by Kurt Ellis
Meyer crossed himself.
‘Did you include me in your prayers, Father?’ With his vest on, Zwane looked even younger.
‘I told you not to call me “Father”. And yes, I did.’
Zwane offered Meyer a meek smile. The young man looked ashen. His right knee bobbed up and down and he clutched his weapon in both hands, as if he was battling to hold it with trembling fingers.
Meyer placed his hand on Zwane’s shoulder. ‘We’ll be fine.’
The wait was agonising. On one hand, Meyer wanted everything to be over and done with as soon as possible. They needed to bring Reggie in. For Lorraine. For her mother. On the other hand, a large part of him hoped that Modise’s informant was wrong; that Senzo, Reggie and his gang wouldn’t be coming home after all, and that there would be no risk of a gun battle.
That hope was soon dashed when Modise’s two-way radio crackled and a tinny voice said, ‘Target is on the way. Five men in a green Honda Ballade. Licence-plate Bravo, Whiskey, Foxtrot, Seven, Seven, One, Golf, Papa. Over.’
36
Modise turned to his team in the minibus with final instructions. ‘We take them in the street. They must not be allowed to get into the house and barricade themselves in. Understand me?’
The Special Task Force Unit responded, ‘Yes, Captain,’ in unison. Even Zwane.
Meyer could feel the tension in the minibus congeal. The car would be approaching them from the rear. The four men and the three of the Psychological Investigative Unit lay across the seats of the minibus and on the cold floor, out of sight from the gang in the Honda. Meyer had his face pressed against the inside panel of the minibus when he heard the engine approaching.
The growl of the motor grew louder. Closer. He could feel the vibration on his cheek when the car drove past. Then the engine quietened. Modise sat up in the front seat and peered over the dashboard. He whispered into his walkie-talkie, to the team sitting in the Golf. ‘We wait until the engine is off and all men are out of the car. Confirm?’
The crackled response came back in a whisper from the second team leader. ‘Confirmed.’
Meyer peeped through a gap between the seats in front of him, over Modise’s shoulder. He saw the exhaust pipe of the late-Nineties motor vehicle rattle and stop. The doors swung open and the men exited, one playfully pushed another against the car as soon as they stepped out.
‘Now! Now! Now!’ Modise barked into his two-way. ‘Go! Go! Go!’
The side door of the taxi slid open and the three members of the Special Task Team rushed out, quickly followed by Meyer and Zwane. Steenkamp and Modise leapt down from the front of the minibus. The specially trained members of the task force quickly moved forward, their R4 assault rifles pressed firmly against their shoulders, their sights pointed at their targets. In a blink, they had fanned out across the street and were yelling, ‘Don’t move! Don’t move,’ in English. Modise repeated in Xhosa, ‘Yima! Yima!’
With wide eyes, the gang members stared at the advancing team. Confusion froze them until one began to raise his hands in surrender. Amid the mayhem, Meyer’s eyes flitted from one suspected perp to another. He searched the faces for the scar that would confirm Reggie’s identity, and Meyer saw it. Reggie had been sitting in the passenger seat and now stood, shielded by the car as he faced the approaching police.
Reggie turned from the team that had surged out of the taxi to the team encroaching from the white Golf. In a second, his hand whipped over the roof of the car.
‘Gun!’ Meyer screamed and dropped to one knee. ‘Gun! Gun! Gun!’
The blast was deafening. Firearms seemed to manifest from the air itself into the hands of the gangsters, and they fired wildly. A bullet kicked up a stone just in front of Meyer’s thigh and bounced off his chest as he returned fire. The gang member who appeared to be raising his hands in surrender stepped forward clutching a 9 millimetre, teeth bared, eyes manic. He was quickly riddled with a volley of shots by one of the Task Team. The impact slammed him into the car and he slid to the ground. Senzo crab-stepped towards his house but he too was shot down, possibly by Steenkamp or another member of Modise’s unit.
Reggie had turned his back to Meyer and was firing at the secondary team, his back protected from the minibus unit by the green Honda. One of the Golf team members jerked back as he was struck in his upper thigh. As he hit the floor, Reggie turned and made a break for Senzo’s house. He leapt over his injured friend on the floor and sprinted around the corner. With Zwane close behind, Meyer gave chase, intending to intercept Reggie by running through the neighbours’ yard and jumping over the fence. As he planted his palm on top of the bricks to pull himself up, he saw that Reggie had not run to the back of the yard, but he had instead turned left and was heading towards the fence to the other neighbour. Reggie vaulted over the barrier with ease.
‘Stop!’ Meyer ordered. ‘Police!’
Reggie didn’t turn; he ran, his legs pumping like pistons. Meyer and Zwane gave chase, quickly scaling both fences. The cold winter air felt like tiny pins in Meyer’s face and eyes, making him tear up. The pursuit entered the street as Reggie exited the neighbours’ yard. Without bothering to slow down for potential traffic, he bolted down the centre of the tarred road. Meyer and Zwane were only five seconds behind, at most. Their feet thundered off the road and Meyer sensed they were closing the gap.
Reggie, perhaps feeling that they were getting closer, took a sharp right into the yard of another house. He disappeared from sight for a few seconds, but those seconds seemed to last for hours as the policemen tried to catch up. They saw a blur of colour as he leapt over the back fence of the property. Meyer tried to find another gear as he chased on.
Reggie led them into another street, this one flowing with a stream of traffic. He dodged between the hooting cars, narrowly missing the bumper of a small hatchback, and reached the centre divider just as the soles of the cops’ shoes touched the pavement. He turned and fired; Meyer had almost run straight into the bullet. Gravel crunched under them as he and Zwane scrambled for cover behind an electrical box. Bullets pinged off the metal casing.
‘Bastard!’ Zwane cursed, blood flowing from his elbow and dripping from his little finger.
Meyer, concerned that Zwane had been hit, quickly dismissed the wound as a cut.
The sound of hooters and screeching rubber built to a crescendo. The ping of Mthembu’s bullets stopped for an agonising few seconds – enough time for Meyer to wonder if he was still there. Another gunshot hit that uncertainty out of the sky like a clay pigeon, but this shot was followed by the sound of a woman screaming.
No, no, no, Meyer thought. Please tell me he didn’t just shoot someone.
Braving a bullet to the forehead, he peered around the side of his shield. A man was lying on the road beside a white Opel Corsa hatchback, bleeding from a chest wound. Reggie threw himself behind the wheel of the car. The passenger, the woman screaming, had managed to escape the vehicle from the other door and was standing in the middle of the road. Her fists were pressed to her cheeks as she shrieked in terror. Meyer raised his weapon but delayed shooting. She was behind the target.
The tyres of the car screeched on the tar as the vehicle sprang forward. Meyer fired a volley of shots at the window once the woman was out of sight. The driver’s window exploded in a fountain of glass but Reggie Mthembu was unhurt. There was a loud bang as the open passenger door of the getaway car smashed into the rear of a Renault Megane. Meyer ran across the road to get a look at the licence plate, but the car had already disappeared down the very first side street.
37
‘How’s he doing?’
Meyer ripped back the Velcro straps on the side of his Kevlar vest. He looked up at Captain Modise. ‘Who?’
Modise flicked his head towards the pavement.
Meyer turned to see the bulky figure of Steenkamp sitting alone on the kerb, staring at the road between his feet.
Meyer pulled the body armour over his head and dro
pped it in the boot of the police car. ‘Okay, I guess.’
‘He’s still drinking?’
Meyer didn’t respond.
Modise smiled at the silence. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
The Captain picked up two cans of Coke from the boot and offered Meyer one. ‘He’s a good man, Steenkamp.’
Again, Meyer decided to respond with silence.
‘He’s … raw, you know. He can be rude.’ Modise chuckled. ‘Inappropriate, with his jokes and stuff, but he doesn’t mean any harm with them. He’s got no filter, but he’s a good man. He just got caught.’
Meyer gulped down a mouthful of soda, then said, ‘Caught?’
‘The old boys at Brixton used to say that with every murder case we investigated, the ghost of the victims followed you around. Even if you catch the guys, they still chase you. They whisper their pain in your ears, non-stop. They tell you how much they suffered, how much pain they have. So you must always keep ahead of them.’
Meyer took a smaller sip.
‘The ghosts were getting too close to me. That’s why I moved to Tactical. No ghosts here; just bastards like Senzo who need to be taken down. But with Oom,’ he gestured to Steenkamp again, ‘his ghosts caught him. And once they catch you, they never let you go.’
‘And that’s why he drinks?’ Meyer asked.
‘That’s why a lot of us drink like that: so we don’t hear what the ghosts say. Because they never stop talking, and they never will. Not until you’re dead.’
38
‘Are you okay?’ Reshmee Patel asked them the moment they walked in the door.
Meyer absently scratched at his chest where he had felt the light impact of a stone strike during the raid. No pain, but a memory of stone bouncing from his Kevlar vest: the memory of fear.
‘Yoh,’ exclaimed Zwane, his eyes bloodshot. ‘It was crazy, Resh; bullets flying everywhere.’
She clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘My God. I heard one of you got hurt. Who got hurt?’
‘We’re all fine, Reshmee,’ said Meyer reassuringly.
‘Are you sure? So nobody got hurt?’ she repeated. ‘I heard someone got shot.’
‘Yeah, one of the Special Task Team guys. He got hit right here.’ Zwane pointed at his hip.
She cringed. ‘Eina! But … where’s Captain Steenkamp?’
‘He’s coming,’ Meyer answered. ‘Just catching his breath in the foyer.’
Steenkamp had wheezed during the entire drive back to the offices. His lungs were struggling after their exertion during the shootout. It had been at least two hours since the gun battle and still he was battling for breath.
‘I need to talk to the Major,’ Meyer said.
‘Ja, and I need to call my wife,’ Zwane replied, slowly shaking his head. ‘What a day.’
Zwane stood over his desk and reached for the phone receiver. A sudden, unexpected tide of jealousy flooded Meyer. He was sharply reminded that he didn’t have anyone to call to tell that he was safe. He was alone. There was no one to worry about him, no one to mourn him if he was hit by more than a stone in the chest. He had no one.
The walk to the other end of the room felt a lot lonelier. Grey’s door was open and he was reading something on his laptop. He looked up as the detective walked in. ‘What happened?’
Meyer withdrew his notepad from his pocket. ‘The raid was a nightmare, Major. There was a gun battle and one of the Task Team was injured, non-fatal. Two of the gang were killed on the scene. One injured, looks fatal. One of the gang managed to escape – unfortunately that was Reggie Mthembu.’
Grey sighed hard, and the weight of their failure got heavier on Meyer’s shoulders. ‘Mthembu hijacked a white Opel Corsa, shot and injured the driver – non-fatal. The roads in the area were immediately closed off, but the scene of the hijacking was less than five minutes from the Soweto Highway. I don’t doubt that he managed to get on it and flee before we managed to close it off. But we still have the roadblocks in place, just to be sure.’
The Major sighed again and rubbed his temples. ‘That’s fine, Meyer. Well done.’
Meyer shook his head. ‘Not well done at all, Major. We should have got him.’
Grey shrugged. ‘We play the cards we’re dealt. It’s just poor luck that of all the perps, Mthembu’s the one that got away.’
Meyer didn’t believe in luck. He believed in God’s will.
Grey picked up his phone receiver and punched in three digits. ‘Reshmee, please come see me.’
Within the minute, she appeared.
‘Reshmee, I’d like you to call a press conference. We need to release a photograph of Reginald Mthembu to the public. “Have you seen this man? Wanted in connection with murder.” And so on. You know the drill.’
Reshmee made notes, then looked up. ‘A full media conference, sir? As in television and radio in conjunction with print?’
Grey nodded. ‘Yes. A full media release.’ He turned to Meyer. ‘Would you mind being there as well?’
Meyer shook his head. ‘Not at all, sir – but shouldn’t it be you? The public will want to see your face, Major.’
‘As I said yesterday, Meyer, I won’t always be here, and this team is more important than one man.’
39
Creed didn’t dream that night. Rather, he descended into an abyss of blackness. A vacuum of silence and shadow. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. No blood, no horror. No Megan. But that peace was shattered by the sharp ring of his cellphone.
‘What!’ he barked into the device.
‘Nick?’ said the tentative voice. ‘Is this Nick Creed?’
The voice was vaguely familiar. ‘Who the hell is this?’
‘It’s Dr Andile Tlau. Am I speaking to Nick Creed?’
Creed sat up in bed. He had drifted off on top of the covers after encountering the neighbour girl in his yard.
‘Are you fucking kidding me, Doc? I just managed to get some sleep and now you wake me?’
‘I apologise for that Nick, but there’s no need for such profanity.’
The calmness in her voice only made him angrier. ‘Well, how do you like this profanity: fuck off!’
Creed ended the call. He dropped the phone on the bed and placed his face in his hands. He wanted to weep. His frustration felt like a series of boulders being dropped into a body of water one by one, slowly raising the water level until it threatened to overflow from his eyes.
With a deep breath, he checked the time on his phone. It was just after five 5 p.m. He had slept for almost four hours but he felt as if he could sleep for forty more. Creed wasn’t ready to surrender his hope of more sleep just yet. Laying his head back on the pillow, he shut his eyes and waited to feel himself being carried off by the Sandman. He must have waited half an hour before he felt himself slipping away … and then he saw her. Her face. Megan’s dead face and his eyes opened.
‘Fuck!’ he screamed out loud. Two of his dogs barked at him.
He gave up. It was a fruitless exercise. Creed swung his feet over the edge of his bed and stood up. He trudged out of the room, his fatigue like an anchor being dragged behind him. The dusk sun gave the interior of his house an orange glow, and in this amber light he noticed something strange. His house was clean. Not just neat but properly cleaned. He could smell floral floor polish in the air and the wood surfaces were spotless. In the lounge, the tables and couches had been straightened and dusted, the cushions freshly fluffed. There wasn’t a speck of dirt anywhere. The kitchen was far more sterile. Every dish had been washed and packed away. Every surface and table top had been wiped spotless. All that was out of place was a single pot left on the stove. He walked over to it and lifted the lid. The aroma of spaghetti and mincemeat filled his nostrils and his stomach growled in response.
‘Wasn’t she the busy little bee,’ he said to Tripod, who came hobbling over.
Carly was no longer in the house. Most likely she’d gone home. Creed spooned a serving of food onto a plate, grabbed a
Castle from the fridge and went to enjoy his meal in the lounge. The first forkful of pasta was surprisingly tasty. He was about to take the second when his phone rang again with an unrecognised number.
‘Yes.’
‘Nick?’
He laughed out loud. ‘Dr Tlau, you seriously have to work on your timing. First you interrupt my sleep, and now you’re interrupting my supper.’
‘I’m sorry about that, Nick. I really am. It’s certainly not my intention. I was just concerned that you didn’t arrive for our session today. ‘
Creed sighed. ‘Forget about our sessions, Doc. After today, I believe we’re probably done.’
‘I heard about what happened today, between you and Major Grey.’
Creed chuckled. ‘Is he still pissed off?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she answered. ‘It’s hard to tell with the Major.’
‘That’s true.’ Creed lifted his television remote and flicked through the channels. ‘I can understand why Eli did it though; why he called you. Why he’s so angry. I’d also be pissed off if I was him.’
‘I see.’ She paused on the other end of the line and Creed started watching the news on mute. A round-faced coloured woman in a hideous green suit was talking in front of dancing protesters. The newsfeed beneath her read Escalating tensions at the Legodu Mine, North West.
‘I would like you to come see me tomorrow, Nick.’
‘That’s if I’m still on the case. I’m expecting a termination email from Eli shortly.’
‘I don’t think so, Nick. Otherwise why would he have asked me to call you?’
The news report ended with flashing red-and-black graphics that screamed ‘Breaking News’. The footage changed to the scene of a press conference. Creed immediately recognised the woman behind the podium without needing to read the subtitle: ‘Reshmee Patel: IPU Spokesperson.’ As she spoke, the serious face of Luke Meyer loomed like a grim spectre over her right shoulder.
