‘Angela Dimbleton?’ he says morosely. ‘Really?’
I nod. ‘Sorry, but I really need this.’
‘OK,’ he says. ‘But then the debt is paid.’
I smile. ‘In full, Flash.’
‘Screw you,’ Kyle says with a rueful smile.
Kyle’s mom is heading out and offers me a lift. I decide it would be a good idea to accept. If my mom phones her she can say she’s seen me. ‘Yoga class?’ she says enthusiastically as she steers the car onto the highway. ‘I’ve always wanted to do yoga.’
‘Very good for the spine,’ I say with a smile. ‘Helps with all kinds of lifestyle diseases.’
‘Modern life is so dangerous,’ she says sadly.
I get her to drop me a block away from Ronin’s. ‘This is where you do yoga?’ she says, looking doubtfully at the decrepit industrial buildings. ‘My teacher is very authentic,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t believe in materialism.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Kyle’s mom says with a smile of acknowledgement. ‘You must give me her number.’
‘I will. Namaste,’ I say, putting my hands into prayer position.
‘Namaste,’ she says solemnly.
I wait until she drives away and then take a side road that leads toward Ronin’s building. I’m walking past a large rusty metal gate covered in a graffiti mural of an angel when a car pulls up in front of me. A large familiar shape struggles out of the car and lumbers toward me.
‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite serial killer,’ Schoeman says.
‘This is harassment,’ I say, trying to walk faster and then exhaling in pain as my ribs start to hurt again.
‘No, this is police work,’ he says, coming to stand in front of me, his huge frame blocking my way. ‘A new victim means new evidence.’
‘Esmé?’ I say, a sick feeling in my stomach.
‘No,’ he says. ‘But maybe you can tell me why the time of death of this new unfortunate was found to be during the exact time that you evaded our surveillance?’
‘Incompetence?’ I suggest. His thick arm darts forward like a python and slams me against the rusty metal gate.
‘We get a call from people inside a club known for making pornography. One that you and your crazy bounty hunter friend were seen entering. They say it’s total chaos, they need help. We get there but it’s already surrounded by black vans and guys waving government agency badges. We’re told to step down.’
‘I’ve seen this movie,’ I say. His fist tightens on my T-shirt.
‘A reporter who was working on some kind of story involving a supernatural dog-fighting ring shows up at home blubbing uselessly. And you, well, you spontaneously decide to hire some kind of supernatural bounty hunter. Would you like to guess what the common thread is here?’
I widen my eyes. ‘That you have no idea what’s going on?’
He leans his chubby face in toward mine. ‘You’re testing my patience.’
‘You’re subjecting me to police brutality.’
He points a chubby finger at me. ‘I’m putting you away, Zevcenko. You’re not going to juvenile detention. You’re going to Pollsmoor. You know what they do in –’
‘Spare me your prison fantasies,’ I say.
He slams me into the metal gate once more for good measure and then releases my T-shirt. ‘I know it’s you,’ he says. ‘I just have to prove it.’
He waddles away and I wait until he’s gone before I make my way to Ronin’s.
I meet Ronin outside his office and tell him about Schoeman. He looks down the road and waves. ‘Yep, there an undercover car sticking out like a teenage zit,’ he says. ‘We’re going to have to lose them again.’
‘Where are we going?’ I say.
‘Pat’s,’ he says. ‘I spoke to her. She’s definitely hiding something.’
Ronin repeats the ritual with the cocaine and the rat and we spend almost an hour losing the cop car. While we drive Ronin explains to me about magic.
Apparently it’s connected to genetics. While anybody can theoretically do any kind of magic, every genetic pool has a specific connection to their heritage, a Wyrrd, which gives them a predilection for a specific kind of hoodoo. The Xhosa are apparently good with air and sound magic. That’s why Tone is able to do what he does.
‘I probably have some Dwarven ancestors,’ Ronin says. ‘I’m bringing this up because the stuff you saw at the Flesh Palace might be connected to your Wyrrd,’ he says. ‘If you don’t get some training it can fuck you up.’
‘The Sieners,’ I say.
‘You’re Afrikaans?’ he says.
‘Polish and Afrikaans on my dad’s side,’ I tell him.
He nods. ‘It’s possible. Although very few people have those genes. The English made a point of trying to wipe them out. Enemies with genuine far-sight is a pain in the ass when you’re trying to build an empire. The English have a long tradition of sending warlocks into South Africa, an essential part of their efforts here. That’s where Mirth’s specialties come from, mostly spirit work, which translate to demonology or necromancy if you’re an asshole, which Mirth most certainly is, exacerbated by the fact that he’s half Crow.’
‘The head of MK6 is one of those things?’ I say.
Ronin nods. ‘Half-breed. It’s one of the reasons the government wanted to keep him around. He’s one of the few existing Crow half-breeds because not many humans can survive the mating process.’ I shudder and try not to think of one of those things having sex. ‘He can’t transform like they can,’ Ronin says. ‘But it makes him powerful and difficult to kill.’
Ronin speeds through a red light and cuts in front of a taxi.
‘Crows,’ he says as we exit the highway and head toward Phillipi. ‘I’d happily kill them all.’
We pull into the driveway slowly. The Haven is peaceful. I can hear birds chirping softly as we get out of the car and head toward the door. At least I think they’re birds. I’m not sure after seeing what Pat keeps in her barn.
‘So lovely to see you again so soon,’ Pat says, opening the door. ‘Come in, come in.’ She ushers us into the kitchen and starts filling an old battered kettle with water. ‘You two look like you’ve been pulled through the briar patch backwards,’ she says over her shoulder.
‘It’s been a weird couple of days,’ I say.
‘It always is with Jackson,’ Pat replies.
‘We’re not here to have tea, Pat,’ Ronin says.
‘I hope you’re not endangering this boy or taking him to unsavoury places,’ she says quickly, ignoring him and bustling over to put the kettle on the gas stove. I think of the Flesh Palace and wonder if there is a more unsavoury place in Cape Town.
‘Pat,’ Ronin says.
‘If you want Baxter to learn more about the Hidden I’d be happy to teach –’
‘That Obambo kidnapped Baxter’s girlfriend,’ Ronin says. ‘For all we know he could have killed her.’
‘Tomas? Never!’ Pat says, shocked, and then slaps her hand to her mouth.
‘Pat, please,’ I say. ‘We have no idea where Esmé is. That glowing man is the only link to her.’
‘Where is he?’ Ronin says firmly.
Pat’s kindly old face crumples in defeat. ‘He’s in the attic.’
I follow as Ronin bounds up the stairs.
‘Don’t you hurt him. Don’t you dare hurt that poor man!’ she says.
Ronin pulls Warchild from beneath his coat and slams open the hatch that leads into the attic. I follow as he vaults up the rickety wooden ladder.
The Obambo is tall but thin, has the facial features of a West African, and glows with the light of a small sun. He sits quietly on an old cast-iron bed in the corner of the room, with his hands on his lap as if he has been expecting us.
‘Have you come to kill me?’ he says in a deep voice.
Ronin levels Warchild at his chest. ‘Depends.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the Obambo says, getting off the bed and kneeling on the hard woo
den floor.
Ronin’s fingers don’t leave Warchild’s twin triggers as he pulls a vinyl tie from his coat. He walks over to wrench the glowing man’s hands behind his back. Pat grips my shoulder and a small sob escapes her lips. ‘I’m so sorry, Tomas.’
He smiles sadly. ‘It is not your fault, Patricia.’
‘Open your mouth,’ Ronin says. ‘Now.’
Tomas looks at us with calm, sad eyes and then opens his mouth wide. The bounty hunter grabs him roughly by the jaw. ‘Missing incisor. This is our guy.’
‘Where is she?’ I ask.
Tomas frowns.
I pull Esmé’s picture from my wallet. ‘Her. Esmé. Where is she?’
He studies the picture intently. ‘I am sorry. I have never seen her.’
Ronin grabs him by the throat. ‘Listen, disco ball, we’re not playing good-cop bad-cop with you.’
Tomas looks up at Ronin. ‘You can’t hurt me any more than I’ve been hurt already.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Ronin says, viciously pushing his head back.
‘Jackson!’ Pat screams.
Ronin pushes Warchild against Tomas’s forehead. His eyes are pinpoints and he’s bared his teeth a little.
The Obambo looks up at the gun. ‘Do it,’ he says calmly.
‘Ronin,’ I say nervously, ‘c’mon, we need to find out where Esmé is.’
The bounty hunter pushes Tomas’s head back with the gun. ‘You better start talking,’ Ronin says.
‘Please,’ Tomas says, ‘may I sit?’
‘Sure, would you like a cup of tea and a scone too?’ Ronin says, but gestures for Tomas to sit. The Obambo shifts his knees out from under his body and awkwardly sits on the wooden floor.
I pull the tooth from my pocket and hold it in front of the Obambo’s face.
‘I found this in her room after she was kidnapped. It’s yours.’
He nods. ‘Yes, it is mine.’ He shifts slightly, and Ronin points Warchild menacingly at him. ‘I worked at the Flesh Palace,’ he says. ‘I was an actor in one of the porn series called Light Fantastique.’
I nod. I’ve heard of it but it was never one of the Spider’s products.
‘I married one of the actresses, another Obambo,’ he says.
‘There are more of you?’ Pat says. ‘Tomas, that’s wonderful!’
‘No,’ he says bitterly. ‘Not wonderful. We had a baby; a beautiful, healthy, glowing boy. We were happy. The three of us, I think, were the last of our kind. Then the Queen formed a new partnership and the partner became very interested in my family. The demon birds came and forced us to go with him, to be tested. At first he just asked us questions. Where had I been born, when and where my son Adam had been conceived.’
‘Oh, Tomas,’ Pat says softly.
‘I watched as he prodded and poked my wife and son. He cut flesh from them and put it into jars. He drained the blood from them and videotaped as they writhed and screamed, all the time laughing, laughing like he was having fun.’
‘Mirth,’ Ronin hisses.
Tomas looks up at him. ‘Adam died quickly, thank God. But Lila was always strong. It took days but I watched as she faded in front of me until eventually her light went out.’
A small, thin wail escapes Pat’s lips. Tomas glances up at me and his eyes are like black coals in the furnace of his body. ‘I don’t know why he pulled out that tooth.’ He drops his head and little golden droplets stream down his face and spatter the floor. Pat rushes over and puts her hand on Tomas’s radiant neck. Tears stream down her face too. ‘You escaped,’ Pat sobs, grasping his hands. ‘Thank God, you escaped and found me.’
My phone begins to vibrate in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the number. It’s Kyle.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he says. ‘I’ve think I’ve found her.’
‘Esmé?’ I say. ‘Where?’
‘I got a text a couple of minutes ago saying she used an ATM,’ he says. ‘At a caravan park in Parow. I’ll send you the details as soon as I hang up.’
‘I think I might kiss you when I see you,’ I say.
‘I’m going to take that little nugget of homoeroticism as thanks,’ Kyle says.
I hang up and look at Ronin as my phone buzzes with the details from Kyle. ‘I think we’ve found her,’ I say.
Sceptics Alliance Newsletter
Charlatan of the Week: Dale Sheldrake
Isn’t it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too? – Douglas Adams
Dale Sheldrake is not your average conspiracy theorist. His books, talks and multimedia products earn him millions of dollars every year, and he even has a range of herbal supplements that he says can help you to become aware of the supernatural creatures in our midst.
Yes, supernatural creatures. Sheldrake’s entire business is based around the bizarre belief that these creatures – dwarves, gnomes, tokoloshes, and a staggering variety of other hobgoblins and spooks – roam the streets right beneath our noses, neatly filling the gap left by the end date of the Mayan calendar and the murder of David Icke (which Sheldrake claims was a collaborative assassination by covert governmental organisations from several different countries).
Sheldrake, once a respected anthropologist at the University of Cape Town, claims that experience with psychedelic psilocybin mushrooms ‘opened the gateway’ to allow him to become aware of the supernatural ecosystem that exists alongside our own.
His body of work is astounding in its outlandish claims, claustrophobic paranoia and delusional beliefs. His first book, The Hidden Ones, is a drug-fuelled paranoid rant about first impressions of this other world, which has become something of a counterculture classic. His second book, Spider Cult, claims the British royal family are being controlled by parasitic arachnids attached to their brainstems and that several ‘wizards’ were mysteriously killed just days before they were due to take the Randi test.
His latest book, Trapped Gods, claims that there is a plot by the government organisations to cover up the existence of interdimensional craft that were created by ancient alchemists to imprison gods. An excerpt from the book shows his typically disordered and rambling stream-of-consciousness prose:
The night falls softly, silently, my alert inner storyteller making connections between the seen and the unseen. Dirty, fallen angels litter the sky, broken glass, candy-coloured collections of CREATURES. Here half-breeds make themselves useful to pilot the vehicles. Interlocking circles spin in the cockpit, written in the ancient angelic script of the Chayot, a language of transcendental fire. Piloting the vehicles requires the sight of the Siener and the strength of a caged Crow.
Of course, extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence but of this there seems to be no sign. Are these ramblings the work of a madman or the sales tactics of a very savvy businessman? Whatever the case, Dale Sheldrake continues to cynically make money off the easily led and feeble-minded, making him our Charlatan of the Week.
Next edition:
‘From the Mundane to the Bizarre: Debunking the 9/11 Controlled Demolition Conspiracy’.
From holographically projected aircraft to the ‘Dwarven Mercenaries’ hired by the CIA to destroy the Twin Towers, we take a look at the crazy beliefs of 9/11 conspiracy theorists.
10
PREDATORS
‘KEEP TOMAS HERE,’ Ronin says to Pat through the window of his car. Her face is tear-streaked, her white hair frazzled and her hands trembling.
‘You’re not going to go after Mirth, Jackson,’ Pat says softly. ‘He’ll kill you this time.’
‘He killed Baresh,’ Ronin says. ‘He’s working with the Murder and I need to know why.’
‘I know what you’re talking about is important,’ I say, ‘but can we go and find Esmé?’
‘Good luck,’ Pat says.
The roads are mostly empty and we make it to the Klein Varkie Caravan Park & Predator Zoo in Parow quickly. We pull into a d
irt road that winds through rows of decrepit caravans and a man in dungarees waves us down. He’s red, pudgy and balding; as we stop I see that he’s missing part of his ear and has a large hole in his nose.
‘Here to visit the Predator Zoo?’ he says in a pleasant but slurry voice as he leans down to the car window.
‘No,’ I say, ‘we’re looking for –’
‘We have new eagles,’ the man says. ‘Vicious bastards.’
‘No, we just –’ I try again.
‘You like scorpions?’ the man says.
‘Not really,’ I say.
‘Pythons get fed at one,’ the man says, ‘you can still make –’
He is cut short by Ronin reaching through the window, hand clamping on his throat. ‘Listen, boet. We appreciate the offer, but we’re not here for that.’ The man’s eyes bulge and he breathes heavily through the hole in the side of his nose. I hold Esmé’s picture in front of his face. ‘Have you seen her?’
The man nods slowly, and Ronin lets go of his throat. ‘She’s in the Honeymoon Caravan,’ the man says, rubbing his neck. He reaches into his dungarees and hands us a map of the park, jabbing a dirty finger to a spot in the corner.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘You can still make the python feeding if you hurry,’ the man mumbles as we drive off.
We follow the winding dirt road through the rows of grungy caravans. The Honeymoon Caravan is easy to find, given the fact that it’s a garish pink with a large heart sloppily painted on the side.
Nice. Weeds jut out from beneath it, and pastel-coloured deckchairs are set out on the lawn next to a platoon of plastic flamingos.
Ronin pushes open the car door and signals for me to wait. I watch as he slides his hand into his trench coat and carefully approaches the caravan. I fling open the car door and jog toward him. Ronin hears my footsteps and turns to me with a scowl. ‘Never listen, do you?’
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