City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  It was getting late. Time to go. I made my way through the streets. Twice I thought I was being followed. I doubled back. Left, left again. Running fast, slowing down, looking over my shoulder, checking for danger ahead. The man in the black shirt, who I’d suspected of following me, was standing on the corner talking to a woman. I must have been mistaken.

  It was this business with the Nigerian that had me so nervous, but I had always walked warily through the streets. Even after all these years I was afraid that someone would walk past me and say: you are the boy who robbed that spaza shop in Diepsloot, you and your brother. Whenever I thought about that day, everything inside me went dark and cold.

  I decided to go and meet the cop. We went to church every Sunday, everybody at the shelter. After the service, I told Grace I was meeting someone. She smiled. I knew she thought I was seeing a girl.

  I caught a minibus taxi near the station. I’d never been to Eastgate, but I knew about it. It was a big shopping mall outside the city. A lot of people went there – people with money. I was crammed in between a man and a woman who, there, in the taxi, discovered that they were related. His son was married to her cousin’s sister-in-law’s daughter. I tried to see past the man out of the window because Johannesburg was behind us and it looked so small. The whole city, the buildings, the people, tucked in between those hills. From a distance it didn’t look bad at all.

  At Steers you could buy all kinds of burgers and chips. I’d never eaten at a Steers before. I didn’t have money for things like that. The cop arrived at ten past one. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt.

  ‘You are late,’ I said. My heart was beating fast. I didn’t want to be here with him. There were tables with benches under large purple-and-orange umbrellas outside. At the back, next to a white couple, there was a table available.

  ‘I’ll order us some food,’ he said. ‘You go hold us a table. What do you want?’

  ‘Burger and chips,’ I said and he smiled, as if I’d said something funny.

  ‘To drink?’ he asked.

  ‘A Coke.’

  When he returned, he had to bow his head to get in under the umbrella. How much do you have to eat to grow that tall?

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ he said.

  ‘And now you will leave me alone?’

  ‘Depends on what you tell me,’ he said. ‘What happened that day?’

  ‘The woman got stabbed, that’s what happened.’

  ‘Who stabbed her?’

  ‘If I tell you that, I’m dead.’

  ‘If we arrest this man, he can’t hurt you.’

  ‘He has friends.’ I thought of the man in the white suit – Sylvester Abaju. This cop could do nothing against him.

  He played with a sachet of vinegar, pushing it around on the table. A girl brought us two large burgers with lots of chips. He took a bite, chewed, and said, ‘My name is Adrian, by the way.’ He held out his hand to me over the table. I took it. He didn’t shake hands like a white man. He did it in the proper way, gripping my hand, then my thumb, then my hand again.

  ‘This is good food,’ I said.

  ‘Sure is,’ he said. ‘The man who stabbed that woman. He might try to hurt her again.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘But you can stop him, Siphiwe. You can testify.’

  ‘In court, in front of the magistrate? I’ll be dead before I open my mouth. I’m not stupid, cop. These people will kill me. You cannot protect me.’

  He took his time before asking another question. ‘Why would people like them go after a woman who sells mangoes on the street? Is she selling drugs?’

  ‘No! She’s a good woman.’

  He finished his burger and watched me eat, resting his chin on his knuckles and his elbows on the table.

  ‘Why do you care so much about this woman?’ I asked.

  ‘Because she’s got nobody standing up for her, Siphiwe. That’s not fair, and I don’t like people hurting women.’

  I licked my fingers, then stopped myself and used a paper napkin instead – I didn’t want to look like Msizi. It was not often that people talked about what was fair. People just accepted the way things were. That was life. It could be that the cop was a good man. Maybe he really wanted to help Hope. But I couldn’t tell him about the Nigerian.

  ‘Did you hear about that man who was thrown down the Ponte?’ I asked, to change the subject.

  ‘Ja, I was there,’ he said.

  ‘Did you arrest anyone?’

  ‘Not yet. Following up leads. Hard, without knowing what the motive was.’

  ‘If people are angry and they kill someone, is that the motive?’

  ‘Why were they angry?’ he asked. ‘That would be the motive.’

  Why were they angry? I looked down at the table. Why? I had asked myself many times over the past four years. The truth was, it didn’t matter. Sibusiso was dead. Nothing could change that. The cop went to buy us ice-cream cones. It seemed he had accepted that I couldn’t tell him who had stabbed Hope, but it was unlikely that he’d forget about it altogether. I knew he would try again.

  From the taxi rank, I walked home keeping pace with the city, which was taking its time to settle down. It never slept, this city, but there were times when it pretended to be asleep, like a giant snake, coiled up. Late afternoon on a Sunday was one of those times. No shops open, little traffic, but the smell of woodsmoke filled the air. Down a side street braziers were burning, people cooking, women washing clothes. There were many people living on these streets.

  I didn’t know what to make of the meeting with Adrian. I didn’t know anyone who had a white cop as a friend. No, it was too soon to call him a friend, but I had a good feeling about him. I believed he was an honest man. I shook my head. This is how you’ll get into trouble, Siphiwe Modise, I said to myself. This is how. You make friends with a policeman, sooner or later someone will see you together, and before you know it, the Nigerian will hear about it. He will hear that you were asking questions about Lucky Mosweu and he will kill you. He will throw you off a building like that man who was thrown down the Ponte.

  9

  REVENGE SHOULD NOT be rushed. Experience had taught Letswe that. He continued to gather information on the Nigerian’s business, the streets his people worked, the people he did business with. Planning was a vital part of any successful operation. Planning was what he excelled at. That was why he liked robbing banks. With banks every detail had to be considered. He enjoyed a challenge. ATMs were no challenge but it was easy money and it kept his men from getting bored, so that afternoon they prepared to hit another one. He would oversee the preparations and then he would take Lucille out for dinner at Sandton City and leave William to run things. He wanted to see how Alfred’s nephew did when he was not around. They drove for hours to find the right ATM. Later they went for lunch at KFC and William ate a whole chicken and finished a two-litre Fanta Grape all by himself. Alfred’s nephew watched William eat, a stunned look on his face.

  Lucille was not home. Progress had gone over to fetch more dynamite, because Joseph had left the dynamite in a bag under the table in Kentucky Fried Chicken. Progress had expected that Letswe would be mad, but he wasn’t.

  ‘Joseph, you fool,’ he had said and then he’d started laughing. ‘Someone may drop a cigarette near that bag and boom. No more KFC. Unlucky Fried Chicken. That will be what they call that place.’

  Even William had been laughing, and although Joseph had still looked ready to dodge a punch, he’d grinned. Then Letswe had sent Progress to get more dynamite.

  ‘Ask Lucille to get it from the safe, and if she’s not home . . . hang on, I’ll phone her.’

  Progress was waiting for Lucille. He stepped into the backyard to get away from Lucille’s mother, who had started talking when she’d opened the door for him. He crouched next to the bull terrier, but his eyes were on the yellow ridgeback – the dog had growled the moment he’d seen Progress. Progress held out his hand to the bull terrier. The ter
rier sniffed him. The scars on his face were all old. No doubt his skill as a fighter had improved with time. Only the big one would get the better of him. The ridgeback came to his feet, growling again.

  ‘I’ll shoot you dead,’ said Progress.

  The dog snarled, showing his teeth.

  ‘You bite me, you eat this.’ He took his gun out and pointed it at the dog. ‘I will shoot you.’

  The dog backed off. Progress walked to the kitchen door backwards, his gaze on the ridgeback, his hand on the grip of his pistol.

  ‘That Shaka is a mean dog,’ said the old woman, who was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and looking out of the window, spying on him. She looked nothing like Lucille. She was short – shrunken and bent over with narrow slits for eyes.

  He had not seen Lucille for three days and had been pleased when Letswe had ordered him over. Progress had made a point of avoiding Lucille whenever he could – he feared that he wouldn’t be able to hide his feelings. He didn’t want Letswe to know what was in his heart. He didn’t want anyone to know. Just thinking about Lucille sent his pulse racing. Thinking how, the other day, she’d smiled at him and touched his hand – she had let her fingers rest on his and then she traced the vein on the back of his hand. It had happened so quickly that he’d thought he’d imagined it. He’d bought her a small present in case he’d get the opportunity to give it to her and now he had that chance. Thanks to Joseph. When Lucille arrived an hour later she looked him up and down, hands on her hips.

  ‘That Joseph! McCarthy said he lost the dynamite.’

  He told her about the KFC.

  ‘He’s lucky McCarthy didn’t shoot him. Come, Progress.’ She led the way to her bedroom. He tried not to look at the bed.

  ‘Just dynamite?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Do you need anything else, Progress?’

  ‘No.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have something for you, Lucille. A present.’

  ‘A present?’ Her eyes danced.

  ‘Yes, it’s in my backpack.’

  They left the bedroom, him carrying six sticks of dynamite. Lucille closed the door behind her. In the living room he handed her the parcel. He’d wrapped it in brown paper.

  ‘You cannot go around by yourself unprotected,’ he said.

  She ripped the paper off. Inside was a revolver, small, made for a woman, silver and black. Very pretty.

  ‘It will fit into your handbag,’ he said.

  ‘That is very kind of you, Progress Zebele, just what I wanted.’ She was teasing him, as usual. But she took the gun and dropped it into her handbag, as if it were a hairbrush or a lipstick.

  He cleared his throat again. ‘I must show you how to use it.’

  ‘I know how to use it, Progress. Is it loaded?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Bullets?’

  He handed her a carton. She dropped it into her bag too. It was a large red leather bag with silver buckles. He frowned. If it was anything like most women’s handbags, that gun would not be found again.

  ‘Thank you for the present, Progress.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Next time, buy me chocolates.’

  ‘Not flowers?’ He felt light and happy again.

  ‘No, McCarthy will kill any man who buys me flowers.’

  ‘But not chocolates?’

  ‘He will not know about them,’ she said, laughing. ‘He will not see them.’

  ‘Do you love him?’ he dared to ask, and held his breath, waiting for her answer.

  ‘What is love?’ She reached over, touched his chin and then her lips brushed against his.

  That night while he lay in bed, he replayed that scene in his mind. Lucille, laughing, throwing her head back, revealing the long smooth line of her neck. Lucille’s eyes, sad. Was she sad? What is love? Her voice was like water running over stones – no, like a fountain. She was like a fountain, bubbling up from the ground. You are heading for trouble, he told himself. You must watch it or you will be fed to those dogs.

  ‘I had a dream,’ Lucille said and Letswe turned to face her. They were in bed and although the sun was not up yet light seeped into the room, enough to see by. Lucille was not an ordinary woman. She had something – the sixth sense – and when she was worried it was time to pay attention.

  ‘A nightmare?’ he asked.

  ‘No, just a strange dream. I don’t know what it means.’

  He waited for her to tell him more. A good thing it was not a nightmare; last time she had a nightmare he’d walked into a police ambush two days later and lost a good man. Almost got shot himself.

  ‘I dreamt that someone left the gate open and the dogs got out. They ran down the street in a pack and ripped apart a neighbour’s goat.’

  ‘A goat?’ Her neighbours didn’t own goats.

  ‘It is a sign,’ she said. ‘A premonition of some sort.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, we must think about this. Try to remember the detail. It may be important.’

  Lucille’s dream stayed with him all morning. That afternoon William and the boys came with news of the night’s job. All had gone well.

  ‘How did Alfred’s nephew do?’ Letswe asked.

  William shrugged. ‘He’s steady, and he shoots to kill. Thabo still aims too high. I don’t know why he never learns.’

  Letswe laughed. ‘He is the worst shot I’ve ever seen.’

  That evening he talked to Lucille about the bank he wanted to hit. Although he didn’t often consult her about jobs, he wanted to hear her opinion. He was still worried about her dream.

  ‘Why do you want to rob banks?’ she asked. ‘You have enough money; there’s all that money from the last robbery in the safe.’

  He stood by the window, smoking a cigarette. ‘I like robbing banks, I like showing them what I can do. You’re a woman, you won’t understand. A man must make his mark or else his name is worth nothing. That is why I must destroy Abaju.’

  ‘The Nigerian?’

  ‘Yebo.’

  ‘Come to bed, my lover,’ she said and patted the pillow next to her.

  ‘He’s a dead man,’ he said. ‘He will not live. I shall cut out his heart.’

  ‘Come to bed.’

  ‘That Progress better come up with answers chop-chop. He better come with good news. He must make some progress or I shall lose my temper. I shall lose it.’

  ‘McCarthy, come to bed now, you need to relax,’

  ‘You are a bossy woman. You know that? Do this, do that. Eh? A very bossy woman.’ But he turned away from the window and came to sit on the bed, leaned over and kissed her.

  ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘Let me give you a massage. Lie down.’

  He dropped the cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table and kissed her again, but even as her hands moved over his back, his mind was busy.

  ‘That goat that was torn apart in your dream. Was it a white goat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure? A white goat?’

  ‘As white as these sheets,’ she said.

  He rolled over onto his back and grabbed her wrists. ‘You are an asset to me, my baby. You are the best.’

  10

  IN THE EARLY hours of Friday morning a gang hit an ATM in Mayfair. Blew it to hell ’n gone and made off with the cash. The third ATM bombing in ten days. Four men, wearing balaclavas, hit the ATM in full view of the security cameras. Two drove off with the cash in a white Opel Cadet that was reported stolen in Bez Valley the previous night. Two stayed behind, hidden, waiting for the Flying Squad. That had everyone at the station talking. They fucking waited for them, ambushed them with AKs, and if it weren’t for the driver being so experienced, they’d have been killed. One of the boys said they’d counted near seventy bullet holes in the car. By the time backup arrived the two gunmen had made off on a motorbike.

  Tough job, being in the Flying Squad. First on the scene. Often outgunned. Adrian had wanted to join, but during basic training a sergeant had talked him ou
t of it. It wasn’t just car chases, the sergeant had said. It was serious shit, getting shot at all the time, not knowing if you’d see your family again when you leave your house in the morning. The sergeant had said he’d make a good detective. So here he was, detective constable with General Investigations.

  He’d like to move to Organised Crime once he had some time behind him. Lots of action, and the best thing about Organised Crime Branch was that they didn’t have to knock. Not like General Investigations, having to say, this is the police, open the door. They just fucking broke it down, and they went in with choppers, big guns. Anyhow, that was his plan, but for the time being he was happy. Working General Investigations was a good way to get experience and they had plenty of action too. Nothing to complain about. The other day he got to tackle a shoplifter to the ground. Broke his ribs. He’d bet the thief had never been tackled by a rugby player before.

  The house they were called to later that morning was in Melville. One of those square 1950s houses, nicely restored with a veranda and corrugated-iron roof. His mother would love it. A garden overflowing with white roses, blue hydrangeas and a bougainvillea in a pot that had somehow survived the winter’s frost. It looked like a picture on the cover of his mother’s Garden & Home.

  The back door opened into a cottage-type kitchen. Robert led the way. Adrian followed, alert but not expecting danger. They were not the first on the scene. The neighbours had called it in. Domestic disturbance. Could be nothing. They entered the living room. Adrian froze. A vase had been smashed. Yellow roses were scattered amid shards of glass. The woman was on her knees beside the coffee table. She looked as if a train had hit her. Small and frail, her face a bloody mess, her left arm broken at the wrist.

  ‘We called for an ambulance, Sergeant,’ someone said.

  The female constable who’d accompanied them knelt on the carpet next to the woman.

  ‘Dis OK, Mevrou,’ she said. ‘Ons sal mooi na jou kyk.’

  We’ll look after you, she said. Everything’s OK, she said. Adrian blinked. The woman didn’t cry or utter a word. The room smelled of fear, fear and brandy. Adrian stared at the woman. The bones poked through at the wrist. He felt sick. Why? It was not anywhere near the worst thing he’d seen.