City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  Lucille’s mother opened the door for him. Lucille was in the dining room, sitting at the table. She wore a long black dress, made of something like velvet, and cut low at the front; around her neck was a gold necklace and she wore matching earrings. Her nails were painted dark red, her toenails too.

  She looked at him. He stared at her – at the curve of her breasts – then he blinked and looked up. ‘Lucille, I’m sorry to be the one to bring you bad news.’ He was a hypocrite, he told himself, but he could not hide his happiness.

  She nodded. ‘Tell me.’

  He did.

  ‘What about the others? William, Joseph?’

  ‘Dead,’ he said.

  ‘Are you staying for dinner?’ she asked. ‘My mother cooked for an army.’

  Once more his heart started beating fast, and he got angry at himself. He was not a boy any more.

  They ate and drank beer, which Lucille had poured into tall glasses. Progress could not recall ever drinking beer out of a glass before. He would have preferred the bottle. He could imagine that Letswe would have made a scathing comment about a man drinking beer out of a glass. But Letswe was dead. A smile pulled at his lips. He looked up into Lucille’s dark almond-shaped eyes. Still he could not read her. Was she sad? He didn’t think so. Lucille was now a free woman.

  ‘Progress?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want you to do something for me.’

  He put down his glass. I would do anything for you, he wanted to say but didn’t. He played it cool.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kill the dogs,’ she said.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And get me another one, one of those little sausage dogs – a pedigree one, not a pavement special.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But don’t steal one. Buy me a puppy.’

  ‘They are vicious, those sausages,’ David said.

  ‘I think I can handle one,’ Lucille said, and now she smiled. ‘See, Progress, I told you. Only happy endings for me.’

  33

  THAT EVENING OVER dinner, Rita wanted to hear all about it. The news had run through the station like a veld fire. Adrian told her how it went down and made a point of sounding modest. No good playing the hero with her. Plenty of time for that when he was with his mates. Afterwards, when the bill arrived, Rita offered to go Dutch but he said no way. He took her home and walked her to the door of the semi-detached town house she shared with her sister.

  ‘Do you want to come in for coffee?’ she asked.

  Adrian reckoned it was best not to push his luck. ‘It’s late,’ he said and pulled at the tie which was doing its best to choke him. ‘Maybe next time.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, smiling, and then she leaned forward and kissed him.

  On his way home, he decided to drop in on Siphiwe. After all, it was thanks to him that he’d spotted Letswe.

  Siphiwe opened the front door, looking alarmed.

  Adrian held a bottle of Castle out to him. ‘We have something to celebrate, bru.’

  Behind Siphiwe’s back, Grace appeared, wearing a pale yellow dressing gown.

  ‘It’s just Adrian, Grace,’ Siphiwe whispered over his shoulder.

  Adrian tried to hide the two beer bottles behind his back. ‘Sorry to show up this late. I just need to speak to Siphiwe.’

  ‘Is he in trouble?’

  ‘No, no, just some news I need to share with him.’

  ‘OK, but don’t wake the children. I am going to bed.’

  Siphiwe led the way to the kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I had a real good week at work,’ Adrian said. ‘You know that man who got thrown down the Ponte? We got the guy who did it. It was Letswe. He tried to rob a bank today, but I recognised him based on the description you provided. I shot him.’

  ‘You killed Letswe?’

  ‘Yep.’ Adrian was grinning. ‘Have a beer. Do you like Castle?’ He opened both bottles. ‘And I took Rita out for dinner. She is amazing –’

  ‘I didn’t think Letswe could die,’ Siphiwe said.

  ‘Nobody’s invincible,’ Adrian said. ‘Not Letswe, not the Nigerians, nobody.’

  ‘Emuva kuphambili,’ Siphiwe said. ‘That is what Grace always says.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘What is behind is now in front. That’s what it means. The bad things in a man’s past will catch up with him in the future. That’s what happened to Letswe.’

  ‘That’s life, isn’t it?’ Adrian said. ‘Cheers, bru.’

  The next day Superintendent Pahad called Adrian to his office. Adrian stood to attention. Captain Piliso and an inspector from Organised Crime were there as well. He felt their eyes on him from all sides, but he fixed his gaze on a spot above the superintendent’s head.

  ‘I had a look at the security camera footage of yesterday’s incident, Gerber,’ Pahad said.

  Adrian felt as if he had swallowed a stone.

  ‘You’re either the luckiest devil alive, or one hell of a good shot. Which is it?’

  Adrian blinked. OK, so he wasn’t in trouble.

  ‘Sir,’ he cleared his throat. ‘I’m not a bad shot, sir, but I guess it was luck.’

  Pahad laughed. ‘You’ve done well, son.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Pahad glanced down at the pages on his desk, shuffled them around, then said, ‘If you need to talk to someone about it, I mean, we have psychologists and so.’

  It took a while for his words to sink in. See a shrink? For killing Letswe? ‘I don’t think so, sir. I’m fine. Genuine.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Going downstairs Adrian was aware of people’s eyes on him as he passed their offices. Stevo came to shake his hand; Stevo’s mate, Leon, play-punched him on the shoulder.

  ‘Well done, big guy.’ And later, when he caught Rita’s eye, she smiled at him and he could not help but think of that kiss. He tried to pretend that it was just another day, but he felt pretty good about himself. It was that same feeling he used to get walking onto the rugby field, captain of the side, head and shoulders taller than anyone else. Back in Robert’s office Ferreira had another go at him for playing the hero, but he slapped him on the back afterwards and promised to buy him a beer.

  34

  LETSWE WAS DEAD. He would not come to ask me more questions and he would not force me to go with him to the Nigerian’s house. When I woke up the next morning that was the first thought that went through my head. Then I thought about all Adrian had said the previous night. We’d talked about guns, about how the police would do tests on Letswe’s pistol to see if they could tie it to other murders.

  That made me think about Lucky’s gun. I was sure the reason why it had no bullets in was because it had been fired. Perhaps someone had been killed by it. Perhaps it was a gun Lucky took from the Nigerians. It didn’t matter where he got it. It had to be a stolen gun and I didn’t like the thought of it buried beneath my vegetables.

  Later that morning, while I worked in the garden, I looked up and spotted Msizi and Simon in the pepper tree, watching me and trying to hide behind the branches. Before breakfast I had taken Msizi aside and told him that Letswe was dead and that he should not worry about him.

  ‘Is that big man dead too?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ he’d said.

  We had gone inside and Msizi had eaten all his porridge and had drunk a glass of milk and now he was playing again, climbing trees.

  ‘You are lazy,’ I called out to them. ‘Simon, don’t let Grace see you in the tree. You will break your other arm as well.’ How he managed to get into the tree with one arm in plaster, I didn’t know. ‘You are scaring the birds,’ I shouted. ‘Come down here.’

  Msizi was, like most boys, fond of climbing. With Simon, he would climb the tree at the back of the house, to the top and down, racing each other to see who could be back on the ground first. They would climb on the wall and walk around the house, and they would cl
imb on the roof, using the drainpipe for support, and digging their fingers and toes into the gaps between the bricks.

  Watching them reminded me of my brother and me, when we were children. The one thing I could beat him at was climbing because I was not as heavy as he was, but he could run faster and punch harder than me. For boys, those were more important skills than climbing, especially in the part of Soweto we grew up in. The ability to run fast could get you out of trouble. Not every time, I reminded myself. There came a time when trouble would move swiftly and surround you. As ever, when I thought of the day my brother had died, I couldn’t help thinking of it as the day I should have died too. But I had survived.

  Msizi landed in the dust under the tree and Simon followed, also jumping out of the tree as if he didn’t have a broken arm. The white plaster on his arm had only been on for a few days and already it was dirty. On Wednesday afternoon, when I was still at work, Msizi and Simon had climbed on the roof and Simon had jumped off with Lungile’s umbrella. He’d thought it would work like a parachute. That was how he’d broken his arm. Grace had to take him to hospital and Lungile had to buy a new umbrella. I’d told Msizi they were fools. He’d said he wasn’t, Simon was. He’d said he knew it wouldn’t work. That was why he didn’t argue when Simon wanted to go first. I had told Grace this and we’d both laughed.

  ‘There is hope for Msizi yet,’ Grace had said.

  Grace often talked about hope.

  Today was the first day since I found Lucky’s body that I felt like myself again. I was still angry, but I didn’t have that heavy feeling in my chest any more. When you were angry, you could not think straight. Lucky had been like that, and my brother too. He would think with his heart. He’d make plans but never think them through. My thoughts drifted to Letswe and that proverb Grace was so fond of: what is behind is now in front. That was true for everyone who treated others badly, for the Nigerian as well.

  Although I knew who had killed Lucky, I needed proof. Adrian had told me that. He had known all along that Letswe had thrown that man down the Ponte, but he’d had to find evidence to support his case. That was what I needed regarding the Nigerian and Lucky. I had to be sure he was the one who’d killed him, so after I’d finished my work, I went to Jeppe, to the street Lucky had told me about. I was two blocks away when Msizi came running after me.

  ‘Are you going to see Lucky, Siphiwe?’

  ‘You will get in trouble for leaving without telling Grace,’ I said.

  ‘She knows I’m with you. I’m always with you. Are we going to see Lucky?’

  ‘Lucky is dead, Msizi. The Nigerian killed him.’

  He stopped so suddenly a woman almost walked into him from behind. ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘You are lying.’ He started hitting his fists against my legs, as hard as he could. ‘You are lying, Siphiwe.’

  I grabbed his arms and held them against his body as I knelt in front of him. ‘I am telling the truth.’

  He shook his head and bit his bottom lip.

  ‘I liked him too,’ I said.

  ‘I will kill them,’ he said. ‘I will get a gun and kill them.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about them,’ I said. ‘You do nothing. I shall take care of this.’ He rested his head against my chest and stood like that, taking deep breaths until he had calmed down. This was what it felt like to be an older brother. It wasn’t easy.

  Msizi took a step back and looked at me. ‘Where are you going then?’

  ‘Today, you cannot ask questions. If you are going to ask questions you must go home now.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Come with me then, but you must do as you’re told.’

  He nodded and we walked down the street slowly, as if we had nowhere to go. I turned left and kept going, turned right and left again.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Msizi asked, only to put his hand in front of his mouth.

  ‘We’re just walking,’ I said. ‘No more questions, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  We crossed the street, passing two women who were talking in Sotho about transport problems caused by the railway strike.

  ‘My father was Sesotho,’ Msizi said. ‘My mother was from Zimbabwe.’

  That was the first time he had spoken about himself like that and I wondered how you asked a nine-year-old boy what had happened to his parents. I slowed down. We had reached our destination and I was feeling nervous about what I planned to do.

  ‘No questions, Msizi. No talking, and if I say run, you run, OK? You run as fast as you can back to the shelter.’

  He nodded and grabbed hold of my hand and held on tightly. I should have sent him home. This was no place for a boy. But it was too late now. There was the house I had been looking for. Two men stood on the corner, keeping watch, and I spotted a boy of about fourteen at the other end of the street. If the police came, he would whistle and they would know to expect trouble and they would be ready. These people were not afraid of the police.

  I kept walking. The house was on my left. A man leaned against the front gate, smoking a cigarette. His gaze rested on me. Two women sat in front of the house. One wore a white skirt that was very short and red sandals and a red top that looked like leather. The other was dressed in black. They sat there as if they owned the house, but it was not their house. It belonged to Sylvester Abaju. This was the house Lucky had told me about, the one he had drawn the plan of.

  At that moment, Obembe appeared in the door and his gaze caught mine.

  ‘You want something?’ he shouted and came down the steps. He marched down the cracked concrete path and out through the gate into the street, ignoring the guard. He still wore the same shoes. He must like them very much. Those were the shoes that had kicked me all those months ago.

  He noticed that I was staring at his shoes. ‘Genuine crocodile leather,’ he said. ‘Two thousand rand I paid for them. You want a job?’

  I shook my head and he looked down at Msizi. ‘And you, boy. You want a job?’ I gripped Msizi’s hand and looked straight into the Nigerian’s black-pebble eyes.

  ‘I have information for you,’ I said. ‘Are you still looking for Lucky Mosweu?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You said you’d pay two hundred rand for information . . .’

  He started laughing. ‘You’re too late. I’m not looking for him any more.’

  ‘We have to go,’ I said, and felt the anger inside me again, but there was nothing I could do about it. He would have his knife in his pocket and behind him, in front of the house, were men who would have guns.

  ‘Remember what I told you,’ he said and slit his finger across his throat. I could still hear him laughing when I turned the corner. This was my proof. It would not be enough for a policeman, but I didn’t need to know more. This was the man who had killed Lucky, this man with his fancy shoes and stupid ties.

  ‘Are you scared of him, Siphiwe?’

  ‘Yes, Msizi, I am.’

  ‘I’m not scared,’ he said.

  ‘Then you are a fool.’

  We walked right round the house. I found it interesting to see that, although there was a guard at the side of the house, there was no one at the back. From what I could see there was no need for a guard here. Only an alley connected with one of the backstreets, too narrow for cars, with a heap of rubbish bags piled up against the wall. A high wall with shards of broken glass cemented on the top protected the property, yellow and green glass, the sharp edges pointing outwards like a crocodile’s teeth. There would be a dog inside the yard – Lucky did say they had a dog. All the windows had bars, but for a small window on the first floor. I couldn’t see a way in.

  Back at the shelter, Grace had made sandwiches with jam. Msizi ate his quickly and was soon playing with Simon and Vuzi again. I was glad to see he’d made peace with Vuzi. I sat watching them with my back against the wall, while I kept one eye on the hosepipe I had open on the vegetables. I found myself drawing pictures in the dust. A pictur
e of a street with a house with a high wall and a small window at the back. I took stones and put one on each end of the street – the lookouts. I put another stone one block away. Another lookout. One stone in front of the house. That one was not just a lookout. He was the one who would shoot you if you tried to get in. I wiped the drawing out and went to close the tap. It was a mistake, not to have a guard at the back of the house.

  That night, as I lay in bed, my thoughts kept returning to Lucky’s gun. I recalled the weight of it in my hand as I had pointed it and the feel of the trigger under my finger. I remembered staring into the barrel of that gun, that day Lucky pointed it at me. There was something evil about that gun, even though it had no bullets. I recalled what Adrian had said about the tests they do on guns. How every gun was unique, inside the barrel of the gun there were ridges . . . I felt sleepy. Where did Lucky get that gun? It was a gun used to commit a crime, I was sure of it. Just before I fell asleep, I thought about the gun buried in the vegetable garden, buried with the seeds and roots of plants. I remembered Grace’s story about the tree made from AK-47s. That gun could not stay in my garden. I would have to find a way to dispose of it so it couldn’t be used again.

  35

  THERE WAS NO such thing as a simple plan. That I discovered going over a variety of plans, all with holes in them. I was daydreaming about making the Nigerian pay for what he did to Lucky, and in these dreams, I was the hero. That was how it was with dreams, they were not like reality. I knew that only too well, and the more I thought about it, the more I realised that no good would come from it. What was revenge? Was it justice? Was it justice those people who had killed my brother wanted? I didn’t want to think about them. I didn’t want to imagine them going home, feeling happy, feeling as if they had done the right thing, punishing the thieves. Only in my dreams could I see myself standing with a gun facing the Nigerian. But not even then could I see myself pull the trigger.