The satnav led him to a massive shopping mall that seemed to stretch for miles in every direction. A glass-topped tower that provided some frame of reference dominated the spreading pile. Garrett followed signs for parking and eventually found himself crawling up an endless spiral ramp while red digital arrows flashed Full at him and directed him onward and upward. Finally a green arrow came into view and he grabbed the first empty space that he could. He memorized the color, row, number and floor and headed off to find the office tower that held Brian’s establishment. Intrepid. A fearless explorer braving the endless damp concrete caverns of the Sandton City car park.
He followed way-out signs, exit signs, neon signs depicting walking stick figures until, eventually, he came to a pair of enormous glass sliding doors that opened automatically in welcome as he approached.
And he was in a different world. Marbled floors with brass inlays, sumptuous carpets, stainless steel light fittings and acres of plate glass windows. The African heat held at bay by gigantic air-conditioning units that kept the temperature at a constant twenty degrees Celsius. The people all walked with a purpose, many of them with cell phones seemingly attached to their faces as they conversed simultaneously with their companions walking next to them and those separated by the ether.
Garrett felt drab in his tired old clothes. Washed out next to all of the noise and vibrancy. As if he were a ghost walking amongst the living. Or a time traveler. He stood still amongst the throng, simply watching, getting his bearings. He did not notice that, while everybody else was getting jostled and pushed by the crowds he was a rock in a pool of calm. People gave him a wide berth without even knowing that they were doing so. Bait fish around a barracuda. He decided to walk until he saw some sort of information signage and moved forward abruptly. The baitfish parted in front of him, driven aside by the palpable force of his presence.
As it happened he needn’t have worried. The mall was well signposted and he found his way to the office tower with no problem. He took the elevator up to the floor that Manon had given him and found Brian’s offices at the end of the corridor. A discreet sign on the door read ‘Davies Security Consultants’. He opened the door to be greeted by a small reception area dominated by a leather Chesterfield and a dark wooden desk behind which sat a blonde, over made up, receptionist. She was busy talking. She had a pair of those almost invisible headphones on that allows the wearer to talk to someone and keep their hands free. Like some sort of special forces operative. Or Madonna on stage. Garrett hated them. They lacked the essential honesty of a telephone handset. Also, you were never entirely sure if the person was talking to you or answering the phone and you could end up having a meaningless and embarrassing three-way conversation that led nowhere.
So Garrett simply decided to act as if the receptionist didn’t exist and walked down the corridor that ran off the reception area. He vaguely heard the receptionist squeak behind him. A high-pitched urgent sound like a hamster was being stood on.
‘Davies. Where are you?’ Bellowed Garrett. ‘Come on out you spineless Pommie bastard.’
A door on the left of the corridor burst open and a small man barreled out. Hands held low in front of him, slightly crouched, nostrils flared and eyes slightly slatted. A man who was used to becoming instantly combat alert. He stared at Garrett for fully two seconds, his face tight with anger before he relaxed.
‘Garrett. I don’t fucking believe it, my old mukka.’
He rushed forward and gave Garrett a hug. Like many small men he moved with force and aggression. Even his hug was at full strength and Garrett could feel his ribs creak under the pressure.
‘Jesus, man. You look like shit. Fucking long hair, unshaven. You some sort of hippie or something?’
They broke embrace and stood looking at each other for a while.
Garrett grinned widely. ‘Hell, Brian. You look like a mister. Suit and tie.’ Davies grinned back, teeth white. Straight.
‘Fuck me,’ shouted Garrett. ‘You’ve had your teeth done. You’re beautiful, man.’
They hugged again. Two schoolboys at the beginning of term.
‘Come on, Garrett. Let’s go for a drink. You hungry?’
‘Can always eat.’
They took the elevator back down, ignoring the receptionist on their way out although her squeaks of distress followed them until the doors closed.
Brian took them to one of the ubiquitous steak houses in the mall that proliferated around Johannesburg like Starbucks infested any other major city. For the same price as a sandwich in England, Garrett had a steak with all the trimmings. He ordered water to accompany. Surprisingly, so did Brian.
‘You not drinking?’ He asked the small man.
‘Nope. Not since…well. Not since.’
‘Me neither.’
‘How’s the sleeping?’
Garrett shrugged. ‘All right. Sometimes.’
‘Nightmares?’
‘Always. And not only when I sleep.’
‘Me too, my friend. Me too.’
‘So, Brian. You’re the dog’s bollocks now. Your own company. Expensive suit. New teeth. Give me the low down.’
‘Nothing much to tell. After you bottled out on us in Sierra everything went to shit. They ran out of money, no pay came through so the boys and me sort of helped ourselves to a bit. Things got a little tense and we ended up fighting our way to the border. Got through to Liberia. Lost most of the boys on the way. Eventually got a plane out. Hitched a ride with some mad South African who was running guns into the region. Got here. Nowhere else to go so I just stayed. Got into security because it’s all I know. The rest is boring.’
‘Manon said that you owned a detective agency.’
‘No. She just can’t understand the fucking difference. I wouldn’t know how to be a detective. I’ve hired me some serious muscle. All ex-military. Kitted them out with the best equipment. We protect payrolls, industrial property, that sort of shit. It pays the rent. Barely. So I take it that you’ve seen Manon?’
Garrett nodded.
‘You still in love with her?’
Garrett said nothing. Stared at the remnants of his steak. A small piece of gristle. Some blood.
‘Jesus, you poor sick fuck. She’s a fucking nun, you asshole. Give it up.’
‘Can’t you talk without swearing?’ Asked Garrett quietly.
Brian shook his head. ‘Of course I can’t, you fucking useless dickhead. How long have you known me?’
They both laughed and the seriousness of the moment passed.
‘But really, Garrett. She told you this missing orphan crap?’
Garrett nodded.
‘Look, my boy. I grew up in an orphanage. It’s fucking shit, I tell you. Ran away all the time. Joined the army on my sixteenth birthday. Be the best.’
‘You don’t believe her?’
‘It’s not that. She wouldn’t lie. I just think that she’s wrong. Too emotional. You know. She’s been through a lot. Every kid lost is a personal thing to her. She’s just gotta realize that you can’t save them all, especially the ones that don’t want saving.’
‘What do you think that I should do?’
Brian leant back in his chair. ‘Go through the motions. Put her mind at rest. Go and see all of the other Children’s homes and speak to the people in charge. See the Archbishop.’
‘She says that you can’t get to see the Archbishop.’
Brian laughed. ‘She can’t. I’d like to see them stop you.’ He stood up. ‘Look, I’ve got an appointment. Where’re you staying? You got digs?’ Garrett shook his head. ‘Right then,’ continued Brian. ‘You’re bunking with me. No ifs, no buts. Here,’ he gave Garrett a card and a key. ‘On the back is my home address. Hold on.’ He took the card back and wrote on it. ‘That’s the alarm number. Type it into the keypad after you open the door. I’ll see you later tonight’
They shook hands and went separate ways, Brian paying on the way out.
***
&nb
sp; The Sweetie man drove one handed, whistling a simple tune as he did so. Jaunty. The same rhythm repeated in different keys. His name was painted on the side of his truck. But not his real name.
His real name was Khethukuthula Hlanganani but he had been called the Sweetie Man, or mister Sweets for so long now that most people honestly thought that his name was Sweets. He ran a small cash and carry outlet from a double garage at his house. Mister Sweets Cash and Carry.
The difference between him and the larger traders were twofold. Firstly, he delivered at no extra charge and, secondly, he obtained the majority of his stock from mister J.V. Harribia in Durban. In turn, mister Harribia obtained his stock directly off the ships that were bound for Somalia. The bags of meal and rice emblazoned with the World Food Program logo and underneath, gift of Switzerland or, From the People of the USA. Mister Harribia brought tons of stock every week for less than ten cents in the Dollar. He passed a large percentage of this saving onto mister Sweets. So when it came to pricing on basic foodstuffs no one could beat the Sweetie Man.
Sweets had got his nickname from his habit of always carrying with him a number of large bags of cheap boiled sweets that he would hand out liberally to the children wherever he was trading. As a result they would often run next to his truck when he was driving through the townships shouting, Sweetie or Sweets at him. He would always oblige, stopping and handing them out to all comers.
A short man. Graying hair. Double chin on a face that was somehow much fatter than his body. A bass laugh and a smile that showed off his many gold-filled teeth. He was a man well liked by all. And when he stopped to deliver he could always rely on the locals to help him with any of the heavy work because, although he was fit and healthy, his left arm was bent and shriveled. It had been since the early eighties when, during the apartheid years, he had been arrested by the security police and questioned as to his cousin’s whereabouts. He had genuinely not known where his cousin was; if he had he would have told, having always held a rather intense dislike for the man. This line of reason had held no water with the two semiliterate Afrikaners that had been in charge of eliciting information from him. They had beaten him with a baseball bat, breaking his arm so badly that it mortified and almost had to be amputated. There were days when mister Sweets wished that it had been, such was the constant pain.
They had released him a week later when they discovered that they already had his cousin in custody. He had been there for well over a month. Another reason to dislike him, thought Sweets, he owes me an arm. In all fairness no one had ever seen the man again. Such was the way of things in the dark days. Detention without trial. A shovel and a few feet of dust. He wasn’t missed.
But now life smiled on Sweets. He had his own business, a truck, a house and, next year, he would buy himself a car. Something nice. A Mercedes or Audi. German. Nothing said success quite like something German.
He pulled his truck into the parking lot at the Honeydew Children’s Home. He always enjoyed delivering here. The nice sister Manon would always make him a cup of sweet tea and the children would flock around him like butterflies to a flower. Not caring about his shrunken arm, not even noticing or, if they did, coming straight out and asking, what happened to your arm? Always he had a different story; sometimes he said that a lion had eaten it, sometimes a bad wizard had stolen his real arm and replaced it with this one. But at the end he would always give them some sweets and pat their heads. It was good to feel so well liked.
The only one that he was unsure of was the guard, Petrus. He made Sweets nervous. Petrus was well known by all as man to respect. And to avoid if possible. Although, of late, as he had grown a little older and he no longer picked fights wherever he went. Now he affected indifference, meeting violence with violence but never courting it. Sweets thought that it was probably the presence of the sister that had changed the warlike Zulu. Her presence was a balm to all souls. Pure, beautiful and full of peace.
He climbed out of his truck and rolled up the back. Before the door was even fully open the children had arrived. Voices high and excited. Crowding close. Hello mister Sweetie. Hello Sweets. Hello.
He picked up a huge bag of gumdrops and started handing them out.
***
Garrett had taken twenty minutes to find his car and, after he had finally got out of the labyrinthian parking garage, fired up the satnav, got pointing the right way and driven to Brian’s address, a further forty minutes had passed. When he pulled into the gated townhouse complex where Brian lived he could still clearly see Sandton City in his rear view mirror. A walk of perhaps fifteen minutes.
He parked in a designated space outside Brian’s garage that was attached to his house. Then he unlocked the house door, disarmed the alarm and went in, carrying his bag with him.
Although not large the interior of the house was stupendous. Staggeringly opulent. And unless the ex-SAS soldier had suddenly developed some sort of taste, obviously furnished by a professional. Furthermore, a professional who had been given a blank check. The entrance hall led to a large open plan living area, a copper cowled fireplace stood in the middle of the room separating the sitting area from the dining. Behind that lay the kitchen, a work of art in stainless steel and glass. Glass fronted refrigerators, thick glass counter tops, glass cupboard doors. Recessed lighting refracted through all of the glass and painted prismatic rainbows across the travertine marble floor. A hand carved African Teak table dominated the dining room. The wood dark and heavy, the chairs carved with a lighter hand, leather cushions on the seats. Woven wall hangings decorated the walls and offset the bright African colorings of the sofas and wingback chairs in the sitting area. Bowls of Ostrich eggs, austere metal sculptures and vases filled with arrangements of driftwood and feathers were scattered around the room, each one artfully placed so as to drive your attention to the next piece until your eyes finally came to rest upon the prize: an oil on canvas, perhaps three foot by two foot, displayed on an easel. A savage image, the colors a dark and brooding mix of red, green, black and brown.
The artist had applied the paint using a palette knife with such force that, in some areas, he had actually punctured the canvas. It was not a beautiful piece but there was something compelling about it. Primal. A visceral thing. It took Garrett a while to work out what the image was actually depicting. But when it came to him it was obvious. A man in full combat gear, a machete held in his right hand, his head thrown back. His mouth wide open in a scream. And in the bottom corner of the canvas, in white paint, the signature. Brian Davies.
Chapter 4
Mister Sweets pulled the truck into the car park next to the beer hall. He delivered here early every Wednesday morning; eighty bags of maize meal and twenty cases of sheshebo spicy tomato and onion mix. As with all of his customers in the Alexandra Township, Sweets allowed a further ten percent discount to the owner. This discount was not passed on to the customers nor was it to be enjoyed by the proprietor. The ten percent went to Dubula, the local hard man who collected every Friday afternoon. Neither mister Sweets nor the owner contemplated lying about their respective turnovers. The simple reason for this was that neither one of them wanted to be dead. Not even a little. And people that attempted to skim from Dubula ended up in pieces. Spread all over Alexandra.
By the time that Sweets had unloaded, there was already a gaggle of children clustered around the truck, hands held out, high piping voices. Sweets. Sweeties. The trader handed out handfuls of the primary colored confectionaries and shooed each child off after they had received their share. But as he was doing so he was looking over their heads. Searching for someone. Someone who would never beg so crassly. A boy that would never debase himself by chanting for Sweets. A serious little man-boy with a sister. A boy who always carried with him a sharpened yellow and silver screwdriver. And surely enough, when all the other squealing children had left, mister Sweets saw him, standing by the gates. Looking in the other direction. Feigning indifference. Far too adult to clamor after g
um drops and gummy bears. Sweets called out. ‘Hey, Vusi. How goes it?’
The boy walked briskly over and shook Sweets’ hand. They reversed grip, the African way. ‘Hello, mister Hlanganani.’
Vusi was probably the only person that Sweets knew that addressed him by his real name. A fact that both amused him and endeared the boy to him. It was typical of his serious demeanor that he would never address someone by their nickname.
‘So, Vusi, how is your sister?’
‘Still coughing, sir.’
‘Hold on. I have something for her.’ Mister Sweets went to his truck, opened the glove box and took out a packet. ‘Here, give these to her.’ Vusi started to open the packet. ‘No, no. Open it when you get home. Give them to her. And here, for you.’ Sweets gave Vusi a whole unopened bag of gumdrops. Vusi bowed in thanks and left. Mister Sweets smiled. He liked that little boy. He liked him a lot.
Vusi spent the rest of the day trawling Louis Botha Avenue and the area around it. He found a tray of stale buns behind the bakery and, in the trash section of the Mister Rooster fried chicken, three cartons of expired orange juice. He put his bounty into a plastic packet along with any small pieces of wood and cardboard that he found for his fire.
The sun was going down when he returned to the shack. Thandi had refilled the water bucket from one of the public taps and was lying on the floor. Her cough had worsened and she was not looking well. Vusi opened the packet that mister Sweets had given him. Inside was a roll of mentholated cough drops and a ten Rand note. Vusi never cried no matter what hardship he was subjected to but the trader’s small act of kindness brought a prickle of moisture to the boy’s eyes. Adversity could be ignored but compassion slipped easily through his defenses.
Thandi sucked on the cough Sweets. They seemed to help her congestion. Later that evening they feasted on buns and gumdrops. And once again, Vusi fell asleep, the screwdriver clutched ready in his right hand.
[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon Page 4