I drank half a bottle of water standing in front of the fridges, then loaded the basket up with three more bottles. I bought everything on my list, plus I checked how much money I had on me and then I bought more stuff—a bicycle chain for the stashbag, a kettle, a mug, shower gel and shaving cream and a three-blade razor, shoes, boxers, three shirts, a jersey, two pairs of tracksuit pants, three more pairs of socks, a tub for my feet, a facecloth, a towel, some antiseptic, plasters. I had to upgrade to a trolley long before I was done. It was strange spending money that didn’t belong to anyone anymore. Or at least, money I really didn’t count as mine. I remember feeling so free in the aisles—almost divine, this proper, light-chested rush—I saw for the first time why rich people actually liked shopping so much.
The lady at the counter was lovely to me, she’d obviously forgiven me for my feet. I was putting the stuff into bags as it went through the scanner, sort of any which way, but then she took over from me and she packed them with a kind of machine-like genius—she made four big, almost cubic sacks. She even tied the handles into double bows for me, and then after I’d paid her she took my hand and showed me how to carry the bags with my fingers in the bows.
I’d asked her to keep the shoes out and I put them on and I laced them up.
Then I thought of something, and I bought three newspapers at the till. And a pack of zim cigarettes and a lighter.
I couldn’t think of anything else and so I loaded myself up with the heavy bags and I walked home to the Daybreaker Hotel.
It was on page six in the Cape Times and at the bottom of page seven in the Argus, just a tiny article, a few lines about two dead bodies and two wrecked cars, no names and no other speculation. There was nothing about it in the Voice, but I read about a pastor in Maitland who was basically pimping out choirboys and a guy in De Doorns who fed his gardener to his dogs—stuff that made what happened to me seem like it was actually hardly fucking news at all.
I put bottled water in the kettle and boiled it and then I mixed a tub of hot water and antiseptic and threw the facecloth in there to soak. While I waited for it to cool a bit, I took off my clothes and threw them in the far corner of the room, then laid the new ones out on the other bed and locked the rucksack to the frame of the bed with the bicycle chain.
My feet were in the water for half an hour at least. I had the facecloth wrapped around my hand and I was just rubbing it softly over my caked, cut feet until the dirt all came away eventually. I saw the cuts and they weren’t that bad. I wrung out the facecloth and let my feet soak for a while and it felt wonderful with that warmth so close to my bones. The rest of me still felt like shit but at least there was that—I could focus on that.
I dried my feet and used my finger to put more antiseptic on the cuts, then plastered them pretty well. I boiled the kettle again and made myself some noodles in the mug. I tried to do the crossword in the Cape Times while I ate them—
And then I’d done all that.
I sat there, staring around the room, and I realised that I’d actually done nothing.
Except blow like twelve hundred bucks we could’ve used for Mozambique.
I still only had a few days to fix the biggest fuck-up of my life, and I was ready now. I had clothes and money and food in me, I had a notebook waiting for all my brilliant plans—
I lay back in bed
And sang to myself till I fell asleep again.
PROBABLY BECAUSE I DID NOTHING except worry and shiver and sweat on Wednesday, I couldn’t turn off
And I rolled out of bed but I didn’t go to the light, I just put my shoes on in the dark. There was some moonlight coming in the window, and on my way to the door, I saw Dewald’s pouch lying on the table I’d made with the washing tub and the box the kettle came in.
And then it was like a pantomime, me trying to turn away from the door and then reaching back for the pouch, not just in my head, my whole body going back and forth, two or three times at least—
Then finally wrenching the chair out from under the door handle, and falling into the corridor and lying there on the cold tiles breathing like I’d just shut the door on a pack of wild dogs.
It wasn’t raining, but it was one of those nights where the mist hangs heavy over the harbour and drifts into the streets, stinking of salt and sticking to your skin. The streetlamps glowed in the haze and their light was like liquid. On dark streets, there were sometimes lights left on in lonely rooms up and down the road, these yellow gothic gates of light containing in them the shadows of the bars on the windows they shone from. There were very few cars but they passed slowly and with the dignity of hearses, the headlights making long, raking sweeps through the mist.
I was heading down Salt River Road, and in the low clouds it was like the harbour was right in front of me, glowing and sparkling like a false city—
I had the coins in my hand already—
And I was thinking about him.
He used to watch quite a bit of porn, and when he was drunk he didn’t worry that much about hiding it, and I remember, and I’ll always remember, one night walking into the lounge—I was pretty young, I think, and I’m not even sure I knew what I was looking at, it was weird, sort of exciting and nauseating at the same time—and my dad, in that flickering blue light, pointing at a woman’s face on the screen, can of beer in his hand, and almost with a kind of patrimonial weight saying, “That’s the thing you’ll learn about porn stars, boy. They look great, sure. But you know they’re bad news. Otherwise, how come they’re porn stars?”
And I’ve found that funny since I was about sixteen—but not right then.
It just stung
And I pushed eight rand into the payphone and I dialled the number.
I’d been practising it in my head, and so I did it right first time, very deliberately—
But there wasn’t even a second before that harsh fax-machine sound came on the line, and then that Telkom woman’s voice, telling me the number wasn’t in use anymore.
The machine wouldn’t spit back my change but the credit stayed loaded up, and I tried again but obviously the same thing happened.
I tried to think of anyone else in the world I could call. Standing there with the phone in one hand and my other hand resting on the receiver
While just up the street, I could see that line of date palms and streetlights I knew so well—that jagged silhouette with the factory roofs and The Rainbow Lodge just buried in behind there.
And I thought to myself, Fuck, there’s always Ken.
He’ll probably try and kill you at first, Ed, but he’ll come round.
There’s always Ken.
And I thought to myself, It is—it is too late for you now, Ed
Too long not caring—
It’s ruined, and that means forever
But you don’t know yet about her.
Not yet.
I left the phone dangling on the end of the cord and I started motoring back up the hill.
Past the palms, towering above me—the palms and the bright moonlight behind them, the edges of the leaves glowing like silver neon.
It was like the whole universe had slipped into groove, a key finally turning in a rusty lock
Ken—then Friday night.
And then we’ll see.
We’ll see if you’ve got a partner, Ed.
Ken.
Then Friday night.
THERE WAS A NEW GUY AT THE DESK downstairs at The Rainbow Lodge.
In my backpack I had one of the black plastic bags from the rucksack, and I’d put the gun in there too. The rest of the drugs, as well as the other bag, with the cash, that was all still locked up in my room at the Daybreaker.
Even though the guy at the desk was new, he seemed to look at me funny when I got closer—
And there I was—
In the top left corner of the CALL KEN noticeboard.
About a week’s beard on my face and heavy, slitted eyes—looking pretty much exactly the same a
s I must have standing right there.
I looked at the guy and said, “Ja. Go call Ken.”
The dude from the desk didn’t say a word to me the whole way up in the lift—
And then the way the two guys grabbed me when the doors opened let me know how much trouble I was in. The bag came off my back and before I knew it my arms were pinned behind me. One guy held me like that. All three of us were breathing hard.
It was all happening too fast.
And nothing like I’d pictured it.
Ken was standing a few metres away—impassive, in a purple velvet tracksuit—taking his time finishing off a pipe. There was bright morning sun coming through the windows and it gave the whole scene a creepy, cheerful look.
“Ken,” I started
But all he did was raise a finger, and in a flash the guy next to me clamped his hand over my mouth, so tight my lips hurt against my teeth.
Finally, through a cloud of smoke that smelled like burning tyres, Ken started speaking.
“So. You will believe me when I say this morning I was busy?”
I tried to make sounds and nod my head, but all I managed was to put some spit and snot on the hand that was gagging me.
“Not with these things”—he shook the pipe—“I was working. There at my desk. Business things. Alright. So there I am working, and then the door goes ba-ba-ba. And I think, what’s so important? Otherwise why would the door be knocking when I am busy at my desk? Alright. So here comes Akhil there. Akhil, he’s new, he comes alone from the Sudan, he’s eager, you see? He wants to prove himself here. So Akhil says to me, Ed’s here. Downstairs. On the list he is Eddy. Must I hurt him?”
Ken laughed. He slapped his knee a couple of times and between his big laughs he kept saying, “Must I hurt him?” He said it about three or four times, till I had no fucking idea what was coming next.
He made a small movement with his finger again and the gag came off my mouth.
“Ken, look—” I said
And he said, “No, shut up. I finish. Then you talk.”
He seemed to be thinking about something.
“Actually,” he said, “please, give him some.”
And then this dull force exploded in my cheek, it felt like the whiplash was going to rip my head off my neck.
I definitely would’ve fallen if the other guy wasn’t holding me up. I couldn’t lift my head for a while. All I could do was watch myself spit blood onto the floor.
I heard Ken walk up close.
He said softly, “So what did I say to Akhil? I told him, You are a boy. If this is Eddy downstairs, I want a man to hurt him. Give him some more.”
I shouted, “No!”
But it was too late, and it was worse—this time I ducked a bit and it landed on my jaw, right under my sideburn.
My ear was ringing like a million mosquitos were trapped in there, and the guy behind me let me fall, and while I was on the ground I shouted, “Fuck, Ken,” and I spat up one of my teeth. My mouth was so full of blood I couldn’t tell which tooth.
I lay there, just spitting and spitting, kicking my legs out at nothing.
He said, “Shame. Pretty Eddy. You hurt me, and now you are hurt.”
I spat more blood and then I said, “I had such good news for you, though.”
“Yes?”
“Ja. But now I think I’m going to—”
Ken waved at the guys.
I blacked out.
And then I was sitting up, against one of the guys’ knees, and the other one was tipping sugar water into my mouth and Ken was busy cutting lines of something on a small mirror. He put a straw in my nose and held the mirror up and the sun was blinding on the mirror and I closed my eyes and I sniffed
And then I wasn’t going to pass out anymore, I just had to be sick.
It was bitter and full of all the blood I must’ve swallowed. The guy poured more sugar water in my mouth and it was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. For a while my vision swam and all I could do was suck at the bright, cool air. It felt like my heart had jumped up into my brain and the whole thing was beating on the walls of my skull.
I heard Ken sniff a line.
And then he let out a sigh—a deep, kind of wistful one—and he said, “Your daddy, Ed. Did he beat you?”
“Ja, once.”
“Yes?”
“He fucked it up, he hit too hard. I was knocked out. When I got home from hospital I had a bike.”
Ken laughed. I think the other guys did as well.
“Yes,” he said. “I think that is how I feel.”
“Ja?”
He levelled his voice. “What is that in your bag?” he said.
“Tik.”
“Pure?”
“Straight from the cook.”
He turned to the guys and made a small gesture with his head.
One of them, not the one that hit me, went out the door.
Ken snapped his fingers and I looked back at him.
“Where’s the cook?” he said.
“The cook’s dead.”
“Who was it going to?”
“He’s also dead.”
The door opened and the bodyguard was back, and following him was a figure I remembered very well. This short, scrawny, gangrel thing with eyes like a goat’s—jade-green irises set in deep yellow orbs.
“Howzit, Sparks,” I said.
“Aweh, Eddy. Fuck. They tuned you up, my bra.”
“Hey, shut up,” Ken said.
And then something in a language I couldn’t follow at all, and then one of the guys started packing a pipe for Sparks, pinching stuff out the black packet I’d brought along. “You just shut up and smoke.”
The guy handed the pipe to Sparks, who pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. He peered into the chalice and said, “Fok. Dit lyk goed.”
Jesus, I suddenly thought.
What if it isn’t?
He lit three matches and burned the stuff, and sucked deep and held it in. He went down on his knees and I could see the effort it took to hold it in, his eyes were dripping and he was beating his hand on the floor and then it all came out and he started laughing and shouting—
He was on his feet, bouncing around, shouting, “Dis kwaai! Ek’s dik gerook, fokken dik gerook!”
Ken gestured again and the guy grabbed Sparks and took him to the door. The last thing I heard Sparks say was, “Ken, I’m going to vinnis this pipe! Okay? Okay?”
“There’s a gun in the bag too,” I said. “You can have that.”
“Yes, I saw it there. With the numbers filed off.”
“Is that good?”
“For some jobs,” he said.
There was a long silence.
Ken broke it.
“So. How much do you have?”
“About ten kgs.”
“And where is it?”
He was trying to be cool and stern, but he asked that question too quickly. I could feel it: all of a sudden, I was the one who had something.
I acted as coy as I could.
“I can get it anytime.”
“So. What do you want, Eddy? And don’t say fifty-fifty because you know I pay wages here.”
“I don’t want money. I don’t need money. I need help, Ken.”
“Are the police involved?”
“I saw it in the newspapers.”
“Okay, so you want me to fix?” he said. “You want it to disappear?”
I just looked at him.
“Okay, I’ll fix for you, Eddy.”
And right then and there, while I rested my ringing head on the wall and watched Ken stalk around with his phone in his hand and the speakerphone on, soaked in that weird morning light
It happened—
He made two phone calls and he hardly even raised his voice, most of the time he was laughing
But I heard it clearly, this deep voice coming back from the other side—
You want it gone? It’s gone, Ken.
> “Just like that?” I said.
And the voice said again, It’s gone.
And then Ken smiled, and turned off the speakerphone and started haggling with the guy about fees.
He hung up about a minute later—I was on my feet again—and he went over to his desk and wrote something on a piece of paper and tore it off and gave it to me. “This is who you call, Eddy. Any trouble with the police, this guy will make you safe. Now one of my boys will come collect, nè? I have Mister Jimi and Floyd here. You choose.”
“Which one hit me?” I said.
“That was Mister Jimi.”
“Then the other guy, please.”
AND BACK AGAIN
BY FRIDAY AFTERNOON, I was going nuts, and I had to get out of my room
And I packed all the money into my backpack and I took the train out to Muizenberg.
But it was still so fucking early, I could see it was going to be hours before dark.
I’d given all the drugs over to Ken—every last bit—and although I had a lot on my mind, the main thing, honestly, was how sober I was feeling
How at a loss
And it was bright and overcast and I didn’t want to be down at the beach the whole time, just hanging around, waiting for her while I got over-anxious and sunburned
So I thought I’d take a walk up to the Village, maybe stop in somewhere that didn’t sell booze and eat something.
But, of course, going up Atlantic Road like that took me right past the little slip road to Helluva Rides—and it wasn’t so much that I wanted to see Duade, I just felt like I needed company all of a sudden
And I turned down the alley and walked up to the workshop, suddenly panicked about what I’d do if he wasn’t around.
But Duade was there—even if it took him a full five minutes to come to the door.
I waited on the step outside the workshop, my eyes flitting down all the roads, checking all the cars on the street even though Ken had promised me it was fixed, all the while hearing Duade moving around in there. Scurrying around. I could hear his shoes on the cement floor, I heard him bump into a table and say, “Fuck!”—I was convinced he’d been sleeping in there and my knocking had woken him up.
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