12 Yards Out

by Javi Reddy

  “This beautiful instrument can be stripped down in under a minute so that you can clean it.”

  He immediately went about, taking the gun apart and laying pieces such as the cartridge and bolt out in front of his engrossed audience, as he provided his live demonstration.

  “Make sure that there are no dents in your cartridge.” He revealed the perfect cartridge to them.

  “Also, make sure the magazine goes into the well the right way. I do not want an upside down job.”

  They remained mesmerised as he slid the magazine perfectly in. “Then, pull the charging handle right back and release.”

  “You,” he singled out one of them. He aimed the gun at the unsuspecting target. “You didn’t raise your hand when I asked earlier who here watches TV.”

  The suspect did not utter a word and could not even nod at Vinny. “Good.”

  Vinnie lowered the gun and gave it to the relieved target. “I will be expecting big things from you.”

  The target gazed at the gun proudly before Vinny mentioned: “But just to prove that I am right about you, shoot someone here.”

  The rest of them looked at each other, horrified. Before they could move, the gun went off. The line froze, waiting for one of them to fall to the ground.

  Someone did.

  It was the short man who stood behind Vinny that was the victim. The bullet had pierced his forehead, killing him instantly. Even Vinny was taken aback at first, but soon regained his composure. He threw away his Fizz Pop and approached the shooter.

  “You could have just shot his knee or something.”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  Vinny grinned his crooked grin. He had a new army. The shooter offered him the gun back. “Keep it. This is the rest of your life now.”

  The shooter held it tightly. She turned to the rest of them who looked as if they were ready to bow down to her. She was probably the eldest there anyway.

  She was 12.

  Chapter 5

  24 September 2013. Tequila Sunrises

  The knock on the door was far too early and far too incessant. At 11:34 AM, the thudding carried with it bitter echoes that soon turned into an eternal drumming on James’ already aching head. He lumbered towards the door, fantasising about driving steak knives through his mystery visitor’s eyes. Then, he caught a glimpse of his knocker as he squinted through the peephole. He fell silent. Her jet-black eyes and her milky white skin elegantly awaited him on the other side. He took a deep breath before opening the door.

  “Well, if it isn’t the baron of the manor,” she told him. Before he could react, she was already inside.

  “You mind putting some clothes on?”

  Still adjusting to the daylight, trousers were the last thing on his mind. She was lucky that he was wearing boxers.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do, James.” He ignored her as he turned to close the door.

  “You seen my cigarettes, darling?”

  “Darling, I’m not here to entertain you. What have you been doing? Are you trying to get caught?”

  Even Layla’s grimace had a way of captivating him.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told her as he wriggled into his chinos.

  “This is supposed to be a safe-house. That is the only reason I let you stay here. Rent-free.”

  “So, why are you trying to get me kicked out? Why are these dreadful buyers here all the time?”

  “It doesn’t matter how many there are. My estate agent told me that she can’t seem to sell this place. Why do you think that is, Romeo?”

  “Location, location, location. There are no good bars within walking distance.”

  “Yet, you always seem to find one.”

  She started picking up bottles from the floor as if they were contaminated with a deadly virus.

  “Look, I told you up front that I have to sell. But I also told you that I’ll find you somewhere else to stay when I eventually get a buyer.”

  “How about with you? I’m sure that la-di-da apartment of yours in Morningside could do with a down-to-earth fella like myself?”

  “Don’t push your luck.”

  She brushed away her hair to the left of her forehead. “Just try and meet me halfway here. Make this place look like it was once a flat and not a pig pen. And try not to get involved with the buyers. It’s so, oh, I don’t know, unprofessional.”

  “If you’re talking about Claire, then she had it coming. She had those crazy eyes. They’re not deep and sensual like yours…”

  He grabbed her from the back and placed his hands around her slender waist. She somehow manoeuvred her way out of his teasing trap.

  “Nice try, charmer boy. But you can’t keep screwing potential buyers that come over. This girl told me that she fell for you. She said she lov…”

  “Don’t say it! Is she mad? I was the worst possible person for a reason.”

  “And yet she wanted more. Funny how that works, hey?”

  “Demented is the word you’re looking for. And look what I’ve found.”

  He gleefully noticed that his cigarettes were under an empty packet of Nik Naks. He lit up, trying his best to puff away the shrouds of reality Layla had brought to his…her… doorstep this morning. It was hard not to listen to her when she was standing in front of him with her usual goddess traits—shiny hair, silk skin and ever delectable lips. Layla Rosemary—a vision to behold. Her skin was so milky and pure, she’d been blessed with great genes.

  Layla somehow had him guessing all the time. He hasn’t kissed her in 1473 days. He’d kept count because it was something a man did not forget. Her soft, welcoming lips begging him to continue in what would easily be a moment that he would chase after time and time again. He kept seeing her and thinking, maybe today.

  “I went to see him yesterday. It was an eye-opener,” he told her.

  “You really do want to get caught!”

  She started sweeping in the kitchen before continuing:

  “Anyways, what’s the point? He’s so…lost.”

  “He can help me. I know it.”

  “If you say so.”

  James plonked himself on the couch. It was big enough for him and Layla. He started to close his eyes to think of Jay as the bristling of Layla’s broom continued against the carpet. Then, it was quiet for a bit.

  “May I join you?”

  He rose up from his slouched position like an obedient cobra would to the tune of its charmer. She had him, as always, in a trance. He looked up at her slender figure. She had her chocolate brown knee-high boots on and a velvet skirt. Her white top fastened tightly around her ravishing chest. Her seemingly spotless skin glowing. Heavenly Layla. He summoned her over with a swivel of his head. She placed herself snugly against him and for a moment, just for a moment, life was full of roses. They sat in further silence until she could no longer hold back:

  “I know you’re not guilty James. I know you. Sometimes I think, better than you know yourself. I don’t want anything to happen to you, but what if you can’t prove your innocence? What’s your back-up plan?”

  The silence returned before he broke it:

  “I won’t let you suffer for it. Aiding and abetting a felon. I know how grave the consequences could be. I want you to know, I’ll make sure there’s no connection to you.”

  “That’s not what I’m getting at. Why don’t you leave? The country if need be. You’re welcome to stay, I’ll even take the flat off the market. But it doesn’t make sense; you biding your time here. And you going to prison is all the more cruel. There are enough rapists, murderers and drug lords out there that have evaded the law. So, what if an innocent man did the same?”

  She hugged him, and soon that hug turned into a cuddle. They held each other on this famous couch of his that was the only piece of furniture he had brought into her place.

  “You’ve made it perfectly clear that there are no decent watering holes around here after all your whining. But
, maybe, you have something half decent here in the flat?”

  He sprung off the couch and yanked out a bottle of tequila from the bottom kitchen cupboard. “Oh, I didn’t realise you wanted to put me in a coma. Is it even midday yet?”

  “I have orange juice!”

  “Tequila sunrises? That’ll do. Pour it, barman.”

  They drank like they used to—until reality was an antiquity. Layla knew Jay before James did. She could play just as big a role in helping him with the truth. If she wanted to, of course. She sighed, knowing that eventually, she’d pull out all the stops to help James. “You never told me how you met him. How you met Jay Chetty.”

  “Well,” she said surprisingly sober, in spite of the intense carousing that had just gone on, “Let’s start from the beginning then, my dear.”

  5 June 2013. Click, click

  The blankets, jerseys and cans of beans were flowing around freely like waves on a vast ocean bed. The receivers were more than grateful for the gifts being bestowed upon them. These kids had no real homes. Fork Up, one of South Africa’s newest charity campaigns, had slowly been tiptoeing in the right direction towards the big objective—aiding those in need. Poverty was like crime or AIDS.

  It could not be solved overnight. Small steps had to be taken first in order to reach the bigger goal. Nothing felt more appropriate to Layla than capturing these events and immortalising them in a photograph with her Canon G12. A girl who seemed to be much older than a number of the other kids, stood on top of a closed and elevated cement manhole cover. It was as if she was the self-appointed queen who had taken her place on her throne. She held an object in her hands that Layla could not make out from afar. As Layla neared her, she discovered that the object the girl so proudly hoisted up was a swathe of old candy wrappers and foil that had been stuffed into a net.

  "Siyadlala1!" the girl gave out orders to the others. “I will decide who is on whose team because I have the ball.”

  That was their ball! Layla was so desperate to get them a proper one, but she could not see a store nearby. The kids began to run around enthusiastically. How many great superstars could potentially be unearthed here, but would never be given their chance? Yet, in not knowing any better, they had found happiness for themselves in this life. They were content within the game. “Who wants their picture taken?” Layla yelled out.

  They hurtled towards her, quicker than they had done so after the ball. “Don’t forget to show me those lovely teeth.”

  Click, click. That’s all Layla had to do, and her camera would tell a worthy story. It was important to take hundreds of shots. That was the only way to get the right one. And what was the right one? To Layla, it was a picture that captured the spontaneity of life. Those were the only ones that really counted. She gave each kid a fork and they happily held it out as she carried on clicking.

  “Are they coming, are they coming?” pleaded a little girl in a torn, yellow jersey as she tugged at Layla’s jeans.

  Layla smiled at her warmly, praying that her little heart would not be broken. Shortly after, the grunting of an engine announced the arrival of a large vehicle. The bus was here and with it the main attraction of the day. Rosebank’s first team gallantly appeared out of the white and turquoise vehicle. The players carried bags over their shoulders like a group of merry Santas. The kids fervently rushed towards them, screaming with delight. The Rosebank boys laughed heartily before removing balls, football shirts and boots from the bags. Every kid got to be kitted out, boy or girl.

  “Can we play?”

  The children aimed their wide, beady eyes at a first team player. “Well, we didn’t bring them here for a fashion show!” he replied.

  The boy named Keith seemed to be the class clown, and his general cheerfulness immediately spread to the kids. They screamed louder and louder, as they breathed life into the outskirts of Soweto. The patch of ground, upon which they stood, had no goal posts or lines or barely any grass. Hope may have seemed barren and desolate in these parts, but the presence of two things on this dusty pitch gave light to those who searched for it—players and a ball.

  There was no score kept that day; just a bunch of kids running after a ball and there could never be too many players on the field. Layla had not seen such genuine generosity at a charity event before. She snapped as many of the moments as she possibly could, but her camera seemed to find it hard to take its lens off one boy, passing the ball to the kids or encouraging them to get it back when they lost it. Even the girl who had seen herself as the leader of the group was now gladly sharing the ball. Layla stared through her lens. She stared and stared and eventually got a picture of her favourite subject dribbling the ball, whilst carrying the little girl with the yellow jersey on his shoulders. That was the right one. She rushed up to him after the kickabout had concluded.

  "Hi, do you mind if I get a picture of you for the Sandton Chronicle?"

  She conveniently failed to mention the other thirty-odd she had already taken of him.

  “Sure,” he said almost bashfully.

  She took another three of him.

  “And what name can I put next to the caption?” Layla queried politely.

  “Jay. Jay Chetty.”

  “Is that your full name?”

  “It’s what I’m used to hearing,” he grinned awkwardly at her.

  “And what’s yours?”

  “Hey, fruitcake! Let’s go! The bus has already started.”

  An ever jovial voice bellowed to him. Jay dropped his head and grinned. “Never mind. That’s my friend Keith, by the way. If you guys have a comic strip, put his picture in there! Hope I didn’t smile like a goblin. Cheers.”

  Layla offered him an ice lolly that she had given to the kids earlier on. He gratefully accepted it with a boyish grin. As he ran off towards the bus, she took one last snap of the back of his number-seven shirt.

  24 September 2013. 2:03 PM

  James sported his own boyish grin at Layla.

  “You know, in all the years I’ve known you, I never once figured you for a soppy girl.” She waved her hand to dismiss him as she sipped slowly at her drink. He continued:

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the gesture and everything was great—Rosebank’s beloved son travelling to Soweto to be with those who never had the fortunes he was blessed with.”

  “Talk show hosts want those stories. This is me. You know I don’t need that now.”

  “Open your eyes. That’s the point. There’s something about him when he’s around others. People just gravitate towards him. He’s just that type of character that you always want to be near. Look at you: I bet you can’t stop thinking about him. That’s what he does—he draws you in.”

  James looked at his drink rather than into her eyes because he hated it when she was right. “So, do you love me as much as you love him?” he said after a little liquid courage.

  “Oh, James,” she said exhaling into her glass, “you and I. That’s a story, isn’t it?” She finished her drink before leaning into him.

  “You know,” she slowly whispered into his ear, breathing ever so lightly so that the hair on his neck tingled, “there’s a lot you can give me that little old Jay can’t.”

  He was too scared to even swallow. She moved away towards the kitchen to prepare two more Tequila Sunrises.

  “I’ve always felt that we worked so well together because we never really let each other in. That’s how you avoid the pain. That’s how you make something last. You wouldn’t want me to let you in James. I’m toxic you know.”

  He took the next drink, gripping the glass from her and forcing its contents down.

  “Well, gorgeous, you know how much I love poison,” he said in a tone as suave as his namesake Mr Bond. He should kiss her. Why not? He’d done worse in this lifetime. He ran his hands over her forehead and then down her left cheek. He touched the scar that had always sat there so solemnly on her otherwise perfect skin. He thought of his own scar and breathed in the b
roken attraction in the room. The eternal markings of their past drew them nearer to each other. The scarred princess—that’s how he’d always referred to her.

  Once, they were a winning team. She, an award-winning photographer, highly sought after by some of South Africa’s top magazines and newspapers. He? He was dubbed a frustratingly brilliant copywriter, often too erratic to be dubbed reliable. He produced some of his best work years ago with her, though. They created an award-winning ad campaign for the S.P.C.A2. She really went on to blossom from there, whilst he threw away any chance of realising big dreams by choosing to turn out at parties rather than projects. His writing had never really recovered since. At least, Layla had used her talent to take her somewhere. His gifted, little, scarred princess.

  “Still so damn beautiful,” he said, rubbing his forefinger over her lower lip.

  “Who’s the soppy girl now? Stop being so useless, and pour me another drink.”

  The Sunrises kept coming until nightfall. It was easier to let the liquor in than to let each other in.

  “You don’t have to be around him you know,” James told her.

  “So, why are you then? I’m sure we can find other ways to clear your name. Maybe we can…”

  “I’m not talking about Jay. I’m talking about him.”

  She was about to take a sip before laying her glass back, down on the coffee table in front of them.

  “He’s…he’s inescapable. We both know that.”

  “I can protect you. If you’d just let me.”

  She wanted to cry but couldn’t. Vinny had taken everything from her—even her tears.

  “This is what I meant before. There’s no pain between us for a reason, James. Why can’t we keep the distance? It is the way it is.”

  He rubbed her cheek again. The scar was not the worst thing Vinny had done to her. “You’re so bloody stubborn,” he told her.

  The night was still early because there were almost 20 hours until he could see Jay again. Yet, it was not early enough, for it meant that there were only 20 hours left for him to spend with Layla.