A voice came to me, from somewhere to my right.
‘Come now, why are you treating the boy like this? There is no need.’
They pushed me forward. I straightened up, struggling.
‘I apologise for the rough treatment, Siphiwe Modise,’ the voice said. ‘Sometimes my men cannot control themselves.’
I remained silent.
‘Remove the blindfold. Untie his hands.’
I kept my eyes shut tight, and then only opened them slowly; even so the bright light hurt and left me blinded. I blinked, blinked again. I was in an office. In front of me, a desk; behind the desk, a man. I stared at him and went numb, as if I had fallen into icy water. I would not leave this place alive.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘My name is Sylvester Abaju.’
I nodded again.
‘You have nothing to fear from me,’ he said, and flashed me a dazzling smile. ‘I do not like violence.’
He was going to kill me.
‘Earlier today you left a message with one of my men. You claimed you have information about the man who was thrown down the Ponte. Tell me.’
‘I don’t have information, but someone told me he knows who did it. That is the man you must phone. He calls himself Jackson. I gave his number to the one with the white hair.’
‘Yes, I have the number and I have the message: to phone and ask for John. This John Jackson, who is he and why does he want to help me?’
I could not fight them with weapons or my fists, but I could try to get out of this. I just had to keep my head.
‘He’s a tsotsi,’ I said. ‘But he’s young. I think he wants to make his name. Maybe he wants money. He said he’d give me a hundred rand if I brought you the message, but he didn’t pay me anything.’ I was making things up. ‘The other day Mr Obembe told me he would pay two hundred rand for information about someone called Lucky. I thought maybe he would pay me two hundred rand if I bring him this information too. Maybe this John really knows something.’
Abaju brought his hands together, like a man saying a prayer. He wore a ring with a green stone on his little finger. I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not. I couldn’t read him at all.
‘You did the right thing,’ he said. He opened his wallet and pulled two notes out. ‘This is your pay. We shall get in touch with this John Jackson. I hope for your sake he’s not wasting my time. If you have any further information for me, don’t hesitate to get in touch.’
He must have pressed a buzzer, because the door opened behind me and a man stepped into the room.
‘Take him downstairs, let him go,’ Abaju said.
We went down in the lift and out into a big reception area with a fountain and palm trees. They let me out the front door and no one bothered me. I got funny glances from passers-by, so I lowered my head and walked briskly. My whole body felt bruised. My mouth was dry. I didn’t know where I was. Not in the city centre, all the buildings were modern glass towers. I looked over my shoulder. No one was following me.
I took a deep breath. I was still alive. Then I ran for the nearest bin and puked into it. People were walking wide circles to avoid me. White people, black people, men and women in suits. Office workers. Three men looking like Chinese businessmen walked past me without seeing me. Where was I? I kept walking for about ten minutes and came to a big square with more fountains, restaurants and a huge statue of Nelson Mandela next to the entrance of a shopping centre. Sandton City. I went looking for the toilets where I washed my face and drank some water from the tap. I went inside one of the cubicles and sat down on the toilet, shaking all over. I sat there until someone knocked on the door. It was the cleaner.
‘Where can I catch a taxi to Joburg?’ I asked him.
On the way back to the city I thought of my brother again. Today I had held my own. I had faced the biggest gangster in Joburg – if you didn’t count Letswe – and I did OK. Like Adrian had said, in this city surviving was something to be proud of.
24
THERE WAS A point where you could not turn back. That point came at ten minutes to midnight on Monday evening when Progress’s phone rang. He’d already switched the light off and was about to go to sleep.
‘Are you John?’
Progress sat up, his mind racing. John?
‘You have information for me,’ the man said.
And then it hit him. Siphiwe Modise had actually done it.
‘Who is this?’ He had to buy a few moments to get his head clear.
‘Are you fucking me about? This is Matthew Obembe.’
‘My information is for your boss,’ Progress said. ‘I have someone who wants to meet him.’
‘You said you know about the killing,’ Obembe said. ‘The man who was thrown down the Ponte. Tell me, or else –’
‘No, you listen to me, Matthew. Forget about the killing. It’s nothing. Just the beginning. I have information. You can put the phone down and go to bed. If you and your boss are still alive by the end of the month you will know that I was fucking with you. If you’re dead, well, then it’s too late.’
‘You’re telling me someone will try and kill Sylvester Abaju? You are full of shit. Who will do something like that? Eh? A crazy man?’
‘McCarthy Letswe,’ Progress said.
Silence. Then Obembe said, ‘I’ll call you back.’
Progress dropped the phone on the bed and fell back on the pillows. David was right. There was a good chance that Lucille would get him killed.
On Thursday afternoon a barefooted boy came to Lucille’s house with a message. Letswe was sitting in front of the television, beer in hand, watching cricket. ‘People are being paid to play this game,’ he said. ‘Look how they stand around and do nothing. Five days of doing nothing.’ He changed the channel as Jackson came into the room.
‘There’s a boy who wants to see you,’ he said. ‘He says he’s Harry Nkosi’s son.’
‘Let him in,’ Letswe said.
The boy wore grey school shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt.
‘Come over here,’ Letswe called.
He could be ten or eleven and he was scared – large eyes, fluttering hands.
‘How is your father?’
The boy swallowed hard. ‘He is well.’
‘Good, what is your message?’
The boy held a folded paper out. Letswe took the note and read it without saying a word. He gave the boy twenty rand and waved him off. He felt William’s eyes on him.
‘What is it, boss?’ Joseph asked.
‘Shut up,’ William told him.
Letswe crushed the note in his fist. He would not lose his temper. He left the room and made two phone calls. He took time to think things through, standing by the window, staring at Lucille’s garden.
‘Is it bad news?’ William asked behind him.
‘Bad news? They come to my place and look for me? Hunt me down. They think they can come here. Today they will see what I can do. Get the guns. Get the dogs.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Harry’s got them.’
William’s lips pulled away in a smile, showing pale, thick gums and crooked teeth. He swung round. He could move fast if he wanted to. Letswe heard him shouting orders at the others. William was sending Jackson to organise transport. Good. He closed his eyes. He would not lose his temper. Not yet.
Progress and David hijacked a blue van at a stop street in Diepkloof. David dragged the man out of the van, kicked him and left him in the road. The tyres spat gravel and dust. In the rear-view mirror Progress saw the man kneeling by the side of the road.
‘Good job,’ he said. ‘Today we must be on our toes. Something big is going down.’ He phoned Thabo. ‘Got it, we’ll be there in twenty minutes.’ He listened then ended the call. ‘Thabo says Letswe is in a bad mood,’ he said. ‘Someone pissed him off big time.’
‘He is crazy, that man,’ David said.
‘You must watch y
our mouth around him.’
‘My friend, I am not the one who has to worry. You’re the one heading for trouble. If he sees your eyes on his woman, you will die. I know what you’re up to.’
Progress went cold. He had been careful not to show his feelings, but David had noticed something. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’
‘I am not stupid. You are. If he finds out, he will not kill you quickly. You know what he does to people, and he will kill me too, because I am your friend. I have plans, you know. I don’t want to die young.’
‘Plans?’
‘Yes, big plans.’
‘So have I,’ Progress said. ‘You wait and see.’
When they reached Lucille’s house the others were ready to go. The dogs went into the back of the van, the big ridgeback uncontrollable, its muscles taut as he struggled against the rope, saliva dripping from its mouth.
‘Shaka, inside,’ Letswe commanded. The dog obeyed, but the madness remained in its eyes.
Two men had been asking questions about Letswe. They were believed to work for the Nigerians and they were fools, for they came to Soweto and asked their questions far too openly. Letswe now had them cornered. A third man had also been brought in for questioning. It was the Nigerian David had spotted in the city, the one who was following Siphiwe Modise. Letswe had had him picked up. Today these men would die, and judging by Letswe’s mood, theirs would be a cruel and drawn-out death.
William was driving and driving fast. He raced over a stop sign, letting the tyres scream as they took the corners. A lookout, a boy, raised his hand as they drove past. That reminded Progress of Siphiwe Modise. A lookout, that was all he was, a nobody. He thought about the phone call from the Nigerian. He’d sort that out for Lucille. He’d show her he was a man who could get things done. A go-getter, that was him.
A sharp left turn took them on to a gravel road. Shacks were scattered on both sides of the road. No more street lights, no more ordered rows of little houses with little gardens. Just shacks that spoke of little hope. William blew the horn. Children, dogs, chickens, all dashed out of their way and a cloud of dust followed in their wake. The road took them to a cluster of eucalyptus trees, ragged, pale grey ghosts floating in the smoke of countless wood fires that burned against the setting sun. A handful of shacks stood huddled together under the trees. Men waited.
When they got out of the van, silence greeted them. An older man came over, spoke to Letswe in Zulu and beckoned them to follow.
‘These are the spies,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘The men who came here asking questions.’ Tied up, lying on the ground, were three men. They had taken a beating already. One’s face was swollen, another had a cut on his head.
Letswe’s silence in itself was threatening. He was smaller than most of the men there, shorter at least, but his presence made up for it. Men bowed their heads, backed away, greeted Letswe respectfully, and these were hard men. Progress felt their eyes resting on him and David. Pride bubbled up inside him. He walked slightly behind Letswe, next to William. He was not a small-job man, anyone could see that. He was one of McCarthy Letswe’s men.
Two hours they stood there watching as Letswe and William worked over the three men, extracting information that came with screams and sobs. Begging for mercy had no effect. Progress had gone cold, and the cold seemed to have seeped into his veins and the marrow of his bones. He was not one to shy away from violence and killing, but he had never seen grown men suffer like this. He glanced at David, but his friend’s face was a mask. Progress wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm. He could not show any sign of weakness. He had to stand his ground.
More fires had been lit and soon the twisting flames provided the only light. The wind rustled the leaves of the ghost-trees. The ground was drenched in blood and the scent of blood in the wind had the dogs howling and barking.
Finally Letswe was satisfied. ‘That’s enough, William,’ he said. ‘Thabo, bring the dogs.’
Thabo let the dogs go. One of the men was already unconscious, but the other two knew what was coming and their screams cut through the night. One of them started cursing Letswe, and Progress, who felt his stomach turn at the sight of the dogs ripping at the man’s flesh, pulled his pistol and charged through the circle of onlookers. He could not face this madness, but neither could he undermine Letswe, so this was what he did, this was his performance, and it was not just an act of mercy. It was so everyone could see that Jackson Zebele was a man to be reckoned with.
‘Respect,’ he screamed at the cursing man. ‘You show him respect!’ He fired five, six shots, screaming, taking the man’s life quickly, the way it should be done. He would have emptied the magazine but David grabbed him and pulled him away. Progress felt Letswe’s gaze on him. ‘They have no respect for anyone,’ he said. ‘No respect.’ He strained against the hands holding him back, pretending anger. ‘I’ll teach you respect,’ he shouted and spat at the men on the ground.
Later, when it was all over and they had the dogs back in the van, Letswe came over to him. ‘You are my man, Jackson Zebele,’ he said. ‘But you must learn to control your temper.’
Progress lowered his head. ‘He was swearing at you. No one should talk to you like that.’
Letswe slapped him on the back. ‘Eh, wena,’ he called David over. ‘Go with Thabo and Joseph, take the dogs back and dump the van. Come back tomorrow. You look like a man who could be useful to me. William, Jackson, let’s go. I feel like a beer.’ Progress glanced back. He still felt bad about the way the men had died, but it did not matter, for he was now McCarthy Letswe’s man. The name Jackson Zebele would soon be known among the men they dealt with, the hard men. He had arrived.
The next morning the Nigerian phoned him. He wanted to talk. He was willing to meet, but Progress was careful. Not in the city. Not in the townships. Not anywhere Letswe could learn about it. He had seen McCarthy Letswe at his worst and he knew what would happen if he made a mistake. He had to speak to Lucille.
25
THE WAGTAIL HOPPED along a row of new carrot plants, pecking at the soil. I had finished my work and was washing my hands when Msizi came running towards me. He had been quiet all afternoon, doing his homework and not eating his sandwich. Grace had checked to see if he had a fever, but he was not ill. Something must have happened at school. Perhaps another fight? But then his teacher would have phoned Grace. Now he stood in front of me, looking serious.
‘What’s the matter, Msizi?’
‘That big man, the one we saw the other day with the man you said is the devil.’
‘Yes.’ It felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach.
‘He said I must give this to you.’ He held a piece of paper out to me.
I took it and wished I didn’t have to read it, but I had to.
‘When did he give you this?’
‘After school,’ Msizi said. ‘I was running home and he waited for me. He said if I don’t give it to you, he will cut my throat.’
‘Haw!’
‘That is what he said. He will cut my throat.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘He picked me up like this, into the air and said . . .’ He chewed his bottom lip.
I put my hands on his shoulders. ‘He will not cut your throat, Msizi. He was trying to scare you. You gave me the note. That’s good. He will not hurt you now. You did the right thing.’
He still looked scared. ‘Will you go, Siphiwe?’
He had read the note.
‘I shall go. I shall meet them tomorrow and find out what they want and you don’t have to worry, OK, Msizi? I shall be careful.’
Msizi stared at me.
‘Have you finished your homework?’ I was pretending that everything was fine, but I knew I was in big trouble. I didn’t know why McCarthy Letswe wanted to see me, but I would have to go. I had no choice. It was that Jackson’s fault, I was sure he said something to Letswe to get me in trouble. Or perhaps Letswe had heard that I had talked to Abaju.
I went cold. Who could have told him? No one knew. Perhaps now was a good time to leave Johannesburg. If I ran . . . I would not get far.
So I met him. In a shebeen out in Doornfontein – a bad area. The shebeen had shabby brown curtains that kept the light out, plastic chairs, two tables, of which one was a slab of pine wood resting on top of two oil drums. It smelled of beer and sweat. Not counting the barman, there were three people inside and they all looked like tsotsis. One had tattoos on his face, the kind they did in prison with a razor blade; the other sat drinking, his bare chest showing several thick scars along the ribcage.
And Letswe was there, wearing a suit and tie. He started the conversation by talking about family, asking after my mother and father. I told him they were dead. I saw no sign of the big man, but it didn’t matter. Fear had taken hold of me. It reminded me of the day my brother had died, the dust and the countless feet, the woman leaning over me with her knife. That day I had pissed myself in fear. I was only a boy then, I reminded myself. I was a man now and I could not show any sign of weakness in front of Letswe. He would kill me.
‘You saw Matthew Obembe again the other day,’ Letswe said. ‘One of my men saw you talk to him in Market Street. What did he want?’
I didn’t hesitate. ‘He is looking for someone. He offered me money for information on this man.’
‘How much?’
Letswe’s hands were never still. His fingers danced over the table.
‘Two hundred rand,’ I said.
‘He is tight with his money, that one.’
I nodded.
‘You want a beer?’
‘No, sir.’
He got me a bottle anyway.
‘Drink,’ he said and watched me take a sip. ‘So he wants information?’
‘Yes.’
Silence grew heavy between us. I took another sip of beer, but my mouth remained dry. The man with the tattoos on his face opened the curtain and peered out into the street. He gave a quick nod to Letswe.
City of Blood Page 17
