the computer.

  The man on screen, his back to the camera, neck bent forward, seemed to be working something in his hands.

  ‘He’s aware of the camera,’ said the young techie.

  ‘It prob’ly sticks out in that corridor. On a metal elbow. You’d have to be blind not to see it, prob’ly.’ Captain Gonsalves balled the tobacco from the cigarette into a pellet, popped it into his mouth. ‘Lousy picture. Equipment must be old as the ark. In Jewland you’d have thought people could afford better.’

  ‘Look at this.’ The techie, pointing at the image. ‘Look how quickly he gets in. Forty seconds, I timed it.’

  ‘A pro.’ Gonsalves gave the plug a chew. ‘You don’t even see his equipment.’

  ‘See, he’s in.’

  The man standing in the doorway rolling the beanie down to become a balaclava covering his face. Closing the door.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Gonsalves, eyes on the white flicker of the empty corridor. ‘Why’d he do that, d’you think, wear a balaclava?’

  ‘Guy’s a thief. Doesn’t want to be recognised.’

  ‘He knows the woman in the flat. She knows him. No need for a balaclava. That’s weird.’

  The techie raised his eyebrows, looked at the captain. ‘That true?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gonsalves.

  ‘Something you’re not saying, right?’

  Gonsalves laughed. ‘There’s always something I’m not saying.’

  The CCTV footage spooled on, showing the two closed doors of the apartments leading off the corridor. The screen went black.

  ‘The corridor lights must be on a timer,’ said the techie. ‘Go off after thirty seconds. About ten, twelve minutes later’ – he fast-forwarded the tape – ‘Check this.’

  The light came on again. There’s a man in a beanie, head down, stepping into the corridor, walking quickly to Sheemina February’s flat. Getting in with a key.

  ‘That guy,’ said the techie, ‘he doesn’t come out. You recognise him?’

  ‘Nah.’ Gonsalves sucked at the tobacco pellet.

  ‘The next people on here’re the paramedics about fifteen minutes later.’

  ‘That so? No CCTV on the parking deck? Nothing in the foyer?’

  ‘Nothing on the car deck. Camera in the foyer had chewing gum stuck to the lens.’

  ‘Nice. Play it again.’

  The young techie did. Gonsalves chewed his tobacco, said, ‘That second guy white or black, you think?’

  ‘Probably white I’d guess,’ said the young techie.

  ‘You would? Why’s that?’

  ‘Way he walks. Hasn’t got the floppy’s style.’

  Gonsalves smiled. ‘Watch it, with the race mouth.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Sure. Watch it, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Captain.’

  ‘Captain.’

  ‘You wanna know what though, he’s a darkie.’

  ‘Serious.’

  ‘Ja, man, serious.’ Gonsalves swallowed tobacco juice welling in his mouth. ‘You sure that second okie never came out?’

  ‘Absolutely, never at all.’

  ‘So what? He’s a guardian angel? Flies off. Vanishes like a ghost? A bloody spook.’

  The techie shrugged. ‘Like you said, before it gets lost.’ He glanced at the captain. ‘Actually, I heard they’re probably gonna shelve it.’

  ‘Who knows, hey? Anything’s poss
ible.’

  ‘Swhat I heard. Everything’s gotta go to the investigating team. Even this CCTV. That happens, you know, file filed.’ He pointed at the ceiling. ‘What I heard it’s right from the top.’

  ‘You hear a lot,’ said Gonsalves.

  ‘When you’re a techie,’ said the techie, ‘nobody sees you. They stand here talking like I’m deaf.’ He ejected the tape.

  ‘That’s all there is?’

  ‘The total package.’

  ‘Pleased I saw it before it goes upstairs.’

  Saturday, 1 October

  68

  Mace and Christa sat at a table beside the pool, drinking rock shandies. On the table a Hammerli Trailside .22 target pistol, a box of ammunition. The Hammerli a present from Mace to Christa.

  Mace’d been amazed at his daughter’s reaction to the gun. Like this was better than shoes. Like she couldn’t stop touching it, holding it, wanting to know when she could go shooting. He told her first she had to learn the parts, strip it like a pro. Christa’d wasted no time there.

  Mace looked at his daughter, thought there was less strain in her face. The shrink beginning to have some effect, perhaps. He leant towards her, floated his hand over the soft fuzz of her hair. She didn’t pull away. Three, four weeks ago she would’ve. Then again four weeks ago he couldn’t lift that hand to touch her.

  ‘I like the feel of your short hair,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it looks like a dirty halo.’

  She frowned at him. ‘Dirty?’

  ‘You know, it’s got this honey tinge, sort of yellowy.’

  ‘Honey would be better than dirty.’

  Mace swirled the ice in the last of his drink, took it in a swallow. Said, ‘Time to rock ’n roll.’ He stood up, grimacing at the pain in his thigh. This reminder of Sheemina February’s handiwork, like she was still out for revenge. Of the two wounds, the leg shot proving the slower healer.

  Christa shifted Cat2 from her lap, picked up the gun. ‘Do we really have to move out of the house, Papa?’ she said.

  Mace grimaced again, unsure if it was Christa’s question or the tear in his muscle.

  ‘Fraid so,’ he said. ‘The bank’s gonna repossess. That means they sell it at any price which’ll be lower than I owe them, which’ll mean I’ve got to pay them back the difference.’

  ‘That’s like robbery.’

  ‘You said it.’ Mace not telling her about Oumou’s life insurance policy. The policy he’d hoped would rescue them. Except he’d found that Oumou had cashed it in years before. Probably to get the bank off their backs.

  He held back a sigh, watched his daughter clasp the gun in both hands, straighten her arms pointing at a tree. ‘I don’t want to move. This is our house. Maman’s house. It’d be like leaving her.’

  Mace thought it just as well they hadn’t sprinkled Oumou’s ashes in the garden. Hadn’t sprinkled Oumou’s ashes anywhere yet for that matter. They were still in a vase in his bedroom. But if they’d gone into the garden like they planned, Christa would’ve been distraught. There’d have been no leaving the house then.

  His thoughts flicked on to the diamonds he had stashed. The Cayman money. Funny how Revenue had backed off on that one. Not a peep out of them since the news report. You couldn’t help thinking that’d been another of Sheemina February’s little games. Then the cops’d backed off the investigation of her death. Like Sheemina February needed a quick burial. As Gonz had put it, ‘Aren’t you the lucky one, Meneer Bish. Nod, nod, wink, wink. Little pension contribution in order, hey!’ Bloody Gonz.

  ‘Papa. Papa.’ Christa waving a hand in front of his face. Taking aim at the tree again.

  Mace snapped back, said, ‘I don’t know, C, I’m trying to work something out.’

  Pow. Pow. Christa blew off two imaginary shots. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s do the real thing.’

  They took the Spider. Christa dubious, Mace saying, ‘It’s fixed. Listen to it.’ He swung the engine and it fired first time. ‘See. Sweet as a song.’

  They tooled off to the quarry with the top down, the Stones’ Aftermath cranked up so loud families in SUVs stared at them. Gave Mace a good feeling. The music, the bright day, his daughter. Suddenly seemed his darkness had gone.

  Half an hour later they came off the Blue Route, took Boyes Drive down to Kalk Bay, catching glimpses of the ocean between the trees. Going round the headland into the Glencairn valley, Christa said, ‘I don’t mind if you see Tami.’

  Like that. Out of nowhere. Mace thinking, what? Saying, ‘I wasn’t seeing her.’

  ‘Well if you want to.’

  Mace snatched a glance at his daughter, poker-faced, like her mother, sometimes you couldn’t read her. Keeping her eyes on the road. ‘She’s not working for us anymore.’

  Christa said, ‘Oh. But if you want to, it’s okay.’

  ‘She’s gone to Joburg,’ said Mace. ‘Pity. But there you go, hey.’

  Mace parked at the whale-watch point. Popular for a Saturday afternoon, bunch of other cars with people enjoying themselves, old folks and tourists, eating ice creams, watching the sea. Some fishermen on the rocks below. A knot of boogie boarders surfing the reef. Maybe not a bad part of the peninsula to move to when the bank kicked them out of house ’n home. Rent a small condo just off the beach. Good bay for swimming. Something worth thinking about.

  He and Christa crossed the road, Mace limping, walked back to the quarry and stood in the huge silence of the pit, gazing up at the raw rock. Some crows on the heights being harried by small birds.

  ‘It’s a spooky place,’ said Christa.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mace. ‘I’ve been in worse.’

  While he was setting up the targets, Pylon rang, invited them for a braai.

  ‘We’re shooting a few rounds in the quarry,’ said Mace. ‘Join us.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Pylon. Mace got an earful of two crying babies. ‘Very funny.’

  They disconnected, Mace thinking Pylon and Treasure had to be crazy adopting an Aids orphan. Still, different strokes.

  Christa went first. Pulling off the shots one at a time, Mace, the weight on his good leg, standing beside her reading the hits. She was good. Few more outings, probably she’d be better than him. When she’d finished a clip, got her to reload and suggested she run through the cartridge for the thrill of it, fast as she could. Christa braced herself, took a breath, went into it, her grouping spraying out for the last four rounds.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Mace.

  ‘I want to shoot pop-ups,’ Christa said, a flash in her eyes Mace’d seen before. Had seen in the eyes of Sheemina February. Maybe everyone had it, the killer flash. ‘On one of those combat courses.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Mace. ‘You’re getting there.’

  Back at the Spider, Christa got the top down while Mace went to stash the shooting kit in the boot. Lying there was a package tied with string, a long-stemmed rosebud sellotaped to it. Beneath that a hand-written note: ‘She was getting a bit hectic.’ In the package a Browning Buckmark. Looked like the Browning Buckmark Mace’d taken to shoot Sheemina February.

  He did a quick scan of the parking spot. No one watching him. No one paying any attention.

  Christa called, ‘Come on, Papa, let’s go.’

  Bloody Mart Velaze. Mace closed the package, the realisation striking home: Velaze plugging her was a State hit because Sheemina February had too much dirt on too many people.

  ‘Papa. Papa.’

  Mace smiled to himself. That being the case this thing would disappear. No ways it would see the inside of a court, ever. Like Gonz’d said.

  ‘Let’s go. Let’s go.’

  Bloody Mart Velaze, his guardian angel standing by to ensure he blotted Ms February on their behalf. Bloody Mart Velaze the bloody NIA fixer. An uneasy thought, but what could you do? Mace slammed shut the boot, put on his papa face: all’s right with the world.

  Except the Spider wouldn’t start. Went through the urrr urrr urrr stages, then d
ied.

  Christa said, ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Mace gave the battery five minutes, tried again. Nothing doing. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. Wanted to jump out and kick the car.

  Christa said, ‘We should’ve taken Maman’s.’

  ‘This car was purring,’ said Mace. ‘It got us here, no problem. It was going beautifully.’

  They sat there gazing at the sea for the hour it took the mechanic to come out. Couldn’t even listen to music, the battery was that flat.

  The mechanic was huffy. Said, hell, man, he could think of better blerry things to do on a blerry Saturday afternoon. Mace said if he’d fixed it properly the first time this wouldn’t have happened.

  The mechanic put his head in the engine, came up fifteen minutes later with a diagnosis.

  ‘Ja, hell man,’ he said to Mace, the two men standing gazing down at the engine, ‘this’s a blerry problem. Know what I mean.’ He closed the bonnet, wiped his palms on his overalls, looking up at the mountain, anywhere other than at Mace. ‘I’d say yous reached the stop street without a rebore. Simple as that. Big bucks this’ll cost you, hey.’ He rapped his knuckles on the lid. ‘Ja, hell man, this old biddy, this’ – he shook his head – ‘I’d say, hell man, I’d say, ja,’ – he folded his arms – ‘I’d say the way it is with your car, ag man, short and sweet like a beet, the fucking fucker’s fucked, ek se. Finish ’n klaar. Know what I mean. End of story.’

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mike Nicol was born in Cape Town, where he still lives. The Revenge Trilogy, his first foray into crime fiction, has been greeted with widespread critical acclaim. His previous novels have been published by Bloomsbury in the UK, and by Knopf in the USA.