City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  ‘Shit, bru,’ he said. ‘Letswe’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know what he’s like.’

  He started eating again, but I could see his mind was elsewhere, and when he’d finished his burger, he said, ‘Letswe’s back in Joburg. Now that’s worth knowing.’

  He wiped his mouth. We both got up.

  ‘There’s a place down the road that sells garden stuff cheaply,’ Adrian said. ‘My mother needs some stuff.’

  Adrian bought plants and fertiliser and a large pot. He said his mother loved gardening. I told him I did too. Driving back, he talked about his family. His sister was going to have a baby. Adrian would be an uncle by March. I could see that he was pleased. He talked about his mother knitting baby clothes all day. He didn’t speak of his father. Perhaps he had died.

  ‘I’m going over to my house first,’ Adrian said. ‘To drop these things off for Ma. Do you mind? I’ll take you home afterwards.’

  ‘No prob,’ I said.

  Adrian’s house was square with white window frames and a red corrugated-iron roof. There was a white woman in the garden in front of the house. She wore a floppy hat and a flowery shirt and trousers, with sandals that had clumps of mud clinging to the heels. She had a pair of garden scissors in her hand. Adrian lifted one bag of fertiliser onto his shoulder and grabbed the pot with his other hand.

  ‘Do you mind bringing the other bag, bru?’

  Just as I picked up the fertiliser a wide-chested brown dog charged over the lawn, straight at us. I froze.

  ‘Never mind Jock,’ Adrian said. ‘He’s friendly.’

  Even so, I kept an eye on the dog, but he soon stopped sniffing at my trousers and then went off to chase a bird. The woman came over. I caught her looking at me, but then she studied the pot that Adrian had bought. He introduced me to her and she looked up at me again. She had the same blue eyes as Adrian. She was short and thin, and under her hat, her hair was grey and curly.

  ‘Dumela, Mme.’ I didn’t know why I greeted her in Sotho, but she replied, ‘Wena o kae,’ the way white people did when they knew a little Sotho.

  ‘I am well,’ I said. ‘You have a beautiful garden.’

  We walked round the house. Adrian’s mother pointed at plants and told me their names. The back garden was where the vegetables were planted. All the vegetables were healthy, planted in neat rows. Tomatoes, beans, carrots, onions and other vegetables. There were no pumpkins.

  ‘This is a beautiful garden,’ I said again. ‘What are those plants?’

  ‘Garlic,’ she said. ‘I plant it to keep the pests away.’

  ‘Pests are a big problem,’ I said. ‘When you are a gardener, all you do is work to keep the pests away from the plants.’

  I glanced at her sideways. She was such a little woman, frail, with her soft white cheeks. You could see, just by looking at her, that she was not strong like Grace and Dr van der Sandt and Lungile. She was not the type to stand her ground. A good thing she had a son who liked to fight. He would take good care of her.

  16

  ONCE MY MAN, always my man, that was what Letswe had said to that boy in the market. Siphiwe Modise. If you need anything, you come to me, Letswe had said. Progress had been in a bad mood all evening. Letswe had put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoken to him like a father. An odd-job man, that’s all he was. Some kid who used to stand on street corners to look out for trouble. Progress was determined to show Letswe what he could do. He was not an odd-job man. He was a big-job man.

  He was watching TV with his friend, David, in the small two-room HOP house that Progress’s mother had received from the government fifteen years ago – she had lived in the house for eleven years before she had died. Now it was his. It was not much of a house, not nearly as big as Letswe’s house, but it was far better than most.

  Pirates were one goal up against Chiefs and playing well. They were having a good season. David was eating cornflakes from the box as if they were popcorn. Crunch, crunch, irritating Progress.

  ‘It is for breakfast that.’

  ‘I know,’ David said. Crunch. ‘What is the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is it a woman?’

  Progress didn’t reply.

  ‘Is she married?’

  ‘Why do you ask that? Eh? Why would she be married?’

  ‘Because you like older women. I don’t know why. You like the ones you cannot get. There is something wrong with your head.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Crunch, crunch. ‘You will get yourself into big trouble, looking at another man’s woman.’

  Progress went to get two more beers from the fridge.

  ‘It’s not a woman.’

  ‘Eh!’ David shouted and threw his hands up. ‘Good save! Good goalie, that one.’

  ‘David, I have a new job for you,’ Progress said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There is a boy I met today in the city. I want you to find out where he lives. Siphiwe Modise. Find him for me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have a feeling he will be trouble.’

  David snorted. ‘And what about the Nigerians? Are they not enough trouble?’

  ‘Yes, we need to keep our eyes on them, but you can ask around. Find out where Modise lives, but you must be careful. Don’t let him see you.’

  ‘Eh, you can tell me nothing about this job,’ David said. ‘I am like a shadow. I am like –’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, just watch your back.’

  ‘You watch your back, my brother, and stay away from married women. Stay away.’

  But Progress could not stay away from Lucille. He had lost his heart. He had lost it in an instant. One look, one word from her, and he was drowning. Now all he could think of was her. The most beautiful woman in the world. He wanted to buy her flowers, jewellery, things she deserved, but he couldn’t. Letswe would kill him.

  17

  ADRIAN WAS OUT in the back garden, trying to wrestle the ball away from Jock. Above the rooftops, in a red sky, the sun fell to the earth. Sunset always made him think of the bush, going to the Kruger Park with his mates. They would sit at a watering hole, watching game, drinking beers while waiting for something big to come along. They had once seen a leopard stalk a warthog in the grass near the waterhole. But more often than not nothing happened and they just sat and watched herds of zebra and impala and listened to the hippos snorting and the birds singing.

  The same with police work. At times he’d sit around dealing with the small stuff, but then, one day, he’d get a break, and in his opinion, today was one of those days. He had a good feeling about what Siphiwe had told him earlier. McCarthy Letswe. Now, if he was back in Johannesburg . . . Jock saw the neighbour’s cat sitting on the wall and went crazy, jumping up and down, barking and howling.

  ‘Jock!’ No use. Adrian went inside to wash his hands.

  ‘That cat’s on thin ice,’ his mother said.

  ‘She sure is.’

  Later that evening he sat eating leftover roast lamb in front of the television, when his phone rang. It was Rita. Adrian jumped up and took the call in the kitchen.

  ‘I just wondered how you were doing?’ she said.

  And he couldn’t think of anything to say other than talk about work, so he told her about getting a tip-off that Letswe was back in the city and how he thought it could be a major breakthrough. He didn’t even know what else he’d said, but when he hung up, he felt like kicking himself. He reckoned he sounded like an idiot. What he should have done was ask her out. Hell, all he had to do was ask her to grab a coffee sometime. And then, if she said yes, he’d go: cool, how about Saturday, and that would be it. They’d have a date. Maybe he’d see her at work on Monday.

  He went back to his dinner. His mother was catching up on her soaps, and knitting – she’d already finished one little blue sock.

  ‘That young man you brought over today . . .’

  ‘Siphiwe?’
>
  ‘He’s very polite.’

  ‘He’s a good guy,’ Adrian said. ‘He lives in a shelter in the city.’

  ‘A shelter?’

  ‘Ja, his parents died.’ He hardly ever talked to his mother about his job, but this was something he had to share. He told her what had happened to Siphiwe’s brother, and for the first time in years, he saw her fighting back tears.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘What’s wrong with this country, Adrian?’ she said, her hands clamped together, the knitting abandoned on her lap. ‘What has happened to us all?’

  What could he say? What had happened that day? Two boys stole some corn and one of them paid for it with his life. He could picture the scene, two kids pleading for mercy; the crowd showing none. Hell, how did you live with that? What could he say to Siphiwe? How could he say, I’m sorry for your loss? Sometimes he felt as if he were doing his job with his hands tied behind his back.

  The first thing Adrian did when he walked into the office on Monday was to look for Rita.

  ‘Do you like movies?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was just thinking –’

  ‘Yes, I like the movies, Adrian. Saturday night?’

  He grinned. ‘I’ll pick you up then.’

  He ran upstairs and told Robert about Letswe. Robert was standing by the window, frozen to the spot.

  ‘McCarthy Letswe?’ Robert asked.

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Siphiwe recognised him, said he knew him from way back.’

  Robert went over to the filing cabinet, pulled a file out and tossed it onto the table. Adrian flipped it open. The file on the Ponte victim.

  ‘I had a feeling about this,’ Robert said. ‘Remember, I told you. Bad feeling. Now you’re telling me Letswe’s back. We have an ID on the victim. A Nigerian, working for Obembe. And Obembe works for Abaju.’

  Sylvester Abaju was a well-known drug dealer, a big-shot bastard, always keeping one step ahead of the police. Twice they’d raided his house in Doornfontein and found nothing, not a sniff of anything illegal, and afterwards his lawyers pissed all over them.

  ‘Do you reckon Sylvester’s behind this murder?’ Adrian asked. ‘Not his style, is it?’ Abaju was not known to make a mess in his own backyard. If he wanted someone dead, he’d be more discreet.

  ‘No, not his style. It’s Letswe’s style. Letswe is a man with a fondness for high buildings – for throwing people down them – and he hates the Nigerians. If he’s back, he’d have his eyes on Abaju. I’m going to speak to Superintendent Pahad about this.’

  Going straight to the top. Adrian swallowed hard. He was right. This was big.

  ‘You know a lot about Letswe,’ Adrian said.

  ‘There is not much to know,’ Robert said. ‘No record, never been caught. But I know Abaju. With any luck Letswe will kill him.’

  Robert had a history with Abaju. Sergeant Ferreira had told Adrian about it. Some years ago Abaju had been arrested but he’d walked out of court a free man, all charges dropped. Some kind of fuck-up with the evidence for which Robert took the blame. Cost him a promotion. Anyhow, the inspector who was in charge of the case left the police soon after and rumours were flying that he destroyed the evidence. No one would ever know the truth because the inspector was shot dead in his house by a burglar not long after that. Ferreira said the burglary business was bullshit. What kind of burglar would leave without stealing a thing?

  Adrian sat in Robert’s office – the office he shared with two other sergeants – going through dockets: photos, notes, reports, all on Letswe and his known associates. He tried to memorise the faces and made notes of the names.

  ‘Get your feet off my desk, boy.’ Sergeant Ferreira charged into the office, late for work as usual, sweating, and out of breath. Two flights of stairs. That was all it took to get him out of breath.

  ‘You mean there’s a desk under all this rubbish, sarge?’ The paperwork on his desk would keep ten people busy for a week.

  ‘You’re getting cocky with me, eh, Gerber?’ He stabbed a fat finger in Adrian’s direction. ‘I’ll make you do all this shit. I’ll make you file receipts, write reports, you name it.’ Still waving his finger about like a conductor of an orchestra, Ferreira flopped down in the chair behind his desk. ‘I fucking would, if I thought you could bloody read. You rugby players, eh?’ He tapped his head. ‘What’s that you’re looking at?’

  Adrian showed him the file.

  Ferreira snorted. ‘You’re chasing a ghost, my boy. Chasing a fucking ghost.’ He glanced at the door. ‘Eh, Rob, look how cocky this kid is. A fucking constable and he’s got his feet on my desk.’

  Robert motioned for Adrian to follow him. ‘Superintendent Pahad wants a word.’

  Adrian almost fell off the chair. Ferreira’s laughter followed him down the corridor.

  ‘I’m not in trouble, am I?’ Adrian asked when he’d caught up with Robert.

  ‘He wants to know about Letswe.’

  That had Adrian worried. All he knew was what Siphiwe had told him. Just the mention of Letswe’s name caused a stir. Superintendent Pahad wasn’t the type to get excited over nothing.

  ‘Letswe,’ he said as Adrian marched into his office.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In Joburg?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My informant saw him in the market near the station.’ Adrian could imagine that Siphiwe wouldn’t appreciate being called an informant.

  ‘We had no other reports, sir.’ Horne was there, Robert too, and none of them were standing to attention. Maybe that meant he could relax, but then again maybe not. He was still only a constable, hoping for promotion.

  Pahad ignored Horne. ‘There was a cash-in-transit eight weeks ago outside Brits. Do you know about it, Gerber?’

  ‘It was all over the news, sir,’ Adrian said. ‘Four security guards killed. Robbers got away with a shitload of cash.’

  ‘Six million,’ Superintendent Pahad said. ‘Four guards killed, a passer-by wounded. Estimate twelve attackers, armed with AKs and pistols. We have reason to believe it was Letswe’s doing. This is why.’ He held a piece of paper out.

  Adrian stepped forward to take it: a picture of a man resembling a bullfrog. Bulging eyes, thick neck, no hair.

  ‘William Sibaya,’ Adrian said. He had just spent an hour going over Letswe’s docket. ‘He’s Letswe’s main man. He’s been locked up twice, last arrest was for armed robbery. He escaped from prison six years ago, has been with Letswe ever since.’

  It was the first time he saw the superintendent smile. Adrian caught Robert’s eye and read the expression on his face. It said: not bad, now shut the hell up.

  ‘Show the photo to your informant, Gerber. Ask if he’s seen him. If he can confirm, we’ll have more to go on. If Sibaya’s here, Letswe’s here, and fact is, we don’t really know what Letswe looks like, but Sibaya’s easy to spot.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That will be all.’ He stopped him in the door. ‘Good job, Gerber.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Back in Robert’s office, Ferreira looked him up and down. ‘What are you smirking about, my boy?’

  ‘Nothing, sarge.’ But he couldn’t hide that he was pleased. Just luck, really, opening the file on Sibaya, half an hour before the superintendent called him in.

  ‘Think you’re clever, eh, Gerber?’ Inspector Horne barked into the room as he stomped past.

  ‘No, sir,’ Adrian said to the empty space.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Ferreira. ‘He’s full of shit.’

  They hated each other, Horne and Ferreira. Well, nobody liked Horne, but he was an inspector so Adrian wouldn’t tell him to his face that he was full of shit. But Ferreira would. Adrian had a lot of respect for Sergeant Ferreira. He’d been wounded twice, had spent months in hospital and returned to work as soon as he was on his feet. That showed what kind of man he was. Most guys would think twice about being a cop after getti
ng shot.

  ‘Get off your arse, my boy,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Let’s go, Adrian,’ Robert said from the door.

  Adrian jumped to his feet.

  ‘See you, sarge.’

  Ferreira showed him his middle finger.

  ‘You did well today,’ Robert said when Adrian had caught up with him. ‘Pahad will remember it.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  That half-smile touched Robert’s lips, but he changed the subject.

  ‘Go and see that Modise boy tonight, but be careful around him.’

  Adrian frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s strange that Siphiwe knows Letswe?’

  ‘His cousin used to work for him,’ Adrian said. ‘Don’t you trust him?’

  ‘No,’ Robert said, ‘I don’t trust him. He’s clever, that boy. Quiet, but clever. His eyes miss nothing. I’ve noticed the way he watches me.’

  ‘There’s no crime in being clever, bru. No crime in being quiet either. I mean, you’re not the most talkative of guys, eh?’

  Robert shrugged.

  ‘He got hurt, Siphiwe,’ Adrian said. ‘He had a brother who died badly. Hell, you can’t blame a man for being quiet.’

  ‘We all go through life half wounded, whitey.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You are a good man, Adrian. You see the good in people. I only see the bad. I expect the worst. That is because I have been a policeman for twenty years. Now I am not saying Siphiwe is bad, I’m just saying you should not trust people completely. Especially not when McCarthy Letswe is in the picture. Everyone wants something. You cannot read what is inside a man’s head.’

  18

  TODAY THE GIRLS were trying to teach Msizi and Simon how to skip. They could not do it. Every time the rope came Simon forgot to jump and Msizi jumped too early. Skipping was not for boys. Grace and I watched from the kitchen window and laughed at them.

  ‘These games never change,’ I said.

  ‘That is true,’ Grace said. ‘They are the same as when I was a child.’