Falling For The Forbidden

by Hawkins, Jessica

  A group of teenagers in dirty vests sniffing glue at the corner shout insults.

  The tallest climbs to his feet, his skin shiny with perspiration and the whites of his eyes like saucers. “Yo, white bitch. What ya doin’ on my block?”

  “Hey!” A meaty bouncer in a T-shirt with a Napoli’s logo shuts them up with a look.

  The bouncer doesn’t stop me when I push through the entrance, but I feel his eyes burn at the back of my head as I walk down the black-painted corridor into the brightly lit interior. A song from a local rave-rock band blares from oversized speakers. The walls are covered in street art, the day-glo colors popping off the bricks under the fluorescent lights. The club smells of poppers and disco machine smoke. There’s every kind of generalization inside, from the darksuited Portuguese to the gold-chained Nigerians. Half-naked women do the rounds, most of them looking spaced out.

  Please let them be here.

  I run my gaze over the bar and the roulette tables at the back. On the left, raucous cheering is directed at the flat screen where a horse race is taking place. The spectators go quiet when they notice me. One of the men touches his buckle and widens his stance. A sign says the money lending office is upstairs. There’s a queue outside the door. That’s where gamblers and people who can’t make the rent or pay off the mafia sign away their lives, pledging interest of up to a hundred and fifty percent on loans that will literally cost them an arm and a leg.

  The men playing darts turn their heads as I pass. Shit. I’m getting increasingly anxious. As panic is about to seize me, I spot Jerry’s orange afro in a circle of heads at one of the card tables. Charlie sits in the chair next to him. Almost crying with relief, I push people with plastic beer cups in their hands out of the way to reach my brother. Charlie’s curls fall over his forehead, and his eyes are scrunched up in concentration. He’s wearing a Spiderman T-shirt and his flannel pajama bottoms. The attire makes him look vulnerable despite his age and bulky frame. Anyone can see he doesn’t belong here. How dare the sick son of a bitch who runs this cesspool allow my brother inside?

  “How could you?” I say in Jerry’s ear.

  He jumps and gives me a startled look. “What are you doing here?” Charlie is studying the cards in his hand. He hasn’t noticed me, yet.

  I press a hand to my forehead and count to five. “You said you’d watch him for me.”

  “I am watching him.”

  “He’s not supposed to be here.”

  “He’s a grown man.”

  “My brother is not accountable for his actions, and you know it.”

  Charlie looks up. “Va–Val! I’m wi–winning.”

  For now, my focus remains on Jerry. Alcohol and gambling are not his only addictions.

  “What did you give him?”

  “Relax.” He gives me an exasperated shrug. “Orange juice, that’s all.”

  “Come, Charlie.”

  I take my brother’s arm, but the croupier snatches my wrist.

  “He’s not going anywhere until his debt is paid.”

  My mouth drops open. How could Jerry let this happen? He knows I barely make ends meet. I jerk my arm from the dealer’s grip. “How much?”

  “Four hundred.”

  “Four hundred rand!” That’s almost half of my weekly wage.

  “Four hundred thousand.”

  The strength leaves my legs. Letting go of Charlie, I brace myself with my palms on the tabletop. We may as well carve dead on our foreheads.

  “It’s impossible.” I can’t process that amount. “In one night?”

  The croupier regards me strangely. “Charlie’s a regular. He’s been running a tab, and his time’s up.”

  “Jerry?” I look at him for an explanation, a solution, to tell me it’s a joke, anything, but he gnaws on his bottom lip and looks away.

  I slam down a fist, rattling the plastic chips. “Look at me!”

  The table goes quiet, but not because of my outburst. The men’s heads are turned toward the landing on the upper floor. When I follow their gazes, I can’t miss the man who stands under the light, his hands gripping the rail. He wears a dark suit, like the Portuguese, but he’s anything but a generalization. He’s nothing short of a monster.

  His body is muscular. Too big. There’s not enough space in the room for him. He drowns everything in power and dominance. He’s not young, but he isn’t old, either. Rather than defining his age, his years give him the distinguished edge of men with experience. Thick, black hair falls messily over his forehead, the wisps brushing his ears. His features are rogue, wild, and uncompromising. The lines running from his nose to his mouth are deeply etched. They’re the kind of lines men with hard, rough lives wear. A ghastly network of scars runs from his left eyebrow to his cheek. Under the disfigured patchwork, his complexion is tanned. The ruggedness of his skin gives the impression of being marred by bullets. A short-trimmed beard and moustache cover some of his imperfections, but the damage is too vast to hide. It’s a face you don’t want to see in the dark and definitely not in your dreams. It’s a face that stares straight at me.

  Heat of the scary kind crawls over my skin. When I look into his eyes, it’s as if a bucket of ice is emptied down my shirt. An unwelcome shiver contracts my skin, and my fear turns from hot to cold. His irises are blue like the far-off glaziers I’ve only seen in pictures. Everything about him seems foreign. Out of place. Dangerous. He’s the kind of bad that’s even out of Napoli’s league.

  “Fucken fuck,” Jerry mumbles when he finds his voice. “Gabriel Louw.”

  I’ve lived here long enough to recognize the name. His family runs Napoli’s. If Hillbrow is the crime capital, Gabriel Louw is the king of the money lords. They call him The Breaker. He’s a loan shark, and I’ve heard stories about him that make my blood freeze with their brutality.

  The best time to run is when your opponent is distracted. If we have any chance of getting out of here alive, it’s now, while Gabriel holds the attention of the room with unyielding demand. Taking Charlie against his will won’t work. He weighs twice as much as me, and when he gets obstinate, he’s an unmovable, dead weight.

  “Let’s get an ice cream,” I whisper in his ear, “but you have to come quietly.”

  Charlie knows about being quiet. We practice it enough times when we hide from the mafia, pretending we’re not home.

  Charlie gets up like I silently prayed he would and allows me to lead him to the door. I pinch my eyes shut and wait for someone to shout, grab us, shoot, or all three, but when I glance back Gabriel lifts a palm, and the bouncer steps aside for us to exit.

  Outside, I suck in a breath of polluted air. Clutching my brother’s arm, I walk him back to our side of the tracks, which isn’t much better, but it’s all we have. He talks, and I let his voice soothe me, trying not to think. When we’re home, I’ll go over what happened. For now, I’m too preoccupied with lurking dangers.

  At Three Sisters, I buy Charlie a cone with vanilla ice cream dunked in caramel, his favorite. It’s not until we round the corner of our building that trouble strikes again. Tiny leans in the entrance, smoking a joint. When he sees us, he straightens, takes a last drag, and flicks the butt into the gutter.

  “Well, well.” He wipes his hands over his dreadlocks and saunters over. “Hello, sunshine.

  Tiny was looking for you.” There’s an edge to his voice. “Where were you?” “Ice crea-cream,” Charlie says.

  “Is that so?” Tiny stops short of me. He’s not Nigerian or Zimbabwean like most of the people on our block, but Zambian. His skinny frame towers over me, his black skin lost in the darkness of the night, except for the whites of his eyes and teeth. “You’ve got money to spoil your ol’ brother here, but not for Tiny’s tax?”

  He calls himself the Tax Collector. He’s not the landlord, but he gathers ‘tax’ on the rent from everyone who lives in our building. He’s a mini-mafia within a bigger mafia, but dealing with him means I don’t have to deal with the bi
gger mafia, and he’s the lessor of two evils.

  Putting his nose in my hair, he sniffs. “You smell like smoke. Club smoke. Who were you with?”

  Tiny pretends he owns me. Mostly, he pretends I like him. In reality, he’s a coward, but he still has the power to hurt me. I know this from a split lip and blue eye.

  “You’re dating now?”

  “It’s none of your business.” Charlie’s key is not on the cord around his neck. I’ll have to ask Jerry about it later. I fish my key from my bag and hand it to Charlie. “Go up and lock the door.”

  Charlie takes the key, but doesn’t move.

  “Go on,” I urge. “I’ll be right up.”

  “O–okay.” Charlie takes two steps and stops.

  I give him an encouraging smile. “Quickly. I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

  Tiny grabs hold of my hair. I close my eyes. Please, Charlie. Obey. I don’t want him to see this. When I lift my lashes, my brother is climbing the stairs on the side of the building.

  “Got the money?” Tiny pulls on my ponytail.

  The bond on our flat is fully paid. My parents paid cash for the property years ago before anyone could predict how crime and dilapidation would render their investment worthless.

  “We don’t pay rent,” I bit out. This means nothing to Tiny, but I have to try. God knows why, but I try every time.

  “You still owe.” He grins, flashing a row of straight teeth. “Tiny can’t let you stay without paying tax. What example will that be for the others? Give it up, Valentina.”

  I freeze. “Don’t you dare say my name.”

  He scoffs. “That’s right, because you’re my bitch.” He yanks on my hair. “Ain’t it so, bitch?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Now, now. That’s no way to speak to Tiny.” He clicks his tongue. “Who’s gonna protect you if Tiny ain’t around?” He tilts his head. “Won’t ask you again. Where’s Tiny’s money?”

  I swallow. “I’ll have it by the end of the month.”

  “You know the rules. The fifteenth is payday.”

  “Please, Tiny.” Tears burn at the back of my eyes. A cold weight presses on my heart.

  In the middle of the dirty road, he pushes me down to my knees in the gravel, the stones digging into my skin. His eyes take on a feverish light as he unties the string of his sweatpants and lets them fall to his ankles.

  “If you bite again, you’ll walk away with more than a shiner. This time, I’ll break your arm.”

  Taking the root of his dick in one hand, he grips my hair in the other and guides my mouth to his cock. Disgust wells in my throat.

  He pushes against my lips. “Suck me, white bitch.”

  I don’t do anything of the kind. I tune out of the moment and become an empty shell. It’s a routine he knows well. He lets go of his penis to catch my jaw, squeezing painfully on the joints until my mouth opens of its own accord. Then he simply uses me, pumping and shoving until I gag. Tears roll over my cheeks. The saltiness slips into my mouth, mixing with the taste of sweat and filth. Mercifully, like always, Tiny comes fast. Not even a minute later, he ejaculates with a grunt and shoots his load into my mouth. When he pulls out, panting like a pig, I turn my head to the side and spit.

  He chuckles. “One of these days, you’re gonna swallow.”

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “When you’re pretty and your parents are rich.”

  “Come on, baby.” He pulls me up by the arm, his dick hanging limp between us. “Give Tiny a kiss. Let Tiny taste himself on that useless mouth of yours, because you sure as fuck don’t know how to suck cock.”

  “Let go.” I jerk free and snatch my bag up from where it has fallen on the ground.

  His laugh follows me down the road as I run to our flat, hating myself as much as I hate him.

  Jerry leans on our door as I come up the stairs. He looks away, avoiding my eyes. He must’ve left Napoli’s shortly after us. That means he slipped past me in the street while Tiny got off in my mouth.

  “You’re a scumbag.” I try to push him aside, but he doesn’t budge.

  “Val…”

  “Did you get a kick out of watching?”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry.”

  “For being a peeping Tom or dragging Charlie to Napoli’s?”

  “I couldn’t resist the temptation. A Napoli’s VIP pass doesn’t happen every day.”

  “Four hundred thousand rand, Jerry.”

  “We’ll sort it. Don’t sweat.”

  “Right.” The only way to sort it is to disappear, and we have nowhere to go. “How long has this been going on?”

  He scratches his head and has the decency to look guilty. “A few months.”

  “You dragged Charlie out there at night, without my permission?”

  “Come on, Val.” Jerry braces his shoulder on the door. “I said I’m sorry.”

  I knock for Charlie to open. I’m physically and mentally too exhausted to fight now.

  “Whatever.”

  I cook and clean for Jerry to keep an eye on Charlie while I work, and although Jerry is a thief, he’s not physically mean, at least not to Charlie.

  After a while, when Charlie doesn’t open, Jerry takes Charlie’s key from his pocket and hands it to me. Puff barks as I unlock the door. He waits with a wagging tail.

  “Good night, Jerry.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “It’s late. I need to study.” I use the excuse even if I know there’s no way I’ll focus on a textbook tonight, but it’s the quickest way to get rid of Jerry. Otherwise, he’ll stay until four in the morning.

  “Oh, come on. Just an hour.”

  I close and lock the door on his plea, waiting until his shoes shuffle down the landing. I brush my teeth three times before I fix Charlie scrambled eggs and toast for dinner, put him to bed, and settle down on the sleeper couch with Puff.

  Sleep doesn’t come. I think of Charlie and the handsome fifteen year-old boy he’d been. He was one of those all-rounders who was good at sports and first in his class. He was my big brother. My hero. Two years younger than Charlie, I was in primary school when he went to high school. He fetched me when the bell went at the end of the day, carried my schoolbag, took my hand, and walked me to ballet practice. We didn’t tell my parents he made a deal with Miss Paula to work in her garden so I could carry on dancing. If they knew, my father would’ve demanded he worked for money to buy necessities, those necessities being booze and cigarettes. Charlie helped me fit the ballet shoes Miss Paula lent me and waited the hour the dance practice lasted before walking me home to fix me a sandwich. He could’ve hung out with his friends, but he didn’t. He took care of me.

  If the accident hadn’t happened, if I didn’t want a stupid piece of chocolate cake that night, Charlie would’ve been Charles. My brother would’ve grown into the man he was born to be.

  Like every night, I weep into my pillow, shedding bitter tears that won’t help one damn bit.

  Brain damage is irreparable.

  * * *

  Puff cries at the door, letting me know he needs to go. The sun is up, but it’s barely five. I wait downstairs on the cracked concrete while he does his business against a dead tree and throw a stick for him to fetch a couple of times. Beside himself with joy, he trips over his paws to lay the broken branch at my feet. Puff is always a happy dog. One morning, yelping coming from a garden trashcan alerted me. I pulled out a starved, dirty, flea-ridden puppy. To this day, Puff is scared of trashcans.

  He’s not done playing, but I have to call Kris and tell her I won’t make it to work today. I hate leaving her in the lurch, but I’ve got to figure out what to do. Four hundred thousand rand isn’t going away. Maybe I can explain about Charlie’s condition at Napoli’s. Maybe if Jerry backs me up, we stand a chance. Napoli’s is part of the big fish. They make mince of petty criminals like Jerry, but he’s a regular, no less with a VIP pass. They feed on addicts like him.r />
  They need his business.

  Back inside, Charlie is up. He offers me a smile that breaks my heart, because it’s a smile that hasn’t grown beyond fifteen years. Ruffling his hair, I turn to the kitchenette so he won’t see the tears in my eyes. I call Kris, but her phone goes straight onto voicemail. Perhaps she’s in the shower. I leave a quick message, telling her I won’t be in and that I’ll call back later to explain.

  “Are you not going to wo–work?”

  “Not today.” I open the cupboards and scan the contents. There isn’t much. Charlie eats like a horse.

  “What’s for brea–breakfast?”

  I can’t tell him how sorry I am. We can’t have mature discussions about guilt and penance.

  “How about cookies?” The simple treats that make him happy are all I can offer.

  “Cho–chocolate?”

  There are flour, powdered milk, one egg, and cocoa. I can concoct something. If I could, I’d give him the world.

  I heat the two-plate, portable oven, and let him mix the dough. While the cookies bake, I shower and dress before sending Charlie to do his morning grooming. At the same time the timer on my phone pings for the oven, there’s a text message from Jerry.

  Run.

  A tremor rattles my bones. I shiver, even if it’s hot inside from the oven. Hurrying to the window, I peer through. A black Mercedes is parked across the road. A woman sits in the front, but with the glare of the sun on the window I can’t make out anything other than her black hair. A man in a suit gets out from the driver seat and another from the back. He holds the door. A third man folds his large frame double to exit, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket as he looks up and down the street before turning his head in the direction of our window.

  Gabriel Louw.

  My breath catches. I jump back before he sees me. Charlie comes out of the bathroom and starts making his bed like I taught him.