by Kurt Ellis
Grey seemed to be focusing on a particular set of crime-scene images, those of a blonde woman whose body had been mutilated and exposed. Her deceased, opaque eyes were open, her mouth contorted in a silent scream of pain, or a cry for help. Grey pulled the pictures from the wall and ripped them into confetti. His face was knotted in rage; his lips were pulled back in a snarl to reveal his teeth. When he was done with that picture, he ripped more and more computer-printed images from the wall and began to tear them up. Behind him, Creed began to stir.
‘Wha …’ he mumbled, his head lolling to the side. His tongue sounded thick. There was a thump as his hand let go of the gun, dropping it to the wooden floor. His eyes swept vacantly along the walls of the room and settled on Meyer and Grey.
Creed stumbled to his feet. ‘What the fuck are you doing? You can’t be in here.’
He grabbed at the pictures in the Major’s hand. Grey responded by shoving him back. The force sent Creed sprawling over the chair and onto the floor.
‘What the fuck am I doing?’ Grey spat, standing over him. ‘What sick shit are you doing, Nick? Putting pictures up of Megan, like this,’ he held up a ripped photograph, ‘on your damn wall. Are you …’
The soles of his shoes slipped slightly as Creed scrambled to his feet and charged at Grey. The muscles in his jaw were tight as he attacked, but when he got within arm’s reach, Grey flicked out his fist and cracked him square on the cheek. With his own momentum still moving him forward, Creed folded at the knees and he collapsed.
‘This is …’ he mumbled, groggily trying to get to his feet. ‘My … get the fuck out my house.’
He stumbled, obviously still dizzy from the blow, and from the drugs and alcohol swimming in his blood. Eventually, he managed to get his feet flat under him and stumbled forward. He walked like an old man trying to traverse the rocking deck of a ship before he collapsed to his knees once more.
Grey turned his back to him and continued to rip at the wallpaper of pain. Meyer didn’t see that Creed had crawled on his hands and knees to his gun.
A single shot shook the room. The Major flinched to the right. The bullet buried itself in the wall, just above his left shoulder.
Only a heartbeat had passed before Meyer raised his own firearm and sighted Creed down. ‘Drop the gun, Creed!’ he ordered. ‘Now!’
Creed ignored him as he got to his feet. He focused his gun once more on Grey, who had turned to face him. ‘Stop what you’re doing now and get the fuck out of my house, Eli.’
‘Or what?’ Eli Grey challenged him. ‘You going to shoot me? Are you going to kill me? The only goddamn friend you have in this whole fucking world?’
‘Put your gun down now, or I’ll shoot!’ Meyer repeated.
‘Put your gun away, Meyer,’ Grey said firmly. ‘This drunken fool won’t shoot me.’
‘You …’ Creed seemed to struggle to find words. He swallowed. ‘You think you can hide from me, Eli? You think I’m one of these fucking idiots fooled by this pretty mask you wear? I know what lurks behind your calm, your expensive suits and steroid muscles.’
Grey’s face was stone. ‘And what’s that?’
‘The fear of a coward. You stink of it. You’re a scared orphan boy who wants everyone to like him, but is scared to let anyone get close. So you hide behind a carefully constructed persona. You’re a phony and a fucking coward.’
Grey paused, then responded. ‘Just like you.’
‘Drop your weapon, Creed! Now!’ Meyer ordered.
‘Put it away, Detective. I told you – he won’t shoot.’
‘You don’t think I’ll shoot?’ Creed asked through gritted teeth. ‘You think I won’t fucking do it?’
‘I know you won’t fucking do it.’ Grey turned his back to the weapon and continued to tear down the rest of the pictures from the wall.
The gunshot was deafening.
72
His hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Creed gripped his steering wheel tighter in an effort to steady them, but that didn’t work.
Damn you, Eli. Damn you for making me do what I did, he thought. Damn you to hell. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t.
An hour earlier, Creed had pulled the trigger as he had threatened to do. The bullet buried itself in the wall a few inches from Grey’s left ear. That fucker hadn’t even flinched. He hadn’t even turned around. And what was that fucking priest’s problem? Why hadn’t he returned fire?
The thought had entered Creed’s mind as he began to squeeze the trigger – the idea that the moment Meyer suspected that he was about to shoot Eli, he would fire on him. He would shoot Creed down first. He had to. And that was what Creed had wanted at the time, so he followed through on his threat, and he fired, high and to the left. But Meyer didn’t return fire. He didn’t shoot. Why hadn’t he fucking shot?
Instead, he’d tackled him to the ground and tried to wrest the gun from him. They had tussled on the floor until Grey had intervened and flung Creed firmly against the wall. Creed, not knowing what to do next, turned and ran from his own house. He got into his Ford Ranger and didn’t bother to open the gates. The bakkie crashed through, leaving a twisted knot of iron in its wake. He had no idea where he was going or why he was going there, but he needed to get there fast.
How dare Eli enter his trophy room.
Those gruesome images were his rewards for the mistakes he had made. Those were his prizes for his slip-ups: pictures of victims of unsubs he’d been too slow to capture. Victims like Megan, who had died because of his arrogance. Because he was an over-confident fool. The pictures were his awards. He needed that room. He deserved that room. Whenever he started to forget, he would lock himself in that room surrounded by his trophies. Whenever he felt something akin to happiness, or started to forgive himself, he would lock himself in that room.
That was his punishment. To see Megan like that. To see what Rodriguez had done to her. To see what he had done to her. He hated having those fucking nightmares, but they were what he fucking deserved. And when the images got too much and he felt like a coward, like he was about to commit suicide, he would shoot the hot heroin into his veins. And then … nothing. Silence. A short reprieve.
He slammed his foot onto the brake and pulled his vehicle over to the shoulder of the road under the squealing protest of his tyres. Gripping the steering wheel, he screamed at the top of his lungs, ‘Fuck!’
He pummelled his fists into the dashboard, then grabbed again at the wheel and squeezed. He tried to rip it from the shaft, then slammed his forehead against it repeatedly until he was exhausted and could no longer lift his head. Warm tears and hot blood ran down his cheeks. Creed pressed his face against the hooter, sobbing uncontrollably.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he cried out loud. ‘What is wrong with me? I almost killed him.’
73
Meyer stood beside Eli Grey in silence. The thin, short woman paged through the larger ripped images.
‘These are horrific,’ she said.
‘I know, Dr Tlau.’
The psychiatrist flipped to another of the torn photographs. Major Grey had called her after Creed had left, not knowing what else to do. She had rushed over, and the three of them were now standing around a flaming braai stand in Creed’s back yard.
‘These are very disturbing, Major,’ she finally said after another minute of silence.
‘I know.’ Grey took the pictures from her and tossed them into the braai. The arms of fire stretched into the blackened sky, eagerly embracing the added fuel. ‘Why would he want them on his wall? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Actually, it does.’ She wiped her hands on the side of her pants as if the blood on the images had somehow stained her palms. ‘Nick uses these images to punish himself. These images rip my heart out and I didn’t even know her. Imagine the pain they must cause him.’
Grey tossed a few more photographs into the pyre. ‘Should we be worried about suicide?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think
so. Nick views suicide as an easy way out. His father’s way out. A coward’s escape, if you will. And he doesn’t want to escape. He wants to be punished for what he sees as his mistakes. He blames himself for his fiancée’s murder.’
‘Ex-fiancée,’ Grey corrected.
‘He’s not going to kill himself. At least not yet, not until he feels he has been punished enough. But,’ she raised a finger, ‘he’s a danger to himself. He might not commit suicide, but he wants to hurt himself. Or get other people to hurt him. Major, you brought him to me to determine if he is mentally sound to return to active duty. I can confirm he isn’t mentally sound, in any way.’
‘And medication can’t help? Antidepressants or something?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m reluctant to prescribe him anything. Not when he’s self-medicating like this. It may do more harm than good.’
Grey nodded. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’
‘I wish I could give you another answer. But I can’t. I’m sorry.’
The fire roared in the stand. It consumed the images they had torn down from the wall and turned them into ash.
Grey waited a few minutes after Dr Tlau had left. ‘Thank you for not killing him.’
Meyer shrugged. ‘I somehow knew he wasn’t going to kill you.’
‘I’m happy one of us knew that, because I was bluffing.’ Silence, then he added flatly. ‘I trust I won’t be reading about this in tomorrow’s newspaper.’
74
Red and yellow lights flashed. Creed sat at the bar and sipped on a tumbler of whisky with no ice. He stared at row after row of liquor bottles. Behind him, the other men ogled the woman dancing topless on the stage. A brunette with fake breasts wearing only a red G-string, she cantered across the platform, then held onto the pole and twisted, one way and then the other, to the cheers and whistles of the audience. Creed, his back to the stage, watched the performance from the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The stripper leapt high onto the pole, flipped upside down, and slid back to the floor. She was hidden from Creed’s view by the bottled spirits. He took another gulp.
After leaving his house, he had decided to get shit-faced. And he couldn’t think of a better place to do so than Sparkle Strip Club in Midrand. So he made the long drive here, but now regretted that choice.
Creed had no interest in strip clubs. In fact, he thought the men who frequented them were pathetic morons. The women here were only interested in one thing – cash. Strip clubs were a purely transactional environment, and were quite open and forthright about it.
These men actively deluded themselves into thinking that the women really did find them attractive and interesting. These pathetic men, who would buy drinks and pay hundreds, if not thousands, of rand to these women so that they’d talk to them, only to leave alone in a few hours’ time, their dicks rock hard but with only a hand or a wife to relieve them. Ridiculous.
It was close to midnight. No, if he was going to spend money on a professional woman, he wanted more than a two-song crotch grind. He gulped down the rest of his drink and paid his bill. Perhaps he would visit a nearby brothel. He was undecided. With a slight stumble, he made his way outside. Frost had already begun to settle on the windscreen of his car. The cold was unforgivingly brutal that night. Unlocking the door, he climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine.
Eli Grey was still on his mind. He knew he was wrong for what he had done. And for what he had said. The burning in his gut wasn’t the whisky but guilt. He wondered if Netflorist had any ‘I’m sorry I shot at you’ flowers he could send. But he would worry about that tomorrow. He just didn’t want to go home. Not yet. So he set his mind on visiting the house of ill-repute in neighbouring Vorna Valley.
Creed eased his car out of the parking lot and onto the deserted streets. The winter evening was abandoned by all but him. His demister hummed loudly, keeping condensation from obstructing his vision. The wipers whipped back and forth, removing the layer of ice from his windscreen. In the lightless roads of Midrand, Creed made his way to the brothel. A set of headlights came into view behind him – another car on the silent streets.
Creed turned right at the next intersection and the headlights behind him did the same. He drove on for a few more kilometres and turned left. The car behind him followed.
The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He reached beneath his car seat and retrieved his Glock, resting it on his lap. His gut told him something wasn’t right, so he decided to put that feeling to the test. He took the very next left turn. The car behind him did the same. Reaching into the centre console, he pulled out his extra magazine of seventeen bullets and placed them on his lap. He took another left turn, just to be certain. He had now come full circle. The car was still behind him. A hijacking?
Driving at a steady pace, he watched the lights behind him via his rear-view mirror. They drove on for another kilometre. The streets were dark, the area devoid of development. Ahead, Creed saw three glowing green lights turn to amber like tiny suns, and then to red. It would happen now. If he was going to be hijacked, it would be here. Creed cocked his gun. He eased his car to a halt at the traffic light and unlocked his door.
75
Sunday, 23 June
The twin lights behind him suddenly snapped brighter; they’d switched on their headlight brights to dazzle him. Creed didn’t want them dictating the series of events. He wanted to catch them off guard. He pushed his door open and stepped out. Blinded by the light, he held his gun in his left hand and the extra clip in his right. Two shadowy figures stepped out of the tailing car – one holding the silhouette of a revolver, the other what looked to be a pump-action shotgun.
The shotgun was coming from the passenger side, the revolver from the back seat, from behind the driver who remained seated at the steering wheel.
Creed fired first, wild and low. The bullet buried itself into the tar of the road. He cursed at himself as he swiftly switched the gun and magazine between hands. Quickly assuming the modified weaver stance, he fired a double tap at the man holding the revolver.
Despite the dazzling headlights, he managed to see the bullet holes pierce the car’s back door and the gunman dive back into the vehicle. Panning to the right, Creed aimed over the bin of his bakkie. He fired a volley of shots. One after the other. The first struck the inside of his own pickup’s bin, the second hit the assailant as he tried to aim his gun at Creed.
The shotgun carrier groaned in pain, hunched over and tried to back away, but Creed kept firing, walking towards their car. Shot after shot. Some hit the tarred road behind his target. Others hit the car.
The damn lights were causing spots in his vision, so he quickly aimed at the right headlight and shot it out, easing the glare. He returned his attention to the shotgun-wielding hijacker. A second shot hit his target, and he heard him scream out and fall to the floor. A flash of movement caught his eye to the left as the gunman from the backseat stood out once more. He managed to get off a wild shot that had missed Creed by some distance. Creed took a second to sight down his target.
Again, he unleashed a volley of shots that shattered the door window. The shadow ducked from sight once more and Creed used the chance to fire at the one remaining headlight. With no blinding light, he could make out his assailants in the white BMW more clearly. He turned his sights to the driver and aimed at the scar on his cheek. The scar? It was Reggie Mthembu. Mthembu ducked beneath the dashboard, as Creed fired once. The bullet made a neat hole in the windscreen and buried itself in the car seat.
With his clip empty, Creed ejected the magazine and quickly loaded the extra clip that he held in his left hand. He heard their car being forced into gear and caught a glimpse of Reggie peeping out from behind the steering wheel. The car’s tyres squealed off the blacktop as it reversed away, the back door still open. Creed walked after them, firing shot after shot at the windscreen. There was another screech of tyres as Mthembu did a J-turn, the car now facing away from Creed. The ge
ars grinded once more, forced into first and the BMW sped off.
His heart was like a wild bird fighting against a cage. Rapid. Violent. Creed was drowning in fury. Under his shirt, the tattooed phoenix was heaving and felt like it was ablaze. Behind him, the assailant who carried the Mossberg shotgun was moaning in pain on the road where he lay. Creed stalked up to him as he tried to drag himself away. Blood had soaked the right side of his T-shirt. Creed had hit him near the collarbone and in the shoulder. He kicked the rifle further away and pointed his weapon down at the wounded man. The assailant’s eyes were wide with fear. They reminded him of Rodriguez.
‘You come into my house?’ Creed hissed. ‘You come after me? You come after Megan? Why Megan? Why not me? Why not me!’ he screamed. ‘Why not me! Why not me! Why not me!’
He fired.
76
‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Grey stood next him, leaning against the bakkie. It was just past one in the morning. The flashing blue-and-red lights of the police and emergency vehicles lit up the street.
Creed pulled on the cigarette between his lips. He watched the tobacco burn amber, then let the grey smoke roll out from his nostrils. ‘I know. But that’s who it was. Reggie Mthembu.’
‘You sure? Your perception may be off. You know,’ Grey paused, ‘influenced by substances.’
‘I’m drunk and high, Eli. Don’t beat around the bush. But it was him.’
‘But it doesn’t fit. Why would he come after you? You think it’s a coincidence?’
‘What? You mean a random hijacking by someone we just happen to be chasing?’
The sarcasm was lost on Grey. ‘You got the plates?’
‘Yeah.’ Creed recited the vehicle registration number from memory. Grey wrote it down.
‘Perhaps we should’ve expected it.’ Grey slipped his notepad into his suit jacket. ‘Your face is splashed all over the front page of The Daily Standard.’
‘Not my doing, Eli.’
