by Shani Krebs
The house, although small, was nicely furnished. There were a few antiques, and next to the phone there was a huge old grandfather clock with beautiful, intricate carvings. By now my heart was beating at a normal pace. I was calm and the cocaine seemed to have worn off. I phoned my mate Craig, who was now living in Victory Park. Luck was on my side and he was at home. He told me that Sarah-Lee had contacted him and was on her way to his house, but she was worried as hell. Hearing that she was okay was a great comfort to me and I told Craig to keep her there, that I was on my way.
I had asked my hosts if they would be kind enough to give me a lift to where I had abandoned my car, which was not too far from their house (I wanted to make sure Sarah-Lee hadn’t been involved in the attempt to bust me). We drove past Burt’s house and everything seemed pretty normal there. Of course my car was gone because Sarah-Lee had driven off in it. I pretended to be shocked, and actually I felt quite bad then asking these women to drive me to Victory Park, which was about 20 minutes’ drive away, but they were only too obliging. More than likely they were just too terrified to refuse. I got them to drop me around the corner from Craig’s place, just in case they went to the cops, and I pretended to walk into a house nearby. As soon as they disappeared around the corner I made my way to Craig’s.
Standing in his entrance hall, I told Craig about my evening. He was in fits of laughter and kept punctuating my story with ‘Are you serious, Shaun? Fucking hell!’ Next thing Sarah-Lee pulled into the driveway in my white Ford Laser. I ran to her, grabbed her in my arms and swung her around in circles.
‘Put me down, put me down! Have you gone crazy?’ she protested, half-laughing, although she was still upset that I had left her alone in the car for so long. She told me that she’d got fed up waiting for me and had driven around the block. Then she’d gone into Burt and Goldie’s house, who had no idea where I’d gone. After that she’d driven over here.
When I related my own version of the story, describing in detail every crazy thing I had imagined and the extreme lengths I’d taken to get away from my pursuers, we simply cracked up laughing.
I went back to visit Cathy shortly afterwards, who was still fairly pissed at me. She told me she had had a steamer at the time and she didn’t find my story all that humorous. In fact, she strongly advised me to stop smoking cocaine. The same afternoon I also took a turn past Burt and Goldie, who were somewhat offended by my mistrust and totally amazed by my bizarre behaviour. They, too, felt that maybe it was time for me to stop. What was wrong with these people, I thought. Half the enjoyment was being paranoid; that profound sense of fear and awareness when one became delusional was a high in itself.
By the early 1990s, credit card fraud was becoming a serious problem in South Africa. Crime syndicates were active in printing duplicate copies of people’s credit cards and selling them on the black market. One of my close friends had shared with me how easy it was to do this, so I suggested to Sarah-Lee that, while she was at work at the restaurant, she should keep an eye out for businessmen who’d had too much to drink. These guys often lost their cards or neglected to ask their waiter to give them back after they’d paid for their meal.
One Saturday evening, I’d gone to pick up Sarah-Lee after work as usual. As I watched her approach the car I thought she had more of a spring in her step than usual. As she got in, we kissed and at the same time she threw something folded in a piece of paper onto my lap.
‘Hey, what’s this?’ I asked her.
She could hardly conceal her excitement. ‘Open it,’ she said.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a credit card, and not only that – it was a gold one. That night, I must have practised the man’s signature a few hundred times until it became like my own.
Being a drug dealer was bad enough, but committing fraud was taking crime to a new level, and this was new to me. I’d always had strong principles while growing up, and until that day I had never resorted to theft. Sure, as kids there’d been the odd occasion when we’d stolen a car just to take it on a joyride, or broken into a movie house and raided the ice-cream chest, but we were kids, and it was all done in the spirit of fun and adventure. This was different. I knew it, but I didn’t give a shit.
Sarah-Lee and I decided to dress the part. The first store we hit was Woolworths, where we bought quite a lot of clothing but didn’t overdo it. Because it was our first time, we didn’t want to create suspicion. When it came time to pay, I was so nervous I thought I was going to die. The cashier swiped the card on one of those portable credit card machines with a slider and I signed the slip. She checked the signature and thanked me for my purchase.
As we exited the store, Sarah-Lee was hanging onto my arm, squeezing it and smiling up at me like I was her hero. ‘Shaun, you’re a natural,’ she whispered in my ear. This made me feel good, but we didn’t stop there. After that we hit all the major stores, then the boutiques, and quite a few restaurants. The restaurants were the easiest targets and we really tipped the waiters well.
One of my friends had a steakhouse, and every two weeks or so they received a list of stolen credit cards, so I kept checking with him to see whether the card Sarah-Lee had stolen had been reported. For the next three months, every day, Sarah-Lee and I literally shopped till we dropped. Our families started asking questions, as we were showering them with gifts. My explanation was that I had pulled off a diamond deal, but I don’t think they really believed my story. They kind of understood that it was better that they didn’t know where the money was coming from or how I was getting it.
Generally, I avoided bottle stores, but then one day, against my instincts, we strolled into one. It was the first we planned to hit. While we were waiting at the till point to pay, the cashier called the manager and handed the credit card to him. He took it and went to his office which had this one-way mirrored glass portion. As soon as he disappeared behind it, I grabbed Sarah-Lee’s hand and we ran. We bolted out of there so fast! I felt sick at the thought of losing the card but instinctively I knew our fun with it was over. We jumped into the car and sped out of the parking lot. At the traffic lights, as I turned I glanced into my rear-view mirror and saw the manager in the middle of the four-lane road running after my car. Motherfucker had balls! I wanted to pull over, stop, jump out and break his face on the pavement.
Sarah-Lee was freaking out and shouting at the same time. ‘Drive faster! Drive faster!’
Shit, the guy had definitely seen us. Images of me in an identity parade, with him pointing me out to the police, flashed through my mind. Credit card fraud carried a heavy penalty and each transaction was considered a separate offence. If I was caught I would go to prison for a long time. Suddenly I was overcome with regret and remorse. For me, it had never been about the material things. It was the other stuff that was so fucking thrilling! It was that rush of adrenaline when you’re lining up at the till, gambling with your freedom, never knowing when you were going to have to run for your life. I loved it!
Now I knew I was in some serious trouble. Who else could I turn to once again but my family? In fact, Joan and Malcolm weren’t that shocked when I told them what had happened. I think they always kind of expected the worst. They’d suspected from the beginning that I was getting up to no good. Right now, though, most importantly, I needed to know whether the guy at the bottle store had managed to get the registration number of Sarah-Lee’s car. I looked up the phone number of the bottle store, dialled it, and asked to speak to the manager.
‘My name is Detective Botha,’ I said. ‘I’m calling from Bramley police station. We believe an attempted credit card fraud has just taken place at your store. Is there any chance you could give us a description of the person, and did you manage to get the registration and make of vehicle perhaps?’
Jesus, fuck, he did! The guy not only had the registration number, but also the make of car, and he described me and Sarah-Lee down to the clothes we were wearing! Mental images of me being led away in handcuffs went
through my mind. The thought of going to jail terrified me. What the fuck was I going to do? I couldn’t hide at my sister’s place. Sarah-Lee’s mother was going to have a total freak-out. There was only one solution. I had to get out of the country.
Within two days, I found myself on a flight bound for Budapest. Sarah-Lee stayed behind. In the event that I was caught, she knew I would never implicate her, and vice versa.
I stayed with Marika, my half-sister, who had moved to Budapest many years before. It was winter in Hungary and I didn’t go out much. At first Marika was friendly and welcoming, but she wasn’t thrilled to be harbouring what she considered a fugitive from justice. I phoned my family and friends back in South Africa almost daily. So far, the police had not been banging on Joan’s door, and nor had I appeared on the popular TV show Police File, the equivalent of America’s Most Wanted.
More disturbing, though, was what I was hearing about Sarah-Lee. Apparently, she had been seen leaving the bar after work several times in the company of the same guy. Every time I phoned her she was either too busy to come to the phone or she was not around. Jesus, what was going on? I was sure I was going to lose her, and I couldn’t bear the thought. After three weeks I returned to South Africa, convinced I’d be apprehended at the airport. Nothing happened. I couldn’t believe my luck. I had actually got away with it. My guardian angel was still watching out for me.
Sarah-Lee had definitely been screwing around, but I decided to let it go. I was just so happy to be back. We moved away from Norwood and into a townhouse in Sandton, in Katherine Road, directly behind the fire station. It might have been a new start for us, but my old lifestyle wasn’t about to change yet.
One day I was driving along in my car, on my way to make one of many cocaine deliveries to my regular customers. It was one of those days where anything and everything irritated me. Sarah-Lee sat slouched in the passenger seat beside me. By now we had been together for more than two years – a record for me when it came to relationships – but my relationship with her (and my life for that matter) seemed to be spiralling into an irreversible course of self-destruction once more.
I was running late and exceeding the speed limit. Moreover, I was craving a hit. Bothered by my erratic behaviour, Sarah-Lee and I got into one of the many arguments we had been having recently and which had become more frequent since I had resumed freebasing. In response to her accusations, I took my eyes off the road for a second, just as a car that had been parked at the side of the road edged forward without indicating and made a sharp right turn. Instinctively, I swerved to avoid a collision, but, because of the speed I was doing, when I slammed on the brakes my car went into a skid. The adjoining road ran at a downhill slope and was unusually curved, which made the pavement on that side higher than normal.
I crashed headlong into what felt like a solid wall. There was a loud bang and the sound of crushing metal. I heard Sarah-Lee screaming, shrieking, and saw with terror her contorted frame being pushed beneath the dashboard onto the floor. My head went through the windscreen, but, besides a few small cuts and being severely disoriented, I suffered no visible injuries. However, Sarah-Lee was in serious pain and unable to move. I managed to pull her out of the wreckage and laid her on the pavement.
She was so brave – the desperate look of bewilderment in her eyes expressed the pain and fear she was feeling. I suspected that her back might be broken, and to comfort her I assured her she was going to be okay. In a matter of minutes an ambulance, the police and several people who came to try and assist were on the scene. Sarah-Lee was put on a stretcher and whisked off to the hospital. The medics suggested that I go with her so that I could be checked for concussion, but I insisted I was fine. All I could think of at that moment was cooking up some coke and smoking a big rock. I left Sarah-Lee to be taken to the hospital on her own. A sympathetic bystander kindly offered to give me a ride home.
Sarah-Lee and I had moved again, from Sandton to a townhouse, ironically directly behind King David High School in Victory Park, close to the place where, some 15 years back, I had been introduced to marijuana by Craig and three of our schoolteachers. I was sure they would have been proud of the progress I had made up the addiction ladder. When I got home, I phoned Joan and told her about the accident, and also about Sarah-Lee’s condition. I said I planned to be at the hospital in the evening but right now I had a couple of things I needed to do. I asked my sister if she would please inform my girlfriend’s mother about what had happened.
I had about 250g of coke stashed at home in a secret compartment. Anxiously, I measured out 10g on my electronic scale, added a proportionate ratio of bicarbonate of soda mixed with a portion of water. I poured it into a small spice bottle. Holding the enticing concoction of liquid up to the light, right there and then I had an epiphany. This was the only true pleasure my flesh desired and responded to. I couldn’t remember when last I had had sexual intercourse with Sarah-Lee. I was on the path of no return.
I was an addict.
I placed the spice bottle directly onto a plate on the stove which I slowly heated. Timing and controlling the temperature were crucial so that the chemical reaction caused the cocaine to fizz and rise at the same time. I removed the bottle, shaking it in a clockwise swirling motion. After this the murky substance dropped into the steamed water and disappeared into translucent oil. I proceeded to add a small chunk of ice to allow the solution to cool while still jiggling the bottle in a circular motion. Within ten seconds, a solid white rock crystallised before my eyes. I covered the crest of the bottle with the palm of my hand, turned it upside down, and watched as the rock effortlessly floated out. I looked down at it and I thought, What a beauty. I was truly a master when it came to the art of cooking cocaine.
In a moment of reflection, standing there in my kitchen, I looked back on how my journey into the wretched and sordid world of drugs had begun. In 1977 I was 18 years old and invincible. Smoking marijuana was fashionable and it seemed harmless enough. Little did I realise all those years ago how quickly I would be drawn into the drug culture and its constant temptations. What started off innocently as occasional indulgence would progressively become worse. For 16 years now I had been using drugs, and sometimes I had narrowly escaped the clutches of death. I was always on the move, running not only from myself but also from the law. There was no doubt that the damage to my mind was irreparable; I had become a danger not only to myself but also to anybody and everybody around me. The drugs laid down the rules. They dictated the terms. I was beyond being rational. Whether getting totally fucked out of my head or running, it didn’t matter: I was trapped. There was no way out. My days were numbered. Did I care? No, not really. Life had become meaningless for me. I had no purpose. If I ever thought about it, I always reverted to my old thinking: you live and then you die and the length of time we spend on earth makes no difference. What was time anyway?
I was 33 years old. How much lower would I have to sink before I realised the damage I was doing to myself and the people around me? The sick feeling inside me should have told me that things weren’t going to end well for me, but, then again, would I have listened?
Then the phone rang, startling me out of my thoughts. Of all things, it was a casting agency, which I had joined a while back in the hope of getting the odd bit of movie or commercial work. As luck would have it, I had been cast as a member of a gang in an Eric Roberts movie that was being shot in South Africa. Fuck, I had completely forgotten that today was the day I was supposed to turn up! The agent reminded me that it was an opportunity of a lifetime.
I was faced with the insoluble dilemma of the typical junkie: in one hand I held a rock of pure cocaine and in the other a promise of success and a better life. Sealing my fate, I decided to have one quick hit and then go to the movie set. After that I would go to the hospital and visit Sarah-Lee. My intentions were genuine. Implementing them was an entirely different matter.
My insatiable craving to get high was continuous, and, as al
ways, it would be victorious over my waning will. Armed with my drug paraphernalia, still shook up from the accident, I headed for the lounge and plonked myself on the dark grey leather sofa. We had a lovely apartment. In the centre of the room was a glass coffee table with a marble base. Adorning the walls were a variety of oil paintings. Near the door, in glazed earthenware pots, were lush green ferns and an indoor palm tree, whose long feathery leaves fanned out over one of the couches and almost touched the ceiling. On the other side of the door was our rectangular glass-topped, wrought-iron dining room table. The pastel-coloured cushions of the eight high-backed chairs arranged around the table matched our roman blinds. On the opposite end to where I was sitting stood two marble pillars on which a single glass shelf was balanced. This was where our telephone and answering machine were. The apartment was tiled in ivory-white, and here in the lounge we had a white shag carpet.
Leaning forward on the couch, I proceeded to break off a fair-sized chunk of coke from the rock I had just cooked. I loaded it onto the wire mesh that was carefully fitted into the front of my glass pipe. While I was melting it carefully with a Bic lighter, I removed my shoes, undid the buckle of my belt, and loosened my jeans. Then, pipe in my mouth and keeping the flame at enough of a distance that the heat would still melt the coke, I slowly but steadily sucked on the pipe, inhaling the smoke, which I held in my lungs for as long as possible, before gradually releasing it.
The rush that comes with smoking crack cocaine is instantaneous.
There’s an all-encompassing flash-like light that jolts your brain and, simultaneously, an intense euphoric feeling that permeates your entire being. This surging sensation has been compared to an orgasm, a mental orgasm. All your senses are heightened. Sounds are magnified and visual images distorted to the point where you actually perceive something that is not there. I fucking loved the feeling. When I was at home and high, the minute I had a hit I would sneak around the apartment closing all the windows, securing the doors, and then drawing the curtains shut, ensuring that nobody could see inside.