City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  ‘So it went well?’ she asked.

  ‘It did. Pigs only showed up after we’d gone.’ He pulled the straps down further, revealing the curve of her breasts.

  ‘And Joseph?’

  ‘He was fine.’ Yesterday, after dinner, Lucille had spoken to him about Joseph, for she’d felt that he could land them in trouble. He had a foolish streak in him. Lucille had warned him about men before and she’d always been right.

  ‘I’ll keep my eyes on Joseph,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry.’

  ‘Don’t let him get too big for his shoes.’

  ‘No, I shall make sure he remembers who’s boss. What do you think about Alfred’s nephew?’

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘Very shy, but I can see that he looks up to you. He won’t let you down.’

  ‘He’s a fast learner,’ he said.

  ‘His name is Progress.’

  ‘Progress? What kind of name is that?’

  ‘Don’t you tease him about it, McCarthy!’

  He kissed her again. ‘Baby, will I do a thing like that?’

  ‘There is no telling what you will do,’ she said.

  He rolled over on top of her. ‘You are talking nonsense, you know exactly what I’m going to do.’

  Lucille giggled and wrapped her arms around him. Afterwards, she rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘You are preparing for a war with the Nigerians, McCarthy. Is it a war you can win?’

  ‘I cannot lose.’

  ‘Why don’t you let sleeping dogs lie?’

  He snorted. ‘Sleeping dogs will get a kick on their backsides. A sleeping dog is useless to me. You worry too much, woman. I shall not lose.’

  Lucille. He liked saying her name, but only in a whisper, when he was alone. Lucille, he would say to the darkness, to the ceiling, to the township’s lights as they flickered and spluttered throughout the night. Lucille. The day he’d met her – that day in the kitchen – he’d known his life would never be the same again.

  Today was a big day. Progress had spent hours going over his plan. It would have to be perfectly executed. He considered the use of the word executed. That was certainly the correct word. But before the Nigerian’s man could be killed, Progress had to lure him in.

  In the end it was very simple. They paid the girl five thousand rand. She took her time with the Nigerian’s man, flirting a little, teasing, and then she finally gave in, giving him her address. Only it wasn’t hers. It was a flat in the Ponte that Letswe had rented through Alfred. Paid three months’ rent up front. No questions asked. When the Nigerian showed up that evening, the girl wasn’t there, but they were. Mr Letswe’s men: Joseph, Thabo and Progress. Thabo had worked for Mr Letswe for eleven years and Joseph had known him for eight. Progress knew he could learn from them. That night after they had tied the man up, Thabo phoned Letswe.

  ‘Got him, boss,’ he said. That was all. End of conversation. Letswe was busy. They were told to wait. Thabo and Joseph were watching TV and drinking beer. Progress didn’t drink anything. He didn’t want to get into trouble. Better to stay sharp. He’d brought a book along but Joseph grabbed it before Progress could start reading and he now waved it about.

  ‘Think Money, Make Money. What is this?’

  ‘It’s about getting rich quick,’ Progress said.

  ‘You don’t need to read a book for that, boy. You need to rob a bank.’

  Thabo laughed. ‘Two banks.’

  ‘Or a Coin Security van,’ Joseph said. ‘Do you remember that van we took down outside Cullinan, Thabo? Empty. Not even ten rand. The boss was not happy that day.’ He tossed the book aside and reached for his beer.

  Progress left the book on the table. He was a fool to have brought it along. What was he thinking? His mind kept drifting. Where was Letswe? Was he with Lucille? He shouldn’t be thinking about her. He should be focusing on the job at hand. He stood up and went to check on the man. They had tied him up and put him in the bath. He’d stopped struggling and his nose had stopped bleeding. Progress opened the tap.

  ‘Are you trying to drown him?’ Thabo asked behind him.

  ‘No, I’m washing off the piss. He stinks.’

  ‘He will piss himself again when the boss shows up.’ Thabo went to get another beer.

  Letswe arrived at the Ponte Apartments in the morning. William was with him. They walked straight into the flat and William didn’t waste any time talking. He started off with the right hand and broke two of the man’s fingers, snapping them like twigs. The man’s face screwed up in pain and he made sobbing sounds from behind the masking tape covering his mouth.

  ‘Sylvester Abaju?’ Letswe asked and ripped the tape off. The TV was on in the next room, volume up high, an action movie that made a lot of noise, so no one would hear the man’s screams.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ the man cried.

  ‘This is a dead man talking, William. Did you hear what he said?’

  Snap, snap. Middle finger and index.

  ‘I work for Matthew Obembe. He’s my boss.’

  ‘Obembe.’ Letswe kicked the man in the balls. ‘He acts like he’s the boss, your boss, but he’s nothing.’

  They didn’t even have to pour the petrol over him. He talked, and told them about an apartment Obembe had in Newtown.

  ‘Abaju?’

  The man shook his head. Alfred’s nephew unscrewed the petrol bottle’s lid. Letswe had noticed that the boy had not flinched once.

  ‘Abaju’s constantly on the move,’ the man said. ‘No one knows where he lives.’

  ‘You are a liar.’

  Ten minutes later the man was unconscious and William threw him over his shoulder. They left the boy at the end of the corridor to stand watch. Joseph waited by the bottom of the stairs. William carried the man all the way up to the roof.

  ‘This was a good morning’s work, eh, William?’

  Going up the stairs, Letswe whistled a tune. The man hadn’t told him everything that he wanted to know, but he’d told him enough. Progress had been made. He chuckled at his own wit. Reaching the top, he peeped over the edge of the building and took a quick step back. ‘It’s high, this one, eh, William?’

  ‘That is good,’ William said. He removed the rag from the man’s mouth, went through his pockets again and dropped him over the edge.

  They took the lift down, the four of them. Thabo had gone back to clean up the flat. As they stepped outside an ambulance came flying round the corner, sirens on.

  ‘See how they waste the taxpayer’s money,’ Letswe said. ‘Sending ambulances out for dead people.’

  They walked down the street, away from the building, and they walked like men with nothing to fear. Letswe studied Alfred’s nephew, looking for signs of nerves. He was cool. Even when the police car raced past, he kept his head. All good signs. The other night when they robbed the ATM he did a good job too. He followed instructions and didn’t try to show off.

  William had parked the car round the corner. Another BMW, this one with clean plates. Reaching the car, Letswe stood looking up and down the street. Across the road was a hair salon, a fried-chicken place and a pizza place.

  ‘Lunchtime, boss?’ William asked.

  They settled for pizza and got a table outside under a faded red umbrella. From where he sat, Letswe could see the Ponte rising above the city.

  ‘Did you know that this is the highest residential building in Africa, William?’

  William grunted through a mouthful of pizza.

  ‘It’s not true,’ Joseph said. ‘I saw it on TV, the highest building is in Hong Kong.’

  Letswe put his beer down on the table. ‘You saw it on the TV?’

  ‘Yes.’ Joseph looked uneasy and glanced at William, as if asking for backup. William just kept chewing.

  ‘And is Hong Kong in Africa, Joseph?’

  ‘It is in Asia,’ said Alfred’s nephew. ‘Not in Africa. Hong Kong is now part of China. This is the highest block of flats in Africa, that is
the truth.’

  ‘See how clever this boy is, Joseph.’ Letswe’s arm shot out and his flat hand caught Joseph on the side of the head, sending him flying. ‘Fool.’

  ‘Sorry, boss.’

  One of his pizza slices had landed on the floor. Joseph picked it up and put it back on his plate.

  ‘You watch too much TV.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘You must read books like the boy. That is what you must do. It will broaden your mind.’

  ‘Books?’

  ‘Yebo.’

  7

  PONTE CITY. HE’D seen a lot of bad shit in the past four years, but this was nasty. He had to step aside so as not to make a fool of himself. He lit a cigarette and noticed, to his relief, that his hands were steady. The street around them was silent. The bystanders, held back by two constables, were not speaking, not even whispering to each other. The only sound to be heard was a girl sobbing somewhere behind the thin line of people. Eyewitness, but all she witnessed was a man crashing into the pavement.

  Robert stood with the body, next to a sergeant with Violent Crime Branch. Adrian dropped his cigarette and crushed it with the heel of his boot. He went back to the body and stood by Robert’s side to show them he could handle it. The man had almost landed on top of two teenage girls who’d been walking down the street. They were comforted by a woman constable, who was now steering them away from the scene.

  ‘Fucking inconsiderate,’ he said. ‘Why can’t people just gas themselves in their cars? And why always this bloody building?’ Adrian looked up. Fifty-four storeys of concrete and glass, above which wispy white clouds rushed west, as if they were running late for a meeting.

  ‘He didn’t jump,’ Robert said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘His hands are tied behind his back.’

  Hell, he hadn’t even noticed that.

  ‘Murder,’ Adrian said. ‘Should have known.’

  It was one of those weekends. Fourth murder they’d had to deal with and it was still only Saturday. At least they had made one arrest. Victim number two. The husband tried to make it look like a robbery, but he’d buried the knife in the back garden. Sniffer dog found it within minutes and the man’s prints were all over it. Not very smart, but then most killers weren’t.

  ‘We’ll go up to check things out,’ Robert said, pointing at the building.

  ‘I’ll get local records and forensics out here,’ the other sergeant said.

  Adrian was only too glad to leave the scene. It looked as if the victim’s skull had burst open on impact, and because the road was slightly downhill, all that blood and brains and stuff was making its way down the pavement into the street, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his eyes away from it.

  A uniformed constable accompanied them into the building and because Robert didn’t like lifts they took the stairs. Adrian didn’t mind, he kept himself fit, but behind him, the constable was breathing loudly before they’d reached the tenth floor.

  The Ponte used to have a really bad rep. Drugs, gangs, violence. There was talk of turning it into a prison, but then the council came up with a plan to revive Joburg’s inner city. So they gave the Ponte a facelift, made it look good and sound good. Ponte Luxury Apartments they’d planned to call it, but the new developer had run out of money. So no luxury, but much better than it used to be, and to get it like this, they’d had to clear out three storeys of garbage and shit from the hollow inner core. They’d had to clear out the gangsters and the squatters and they’d had to convince people that this was a safe place to live. And it was compared to what it used to be. In the nineties the streets around the Ponte were a war zone. Still, this was the fourth body he’d seen in less than twenty-four hours. Two stabbed, one shot in the head and now one thrown off a building. He definitely didn’t want to live here.

  The Bulls were playing the Sharks at Loftus. Adrian hoped to get home in time for kick-off. His car was parked at the station. As he got in he locked the doors, checked the mirrors, checked his pistol. It would be the biggest joke ever with the boys, him getting hijacked as he left the police station. Two weeks ago a sergeant from Brixton walked out of the station to go and buy lunch, made it to a corner cafe and got shot in the kidneys. He was still in hospital and the bastards had made off with his gun. That was what they had to face every day. Fucking trigger-happy crazy people.

  Driving home, he couldn’t help thinking about the man who had killed his wife on Friday. What made him think he’d get away with it? And the man who was thrown down the Ponte. Still couldn’t get that image out of his head – the skull all smashed like that.

  Adrian took a short cut through the city, passing a few blocks from that shelter. Robert often accused him of being too trusting, but he was wrong about that. He grew up with an old man who thought kids were punchbags, thought his wife was a punchbag too. Adrian knew bad came in all shapes and sizes. People can be nice to your face, bastards behind your back. Not that his old man was like that. He was a bastard all the time. The point was, just because Siphiwe seemed a nice kid, didn’t mean Adrian believed he was an innocent bystander. Siphiwe’s shirt was covered in the woman’s blood. OK, so he tried to stop the bleeding. He was sitting next to her, holding her hand. So he said. But what if he’d stabbed her? Unlikely, yes, but he did keep an open mind. So, two days before the woman was released from hospital, he went and asked her who’d stabbed her. Not the first time they’d questioned her, but this time he’d asked her straight.

  ‘Was it that boy in the blue shirt?’

  ‘What boy?’ she’d said, annoyed. ‘No boy stabbed me. Go away. Let me be.’

  Adrian took a left, slowed down. Close to the shelter now. He felt like having another talk with Siphiwe. Been too gentle with him so far. Everywhere they went with that investigation doors slammed in their faces. The owner of the shop right opposite must have seen everything, but claimed he knew nothing about any stabbing.

  Turning the corner he noticed the garbage spilling out of the bins. Stray dogs had had a go at them and now the mess was all over the pavement. And there, on the other side of the street, walking along a rough brick wall with his hands in his pockets, was Siphiwe. Adrian pulled to the side of the road.

  8

  I WAS STILL looking for a job and now I was also looking for Lucky Mosweu. I had handed in my CV at many places: two supermarkets, three banks, and the municipality. Perhaps they had some gardening work. I was careful not to ask too many people about Lucky because I was afraid the Nigerian would hear about it. But I had to try, at least. I wanted to help Hope. She reminded me of my mother, and I didn’t want to disappoint Grace. But I did not think I would find him. When I told Grace I was looking for Mosweu, she looked pleased. I recalled something she had said a while ago: one good deed can make up for many bad things done. I could picture myself telling Hope that her son, Lucky, was OK, that she shouldn’t worry any more. That would be a good deed. Perhaps not enough, but it was a start.

  There was no sign of Lucky that day and I went back to the shelter, thinking I would never find him. When I turned the corner, the white cop was standing next to his car with his arms crossed, waiting for me. He drove a silver Volkswagen Golf. I knew those cars. They were fast. I wanted to get mad, but I was worried. Why wouldn’t he leave me alone? My feet felt heavy, but I kept walking towards him.

  ‘What do you want, cop?’ I didn’t like the look on his face.

  ‘Getting cocky, eh?’

  ‘I’ll get in trouble if I’m seen with you,’ I said, glancing over my shoulder.

  ‘You are in trouble, Siphiwe. Get in the car.’

  Ahead of me two women walked, one had a baby strapped to her back with a red-and-white blanket. A black car with dark windows came down the street.

  ‘I’m not getting in the car with you. Are you crazy?’ It was a black Ford, not the BMW, and it had turned into a side street, but I couldn’t relax. There were always eyes in the streets.

  ‘OK,
meet me somewhere then,’ the cop said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Meet me at Eastgate tomorrow lunchtime,’ he said. ‘There’s a Steers. It’s far from the city. It should be safe.’ He held a fifty-rand note out to me. ‘That’s for the taxi. If you come, I’ll buy you lunch.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then I’ll let the word out you talked to the cops.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Sure I can.’

  I grabbed the money and pushed past him.

  ‘One o’clock tomorrow, Siphiwe,’ he shouted after me. ‘Don’t be late.’

  I needed a quiet place to think, so I headed for Brixton Hill. I went there often, but only in daytime, and even then I kept my eyes open for danger. I had a special spot on Brixton Hill from where I could see Hillbrow to my right, the city to my left and in front of me, like a giant gutter pipe forced into the ground, Ponte City. Only the Hillbrow and Brixton Towers were higher, but they were needle-thin and didn’t have holes in the middle for people to jump down or be thrown down.

  That was what had happened this morning: a man was thrown down the Ponte, out into the street. I heard about it when I bought a roasted mealie from two women on a street corner. One of them said her son’s girlfriend saw the man falling down the Ponte.

  ‘Drugs,’ she said. ‘It was to do with drugs. Tsotsis.’

  I paid for the mealie and asked: ‘Do you know Lucky Mosweu?’

  They did not know him.

  I sat on the hill for a long time, thinking about the Nigerians, the white cop and about Lucky Mosweu. Above the city a bank of rippled clouds, like a sheet of corrugated iron, turned blood red in the setting sun and the rays of the sun touched the glass skyscrapers and turned them into gold. It was a sight I would always remember, those tall fingers of gold reaching into a darkening sky.