City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  ‘What happened here, sir?’ Robert asked.

  It was only now that Adrian noticed the man standing in the corridor, arms crossed over his chest. He blinked again. The nausea left him. His pulse quickened. Blood rushed to his head.

  ‘Nothing happened,’ the man said. ‘My wife fell over the coffee table. That’s all.’

  ‘She fell?’

  The man’s gaze challenged Robert to contradict him. The woman flashed a fearful glance in their direction. Broken glass crunched under Adrian’s boots as he strode past her. Three more steps and he was face to face with the man. His fist exploded in the soft flesh of his stomach. The man doubled over and collapsed in a heap on the floor, gasping for breath. Adrian lifted him off the ground and shook him. He decided to put him through the glass windows behind them. Robert grabbed his arm and shouted at him in Zulu. Adrian dropped the man and aimed a kick at his head. He caught him in the chest, because Robert had pushed him off balance. It took three guys to pull him out of the room, out through the front door into a garden that smelled of lavender.

  It was a while before the roaring in his ears ceased. Stephen Kumalo stood on his left, holding on to him with both hands. Leon Petersen was gripping his right arm and had his hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Als reg, bru,’ he said over and over again. ‘Cool it.’

  Adrian was shaking.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Leon again.

  Shouts came from inside the house.

  ‘He hit me. I’m pressing charges. You were all witness to that.’

  ‘Nobody hit you, you fool,’ Robert shouted back. ‘You fell over the coffee table. We were all witness to that.’

  Stephen and Leon laughed.

  ‘Ja, I saw that,’ Leon said. ‘You, Stevo?’

  ‘I saw it. He should have watched where he was going.’ He slapped Adrian on the back.

  ‘I’m OK,’ Adrian said. ‘Let go.’ Neither of them loosened their grip. A good thing too. He wanted to go back in there and break that man’s arm and beat his face in until he’d never lay his hand on a woman again. He stood there, eyes shut, waiting for the rage to fade. He’d thought that he’d dealt with this stuff. It was five years since he’d last seen his dad. Adrian opened his eyes, blinked several times. Bees buzzed around the lavender bushes. A dog barked down the street, a high-pitched hysterical bark that reminded him of his sister’s Yorkshire terrier. Sirens. The ambulance had finally arrived.

  ‘Let me go,’ he said to Stevo, who was still gripping his arm. ‘I’m OK.’

  Two paramedics carried the woman out on a stretcher. The man was led out in cuffs, flanked by Robert and the female constable – Adrian heard someone call her Rita. Only when the man was locked in the back of the van, did Stevo and Leon step away.

  ‘You got to put a lid on that temper of yours,’ Leon said. ‘Not that I blame you, bru. I wanted to hit him.’ Leon gave him a play-punch on the shoulder. ‘Take care, big guy.’

  ‘You OK, Adrian?’

  Rita had returned from the ambulance. She had dark eyes and dark hair, tied in a ponytail. Young – Adrian’s age – and pretty. He was surprised that she knew his name. They’d never spoken before. Always on different shifts.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how many times I see this,’ she said, ‘I still don’t understand why a woman would let a man beat her like that.’

  He had to clear his throat before he could speak. ‘It’s not as if she could hit back. She’s too small.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she asked again and touched his arm.

  He nodded. There were dimples in her cheeks when she smiled.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said.

  ‘Ja, see you.’

  ‘I don’t have a problem with you hitting that man,’ Robert said when they reached the car. ‘I have a problem with you hitting him in front of witnesses. You have to use your head, whitey. You have to use your head.’

  ‘That girl, the constable who was there . . . is her name Rita?’

  ‘Did you hear what I just said?’

  ‘Ja, you said I should have used my head. You’re right. Next time I will. I’ll do more damage that way.’

  ‘I swear, there are times I think you’re crazy. Yes, her name is Rita. Rita Stein.’

  Adrian had only just put his seat belt on when the call came through, robbery in progress in Twist Street. Sirens on, going like hell. He always tried beating the flying squad to the scene. He glanced at Robert and saw the smile pulling at his lips.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing. Keep your eyes on the road.’

  Adrian shot over a red light, had to slow down while a bus got out of his way, but then he put his foot down again.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘You like being a cop, eh, whitey?’

  Adrian grinned. ‘I fucking love it.’

  It turned out to be one of those days. On the move all the time. Just after four they were called out to another armed robbery, which was over by the time they got there. The owner of the cafe where the attempted robbery took place had a shotgun under his till. He’d opened fire on the robbers. They’d run for it, but the guy next door, owner of the hardware store, had a Beretta and he’d also opened fire. It ended up with three shop owners and a member of the public firing at the robbers. One suspect got hit and was lying face down on the pavement, dying, but still holding on to his gun.

  It took the rest of the day to clear the mess up, taking statements from everyone involved: the bystanders, who were hiding behind their cars while the shooting went on, and the shop owners, who had started their own little war.

  ‘Third time this month they tried to rob us,’ the owner of the hairdresser’s told Adrian.

  ‘It’s crazy,’ the cafe owner said. ‘Where were the police, eh? Lucky we all had guns, eh?’ He looked to be in his mid-sixties, and judging by his red face and thick midriff, a likely candidate for a stroke or heart attack. Adrian tried to calm him down. Didn’t help when another constable strolled over and asked to see his firearm licence. The old man almost had a fit.

  ‘One thing about this job,’ Adrian told Robert over dinner, ‘it’s sure as hell not boring.’

  They were having a curry at Robert’s favourite restaurant, Kapitan’s Oriental in Marshalltown. It was the oldest restaurant in Joburg, at least that was what the waiter said. Madiba used to eat there when he was young – his photo was on the wall. Other famous people as well. Great atmosphere, but nothing over the top. That was why they went there as often as they did, and because they both liked a good curry.

  ‘You’ll wish for peace soon enough,’ Robert said. He placed his knife and fork on the side of his plate, wiped his mouth, folded his napkin, ready to go.

  He was right. It was a Friday night and any policeman could tell you: the bad shit happened over weekends. Before they left Adrian checked his pistol and touched his bulletproof to make sure it was secure.

  11

  GRACE HAD MANAGED to find me a job. It was only a part-time job, but Grace said it was a good start. I helped at the Starfish charity three mornings a week. Mainly my job was to unpack the boxes that people donated to the charity, and if there was anything else, I did that too. The first week I painted the wall around the property inside and outside. I worked in the garden where nothing grew but weeds. I’d have liked to plant flowers to make a good impression on visitors. When I had time. I was the only person working for the charity, except for two volunteers who came some mornings. I was paid two hundred rand for the week. It was not a lot of money. By the end of the month I would have eight hundred rand. That was not a lot of money either, but after three months I would have earned two thousand four hundred rand. That was a lot of money. If I saved, I could have that much. I told Grace about my saving plan and she said it was a good plan and that she would go with me to the bank to open a savings account.

  ‘What will you do with the money, Siphiwe?’ she
asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Grace,’ I said. I could buy a bicycle, but then, if someone stole the bicycle, I would end up with nothing again. ‘If I can save enough for a course at college, a gardening course.’ I shrugged. ‘If there is work for gardeners . . .’

  ‘Horticulture,’ she said. ‘Or landscape design. There is work if you have a good qualification.’

  That afternoon, after my second morning at the charity, I went looking for Lucky Mosweu again. I thought I’d give it one more go. First, I went to the shelter to get a sandwich and then I swept the kitchen for Grace. By that time the children were back from school. Msizi was always the first to get home; he ran all the way from school. None of the others could keep up with him. I heard him coming through the front door, greeting Lungile before running to his room. Msizi slept on top of a bunk bed, with Simon beneath him. Above Msizi’s head, stuck to the ceiling, were pictures of athletes, Kenyan and Ethiopian runners. He could tell you their names, the distances they ran, the records they broke.

  Msizi came running into the kitchen. Grace gave him a sandwich, but told him off for running in the house first. She did that every day. Before she had finished talking, Simon and Vuzi came running down the corridor as well.

  ‘Outside,’ Grace shouted. ‘All you children, outside. I don’t want crumbs on my floor. I don’t want children running in my house.’

  I raised my hand to greet her and left by the front door, hoping the boys would not see me, but halfway down the street, I looked over my shoulder in time to see Msizi’s head disappear behind the wall. He’d wait until I turned the corner and then come after me, hiding behind a tree or rubbish bin until we were too far away from the shelter for me to send him home. That was how he did it.

  I stood with my back against the wall to make sure he couldn’t see my shadow on the concrete path. I didn’t wait long.

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked as he sneaked round the corner.

  He jumped, but didn’t run away.

  ‘What do you want, Msizi?’

  ‘I want to be your brother,’ he said and bit hard into his bottom lip.

  ‘You cannot just choose a brother,’ I said, and then stopped talking. Who was I to tell him this? He was just a little boy. ‘Come,’ I said. As we walked, he grabbed a handful of my trousers in his fist and held on. I put my hand on his head.

  ‘Perhaps I shall not make a good brother,’ I said.

  ‘You will do,’ he said and that made me laugh.

  ‘Where are we going?’ He didn’t sound as if he wanted to cry any more.

  I sighed. ‘We are going to look for a man called Lucky Mosweu.’

  ‘Why?’

  That was the problem with having Msizi around. Questions all the time.

  ‘Because I promised to find him. He’s hiding.’ I knew what his next question would be. ‘He is hiding because the Nigerians want to kill him.’

  ‘That is bad,’ he said and clicked his tongue like Grace did when she was annoyed or unhappy with someone. ‘How shall we find him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘We can ask people,’ he said.

  I did not reply.

  ‘We can ask that woman there.’ He pointed at a woman selling vegetables by the side of the road. ‘She sits there all day, she sees lots of people.’

  ‘What will you ask her, Msizi?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, shrugging and pulling a face. ‘Do you know where Lucky Mosweu is?’

  I laughed. But the truth was, I didn’t have a better plan. Above us white clouds towered up into the sky. I sniffed the air. It was springtime and before long those clouds would grow heavy and turn grey and then one day, soon, they would become black and thunder would roar and lightning would rip through the sky. It was the hills around Johannesburg that caused the lightning to be so bad here. All the iron in the hills, and perhaps it was the gold too. Under the iron. Deep under the earth. Rivers of gold.

  Summer was the time for rain in this city. Where I grew up in Soweto, it was the same. Those fierce summer storms would come and the streams would turn into rivers and take the shacks with them, and often people would drown. People who built their shacks too close to the Klip River because they thought it was a stream, because they didn’t believe those telling them about the storms. I remembered that well. I remembered that river and the games Sibusiso and I played on its banks.

  That day we didn’t find Lucky Mosweu. We had no luck.

  The second Wednesday at my new job, I worked until three. When I reached the shelter, Msizi was already home from school and waiting for me.

  ‘I know how to find Lucky Mosweu,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I know a place where people hide.’

  I went down on one knee in front of him. He looked serious and a little scared too.

  ‘A place where people hide?’

  ‘It’s a secret place.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘We must go quickly, before the rain comes. It’s far from here.’

  It was an hour’s walk and we had to take care to avoid some streets in the bad parts because people got killed for just walking down them. Mostly these streets belonged to the Nigerians. Above us, clouds were building. It was almost October and everyone was waiting for the rain to come. Last night, on the television news, they spoke to a farmer who said there was a drought. They needed rain. Everybody in this country needed rain. It was that way all over Africa. In Zimbabwe drought came and people died. Here it was never that bad. I wondered if people in Nigeria would look at the sky and pray for rain.

  The storm broke. Msizi and I ran and took shelter in a bus stop with two fat women and a man without a shirt. More people came running to hide from the rain: a man and woman with their children. The children were laughing, except for the little one being carried on the mother’s back. He had the same big, solemn eyes Msizi had.

  Msizi only let go of my arm when the thunder stopped. He didn’t like thunderstorms, especially not when they arrived at night. Often lightning would hit something and there would be a power cut. We’d all be sitting in the dark while Grace went for candles and matches.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Msizi said, pulling at my arm. It had stopped raining.

  We turned left and then right in an alley that was narrow and gloomy. It was the worst part of the city. You didn’t see many people here, but I felt as if we were being watched. I felt as if there were people behind the shattered and boarded windows glaring down on us.

  ‘Come, Siphiwe. This way.’

  We crossed a busy road under a bridge. There was graffiti on the pillars and old posters telling of protests over things that had happened in Zimbabwe, about HIV/Aids, and other problems we have in this country: a protest for women against crime; a march organised by COSATU. We passed a man lying on top of flattened cardboard boxes, using old newspapers as blankets – a white man. I wondered what had brought him here. He opened his eyes. They were grey like the puddles of water in the street.

  ‘Follow me.’ Msizi tugged at my sleeve again. He stopped at the door of a three-storey building that had all the windows boarded up. The paint had come off the walls and the gutter pipes were rusted and so was the padlock on the door.

  ‘We can’t go in there,’ I said.

  ‘We can. There’s another way in. At the staircase.’

  The staircase did not look safe to use. Next to it was a door covered by a sheet of corrugated iron. I had to lift it for Msizi to climb through. I followed, feeling scared and a little angry at Msizi for bringing me here, but I could not show him that I was afraid.

  ‘What is this place?’ I whispered when we were inside.

  ‘It’s a safe place for people to sleep,’ Msizi said. ‘People who don’t have homes live here.’

  My eyes slowly got used to the dark. I saw two old women sitting on a blanket in the corner. They did not seem to notice us. A man sat on the floor with a collection of cigarette stubs in front of him. He must have picked them up from the streets. There were more peop
le, old and young; some were sleeping, some were sitting with their backs against the wall. I went over to the man with the cigarette stubs. ‘Do you know Lucky Mosweu?’

  He gathered up the cigarette butts as if he were afraid I would steal them. He gave me no answer, but turned his back on me and shuffled away. I went to ask a woman, who wore a long blue dress and no shoes. She didn’t know Lucky either.

  I looked around to see where Msizi had gone and spotted him standing in the corner. I went over to call him. I wanted to go outside where the air was fresh. Then I saw the children: a boy and a girl sat on a piece of cardboard with their legs crossed. They were very small. They looked like twins and could not have been older than five. They looked as if they hadn’t had any food in a long time. Somewhere, near us, water dripped on the floor. In the corner of the broken window above the children, a fat black spider sat in its web. The silence was so deep I could hear my own breathing.

  ‘They are Malunde,’ Msizi said. ‘They have no home. They live here. I have asked them if they know Lucky Mosweu. Maybe they don’t understand me. Maybe they cannot talk.’

  ‘We must tell Grace about them,’ I said. ‘She can help them.’

  ‘There is no more room at the shelter,’ Msizi said and pressed his lips together so hard they became pale.

  ‘Look at me, Msizi,’ I said. At that moment I felt as if I really was his brother.

  He closed his eyes. I lowered my voice.

  ‘There are other shelters, Msizi. We must tell Grace. She will speak to the man at the church and he will come and help them. It’s not right for children to live like this. It’s not right that they have no home.’

  Msizi had turned his back on the children, his eyes still shut. I reminded myself that children didn’t think the way grown-ups did. When I was a child, I used to put my hands on my ears when people said things I didn’t want to hear. My grandmother used to laugh whenever I did that.