by Kurt Ellis
‘Yeah,’ he answered.
‘Where are you?’ asked Grey.
‘Twenty-five kays from last point. Have they moved?’
‘No. No movement. We’ll be there in half an hour. Don’t go in there, Nick.’
Creed didn’t bother to say goodbye. He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and placed both hands on the steering wheel. A sudden wash of memory engulfed him. It was like that night in Seattle. He gripped the steering wheel and flattened the accelerator.
‘I’m coming,’ he whispered, unsure whether his words were for Meyer or to Megan.
The pain was worsening. Although he was getting dizzy he kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Just as quickly as they appeared, the rows of shacks melted back into the night. When he checked the odometer again, he saw he had driven the full thirty-five kilometres.
‘Shit.’
He slammed the brakes hard. The car slid from the tarmac, onto the shoulder and into the gravel.
Dust formed a cloud around the vehicle, and as he stepped out, Creed looked around, searching. Searching for anything that would tell him where Meyer was. There was nothing but cold silence. All around him, nothing but waist-high dry grass and reeds, taunting him in the dark night. Nothing. His chest began to feel tight with panic. He inhaled deeply to calm himself down, and he smelt smoke. Fire. He stared out into the abyss and saw a flicker. The soft orange glow was barely visible in the distance.
He plunged into the veld, running as fast as he could towards that flame.
100
The Professor went outside and returned, naked, with a live sheep. The animal bleated as Buthelezi tied it to a pole.
‘Professor,’ Meyer said, ‘you’re making a mistake. It’s not too late to stop this.’
Ignoring him, the thin, naked man picked up a two-litre plastic bottle filled with foamy liquid.
‘I thought you said you don’t believe,’ Meyer prompted.
Buthelezi smiled. ‘I don’t, but my sister did, and I’m doing this for her.’ He took a gulp from the bottle. After swallowing, he took another mouthful and spat it on Meyer, who turned his head away from the spray. The Professor spat the next mouthful into the face of the sheep. The animal drew back, pulling on its tether.
Mumbling under his breath, the Professor went to the fire in the middle of the rondavel and lifted out a flaming stick. The sheep cowered, retreating as far from the flare as the rope would allow, which wasn’t far enough. Its fleece caught the flame and the white turned a bright orange.
The creature shrieked. Meyer shut his eyes, hoping this would somehow seal his ears too. The sound was horrific, like a choir of tortured souls screaming in pain.
Meyer began to recite a prayer aloud, to drown out the cries of the sheep. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.’
And almost as if in answer, the screams suddenly stopped. Meyer opened his eyes. The animal had fallen onto its side; the flames still licked the air. The Professor knelt in front of it, a large butcher’s knife in his hand, and sawed at its neck until the head came away from the body. He threw the head into the fire before turning to Meyer.
‘The sheep is an offering to her in the afterlife. And so are you.’
The Professor walked towards him. The knife blade was blackened with ash and dripping with blood.
I’m going to die, Meyer thought. I’m going to die.
The Professor circled behind him and yanked his head back by the hair. The blade was wet and sticky against his throat. It was smouldering and smelt of copper. Meyer wanted to beg for his life, but fear paralysed his voice. He could only think, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.
The figure burst through the doorway of the rondavel like a demon spat from hell. Meyer didn’t see or feel the bullet whoosh past his cheek.
The Professor’s head snapped back. He groaned as the bullet tore into his skull and he fell over to Meyer’s right.
The detective looked down at him, at the black hole just above the Professor’s still open left eye. A thick tear of blood ran down his left temple.
It took every ounce of energy that Meyer had left to look away from the corpse. Nick Creed was hunched over inside the shack, struggling to breathe. His clothes were torn and stained. His face was covered in a red mask made of blood, sweat and dirt.
The giant sprang out of the shadow and charged at him. Creed stood straight and managed to get two shots off, both of which struck the beast in the chest before he tackled him. The monster rammed Creed against the wall before throwing him to the ground. It wrapped its massive hands around Creed’s throat and began to squeeze, as if to rip his head clean from his shoulders.
Creed’s tongue protruded as he gagged. He tried to manoeuvre the gun up from his side, but it slipped from his grip. His hand blindly slapped the earth searching for it, but he kept missing. Meyer could see it, right there, next to his little finger, but Creed couldn’t get it in his hand.
As Meyer ripped frantically, he felt a wrist bone snap. He wrenched harder despite the pain. This was his only chance to escape, but the ropes remained as tight as ever. He watched the life leaving Creed’s eyes, and guessed it would be only another minute or so before the Imfene turned on him too.
The explosion came out of nowhere. Meyer looked at Creed’s hand. Somehow, he had managed to find the weapon and pressed the barrel to the monster’s side. Creed fired again, and again, then two more quick shots. The monster howled in pain but didn’t seem to relax its grip.
Meyer could think of nothing else to do but call out: ‘Nick!’
Creed was fighting off death, trying to get the barrel of the gun pointed higher. He pressed it to the monster’s temple and fired. The ground was sprayed with a rain of blood and brain matter. The beast collapsed on top of him. Neither of them moved.
‘Creed!’ Meyer called out. ‘Nick! Are you okay?’
There was silence. The Imfene’s arm moved. God, Meyer thought, he’s still alive. But it wasn’t the Imfene. It was Creed shifting under it, trying to wriggle free of the massive deadweight on top of him. He wheezed with the effort. Finally, after he had pulled his leg out, he gasped, ‘Yeah.’ His voice was hoarse and broken. ‘I hear you.’
Creed got to his knees and sat back, like a karate fighter awaiting instruction from his sensei. He wrapped his hand over his damaged neck and tried to swallow. His shoulders rose and fell rapidly as he searched for air. Looking at the beast, he coughed out, ‘What … the hell … is this?’
Before Meyer could answer, the Tokoloshe somersaulted down from the ceiling. It jumped onto Creed’s back with a manic giggle before back-flipping off and landing in the doorway.
Creed fell forward, then rolled over to his side to sight the Tokoloshe down. He fired twice. Both shots missed. Meyer could hear its cackle as it scurried out of the hut.
Creed scrambled to his feet and gave chase, leaving Meyer alone and bound, with the two corpses and the still smouldering sheep carcass.
‘Creed!’ he called out, but there was no response.
The only sound he could hear was his own breathing and the fire crackling. Two shots thundered from somewhere outside. Silence. Then a third, followed by nothing. Panic began to well inside him. What if Creed was dead? Would anybody else find him tied up there, before he died from his injuries or exposure?
There was a rustle at the door. His first thought was that the little monster had returned with its tiny sharp teeth.
The curtain was pulled back. With a sigh of relief, he saw Creed stagger in.
‘You get it?’ Meyer asked.
Creed shook his head. ‘No luck,’ he gasped.
Meyer grimaced. ‘Would you mind untying me?’
He heard helicopter blades in the distance.
‘Sure.’ Creed took a step forward, but collapsed to his knees as if someone h
ad struck him across the back of his legs. ‘Just … let … me … catch my …’
Creed didn’t finish the sentence. He fell over onto his side and went silent.
101
Wednesday, 3 July
Four broken ribs, a bruised sternum, a bruised trachea, a bruised kidney, concussion and stitches in his scalp were the worst of Creed’s injuries, but his entire body was in constant pain. In fact, he felt worse three days after the accident than he had on the day. He struggled to push himself up from the bed in Olivedale Hospital to sip the apple juice on his lunch tray.
‘How are you feeling?’ Luke Meyer had appeared at the door dressed in a suit. His right arm was in a cast and sling; his left eye was purple and swollen.
‘Never better.’
Discharged earlier that day, Meyer had been treated for a dislocated shoulder, broken wrist and bruised ribs.
‘When are you being discharged?’ he asked, stepping into the room.
‘Doc says tomorrow. I can’t wait. This place has lost its charm since they took me off the morphine.’
Meyer regarded the visitor’s chair, the string-less guitar standing beside a box of new steel strings.
Creed had followed his eyes. ‘My sister brought it from my place. Said she’d got me new strings so I can start playing some new music when I get out of here.’ He shrugged, ‘Symbolic, I guess.’
Meyer walked over to the window. ‘I never got the chance to thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For coming after me. For saving me.’
Creed clicked his tongue and scowled. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘No need to thank me.’
Meyer nodded as he looked at the parking lot outside. He saw Tracey leaning against her car, waiting for him. ‘The …’ he didn’t know what else to call it, ‘Tokoloshe is still out there.’
Creed sipped his juice. ‘You’re worried he’ll come after you?’ he teased.
‘They weren’t the real monsters, Nick. Buthelezi and his sister, they were the monsters.’ Meyer sighed and walked back to the door. ‘The media’s loving this story. And you. I hear the powers that be are basically begging Grey to reinstate you.’
Creed shook his head. ‘I’m done, Luke. I thought Grey would’ve told you. I won’t be back.’
‘Why not?’
Creed sighed. ‘Because I’m tired. I just … need to get some sleep.’
Meyer offered him one of his paternal smiles. ‘That’s a good idea.’
His hand went into his pocket and he pulled out a silver digital Dictaphone.
‘That looks expensive,’ Creed said.
Luke Meyer shrugged. ‘It’s not mine.’ He pressed what looked like the erase button, then dropped it into the bin next to the bed.
‘See you around, Creed.’ Meyer walked out.
Creed drank the rest of the juice and eased his head back onto the pillow. He shut his eyes, closing himself off from the world around him. He finally felt ready to sleep. He knew the dream that awaited him wouldn’t be one of horror or pain.
Epilogue
1995
That day, Nick Creed wore his church shoes. The black leather pair that he was only allowed to wear to mass still had rock-hard soles, and every time his heels struck the tiles of the Durban Magistrate’s Court hallway, it sounded like a gunshot. A burly white policeman led the way; Nick’s mother walked beside him. She said something to him, but he didn’t hear and he didn’t ask her to repeat it.
His skin was clammy, like that day in the sugar-cane field when he saw the body being dumped.
For some reason, he recalled the story his mother had once told him about Solomon Mahlangu, the anti-apartheid activist and friend of his father. Mahlangu was only twenty when he was convicted and executed by the government for murder and terrorism in 1979.
Is this how he felt when he was being led to the gallows? At that moment, Nick felt as if he was going to his own execution. He was terrified of seeing Vijay, this vicious wolf who had preyed on his kind, the young. Will they have him handcuffed? he wondered. Will there be enough police there to protect me if Vijay tries to attack me? What if he has a weapon? Did they search him properly?
Questions were still coursing through his head when the policeman pushed a door open. It felt as if a wave of pressure released from the courtroom had struck Nick in the chest.
‘Go on, boy,’ the cop said curtly.
His mother rubbed the hair on the back of his head. ‘You’ll do just fine, Nicholas.’
He nodded, and forced one foot in front of the other.
On the other side of the door, another policeman led Nick down the side of the room towards the witness stand. The room smelt of sweat mixed with musky deodorant. Furniture polish added to the aroma as he neared the bench. Nick kept his eyes on the green tiles of the floor, terrified of making eye contact with anyone. He could feel their eyes on him. They were all watching him.
When he got to the witness box, he sat on a stuffed wooden chair with red leather upholstery.
Someone walked up to him. ‘Stand up,’ he said, and Nick obeyed. ‘Put your left hand on the Bible, and raise your right hand.’
Nick did as he was instructed, still without looking up. He could feel his hands shaking. ‘Do you swear that the evidence you’re about to give is the truth, nothing but the truth, so help you God?’
His tongue had fused to his pallet and he struggled to free it. ‘I do.’
‘You can sit down.’
Nick was relieved to be sitting. His legs were beginning to feel hollow.
‘Master Creed,’ the judge said quietly.
Nick turned his face towards him, but still he did not look at him in the eye.
‘Master Creed, look at me,’ he insisted.
Slowly, Nick raised his gaze to the old white man dressed in his red robe. He had a large, bulbous nose over a bushy moustache. The judge smiled and nodded.
Nick turned and looked across the court room. There could have been almost a hundred people there, perhaps more. Faces coloured by a thousand shades and expressions. Eyes of many hues were all fixed on him. He saw his mother sitting near the front with his grandfather, who was dressed in his police uniform. At the back, photographers were packed in, plastered against the wall. They all looked like the Cyclops, their single eyes staring at him as their cameras captured his image.
Finally, Nick turned to face the man sitting at the defence table. This was the first time he had ever seen Perumal Vijay. He was a dark-skinned Indian man, wearing a blue-and-white checked shirt under a dark-green jacket. His hair was black and greasy, combed in a side parting. A thick, black moustache covered his upper lip. His nose was sharp and long, but it was Perumal Vijay’s eyes that Nick would never forget. Those brown eyes were drowning in tears. Those eyes refused to look at him. Those eyes were scared.
‘Sir,’ the prosecutor started, ‘please tell the court your name.’
Perumal Vijay is no monster, Nick thought. He was no wolf. He was only a man.
A tiny, sad, weak man.
Shit, I can take him if I need to.
Creed took a deep breath. He felt his chest rise and his shoulders widen.
‘My name is Nick Creed.’
Note
Nick Creed first appears in Kurt Ellis’s debut novel, By Any Means.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank Elzebet Stubbe for her support and patience when I first approached her with this novel. I wish to thank Fourie Botha for investing in me and this work, and for welcoming me into the Penguin Random House family. Most importantly, I’d like to thank my editors, Jonathan Amid and Catriona Ross, who worked tirelessly with me on this manuscript.
I’d like to thank my family:
My mother Clare for always being there for me and for being the person who introduced me to the library.
My father George and stepmother Sharon for their support.
My sister Clarissa Ross, who has always been my guardian an
gel.
My sister Renette ‘Baby’ Johnson, who sadly passed away on 8 April 2019. I love you and miss you, every single day.
My in-laws, Eddie and Charmaine Slade, for their unreserved support and belief in me from day one.
Most importantly, I’d like to thank my wife, Melanie. I know being married to me isn’t easy, and these last few years have been unbelievably difficult for us as I pursued this dream. Your strength keeps me going. Every word I ever write is dedicated to you and our children, Gabrielle and Caleb.
Lastly, I’d like to thank you, the reader.
As a kid, I began reading because I was lonely. I began writing because I wanted to pretend to be more than what I was – to have more than what I had. For me, telling, hearing and reading stories allowed me to escape into new worlds of wonder, and I’m sure it’s the same for you. Thank you for buying this book and for allowing me to be your tour guide into the world of Creed. I hope you enjoyed the journey. With your support, there might be a second trip in the future.
STAR CROSSED
A NICK CREED SHORT STORY
Kurt Ellis
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
By Any Means (2014)
In the Midst of Wolves (2019)
Published in 2019 by Penguin Random House South Africa (Pty) Ltd
Company Reg No 1953/000441/07
The Estuaries No 4, Oxbow Crescent, Century Avenue, Century City, 7441, South Africa
PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa
www.penguinrandomhouse.co.za
© 2019 Kurt Ellis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
