Out of Shadows

by Jason Wallace

  “Hamadziripi.” Ivan broke the silence, lifting his head from his hands. “What kind of name is that?”

  We were in shock. Everyone in the dining hall was talking about it, even the tables with black boys on them though in a more jokey way. Outside, the night seemed thicker than usual.

  “Hamadzi-fucking-ripi. Fuck.”

  “I’m leaving,” Klompie declared, nodding. “This school is wanked. I’m hauling it somewhere better next year. Peter-house, or Falcon. Or as far as Plumtree. You watch.”

  “What’s the point?” Ivan sulked. “They’ll get the same. Didn’t you hear what Bully said?”

  Klompie chewed angrily on a third slice of bread. “Then I’ll gap it down south.”

  “Don’t be so bloody stupid, if you run away you’re just letting them win. Except you, Jacklin.” He turned on me suddenly. “You’re not from here. You may as well piss off to your grandmother in Pommieland now.”

  I shook my head. “No ways. I’m not gapping it anywhere.”

  Although I couldn’t tell him why. Ivan wasn’t really listening anyway. His hands went back into his head, pushing up his bangs.

  “Shit.”

  At that precise moment, Nelson timed things spectacularly badly and walked behind with a bowl of extras. Ivan leaped up as though he’d been stung.

  “Hey. Hey! Ndube, you piece of shit. What do you think you’re doing?”

  Reluctantly, Nelson crept back.

  “I’m sorry, Hascott.” He didn’t know what he was apologizing for.

  Ivan reached across the table for one of the large metal serving spoons and stood with it, but by the time he’d turned back around Nelson had gone and Kasanka was in his place. The rest of us took a sudden interest in our plates.

  “Leave him, white boy.” As he spoke, Kasanka’s top lip curled like there was a bad smell. “Didn’t you hear Mr. Bullman? This isn’t your country any longer, and now this isn’t your school. It never was. We’re taking it all back.”

  Ivan stood firm. Kasanka came closer.

  “I said, leave him.”

  Did I imagine it or had the hall quietened to listen?

  Ivan sat.

  “Stupid Kaffirs,” he growled, though only after Kasanka and Nelson were well out of earshot. “Don’t worry—one day they’re sticking together, the next they’re stabbing each other in the back. I’ll get him another time.”

  The table made agreeing noises. I hid by joining in and nodding, even though I could see Kasanka still throwing glances in a way that made my stomach lurch like a dying animal.

  THIRTEEN

  Two weeks before the end of the school year and another aimless Sunday.

  I was alone in the dorm reading Cujo because inside was cool and outside was a cloudless day that rained dry November heat.

  Simpson-Prior came in. He went to his side of the dorm and lay down, sniffing. I pretended not to hear. In the end he sat up again and started going through his locker for his tracksuit and tennis shoes.

  “I’m going out into the bush,” he said.

  After the surprise of hearing him talk to me I thought, Good, wanting him gone because these days I didn’t know how to be when he and I were alone together.

  “And after it gets dark I’m going to run away from this place. I’m not coming back.” His nose trumpeted. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  I continued to give him nothing. Whatever he wanted from me I couldn’t give it. Or wouldn’t. That’s a difference I still have difficulty admitting to myself.

  “You should never have done what you did to me last term, Jacklin. It was cruel,” he said, reluctantly easing on his takkies, and now I felt angry with him because I knew he was right.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have put my tie in the piss trough in the first term just because I didn’t let you copy in the math test. Remember? You pissed in your bed, so now we’re even.”

  “But I didn’t . . .”

  “Greet gave me bruises I can still feel. You know he did, you poof, you saw them.” The words gritted my mouth.

  “But I didn’t touch your tie,” he replied simply.

  “Ja? Then who did?”

  He just looked at me knowingly so I hurled my book into a corner.

  “You’re such a liar, Prior. Run away, then. Go and play with your stupid snakes, you weirdo.” It would have been so much easier if he wasn’t around. “See if I care. See if anyone cares.”

  The dorm seemed to be closing in. I needed to get beyond it and breathe fresh air. Simpson-Prior did nothing, just sat trying to do his laces and getting his fingers tangled. To this day I don’t know if he actually spoke, but as I neared the door I heard, perfectly lucid: “I didn’t do anything to you. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I stopped. Eventually I turned to him and, just as I opened my mouth, three figures appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Ivan shouted through cupped hands.

  “Hey, Jacko, we’re going to the Cliffs. Stop strangling your cock and come with us.”

  Klompie was with him, and Pittman had come over from Heyman. Pittman seemed to have become one of Ivan’s new best friends. I still didn’t know much about him, only that I wasn’t sure I liked him and that I was too scared to admit that to anyone.

  “What are you waiting for? Are you coming or are you going to be gay?”

  Simpson-Prior was a sorry smudge in the corner of my eye. Two steps forward and he was gone, and my sight was clear again.

  Klompie was carrying shovels, and when we got there Ivan told us we had to dig long drops because if this was going to be our camp, then we shouldn’t just shit in the bush like blacks or the place would start to stink.

  The ground was dry and hard and made us sweat, so it wasn’t long before we had to break for a jump. The water was crisp but the level must have gone down because we really graunched ourselves on the rocks beneath the surface and hurt our feet even with shoes on, so we only did the one. We splashed around for a bit then climbed back up and hung our shirts out to dry.

  Ivan scratched all our names on a tree and produced a packet of Madisons.

  “Go on,” Ivan told me. “Don’t be a faggot all your life.”

  Pittman muttered something under his breath that made the other two laugh so I took one. Ivan nodded approval.

  We started talking about the summer holidays. Klompie’s uncle had a new boat so they were going to spend Christmas up at Caribbea Bay.

  Pittman’s folks were taking them down south, to Sun City.

  “A whole month of mini-golf and beach pools and casinos in a country where I’m free to call the blacks what I like.”

  “Sounds fun.” I hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic.

  “Well, what are you doing, then, Pommie?” He stared at me until I had to put my eyes to the ground.

  “Nothing really.”

  “Nothing? What kind of holiday is that?”

  “I don’t know. Just ordinary, I guess.”

  “Ordinary?”

  I was blushing and smoke kept getting in my eyes. Ivan stepped in and I was glad.

  “Well, while you guys are pretending to have a good time, think of me feeling Adele Cairns up at the Country Club.”

  Thankfully, Pittman laughed. “Bullshit, man. She’s our age. Chicks always go for older guys.”

  “Not after I feed her a couple of beers. I swear, she’s grown serious nyombies. Best tits in the world.”

  And we jeered as boys who don’t know what it’s like do.

  A bit later Ivan and I were digging together. Klompie and Pittman were off getting sticks for a fire; wood smoke was the best for disguising tobacco.

  “Don’t worry about Pitters,” he assured me. “It’s just how he is.”

  Then he stopped a moment to say something I would never forget.

  “But you know your problem, Jacko? You don’t stick up for yourself. No life is ordinary. Not yours, not anyone’s. Not even Prior’s, and that’s saying something. Only the bl
acks’. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “Sure,” I muttered. I laid my spade on the ground. I felt buoyed up but he’d reminded me of the thing niggling the back of my mind. “Do you feel sorry for him ever?”

  “Who?”

  “Prior.”

  Ivan looked at me long and hard.

  “Do you?”

  I shrugged.

  “Are you serious? Still?”

  “No. Kind of. I don’t know.”

  “The guy’s a chop, man, this school doesn’t need his sort. If you want to be his friend, that’s your lookout; you can do whatever you like.”

  He speared the ground.

  “Really?”

  “Of course. But know this: You won’t be hanging around us if you do. You’re on your own.”

  Those words, especially, made my heart race. He looked completely different, and I wished and wished I could take back what I’d said. And it was all Simpson-Prior’s fault. Why did he have to speak to me that morning?

  “But I don’t.”

  “You don’t what?”

  “Want to. Be his friend.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it to me.”

  “I swear. He’s an idiot.”

  Ivan carried on digging, working so hard the sweat came off him like a leaking tap. Suddenly I was in the scary end of a swimming pool and getting into trouble.

  The bush behind us rustled. I threw down my cigarette but it was only Nelson, staring back at me like a bushbaby caught in headlights. We mirrored each other’s awkwardness for a few seconds—two boys who’d once promised to look out for each other like brothers and now did their best to avoid even being in the same room, let alone talk—before the Agostinho cousins joined him from behind. They’d all taken their shirts off because of the heat.

  I started digging again. Ivan, however, wasn’t interested in me or the hole.

  “Well, well. What do we have here?” He walked slowly over. He picked up a stick off the ground and prodded Christos Agostinho’s soft overhang. “You know, that’s not nice—you’re scaring the wildlife.”

  “Ja, put your shirt on, fatso.” I saw Pittman. He and Klompie looked like they’d sprinted to get back. “What are you doing, girls, don’t you know this is our camp?”

  Klompie giggled stupidly.

  “N-nothing.” Paulos Agostinho shuffled. “Just came for a swim. That’s all.”

  “It’s hot,” Christos added, as if it would make a difference.

  “Well, this is our camp.” Klompie waved his own stick but it was too thin and broke. “Voetsek! Piss off somewhere else. You can’t come here.”

  All the while, Ivan and Pittman’s eyes were on Nelson. Nelson didn’t say a word.

  All three started to leave. Maybe it was imagination, but both Ivan and Pittman seemed to move without sound as they cut them off. The sun was bouncing off the ground and making me squint, and I felt the start of a headache.

  “Jump,” Ivan told them. “If that’s what you want to do. Seeing as it’s so hot we’ll let you. Go on.”

  And when they didn’t, Ivan only had to flick his eyes and Pittman and Klompie had the cousins on the ground, ripping off their takkies and flinging them into the bush. A scramble of dust, and they were dragged to the edge. Pittman went first, shoving Christos; Klompie sent Paulos right behind. We watched as they windmilled then smacked the water, then came up crying.

  Nelson tried to move away.

  “You fancy a dive?” Pittman gripped his arm. “Go on, give us a show.”

  Nelson gasped as his toes curled over the lip.

  “Just don’t hit the ledge as you go down, you’ll make a helluva mess.”

  “Okay, enough. Don’t be cruel,” said Ivan. “His sort don’t like water.”

  Everyone turned. I may have sighed with relief.

  But then Ivan smiled.

  He snatched Nelson and pulled him over to the hole we’d made. It wasn’t big yet but deep and long enough to hold someone small—a shallow grave. Ivan held him down and started filling. Pittman was quickly there, kicking soil with his feet while Nelson struggled helplessly, his eyes and mouth full of grit. Klompie ran over.

  “Well?” Ivan yelled at me. “Are you going to join in or are you going back to your bum-chum Prior?”

  I went to Ivan. Slowly at first, pretending to have thorns in my feet, but with every step I felt myself easing back into the safety of the shallows and I rushed the last couple of meters. I lifted earth and patted it down. Lifted and patted. Before long, all you could see of Nelson was a head and half a foot sticking out at the other end.

  I laughed. He looked funny. And, after all, that’s all it was: a joke. Just a bit of schoolboy fun.

  Wasn’t it?

  I thought that would be it—it should have been it—but Ivan wanted more. He scoured under a tree and came back with a couple of Matabele ants, inch-long and with huge jaws ready to inject sting.

  “Are you Shona or Matabele?” he crouched, menacingly gentle.

  Nelson’s eyes darted. “What does it matter what tribe I am?” he said earnestly. “I didn’t choose it, and it’s only a stupid label anyway.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m Shona, but . . .”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  Ivan shook the ants free over Nelson’s head. Nelson cried out as they went into attack mode and bit into his cheek and neck.

  Ivan clapped. “Well, look at that, he must have been telling the truth. Those Matabeles sure don’t like him much.”

  Klompie thought this was the best thing ever and immediately went off to find more. That was when he found the scorpion.

  It was only small, about three inches, and one of the less dangerous white ones. Its tail was curled ready to strike. Ivan took it and dangled it in front of Nelson’s face.

  “Ja, man,” Pittman whispered excitedly.

  My head had started to pound.

  “Ja,” Pittman said again, licking his lips.

  Klompie nodded.

  Ivan crouched back down and scooped at the soil.

  Nelson cried. “Hey, man, what are you doing? I’m sorry, okay, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . Hey, man. Hey. Hey!”

  Ivan had cleared enough to reveal the top of Nelson’s shorts, and with a quick movement he pulled open the elastic and dropped the scorpion in. Nelson squealed, trying to arch his body, only Ivan was already pushing the soil back and stamping it down.

  As we ran away, adrenaline pumping, we could hear Nelson’s screams fading across the vlei; although I could hear them for a long, long time after. Today, even.

  FOURTEEN

  Kasanka threw baleful eyes down the line.

  I put on a mask like I didn’t know what was going on, but we’d all heard: Nelson hadn’t come back to the house . . . he was in the San . . . the Agostinho cousins had taken him . . . apparently he’d been bitten by something out in the bush and Sister Lee was keeping him in overnight.

  Mr. Craven wasn’t happy. He wouldn’t tolerate any form of bullying, and if he found out who it was there would be suspensions. And, on another matter, did anyone know the whereabouts of Simpson-Prior?

  I looked up and Kasanka was still staring. I felt sick.

  Much later, just before Lights Out, Kasanka walked into our dorm. He didn’t say anything, just whistled and sauntered so casually it was anything but. He had a big stick and tapped our beds and lockers.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ivan told me when he’d gone. “He doesn’t know. Ndube won’t tit on us and nor will the fat Portuguese.”

  “What if they do?” I asked.

  He hit my head. “They won’t. You don’t tell on anyone in this school. No one does.”

  The following morning Kasanka told me I stank of shit and made me stand under the cold shower for twenty minutes before breakfast.

  “He knows,” I said to Ivan after French.

  “Shut up. Everyone thinks it was Prior, that that’s why he ran.�
�

  “But Kasanka knows.”

  “Not unless Ndube titted on us. I’ll have a word with him when he’s out the San.”

  Only Nelson got sent home, suffering with severe inflammation of the penis and testicles. Mr. Craven was visibly angry as he told us. Deadly serious. First Nelson, and now Simpson-Prior’s parents had rung him to say he’d arrived home in a state, what had the house done to him?

  No one laughed, at least not until Craven was out of earshot. I wished I could join in but all I wanted was for the swirling feeling in my stomach to go away. And wherever I was, at any time, Kasanka was just there.

  In the dream I was falling and suddenly being caught in this giant web, and a huge baboon spider came rushing out and started turning me over and over as it cocooned me up to die.

  I woke, perhaps with a cry. After a moment I realized I was wrapped up in my sheets, bouncing and floating. I heard heavy breathing and someone grunting very near by.

  When I hit the ground the sheets fell open and I saw the milky night sky.

  Blink.

  I was in the middle of one of the playing fields.

  Blink.

  Kasanka was standing over me with Nyabuta, also a sixth-former, their dark faces gleaming in a faint silver moon. Kasanka’s eyelids were half lidded. Both boys smelled of alcohol.

  “Tell me it was you,” Kasanka’s voice came out in a slow drawl.

  “Me what?” I said, but he knew, and he knew I knew that.

  He kicked my feet. Nyabuta dug a knee into my back.

  “Don’t play games with me, honky. Was it you—yes or no? Were you at the Cliffs on Sunday?”

  And when I still didn’t answer he threw something into my face. A T-shirt, and it had my name tag in it.

  I opened my mouth but nothing came. Kasanka loomed close.

  “You don’t have to lie anymore, Jacklin. Tell me it was you,” he said, all calm.

  My throat was arid.

  “Don’t make this worse for yourself. Just be honest and admit you did it.”

  And then with more urgency: “You got him because of who he is. Because he’s black. Just like in the Old Days, hey?”

  I think I tried to shake my head.