City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  ‘My eyes are wide open.’

  ‘And call me Jackson.’

  David snorted.

  Monday morning they hit another ATM. Letswe had not planned to do it but drove past one, saw it was deserted and turned to Joseph.

  ‘Do we have any dynamite?’

  ‘Two sticks,’ Joseph said.

  ‘That will do. Turn round, William.’

  The rest of the morning was spent driving around the city. Letswe made William drive in circles, but it seemed he had some kind of map in his head, for he’d say ‘Left here’ and ‘Right there’. He did not make notes on paper but Progress could see that he was absorbing every detail of their route.

  ‘This one-way system can fuck up a getaway,’ Letswe said. ‘We must know where we’re heading. Turn left, William.’ They headed out of the city, then back again. ‘Simmonds Street, William, we shall go and have one last look, before we hit it.’

  ‘It is the thirteenth today,’ Thabo said.

  ‘You must stop this superstition shit,’ Letswe said. ‘You are a man, not an old woman.’

  ‘Can we get some food first?’ William asked. ‘I missed breakfast.’

  They stopped for pizza. Progress wasn’t hungry, he fidgeted in his chair. He had to let Lucille know about the bank. He had to get away from Letswe to send her a message.

  ‘Are you ill?’ Letswe asked.

  Progress took the chance. He pulled his face as if in pain and, holding his stomach, he ran to the toilet. Closing the door behind him, he waited, listening. No one had followed him. He was becoming just like Letswe. Paranoid. He had memorised Lucille’s number. He wished he could call her, to hear her voice, but he sent her an SMS instead. The name of the bank. And that they were on their way for one last look. He flushed the toilet and went back to the others.

  ‘It’s that chicken I had last night,’ he said.

  Without a word William pulled his pizza over and finished it off. Progress’s phone rang and his heart started pounding, he’d thought it was Lucille, but it wasn’t – of course not, she wasn’t stupid. It was David and he had news about something the Nigerians were up to.

  ‘David says they’re suddenly in a big rush to go somewhere. He tried to follow two of them, but lost them in traffic.’

  ‘Tell him to meet us.’ Letswe said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Newtown,’ Progress said.

  ‘We’ll wait here for him.’

  It was half past two when they reached the bank. Clouds had settled over the city, not the usual towering storm clouds, but a grimy grey blanket that kept the heat and noise and smog from escaping into the sky. Letswe was strolling down the pavement, scanning the street. He paused, swung round, searched the sea of people. He thought that he’d spotted a familiar face, but there was no one. He had told Progress to stay back, to keep watch. He’d go in by himself, look around the bank one more time, check on the security guards, see what weapons they carried. William was to stay at the doors. With William there he didn’t have to worry about anyone coming in behind him. He’d finalise things here and tomorrow morning they’d hit the bank. Today he’d go and speak to Siphiwe Modise, get that map the boy was talking about, and tomorrow . . . tomorrow Abaju would die. He’d use the rocket launcher. He wanted to see what it could do. He’d blast a hole in that house and then they would attack, finish them off. He’d take ten men with him, a few more to watch the streets, if the noise brought the cops over. He walked into the bank. Progress had thought him to be an old man, the way he stooped and shuffled across the road. He had thought him inconsequential. He had made a bad mistake. The man was right next to him now. He wore grey flannel trousers, a faded orange corduroy jacket and an old blue cap low over his eyes. He smelled of pipe tobacco. The man straightened up, squared his shoulders and looked Progress in the eye. He had not recognised him, not even when he was close to him, because he had not imagined it possible: Sylvester Abaju walking down a street in Joburg like an ordinary man. Sylvester Abaju not wearing a white suit and a white hat and white shoes.

  ‘How is Lucille?’ Abaju asked, his voice like honey.

  Progress, for the first time in his life, was frozen with fear.

  Abaju smiled and his teeth were so white it seemed to Progress that a ray of sunshine had caught on them and reflected back at him as off a mirror. He felt the pistol’s barrel bruising his ribs. Abaju was fast, he’d hardly seen him move. They stood like that for a while, not moving, not talking. Progress’s mind was racing, but he couldn’t come up with anything useful, anything that would save his life. He was supposed to watch the street, he was the one who should have spotted the threat, but he hadn’t. The gun pressed against his ribs. Nothing he could do. No escape. He thought of Lucille. This was her doing. This was her plan.

  ‘I think, perhaps, I shall let you live,’ Abaju said. ‘As a favour to a friend.’ His gaze moved over to the bank’s doors, and then he slipped into the crowd, head bowed, shuffling. The man they called the Chameleon.

  Progress’s heart was beating so fast he thought it would explode. He scanned the street for any sign of danger. He knew the faces of Abaju’s men, his big bodyguards, and they were nowhere to be seen. But he felt eyes on him and he knew they were there, closing in. He began walking, expecting at any moment to get a knife in the back. Still nothing. They were letting him go. Why? A favour to a friend? Lucille? He made it to the corner of the street, turned round and looked over the crowded pavement. William stood close to the bank’s doors. No sign of Abaju. He wanted badly to phone Lucille, but what would he say to her? Something was going down. But what? What was Abaju playing at? Was he waiting for Letswe to come out of the bank? Did he have people inside?

  Letswe calculated the time needed from pulling the guns to making their way out with the money. As he approached the bank’s doors, he glanced back to where William waited. Everything was fine. Thabo and Joseph were with the car and Jackson’s friend was with them. Letswe was considering giving him a chance, but there was something about that boy he didn’t like, and Jackson had grown cocky over the past few days. He’d noticed the way he acted around Lucille, ignoring her, not showing her respect. He’d bring him down to earth soon enough.

  A cold blast from the air con hit him as he stepped into the bank. His gaze ran over the people inside. One man caught his eye: a young white man with pale skin and white hair. The man’s size made him stand out. He was almost as big as William, with a big man’s arrogance. As if nothing was impossible for him. Letswe didn’t need to see much more to know that he was a cop. And he wanted him dead. He wanted to shoot him on the spot, but he hesitated, giving himself a moment to take in his surroundings. Cops didn’t work alone. Where was his partner? The security guard in the corner adjusted his tie. Letswe swung his head round. The small black man who had just walked past him. That was him. Quick on his feet, alert. Pig written all over him.

  His gaze went back to the young cop and he found the white boy’s eyes fixed on him. There was a glimpse of fear in the blue eyes, as if the boy knew exactly who he was. How could he know? No one knew his face. Then the white boy made his move and the move was towards the gun under his jacket. It caught him off guard, that the kid would be so quick, that he’d have the balls. He saw the boy’s lips moving, heard him shout something, but did not make out the words. He’d kill the kid. William would deal with the security guard and the other cop, and Alfred’s nephew was outside, he’d provide cover. They could just as well rob the bank while they were here. He went for his Beretta.

  31

  IT HAD STARTED like any other day and it continued like any other day up until ten minutes to three that afternoon. Adrian knew the exact time because he looked at the clock on the wall as they approached the bank’s swinging doors.

  They went to see the manager about Horne’s tip-off. They checked the security camera footage for the previous week. No sign of suspicious activity. No sign of William Sibaya, or anyone else staking the place out. But still Rob
ert didn’t let it go. He spoke to the security guards. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, just a problem with the metal detector at the door.

  ‘It will be fixed tomorrow,’ the guard said, not looking them in the eye.

  Adrian could see by Robert’s expression that he wasn’t happy.

  ‘So anyone can walk in here with a gun?’ he asked.

  The guard shrugged. They went back to speak to the manager about the metal detector. He said it had been playing up for a few days, they had reported it and were waiting for the technician.

  They were just about to go. Adrian let his gaze run over the queue of people at the tellers, the queue at the help desk. He glanced at the clock and counted the hours to the end of his shift. Tonight he had another date with Rita. A proper dinner date and all – he was going to wear a jacket and tie.

  A man in a grey suit and striped blue shirt strolled through the bank’s swivel doors, looking every bit the successful businessman. A black man. Average height and build. Adrian met his gaze before the man turned his head away. In that brief moment Adrian saw nothing in the man’s eyes but blazing contempt. He had small eyes set far apart and a half-moon scar that ripped deep into his cheekbone. Adrian went cold. Don’t think he will not kill you. Siphiwe’s words echoed through his head. You will know, when you look into his eyes that he is a tsotsi.

  He swung round and yelled at Robert, ‘It’s him, it’s him.’

  No time to think. No time to question his judgement. Adrian went for his gun. Letswe was as fast as a snake. Adrian pulled his gun from its holster as Letswe ripped his from his belt. He had half a second on Adrian, maybe less. The world slowed around him; people rushing out of the way blurred as he focused on his target. He didn’t hear a sound, not even when Letswe pulled the trigger. He was already diving sideways. As he flew through the air, he raised his arm, aimed, fired. Twice he pulled the trigger, squeezing gently, as he did on the range; this was no different. He hit Letswe square in the chest. Adrian’s shoulder connected with the tiled floor and he almost lost his pistol, but he managed to hold on to it. He rolled over and knelt, pointing the pistol at Letswe. He didn’t move. Adrian turned and shouted another warning.

  Behind Robert, just outside the bank, was a giant with a shiny bald head, carrying an AK. Adrian watched as if in slow motion how the AK rose up. He raised his gun and fired. The first bullet hit Sibaya in the shoulder and he spun round, still gripping the AK. The second grazed his head, but he shook it off. Then Robert’s bullets slammed into his chest. It took four shots before he went down.

  They were the only two people on their feet. The bank’s customers, the staff, all had dropped flat on the floor, or were hiding behind tables or desks, the way people did when war broke out over their heads.

  ‘I take it that’s Letswe,’ Robert said, sounding as if they’d just came upon a bicycle thief – cool as a block of ice. Adrian sucked in air. Blood was surging through his veins. His head felt like it was on fire.

  ‘Keep calm, ladies and gentlemen,’ Robert said in a raised voice. No need for him to shout. The place was dead silent. ‘Keep calm and stay down, please. We are the police. Everything is under control.’

  He got his radio out and called for backup. There might be more of Letswe’s men around. Could be that one of the people in the bank was in Letswe’s gang. Adrian’s gaze moved over the floor. Not a chance. They were all shit-scared. There was a pregnant woman lying on the floor half hidden behind a terracotta pot with a fake palm tree in it. He went over to help her up. And then the old man next to her looked at him and started to clap his hands and others joined him. Adrian was still high on adrenalin, his heart working overtime, but at that moment, he felt like a fucking hero.

  32

  PROGRESS STOOD FROZEN. Not twenty metres from him William’s body had crashed down on the pavement. Bright red blood was seeping out of him into the street. Progress knew he should act, but he didn’t move. A small black man stepped out of the bank, pistol in hand, scanning the street. Progress flattened himself against the wall. Not far behind the black man, a white man followed. Not the Nigerians. Cops. Letswe had walked into an ambush. He had walked into those two cops. Sirens screamed. He looked around for any signs of Abaju’s men, but people were now moving fast, away from the gunshots. Impossible to find a face amid the panicking crowd.

  He remained glued to the wall – he counted to ten, to twenty. Where was Letswe? Two more cops showed up and stood around William’s body. Then the police arrived in force, seven, eight of them. They herded the people out of the bank. They put their yellow tape across the wall and doors. The police photographer showed up and entered the bank. That was when Progress knew. He had just witnessed the end of an era: the death of McCarthy Letswe.

  He turned and walked away. He had to force his feet to move slowly; he checked his racing thoughts. Letswe was dead. William too. He could run. He could just run away . . . But once more he put the brakes on his thoughts. Why run? He was just a man walking down the street. The pigs weren’t on to him. He stopped in his tracks. He looked up at the sky and down again. His head became clear. It was as if a door had opened in front of him and through it he could see his path into the future: the car – still three blocks away, and David, his best friend, there with Joseph, the idiot, and all that ATM robbery money and guns in the boot. And clearest of all, he could see Lucille in her kitchen arranging flowers. He made up his mind in an instant. He was Jackson Zebele. His time had come.

  He would have to move fast. He looked over his shoulder. Think, he told himself, think carefully before you act. He threw those thoughts aside. This was not a time to be timid. He took his phone out of his shirt pocket.

  ‘David, listen to me,’ he said to his friend. ‘You must trust me now and do as I say.’

  ‘OK,’ David said. Progress felt relief surge through him. David was his man.

  ‘Where is Thabo?’

  ‘Don’t know. He walked off ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Where is Joseph?’

  ‘He’s standing on the corner having a smoke.’

  ‘OK, listen now. Letswe is dead. William is dead. The pigs ambushed them.’

  David said nothing.

  ‘You must deal with Joseph. You must kill him.’

  ‘Kill him?’

  ‘Yes, kill him, shoot him. Do it now, I will be with you in ten minutes.’

  ‘You know what you are doing, Progress?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘OK,’ David said. ‘OK. But don’t forget about Thabo.’

  ‘I shall deal with him.’ He ended the call and made another, shouting into the phone, before Thabo could ask questions.

  ‘Where are you? What are you doing wasting time? Come quickly. No, don’t go back to the car. Just run. Now! Corner of Fox and Sauer. The boss is waiting.’

  ‘Five minutes. I’ll be there in five minutes,’ Thabo shouted into the phone.

  Progress spotted Thabo running down the street like a madman, pushing people out of his way. Progress waved at him over the crowd and stepped in behind a parked white van. Pity the street was so crowded, but perhaps that was a good thing. Thabo would not expect anything. Progress took out his gun – the new one Letswe had given him. He put the safety down and hid it under his shirt. Thabo was almost on top of him.

  ‘We must take the van,’ he shouted at Thabo. ‘The boss needs it for the cash.’

  ‘What cash?’

  ‘Go, you must drive . . .’

  Thabo turned to the driver’s door. Progress pulled out his gun and shot him twice, and when he fell, he shot him again in the head, and then he swung the gun at the handful of pedestrians who stood frozen behind him. They fled screaming. He hid the gun under his shirt again and rushed down the street.

  There was David, sitting in the BMW – driver’s side – trying his best to look small. Progress got in on the passenger’s side. ‘Where’s Joseph?’ He was out of breath and full of adrenalin.

  ‘In the boo
t.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No, Progress, I put a live man in the boot. Of course he’s dead. I hope you know what you’re doing or else we better take this car and drive out of this city and never come back. We will be dead men if we stay here.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing. Letswe’s dead.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yebo.’

  ‘And Thabo?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ David asked.

  ‘We take the money and the guns.’

  ‘And the car?’

  ‘Yebo.’

  David flashed a smile at him. He seemed to grow bigger, as he sat there behind the steering wheel. He straightened up and his fingers slipped over the dashboard, caressing the smooth surface, over the leather upholstery and back to the wheel, which he gripped firmly.

  ‘Can I drive?’

  ‘Yes, you can drive, and my name is Jackson now.’

  David shrugged. ‘I guess it’s better than Progress.’

  It was only when they’d turned into Main Street that Progress spoke again. ‘This is a city of great opportunity, David.’ That was what Letswe had said. And he was right.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Did you know the deepest mine in the world is in this city? Three point nine kilometres deep.’ It was true, he had checked after Letswe had told him. ‘Western Deep Number Three, it is called. In this city it’s all about gold. If you have money, you have power.’

  David shrugged. ‘We have money now.’

  ‘And a bag full of dynamite.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We still have all that dynamite at home. We won’t be running out of money again, my friend. I have a plan.’

  Progress put his seat belt on. His pulse was still racing, but he was calm, getting back to normal. He shut his eyes, opened them again. Jackson Zebele, he said to himself, you are a made man. They were driving through Fordsburg, going home in a white BMW – now his. In the boot was a dead man, a bag full of cash, two AK-47s and an RPG-7. They should get rid of Joseph’s body first, and then . . . He should be the one to tell Lucille the news.