by Kurt Ellis
When he returned to the bathroom, Amia was already in the tub and had lit scented candles that she’d found somewhere. She had her arm covering her breasts. The rest of her was hidden beneath the dark water. Kyle guessed the reason she chose not to turn on the bathroom light was not only to maintain the mood, but also out of bashfulness. He too felt shy at being so exposed in front of her, so he slid into the water, which was a lot hotter than he would have liked. Under the guise of rubbing soap on her, he explored her body with his hands. From her elegant neck, down to her tender belly. He looked up at her eyes, and in the slow dance of the candlelight saw a glistening tear meander down her cheek.
Kyle suddenly felt panic. Had he hurt her? Was she regretting what had happened? “Are you okay?” he asked.
She looked up at him and smiled. “I’m more than okay.”
“I meant it, Amia. I really, really do love you. And I’ll love you forever.”
She smiled that smile of hers again. The one that was always accompanied by a tilted head. “I thought you said forever isn’t long enough.”
His jaw quivered slightly, as if he was about to burst into tears himself. He leaned forward and kissed that single salty tear off her cheek. Then he kissed her deeply and felt himself stir once more. He made love to her again in the bath. This time he lasted longer.
The sun had begun to peep over the horizon when Kyle drove Amia back home. They had made love two more times that night. He had never wanted it to end. He never wanted to leave her side. He had hoped she would stay the night, if not forever, but she had insisted on going back to Paula’s place. They drove in silence, Kyle steering with one hand as the other clutched hers.
The drive was over too soon. He watched her disappearing into the house. Then he looked up at the orange and purple sky. “Thank you, Lord,” he whispered with a smile.
42
Jimmy sat alone in the park on the corner of Sparks Road and Randles Road with only his thoughts for company. There was a slight breeze that ruffled the shirt on his back. The usual scores of pedestrians were milling about the street, some going to purchase goods at the Sparksport Pharmacy or the nearby shops, others waiting to catch a taxi into town. The air buzzed with shouts and chatter. His eyes scanned his neighbourhood.
He saw Owen storming down the street. Owen was wearing his usual brown suit and holding a thick, tattered black book in his hand – a worn copy of the Bible. He was always rushing up and down the streets of Sydenham as if he was on a mission. A divine mission from God himself.
Owen must have felt Jimmy’s gaze on him, as he turned to look his way. He stopped, grinned and waved. Jimmy ignored the wave and looked away. Everyone in Sydenham knew better than to greet Owen. He was generally harmless, but a little disturbed. If Jimmy had greeted him, he would no doubt have rushed over and begun quoting scriptures from the Bible. And some from Luther Vandross, Earth, Wind and Fire or The O’Jays. Lyrics from songs that Owen would argue were holy texts from the Good Book. And Owen would not leave. He would follow you wherever you went, preaching scriptures and lyrics at you while you tried to flee. Harmless, but very annoying. And, sometimes, extremely amusing. Jimmy recalled the incident when two Jehovah’s Witnesses had made the worst mistake possible: they approached Owen. After ten minutes of debate, they probably realised they were talking to someone who was not entirely all there. But when they tried to leave, Owen followed them, screaming at their backs. Eventually, their brisk walk turned into a jog, and Owen jogged as well. Then it turned into a trot, and finally Owen had the two of them sprinting down the pavement with him in hot pursuit. It was an absolutely hilarious sight that’d had Jimmy and Captain in stitches that day. Nobody knew where Owen went at night, but he would always be patrolling the streets the next day, armed with his Bible and his lyrics.
Jimmy began to feel the pangs of loneliness choke him, so he got to his feet and began a slow stroll. He did not know where he was going; he just walked. He began to think about his cousins and how much he admired them. They were both so strong. They were powerful and brave. They were everything he was not. He longed to be just like them, but no matter what he did, he just could not. He never would be. He wished he was stronger. He wished he could take care of himself. He knew that if he ever needed help and protection, Kyle and Captain would be there in a heartbeat, but he hated the fact that they had to be there in the first place. Why could he not protect himself? Why did he have to be so weak?
Jimmy’s legs carried him with a mind of their own. They led him down Randles Road, then up into Barnes Road and finally onto Barnes Road grounds. There was a group of boys playing soccer at one end of the field and Jimmy recognised them as guys from his class. He kept walking until he got to the other exit of the grounds, which opened into Jefferson Street. He followed the route until he came to the intersection of Caster Avenue. Here, he sat on one of the wooden beams that lined the street. Looking up the road, where he could see the gate to Sarah’s house.
He had sat here many times before. Jimmy felt a small tingle in his heart and a smile cracked his frown. The idea of being so close to her made him feel warm inside. He liked to come here whenever he could. He would fantasise what it would be like if he had the courage to ask her out. She would smile and say yes. He would treat her like the perfect gentleman, just like his grandfather had taught them. He would look after her, and buy her teddy bears, chocolates and stuff. He would take her out on dates with Captain and Nazneen, and Kyle and Amia, and they would all have a great time together. And then they would date for years, and she would be his date to the matric ball, and when he was out of school, he, Captain and Kyle would get a flat together and she would come visit. But he wouldn’t touch her in a sexual way. No, Jimmy couldn’t bring himself to think of Sarah in a sexual manner. He just imagined that eventually, after dating for some time, he would propose and then they would get married. Captain and Kyle would be his best men, and he would love Sarah forever.
All these fantasies caused a gleeful giggle to escape him, but then reality set in. The truth was, he was just sitting there. Alone. Watching her house like he was a goddamn stalker. What was wrong with him?
Jimmy shot to his feet, embarrassed with himself, and hurried away. He wished he was like the other guys who could walk up to a girl and in a matter of minutes be kissing. He wished he knew how to walk up to Sarah. He wished. He wished he was more like Kyle and Captain.
43
Kyle managed an hour or two of sleep on the bus to Johannesburg, but not much more. He was absolutely exhausted by the time the bus went through the last toll gate, but his mind was like a hive of bees with thoughts of Amia. Of being with her. Of making love to her.
They had arrived at the bed and breakfast where the team would be staying in Randburg. After leaving his bag in his room, Kyle rushed to find a payphone to call her from as he had no money for airtime. Luckily, there was one at the garage on the corner. He dropped a two-rand coin into the slot and dialled Paula’s number.
“Hello?”
He recognised her voice immediately. “Hey, baby,” he said. “How are you doing?”
There was silence for the longest second on the other end of the line before she replied curtly, “I’m fine.”
She didn’t sound fine, and Kyle told her so.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied.
Kyle began to worry. What if she was regretting the previous night? “Come on, Amia. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Really, Kyle. Please, leave it,” she said. “This is not the kind of thing I want to talk to you about over the phone. I’ll wait for you to come back.”
But he couldn’t wait. “Please tell me what’s going on. Is this about last night?”
Again, the silence was far too long. “I don’t know how to say this. You’re an absolutely wonderful person, Kyle, but I don’t … I don’t think we should see each other any more.”
Kyle choked on his surprise. “What?” he managed to get out. “Wh
y?”
“Please, Kyle. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
“Make what harder than it has to be?” Kyle said, exasperated. “I don’t understand. What’s going on here?”
There was another long silence.
“Amia?”
“I … We’re not going to work out, Kyle. I … I … just don’t want to see you any more.”
Kyle’s knees almost buckled beneath him. “What? I don’t … What is going on? I mean, last … last night you said you loved me. What has changed since then?” He felt his heartbeat become unsteady. His heart was beating too fast, then too slow and then too fast again.
“Last night … last night was a mistake. That should never have happened. I was just caught up in the moment. That’s all.”
The words tore through his eardrums like a rusted blade. A mistake.
“I can’t believe that. I saw it in your eyes last night. You love me. I know you do. We can talk about this when I get back.”
“I don’t … I don’t want to see you when you come back.”
Kyle battled to understand. “I love you, Amia. I can’t believe this.”
“I … don’t … love you.”
He had forgotten to breathe, and he had no idea what else to say. All he managed was a weak whimper. “Amia …”
“I got to go.”
There was a click and the line went dead. He stood there in silent bewilderment, with the phone still pressed against his ear. His heart struggled to comprehend what had happened and his legs quaked. He dropped the receiver and placed his hands on his knees. He was out of breath. His heart was like a scratched CD, jumping and skipping and failing. He felt sick, he felt dizzy. He felt alone.
44
“Look, I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lester said, fighting the urge to smile.
Two days had passed since they had shot up Dora’s Den, and Lester was sitting on the porch of his girlfriend Genieve’s house.
“Don’t lie to me, Lester. I know you were involved. You and the bloody Godfathers.”
Lester laughed. He looked out on Jarvis Road. “I’m telling you, I wasn’t there. I was at home that night. All night.” Lester lied, and he could tell that Genieve did not believe him. But it didn’t matter, because he’d hold strong. He wouldn’t recant his story, no matter how many facts she could produce to prove him wrong.
He had noticed the car driving past the first time. A blue BMW with dark tinted windows. But he had not given it a second thought. But now that same car came speeding down the road for a second time, screeching to a halt outside the gate. The passenger window was already rolled down and the black barrel of the gun already protruded.
Lester did not have time to react or to see his killer’s face. All he saw was the sparks from the barrel as bullets ripped into his flesh. He slumped over and fell onto the cold cement floor of the verandah.
Genieve screamed. She clutched at her upper arm as she dived to the floor next to where he lay. Fragments of cement fell from where the lead had struck the wall and onto his corpse like stone snow.
45
As with all Saturday nights in Sydenham, the streets were jam-packed. People were aware of the war that was under way, but they did not seem to care. It was a Saturday night, after all. It was their duty to go out and have a good time. Once in a while, a single police car would drive past, but that was the only police presence that was offered. The other cars on the road competed for the honours of having the loudest sound system. This was never more evident than at the intersection at Randles Road and Sparks Road.
Guthrie’s car thumped with bass from the speakers. His passenger was holding a marijuana cigarette to his lips and trying to light it while they waited for the robot to turn green. They did not see Earl and Bruge sneak up to the car from behind, careful that they both stayed in the blind spots of the side mirrors. Earl approached the driver’s side with his right hand hidden behind his back. Bruge was more blatant as he approached the passenger side. He was holding a bottle of red liquid with a flaming piece of cloth sticking out of its neck.
There was a single scream of fear from a girl waiting to cross the street at the traffic lights, followed by a chorus of other cries. A car or two sounded their hooters as well, but the music was blaring too loudly for Guthrie to hear the warning. When he did look up, all he saw was the blur of Earl’s arm as he flung the bottle through the window. It smashed against the steering wheel and vomited its contents onto his lap and torso.
Bruge smashed his bottle against the head of the passenger, who he was knocked unconscious before the flames ate him. The interior of the car erupted into a ball of fire as Guthrie flapped around inside. His burning fingers somehow managed to hook onto the door handle and he pushed the door open. He flopped onto the gravel road as people ran to escape the scene of butchery.
Guthrie managed to get to his feet and he staggered away, screaming in pain. Bruge pulled his gun and there were two sharp pops. The bullets ripped through Guthrie’s skull and he fell over – dead.
46
Kyle was hunched over at the heart of the Southern Natal Provincial Soccer Team’s defence. He tried to get himself prepared. He had always described the feeling he got before every game as one of a switch being flicked. A switch that allowed all the anger, frustration and aggression that he’d bottled up inside him to flow freely. It was what made him a great player. That switch. That anger. That aggression. It made him run faster than anyone else. It made him go into a tackle with the bellicosity that made sure he won the ball. He now tried to get that switch in his mind to click … But like a failing light bulb, it felt like there was just a short “pop”, then nothing else. No flame. No light. No fire. No aggression. No desire.
The referee put the whistle to his lips and blew hard. The game was under way.
Randburg Stadium was half full and the Birmingham youth team seemed to thrive upon the attention of the crowd. Kyle had never played in front of such a large audience before. That did not concern him, though. Neither did the fact that the Birmingham players seemed to be just as big as he was, if not bigger. Kyle had always relied on the fact that he was bigger and stronger than most soccer players in his age group. He was built more like a rugby player than a soccer player, but most of the Birmingham players looked like boxers.
The game was slow for the first twenty minutes and Kyle did the minimum of what was expected from any defender and captain. He marshalled his back line, he kept the last four defenders straight and moving as if they were a single organism. Except he had no energy. Perhaps it was because he’d struggled to find sleep the previous night. He had spent the night staring at the ceiling, thinking about her.
The opposition attacked. Their right winger beat the left back, so Kyle ran over in covering defence. The winger, who looked as if he could be Portuguese or at least Mediterranean, stepped over the ball once, then twice. Then he nicked it around Kyle, who was done in by the fancy footwork and fell over onto his butt. The crowd howled with laughter and cheered.
Kyle just sat there. His legs were like cement, and his heart felt even heavier. He heard the player cross the ball, and a striker finish. They were one nil down.
“Kyle!” Charlie shouted from the touchline. “What the fuck happened?”
Kyle slowly climbed to his feet and shook his head. He walked over to his position for the restart. Another ten minutes passed before the ball found itself at Kyle’s weaker right foot. He tried to clear it, but he managed to kick the ground first, and hard. The pain shot up his ankle and all the way to his hip. He groaned with agony and dropped to his knees. His foot throbbed within his boot and he signalled over to the bench. The Birmingham team physiotherapist and Charlie trotted over.
“I think I need to come off,” he said in a soft voice when they were within earshot. “I think I’m hurt.”
“Let me have a look,” the physiotherapist responded.
But Charlie held him back. “The bo
y isn’t hurt. The boy’s fine. He’s just playin’ like a fuckin’ poof. That’s all.” He turned to Kyle. “What’s wrong with you?”
Kyle did not answer.
Charlie pointed to the men standing next to him on the sideline. “Those men are here to see you, Kyle. This is yo’ chance to live a dream. To be a star. I know yo’ mind is elsewhere. I don’t fuckin’ care where. Just get yo’ fuckin’ mind in the game!”
“Charlie, I …”
“Don’t you dare give me an excuse! Son, this is a make or break moment for you. You can do this. This is yo’ way out. Don’t fuck it up. Sort yo’self out now, you understand me?” Charlie pulled the physio off with him. The man was still timidly protesting that he should look at Kyle’s foot as Charlie manhandled him to the side line.
Kyle sat on the ground and felt his anger beginning to rise. Anger at Charlie for making him play when he did not want to. Anger at Amia for breaking his heart. But mostly, anger at himself for being so weak. He felt like that weak little boy again, who looked at himself every morning in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He hated that boy and the fact that he had allowed himself to become that boy again. He slowly rose to his feet, and although his foot was still sore, he trotted back to position.
Soon, the same Mediterranean-looking winger beat the left back again, and Kyle went out to challenge him. The attacker stepped twice over the ball, trying to befuddle Kyle once more.
Keep your eyes on the ball. Watch the ball, not the man. Make him play first. Dummy him. Dummy him. Make him play first, Kyle repeated in his head.
He pretended to go in for the tackle, and then he pulled back at the last minute. The winger saw the attempted tackle as an opportunity to go around the outside, but did not see until it was too late that Kyle had tricked him. Kyle had outfoxed him and now had the advantage.