by Roger Smith
The child closes the books and walks away with them, looking back at him a couple of times, like he’s a freak. Ja, well he is what he fucken is.
Later the white man drives up again in his quiet car, walks across to Ishmael and gives him a hundred rand note. Tells him to come back tomorrow and every day the rest of the week. Ishmael nods, folds the note up into his pocket. Good money this, for doing your passion.
He washes at the faucet and pulls on his shirt, goes to where his backpack lies under the tree. A book—proper book with a stiff cover—leans up against the pack. It has smiling kids on the cover. He dries his hands on his jeans and opens the book. Sees a picture of an apple with some writing next to it. Then a picture of a ball, more writing. This is a learning book, he knows. A learning book on how to read.
He looks around for the kid, but can’t see it. He is scared to take this book. Next thing they tell him he’s stealing and they throw him back in Pollsmoor. But something about that kid—he doesn’t want to make her feel like shit by turning down this book.
Jesus.
What the fuck, he puts the book in his backpack and he walks down the long driveway to get him a taxi back to Tin Town.
4
Cindy is dreaming of Mommy when Daddy opens the bedroom door and wakes her. Dreaming of those mornings Daddy went to gym and she crawled into the big bed with Mommy, pressing her little body close to Mommy’s, feeling her warmth nice and toasty.
Daddy comes in and stands in the doorway and the light from the corridor spills all white into her room like milk, trickling over her Barbies on the shelf and lapping up against her bed. She plays that she’s sleeping, but that won’t fool Daddy.
Last week she stood on the little plastic chair with the butterflies on it and made herself tall enough to reach the key in the lock. A big key in her small hand, like the picture of Alice in the book Mommy used to read to her.
She turned the key and crawled deep into her bed, pulled the sheets and blankets over her head like a tent. Daddy came and banged and banged and banged and called her name, telling her to open the door.
She blocked her ears and hummed like a bee, but she could still hear Daddy. Heard him sitting down outside the door, crying. Next day when she unlocked the door to go make a pee he took the key away and she never saw it again.
Daddy comes over to her bed now and she hears his big shoes making whispers on the carpet.
He leans over her and says, “Cindy. Cindy.”
She smells something on him like horrible medicine, the way he always smells at night. He lifts her from the bed and carries her down the corridor, long like a choo-choo train, and takes her to the room where him and Mommy used to sleep. Where Cindy used to crawl into bed with Mommy and sometimes Mommy would tell her stories, even though it was morning and the sun was peeping up over the mountain. Stories about animals and jungles and little girls and little boys who were always happy and laughing and playing.
Daddy puts Cindy on the stool of Mommy’s vanity table, the one with pretty curly pink legs and little gold handles like flowers. Mommy’s make-up is still there, even though Mommy has gone to heaven. Cindy looks up and sees three Cindy’s and three Daddies in the mirror that’s got flaps like a bird.
Daddy opens a round tin of powder and Cindy smells Mommy and wants to cry. He dips the soft, puffy thing into the powder—the thing Cindy always called a marshmallow when she stood next to Mommy, watching her get made up before she went out with Daddy, as beautiful as a fairy queen. He rubs the marshmallow against Cindy’s face and the powder gets up her nose and she wants to sneeze.
Daddy twists a lipstick until it pops out all red and horrible and he brings it to her lips. She turns away and shakes her head, hiding her chin in her pj top.
“Come on, Cindy, don’t make Daddy cross,” he says. “Daddy needs you to be a big girl for him.” Cindy lifts her chin. “Make a kissy mouth.”
She does what he says, and feels her top lip tickle her nose. But it doesn’t make her want to laugh. Daddy puts the red lipstick on her, all smeary like a wax crayon. His hand is shaky and he goes over the edges and onto her face skin and when she looks at herself in the mirror she looks so horrible it makes her scared.
She closes her eyes and thinks of the little man in the garden. Hardly coming up to Daddy’s shoulder, small like a child. Don’t trust people, her mommy who has gone to heaven told her. Be careful. And the teachers at the kindergarten say, watch out for strangers.
She doesn’t know why, but, as Daddy lifts her and carries her to the bed, she decides she is going to trust the little man with the pictures on him.
Daddy pulls down her pjs and she can hear his breath like a kettle and feel his scratchy face and she makes herself very tiny and goes far, far, away.
●
Ishmael Toffee feels the slime and the sludge suck at his feet, like it wants to pull him under and drown him. By Christ, he hates this landfill. Not the smell—spend half your life in prison cells crammed with dozens of men you don’t smell much no more. No, he hates the way it draws the human trash of Tin Town to it like a magnet—whole families up there during the day, foraging in the rotting waste—has them on their knees in the leavings of faraway white Cape Town, closest they will ever get to a decent life.
A light tower throws an orange glare across the vast wasteland of filth, turning it the color of tripe and guts. Bright enough for Ishmael to find what he needs: a jagged piece of rusted tin the size of a soup plate. Perfect for him to cover the hole in his shack and keep the fucken world out.
He grabs the metal and slides down the side of the dump, short legs scrambling to keep him upright. When he hits bottom he hears the screaming. First a baby, howling loud as a burned cat. Then a woman, going apeshit, like a TV preacher talking in tongues.
Coming round the corner he sees her—young still, maybe twenty—banging with her fists and kicking at the door of the shack across from his. Wailing and weeping something terrible. Ishmael wants no part of this, so he scuttles to his shanty, metal sheet under one arm, free hand already reaching into his trousers for the key to the padlock.
But she sees him and she’s coming on, all snot and waterworks, spitting on him as she shouts, “Please, uncle! Please help me!”
Even in this light Ishmael can see her face is swollen with more than cheap booze and backyard drugs. Somebody has smacked her, good and proper.
Light as a dancer, he ducks past her, but she gets a hand on his shirt and takes hold with the devil’s own grip. “Please, uncle, please.”
Ishmael swings, using an elbow to knock her hand away and lifts the jagged metal, ready to add to her wounds. “Get you away from me, you cunt!”
She’s down on one knee now, lifting her hands to him in prayer. “I’m begging, I’m begging. He’s got my baby in there. Listen. Listen to it!”
And she’s off again, sobbing, shouting. But she can’t drown the screaming of the child, cutting into Ishmael’s head like a bone saw, and all he wants is to put an end to that noise.
Ishmael runs at the shack door and kicks it, the wood splintering under his boot, breaking free of the lock and flying open. Inside a rubbish sits on a mattress smoking a meth pipe, a little baby lying on the floor crying for its mama, kicking its fat little legs.
The rubbish looks up at Ishmael, “The fuck you want?” Smoke coming out of him like his face is on fire.
Ishmael kicks him in that face, hears something snap, and says, “Move your rotten ass out here before I stick you dead.”
No knife to stick him with if this fucker pulls a gun, but the little chicken sees Ishmael’s eyes and those tattoos and he’s gone, nothing left but stinking smoke hanging in the candle light.
“Thank you, uncle,” the girl says, picking up the baby, but Ishmael is already out the door, getting his tin and going into his shack, locking up after him.
Using a rock he hammers the metal in place, covering the hole. When he’s done he sits on the sand floor and watc
hes the candle flicker and dance from the wind that finds its way through the holes in the sheet metal like a pickpocket.
He opens his bag and takes out the book the little white girly give him. Wipes his hands nice and clean on his jeans before he opens it.
Now, Ishmael has done a lot of bad things to a lot of people. Most times if he didn’t do it to them, they would have done it to him. The way it works when you born the wrong side of life. But Ishmael never done bad things to a kid. Not never.
For the last twenty years or so he never seen much of them. Early on, first few years he was in Pollsmoor, an old church lady came sometimes on a Sunday to visit him. Brought him a tin of fish or gave him five rand. During those visits he would see the other prisoners with their families, those allowed contact visits sitting with kids on their laps.
Then the old lady must have gone and died cause Ishmael never seen her again. And nobody came for him. Nobody knew he existed outside of the prison. Was years later, when he went to work in the vegetable gardens, that he saw children again, beyond the high electric fences and razor wire that separated the gardens from the guards’ compound, small pink and blue houses with patches of grass where the kids played.
Depending how the wind blew he could sometimes hear their voices. Little snatches of songs that came over the wire at him. He liked it.
Staring down now at the book with its bright pictures and happy smiling faces is like a piece of a happier world. Thinks of that little girly, talking to him all bossy and grown up, but talking to him like he’s a human, not a thing, way most people do, and he falls asleep holding the happy book across his knees.
5
Florence can’t stomach being close to him now, John Goddard. Now that she’s done lying to herself about what he is and what he does.
Mr. Goddard, dressed in one of his expensive suits, stands in the kitchen drinking fruit juice from the bottle. He puts it back in the fridge and crosses to where she washes the dishes. His smell—once so nice and fresh and clean—is sour in her nostrils.
She glances at him and when he smiles one of his rich man’s smiles she looks away, carries on washing up as he rinses his hands and dries them on a dish towel.
“Flo,” he says, “now that kindergarten’s out, can you keep an eye on Cindy today and tomorrow, until I can arrange play dates later in the week?”
She lifts a hand from the soapy water and reaches for a plate, sponges away a smear of fat and gravy. “Of course, Mr. Goddard. She’s as good as gold that little one. It’s no problem.”
There’s lint on his collar and usually she’d dry her hands and pick it off, but she turns back to her dishes. She sees him reflected in the window above the sink and if he carried on out the kitchen door to his car she would have lost her courage and said nothing, but his phone rings and he answers it, and she hears him telling someone to come anytime in the day and ask for Florence.
He slips the phone into his pocket and says, “Flo, an estate agent may come to look at the house today. Her name’s Penny Gold. Show her around, okay?”
“You selling, Mr. Goddard?” Trying to sound casual, but her heart is beating like a mad thing.
He shakes his head. “No, no, just getting the place valued. For insurance.”
He’s lying. Does he think she’s a fool? He’s going to sell and leave the country and dump her.
Mr. Goddard walks toward the door, saying, “Don’t worry about cooking for us tonight, I’ll bring home pizza.”
And she sees him with the child on the sofa, watching a movie, feeding her pizza before he takes her through to the bedroom to do what he does.
“Mr. Goddard, I know what’s going on,” she says before she can stop herself.
“What do you mean, Flo?” Smiling at her, hands in his pockets.
As she turns to him she feels breathless and the room spins and she has to hold onto the counter with her soapy hands.
“I know what you do to Cindy.” Her voice choked.
He’s looking at her with blue eyes cold like seawater. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
There’s no stopping her now and the words spill from her mouth. “I know why Mrs. Goddard done what she done. Killed herself. When she found out.”
He takes a step toward her. “I would advise you to be very careful, Florence.” Speaking like the lawyer he is. “Allegations like these can get you into serious trouble.”
“I got proof.”
“What proof?”
“I got the child’s panty. With blood on it. And your stuff on it, too.”
For a moment she’s sure he’s going to hit her, his face white and something beating in his jaw. “Where are they? The panties?”
“They safe. With a friend.”
“This is nonsense,” he says. “Dangerous nonsense.” But his eyes don’t believe his words. He looks away, pinches the bridge of his nose with his nicely manicured fingers, then stares at her. “What do you want?”
“One hundred thousand,” she blurts out.
He shakes his head and laughs with no humor. “You bloody people. It’s always about money, isn’t it? You don’t care who you betray as long as you’re getting your pockets filled.”
As if she’s the one who has done wrong. She feels her cheeks burning, left confused and off balance.
Mr. Goddard says, “It’ll take me a few days to get that much money together.” She nods. “You won’t get a cent if you speak a word of this, do you understand?”
She nods again, looking down at his shiny black shoes on the yellow and white tiles. Shoes she polished. The shoes turn with a little squeal and he is out the kitchen door. She hears the tweet of the car alarm as he unlocks the Mercedes and then the low rumble of the engine. Tires crunch on gravel and he’s gone.
She sees the child outside on the lawn, talking to that bloody garden man again, keeping him from his work. She’s about to call Cindy inside when the child laughs at something the man says and Florence decides to let it go. What’s the harm, the little thing looks so happy?
She feels a moment’s sick guilt for not talking up about what Mr. Goddard is doing to that poor girl. Then she reminds herself of all the children being raped and murdered every day on the Cape Flats, an epidemic out there and nobody cares. So why should she worry about this spoilt white brat?
She leaves the kitchen to vacuum the hallway carpet, thinking how relieved she will be in a couple of days when she gets that money and packs her things and leaves this bad luck place forever.
6
The wind blew something terrible Tin Town side, rattling his roof like it was gonna fly off and go back to the dump where it come from. Kept Ishmael up all night, and it takes a lot to do that.
Blew here, too, in Constantia. But not so bad. Protected by the mountains, this place, and the big old trees that go back to who knows when. Still, the swimming pool is full of leaves and the automatic pool cleaner—blue thing on a long pipe, runs around under the water all day—lies on the bottom like it’s drowned.
Ishmael sees the cleaner’s pipe disappearing into the side of the pool. Gets down on his knees (carefully, he’s no swimmer) and lifts a plastic lid and finds the little basket in there is packed with leaves. Hauls the basket out and gives it a smack on the tiles, and wet leaves come out like a cake from a tin. Connects the pipe again, feels it throbbing, and there goes the pool cleaner, sucking like the new boy in the cellblock.
Ishmael gets the scoop from the little room by the pool and uses the net to clean up the leaves on the surface of the water. The kid comes across the grass, wearing little pink shorts and a T-shirt. No shoes.
“Hello, Ishmael.”
“Hullo, missy.”
“I told you, my name is Cindy.”
She sits down, feet dangling in the water. He makes like he’s going to scoop her up and she laughs and splashes his shoes with water. No matter, they’re old shoes these, seen worse than pool water in Tin Town.
“Did you read your bo
ok?” she asks, squinting up into the sun.
“Tole you, can’t read. But I looked at the pictures. Very nice.”
“What are we going to do with you, Ishmael, about your reading?” Sounding like a proper white lady, all grown up.
“Too late for me, I’m telling you.”
He lifts the scoop from the water, tips and shakes it so the leaves fall onto the grass, then he takes it back to the little room. Kid follows him.
He stows the net and crouches behind the pool house, out of the battle axe’s sight. Digs a roll-up—newspaper and coarse tobacco—from his pocket and lights it.
The kid sits by him and wrinkles her nose. “Poof,” she says.
He exhales and offers it to her, deadpan. “Want some?”
“I’d rather die!” she says and he hears her mommy in there, the one gone to heaven.
They sit a while, Ishmael smoking, kid pulling at bits of grass like she’s thinking deep thoughts. The sun shines through the trees, hitting her legs and he sees marks on her skin, right up on her inner thigh, near her privates. Bruises. Like somebody grabbed her there. A grown-up.
Ishmael is about say something. Stops himself. He looks away, over the trees toward the mountain. There’s a crazy man up there, in the sky, hanging from one of those big kites, gliding like a bird.
The child stands and walks away, not saying nothing, like kids do. Ishmael gets to his feet and nips his smoke between thumb and forefinger. Wets his index finger with spit and makes sure the smoke is good and dead before he puts it back in his pocket for later.
7
Cindy goes into the house. She wants to get the little man another book. A more cleverer book, to help him with his reading. She passes Flo, polishing the dining room table. Flo smiles at Cindy, but Cindy doesn’t like her.
