by Frank Lamour
He turned his attention to the corpse of female possible cop whose upper body had fallen over on to the passenger side, her head now laying on the open maize bag.
Don, steeling himself, pulled the bag out from under her. A lot of blood and, well, matter had gotten on to the notes and he moved the bag off to the side for now just to try prevent it from getting even more sodden.
In the passenger footwell Don now saw the pistol the female possible cop that had been brandishing. He reached over and picked it up.
He glanced back down at the VW. It had not moved. Still just sitting there, idling.
Don examined the weapon. What he knew about guns was unfortunately limited to what he’d seen on the screen, which was, of course, not inconsiderable, but surely no replacement for real experience. Nevertheless, he did not fancy sitting there without any means of recourse while Mandrake was both armed—and seemingly not without some degree of skill—and also apparently not having much concern over cause and effect type consequences.
Don turned the pistol over in his hand. Safety off first, he supposed. On the side of the barrel it read, Vektor Z88 9mmP. There was a little switch at the top Don was fairly sure had to be the safety. He flicked the switch up and now saw revealed a little painted red dot. Red for danger? So that should mean the safety was now off.
Did he need to “rack the slide”? Don pulled hard back on the movable top part of the gun and a cartridge popped out the side of the weapon and landed in one of the storage compartments in the driver door.
Gun now presumably ready, Don turned again to face the VW.
The red and white minivan still sat in the same spot down the street. Looking again at legs of the male cop over on the pavement, they did not appear to have moved from the position he’d seen them last and Don felt a little sick. He had taken away the guy’s cover when he’d driven off. He hadn’t meant to, even though the dude had shortly before been planning to bash his head in; he had just sort of let instinct take over and done what had come naturally in the moment, not really having a chance to think things through.
Don was brought back to the moment as saw the minibus kick to life and begin to move. He clutched the Vektor tighter, feeling an awful, bowel-loosening, fear.
The van slowly made a wide arcing turn before heading off back down the road, the way it had come, its red rear lights receding into the distance.
Don let out a breath. He guessed it was as good a time as any to get moving again. Although not the most residential street, there were a couple of nearby blocks of flats and residents surely would have heard the racket. Police reaction time was also not great in the city, but either them or private security would no doubt at some point be on their way.
Don picked up the maize bag. Part of the bag, as well as the top layer of money, was soaked in blood, but surely a few turns in the washing machine would sort it out, he thought. If not, well, some of it still had to be good.
He flipped the safety back on the pistol and chucked it into the bag alongside the cash. Don then tried to knot it back up while trying to get as little of the blood on his hands as he could. Not particularly doing too well at this Don wiped his hands off, now instead on female possible cop’s pant leg (sartorial considerations surely not too high on her list of current priorities), pushed open the BMW door and continued on, hurtling down the pavement as fast as his weary frame could manage.
Chapter 23
Don was able to muster a slowish sprint to the nearest corner, lungs on fire, infernal stitch returning, head sore, ear sore, now just the instinct of self-preservation propelling him.
Cops, or possible cops, bad cops or ex-cops, he decided, if he could, he’d just prefer putting as much damn distance as he could between him and their corpses.
Making it to the corner Don finally turned off the wide road, continuing at a jog for another couple of blocks, taking the next right, only slowing after he felt he could no longer continue. At least he was in a leafy suburb again. Less light and more places to hide.
As he walked, Don tried to process recent events. How long before cops arrived? Would someone immediately emerge from a nearby block of flats and say, “Yeah, I saw a kid in a karate uniform with a big bag of flour or something, head off down that way?” And would they immediately then start searching?
Had his face been seen? If he was able to change his clothes how recognisable would he be? His fingerprints were of course all over the car, but as far as he knew his fingerprints weren’t on any kind of database. At least criminal database.
But how up to date were SA forensic methods anyway? And surely there’d be numerous other sets of prints in the vehicle? How many others had those two picked up? Also if there had been eyewitnesses wouldn’t the red and white campervan be what’ll have been the most memorable? Despite the fact that he hadn’t actually been involved in any of the shooting, the last thing he wanted to do was test his luck in the legal system.
Stay on track. He needed to plan his next stretch of his journey.
Although having lived close by for most of his life, Don wasn’t too familiar with this little section of streets—having always just cut across on the through road. Although slightly lost, he knew at least roughly the direction he had to head in. If he could just negotiate the suburb, Don thought, it should take him through to an open sports grounds / park area. Through that, over one more busy road, but that he would just need to cross, and then he’d pretty much be at Lesley’s.
Picking up his pace again a bit, the sound of his heavy, ragged breath and uneven footfalls shortly set off a Jack Russell behind a gate he was passing, which in turn set off a chain reaction. Dogs started up at each house he passed, now telegraphing his movement through the neighbourhood.
In the distance, back the way he’d come, Don thought he could possibly make out a siren.
Don picked up his pace again, the second (or was he on his third?) wind thing seeming to perhaps be true, or maybe he was now just more motivated to get off the street.
Since leaving the BMW, Don had been carrying the mealie meal bag in either hand, switching from hand to hand, instead of under an arm in an attempt to try minimise the amount of gore he got on the light-coloured uniform—looking suspicious enough already-with blood from his ear already all over the right shoulder of his hemp shirt. It was more awkward to run with, but he was managing okay.
The houses in this neighbourhood were smaller those than in House of the Vegetable’s suburb. The stands were smaller, there were no sprawling estates and so even a few low walls without electrified fences or spikes or barbed wire. Don would have considered again hopping over one to get out of sight until morning but with the dogs now refusing to quiet, each one setting off the next, it again was not a great plan.
He was close enough now to Lesley’s anyway. If he could just get there, he could get off the street and out of sight, hopefully for as long as he needed. Get some rest and maybe patch up his wounds.
After some zigzagging as well as backtracking, alternately walking and jogging and attempting to keep ahead of the dog network, Don finally emerged above the park and sports grounds as predicted.
Looking down at gloomy expanse of field, Don had to now decide whether to cross it or head round on a busier road. Although quite nicely manicured and kept, Don also knew the park to be the location of a not an inconsiderable amount of rapes, stabbings and murders.
Chapter 24
According to a recent article in the free local paper, the Northcliff and Melville Times, if Don was recalling correctly, the park below had had something like one person attacked and robbed walking past every day. Attacks usually following the modus of stabbings and occurred around twilight.
Don been startled by the stat, there being a nice little tennis club, scout hall, a couple of tended sports fields and himself having happily been cycling past every day to and from work.
After reading the article though, without the option of another route that wasn’t massivel
y circuitous, Don had had to content himself with just switching to the opposite side of the road and hope he just made too fast a moving target.
Now though he intended to cross it in the dead of night.
He did have the option to turn left and follow the road that cut between the park and the golf course on the other side, but it was a relatively arterial route, and would no doubt increase the likelihood of being him being spotted by either House assassins or police—should they decide to head out in this direction.
With most of the park attacks happening at twilight, perhaps, Don thought, trying to allay his anxiety, the muggers would now be off-duty, and he did of course—which made a difference— have the pistol.
He would get rid of it as soon as he could; it linked him to the occupants of Beamer, but for now it could still be of use.
Don put the maize bag down, knelt, unknotted it (blood at least now mostly drying) and removed the Vektor.
He held the weapon in his hands for a moment staring at it. The safety was still on. He’d decided it best he leave it that way until needed. Without any kind of weapons experience and in his nervous state, he thought he’d be just as likely to put a hole through his groin or something.
Don knotted the bag again, picked it up and stood. Maize bag now in one hand, pistol in the other, he headed off, over the road and down into the recreation grounds.
◆◆◆
All seemed quiet as Don made his way past the scout hall, tennis club building and tennis courts. Then over the tended grass of a rugby pitch before heading down towards the more overgrown and littered section that hugged both banks of a polluted storm drain.
Don had decided that for this stretch of his journey walking might be more prudent. Both to, make as little noise as possible—hopefully staying off the radar of any dubious types lurking about—as well as allowing him to be more alert to any signs of danger.
The gun felt heavy and cold in his hand. Don wasn’t crazy about the idea of shooting anyone. Images of the female possible cop were still surprisingly vivid in his head. There one minute threatening to mash his head in, the next, being toted, in part at least, along with him in his maize bag.
It had been unpleasant enough witnessing her death, Don thought, but imagining himself being the cause of that kind of trauma just didn’t bear thinking about. All that said, he thought, if he was rushed by lowlifes emerging from the thicket, he felt he would just have no choice but to disengage the safety and ventilate said assailants.
The article had mainly talked about stabbings, but did that mean the ne’er do wells were not packing? They may just be trying to save on bullets. Hopefully, Don thought, if he let off a few rounds they might think it just too much effort and let him be.
Don followed the ground as it sloped steadily down toward the storm-drain, the grass as he drew nearer growing wild and unkempt.
Moving into the trees, Don slowed, ears alert and eyes scanning for any signs of nests of miscreants—any bridge trolls or goblins. Other than the numerous wrappers and discarded bottles, both intact and broken, there was little sign of life.
A colourful sewage smell intensified as Don drew nearer the storm-drain and he began to worry about what he was going to do if there was a deep stream of water running through it. I mean, God knew what kind of exotic diseases he could pick up from contact with the city’s effluence.
Don reached the concrete lip of the drain. It was dark here; trees blocking the bulk of the light from streetlights running along the bridge above. The flow of water was thankfully not more than a viscous black ribbon quietly twisting on under the bridge. Maybe a metre in width, he’d have to hop it, but he thought he could do it.
Don surveyed the waterway. There was still no sign of anyone. Under the bridge it was too dark to tell, but it was all dead silent, except for maybe the light rustle of leaves in the breeze.
Don put the bag and gun down on the concrete lip and dropped down into the drain. Landing not as quiet or elegantly as he would have liked, his quads still quivery from all the running, he sprawled forward on the concrete, falling only centimetres from the foul water—at that moment though just feeling massive gratitude that he hadn’t ploughed face first into the muck. Survive being shot at only to die later having had his brain be an all-you-can-eat buffet for some as yet uncatalogued parasite.
Don stood, retrieved the bag and gun and now took in the treacly band. He tossed the maize bag over, and then, pistol in one hand, took a few steps back, ran forward and leapt.
Don didn’t quite make it all the way across, one heel kicking up liquid—the algae for one heart-stopping moment almost causing him to slip, the gun in one hand messing with his agility, but he luckily kept his balance, stumbling forward to meet the far wall.
Gathering himself, Don now heard a noise coming from the direction of the bridge, maybe a rustling, and he rapidly swung, gripping the Vektor in both hands and levelling the weapon in the direction of the sound (feeling like he was approximating something like a drunken interpretation of the 007 pre-credit sequence). It was quiet enough so that Don could hear the canter of his heart in his ears as he scanned for the source of the noise.
In the gloom, about ten metres away from him, just under the bridge, Don made out the figure of a man squatting down.
It took him a few moments, beading a cold sweat, to realise the man had his pants around his ankles and was, rather than being any threat, was simply in the process of evacuating bowels.
The defecating man’s eyes stared wide, the whites around his iris’s clearly visible in the dark. Both Don and the defecating man stayed staring at each other for some frozen moments before Don finally managed to calm himself, release the death grip he’d had on the pistol and straighten up.
Don now realised with some alarm that he’d been pulling the trigger hard, and was just grateful he’d put the damn safety on. His hands were still visibly shaking.
He took another look at defecating guy, maybe just to make sure the man wasn’t going to rush, flinging scat at him, then picked up the maize bag and scrabbled up on the other side of the drain.
Dusting himself off, not looking back, Don headed through bushes on towards the next obstacle.
Chapter 25
Don reached the low fence and crash barrier that ran alongside the road and knelt. A normally bumper to bumper stretch, now, as he cast his gaze up and down, deserted.
In the distance Don heard the rising wail of a siren and dropped back to take cover in the shadow of the trees.
After a short time the vehicle came into view, a big cop van, blue light flashing. It sped past. Don hung back, waiting till the van was safely out of sight, the noise of the siren sufficiently diminished, not wanting any kind of repeat of the earlier incident.
He continued to listen for another minute or two for any other indication of traffic. Satisfied all was quiet, he hopped the fence and made a dash across the wide road.
The park continued, rising steeply in a small treed, grassless and rocky section, on this side of the street and Don pressed on, negotiating the rough terrain, which was tricky in the dark and not helped by the fact that the rocks were littered with the shards of broken bottles everywhere.
He made it to the top though without too much grief, now, basically at the start of Lesley’s road. Only a couple blocks to go and he was there.
About to break from the cover of trees and make the last dash, Don heard again the rumble of an approaching engine. This one though was to his left, maybe just now crossing over the defecating man’s bridge.
As it drew nearer, without having to see it, Don had already identified the vehicle by its distinctive lumpy putter.
Don took cover while he had it, backing under the shadow of the thorny tree and flattening down into the rocks. Face pressed to a cold rock he smelt something like rotten meat. He looked to his left and saw remnants of a half-eaten ‘smiley’—sheep’s head—a hollow eye socket staring out at him.
The
sound of the vehicle grew nearer, and Don stayed low, doing his best to flatten down further. He really wasn’t in the best colour for camouflage.
Any thoughts that it might just be another van and that the three House members had done the sensible thing and gotten out of sight after the shooting were dispelled as a second later the red and white VW rumbled into view.
It didn’t really surprise Don though, they had so far, well at least Mandrake, not exhibited any behaviour approaching rational.
It also did not entirely surprise him, that they’d unintentionally, intersected paths with him again. Heading East, this was the only through road for some distance. It was just Don’s bad luck that they’d decided on this direction. Perhaps directed by the spirits of the plants, he thought vaguely. Who knew? I mean, really, who knew?
The campervan reached the intersection and a green traffic light and halted. It sat there idling noisily. Don pressed flatter against the rocks, hoping the shadows of the trees and few tufts of grass would be enough to cover him.
After a moment the VW pushed on, turning left—Lesley’s street, bar a bit of a kink, the one straight ahead.
Don waited a little longer then scrambled up, maize bag still in one hand, gun in the other, making a fast (perhaps reinvigorated by the close proximity to his final destination) jog up the road the last few hundred metres to Lesley’s.
◆◆◆
Don had never thought he’d feel pleased to see the fat boss’s house, but indeed now he was. The squat, modern house at the foot of the Westcliff ridge. High wall topped with the obligatory electric fence, intercom gooseneck sitting just out front of the baroque, wrought iron gate.
Sanctuary.
Tonight had been more physical activity than he’d done, well maybe ever, and the nerves and adrenalin he thought putting even greater strain on the body.