‘She’s not … it’s because … dammit, it’s because she’s the Queen of the Anansi,’ I say.
‘And these Anansi are …?’
‘Zombie-creating spiders,’ I say. ‘The Queen tried to kill us but Ronin killed her first.’
‘Ah, Ronin again,’ Basson says, snapping his fingers. ‘He always seems to pop up when you’re having difficulty taking responsibility for your actions.’
I tug at my handcuffs. ‘Let me the hell out of here. I want to go home. There is a supernatural underworld. This is a secret experimental lab that creates monsters.’
Basson shakes his head. ‘No, Baxter. We’re at Stikland Medical Facility. In a ward for the criminally insane.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘This is bullshit.’
‘Zombies, mutants; I hope you can hear how ridiculous this all sounds. You’ve been led down a very dark path.’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘Why would I make all this up?’
Basson raises his eyebrows and spreads his hands as if offering a variety of options. ‘A feeling of inferiority perhaps. The specifics of your delusions are ultimately unimportant. They’ve all clearly been concocted on the spot.’
He points to a small pile of magazines on the floor next to him. ‘I noticed you looking at them when you first came to my office and I made an effort to read through them. Imagine my surprise when I could piece together your story verbatim. An article in a film magazine about ‘creature porn’, which gave detail to your supernatural fantasies; significantly it also mentions the Flesh Palace, which was to be the scene of your next crime. Next, there is a martial arts article that mentions Crows, then an article about South African history …’ He holds two magazines up in front of me. ‘I hope you see where I’m going with this.’
‘I didn’t make Ronin up,’ I say fiercely.
‘Tell me about your bounty hunter,’ he says. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Red hair, beard,’ I say.
‘And is there anything from my office that you remember fitting that description?’ he says.
‘The painting on your wall,’ I say. ‘The sea captain.’
He nods. ‘The painting on my wall. It actually belonged to my parents. A bit kitsch I always felt.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, this is all wrong. I hired him to help me find Esmé.’
‘Ah, Esmé,’ he says. ‘Another one of your fantasies. Describe her to me.’
‘She’s medium height with dark hair. She has a little ski-jump nose,’ I say.
He reaches into his pocket as I speak and pulls out his wallet. ‘My daughter Anne,’ he says, opening his wallet to show me a photo inside, ‘I have a picture of her on my desk.’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Believe me, I don’t want to show you this,’ he says. ‘The idea of a serial killer creating this kind of delusion about my daughter is, quite frankly, terrifying. But, Baxter, I’m asking you, pleading with you, to look.
I look. In his wallet is a picture of Esmé.
I’ve lost track of time. I sit and watch Nigel rip strands of hair from his head and chew them. There are not many follicles left to feed his habit. I absently wonder what he’ll start eating when all the hair is gone. Toenails? Skin? Whole appendages?
‘See,’ Nigel says.
My mind feels fuzzy. Is that a tumour pressing against my brain? ‘The thing about madness is that you don’t know it’s happened,’ Ronin said. Which is ironic considering Ronin doesn’t exist. Split personalities ENTER STAGE LEFT.
MetroBax: I’m confused.
BizBax: Now there’s a surprise. Let me clear this up for you. The fact that the two of us are talking seems to give credence to the idea that we are, as a whole, insane.
MetroBax: How can you be like this? We’ve killed people.
BizBax: It was going to happen at some stage.
MetroBax: You knew?
BizBax: No. But c’mon. The violent video games, the family issues, the antisocial behaviour. Textbook psychopath. I just wish I could remember it, even just a few mental snapshots. If we’re going to be put away for murder at least we should enjoy it.
MetroBax: You’re sick.
BizBax: Duh. ‘CRIMINAL PSYCHIATRIC FACILITY’. They didn’t put us in here for the food and entertainment.
We’ve been playing word association games. I’ve been trying not to say things that sound psychokiller-ish. It’s been hard.
‘Holiday,’ Basson says.
‘Friends,’ I say. He nods and jots something down.
‘Let’s explore that theme for a while. Your parents say your lack of friendships has always worried them.’
‘You’ve spoken to my parents?’
‘They’re not in good shape, Baxter. I think your mother in particular feels that she should have picked up on something.’
‘Pity the “How to know if someone is a psycho” is only the Cosmo quiz next month,’ I say.
‘You don’t feel remorse that you’ve hurt them?’
Oh, I feel. I feel like I’m teetering over a deep, endless pit. I have no sense of myself. Whatever I thought I was is being slowly eaten away by the growing certainty that I am what they say I am. There is no supernatural underworld. I am the monster.
Basson thinks I should make a video diary. Something that will help me take responsibility for what I’ve done. What I’ve done. Which is killed people. I feel bile rise in my throat. I always thought I was a bad person. But not this bad.
I feel like I need to do this, to get rid of this stupid facade, this mask, this myth. I am not Baxter Zevcenko, mastermind. I’m Baxter Zevcenko, serial killer.
Basson positions a small handycam on a tripod and fiddles with it for a few seconds. I compose myself. If I’m going to speak about what’s happened, I have to have clarity. That, unfortunately, is in short supply at the moment. All I have is an overabundance of fuzz. I need to focus on the sessions we’ve had and try to drag sense and reason from them.
Basson finishes fumbling with the camcorder and gives me the thumbs up. I stare at the little black-and-silver cyclops eye. Here I go.
‘There are questions that run through your head when you find out you’re a serial killer. “Am I more evil than Ted Bundy?” is one. “I wonder whether I’ll be on the Crime & Investigation Network?” is another. But on the whole, it’s the who, what, when and why of it that really takes up the mental bandwidth. So, here goes:
‘My name is Baxter Zevcenko. I am sixteen years old. I go to Westridge High School in Cape Town and I have no friends. I’ve killed people. Lots of people. Brutally.
‘People are saying that I’m satanic but this is not true. I have seen things. I saw the great Mantis God of Africa fighting a creature from the primordial depths. For billions of years they fought until the Mantis threw the writhing, many-armed creature from the heavenly sky into the deepest pit –’
‘Baxter,’ my psychiatrist interrupts, ‘I thought we’d agreed that these delusions were counterproductive to your healing?’
I take a breath, force the images from my mind and continue. ‘But none of that matters. There is no Mantis and there is no dark, primordial creature. There is no weapons chemist, no bounty hunter and no girlfriend to rescue. There is just me and I am sick. In the end we’re all just victims of our own perceptions, sparky. I hope you can see that.’
‘Good,’ he says as he turns off the camera. ‘Very good.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Baxter, why did you say “sparky”?’
‘That was what Ronin called me,’ I say softly.
‘So, you’ve realised something about Ronin?’ he says. I nod. ‘And what have you realised?’
I look back up at him with tears in my eyes. ‘That he’s me.’
I wake up with someone’s hand over my mouth. At first I think that it’s Nigel, hairless and ravenous and coming for my eyeballs. But it’s not. It’s Ronin.
He puts a finger to his lips and then lifts the hand from my mouth. ‘Ready to blow this joint?’ h
e says. There’s an awkward silence. I’m not sure what to say to a full-blown hallucination.
‘What’s up with you?’ Ronin says.
‘It’s just …’ I say. ‘It’s just that you’re not real.’
He takes a little time to process this. His facial expression undulates like the surface of a tidal pool. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he says eventually.
‘You’re a hallucination,’ I say. ‘A surrogate created to express the parts of myself I couldn’t.’
Ronin’s mouth twists in a smile. Stutters of laughter begin to throb in his throat. He clamps his hand across his mouth to stop himself from making a noise. Having a part of myself laughing at me is a little unsettling. He looks so real, full-on flesh and blood, not at all the product of a diseased mind. Well, except for the shaggy red eyebrows – those are a little over the top.
‘Have you been taking anything? Any drugs, medication?’ Ronin asks.
‘Just my meds,’ I say defensively.
‘They’re probably messing with your head. Are you finding it difficult to think clearly?’
The grey fuzz in my brain shifts and lurches. ‘No,’ I say.
‘Listen,’ Ronin says, ‘Mirth used some of the same shit on the Border.’
‘Dr Basson is helping me,’ I say.
‘Dr Basson?’ he says. ‘Describe him.’
‘Tall, spindly, grey ponytail,’ I say uncertainly.
Ronin slaps the side of my head. ‘That’s Mirth, moron.’
‘Basson is Mirth?’ I say.
The delusion sighs. ‘I don’t have time for this now, I need to find Pat. When I find her, I’m going to try and come back for you. You better be ready to leave.’ He stands up and sidles over to the door. ‘Sometimes the truth is stranger than delusion, sparky.’
MetroBax: Ronin is convincing but he lacks a certain something, which makes me want to go with Basson.
BizBax: This is not X Factor, asshole. We’re talking about a fundamental break with reality. Either we’re fighting a crazed weapons chemist, or we’re a psychopathic murderer and this very conversation is indicative of a deep-seated chemical flaw in the brain.
MetroBax: Occam’s razor. Right? Isn’t that what Kyle always talks about? The simplest solution is usually the best.
BizBax: Good thinking, but there are two fundamental problems with that line of logic. 1. Kyle may not exist. 2. Which, in this scenario, is the simplest solution?
‘See?’ Nigel whispers from his bed.
‘Go back to sleep, Nigel,’ I whisper. ‘I was just having a nightmare.’
The next morning – at least I think it’s the morning – I’m taken to an interview room. It’s cold and sterile like everything else in this place. The orderly makes me sit at a steel table and is about to chain my hands behind my back when Basson enters with a cup of coffee in one hand and his briefcase under his other arm.
‘No, there’s no need for that.’ He looks at me. ‘Is there, Baxter?’
‘No,’ I croak.
He smiles and sits down across the table from me before producing a newspaper from his briefcase. He pushes it, a Sunday Times, across the table to me. ‘THE FACE OF A TEENAGE SERIAL KILLER’ the headline reads and beneath it there’s a picture of me. I scan the article. It’s not very complimentary. ‘We tried to delay this,’ he says. ‘But it was inevitable. I’m going to testify in your defence,’ he continues. ‘But you need to cooperate with me as much as possible.’
I nod.
‘Have you seen Ronin again?’ Basson asks.
I nod again.
‘And what was it that he said to you?’
‘That you’ve got me on drugs that are messing with my head. That you used the same on him on the Border. That you’re Mirth, the head of MK6,’ I say, slightly embarrassed.
Basson holds his hands up and twiddles his fingers like he’s a stage magician doing a trick. He chuckles. ‘I apologise, Baxter, I don’t mean to make fun of you. But it just sounds so ludicrous.’
I’ll be honest, it does sound insane. Baxter Zevcenko, the teenage Machiavelli who went trawling though Cape Town’s supernatural underworld in a search of his girlfriend. How adventurous, how noble, how lame.
‘My daughter says this supernatural stuff is very in vogue at the moment,’ Basson says. ‘Vampires, werewolves and wizards. It’s unsurprising that it was incorporated into your personal mythology. If Blackblood visits you again, you must tell me right away,’ Basson’s face locks into a rigor mortis smile. ‘Ronin,’ he corrects quickly. ‘If Ronin visits you again.’
My mouth is dry. I roll my tongue along the inside of my lips. ‘What did you call him the first time?’ I say.
‘It’s just psychiatry-speak,’ Basson says carefully.
Blackblood. Somehow I doubt I’d find that in any psychiatry manual.
Basson’s eyes search mine. I maintain a blank look. The doctor’s eyes crinkle at the edges with a look of understanding. He knows that I know that he knows that … well.
BizBax: Are we in agreement that something is gravely amiss?
MetroBax: Agreed.
‘Let’s cut the crap,’ I say.
‘So, are we going to let go of these delusions?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘As soon as you tell me where Ronin is.’
Basson smiles ruefully. ‘One small mistake. Still, I’m impressed that you picked up on it. I’ve seen soldiers completely insensible on the amount of Dimurasane I’m giving you.’
‘What does it do?’ I say, struggling with the fog around my head.
‘It reduces resistance, increases compliance, makes everything seem unreal.’
‘Sounds about right,’ I say, blinking my eyes. ‘Why not just kill me?’
He smiles again. The kindly doctor routine has been dropped. Basson is gone completely and only Mirth remains.
‘You’re my great-great-grandson,’ he says. ‘You know that, perhaps? I’m not quite sure what level your gifts are now at, but I intend to find out.’
The dream about the girl becomes sharp and clear in my mind. My great-great-grandmother. ‘How did you do that?’ I say. ‘And why?’
He lets out a long shrill giggle and holds up two fingers. ‘Two vehicles, two prisons. Individually more powerful than any technology. But together – oh, together.’ He wraps those two fingers around each other. ‘You cannot even imagine the power. Time and space melt away into insignificance.’ He smiles at me. ‘I’m no dictator, Baxter. That would be beneath me. I could be that with just the power of one of the vehicles, the one that my heritage and talents allow me to control.’
He scoots his chair forward until he’s sitting right in front of me. ‘I’m an explorer, a navigator. With the power of both together I could touch the edge of the known universe.’
He shakes his head and gives a little giggle. ‘No, no, I’m being modest. I could go beyond the known universe. I could go to ANY universe.’
‘And you thought, “Hey, let’s screw a young girl while I’m at it”?’
‘Oh, yes, your great-great-grandmother. I took no pleasure other than the thrill of scientific achievement from that,’ he says.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘And you read Playboy for the articles.’
‘I need the perception of the Sieners and the hardiness of the Murder in one body,’ he says. ‘Your body, I’m afraid.’
He looks at me like a child looking at a new puppy. ‘I waited,’ he said. ‘Looking for the signs that someone in your bloodline would awaken to the gift of the Sieners. I made a pact with the Crows to keep your genetic line unsullied –’
‘That’s why you had Grandpa Zev’s princess murdered,’ I say.
‘Ah, yes. She was of elven stock,’ he says. ‘Thoroughly unsuited to my purposes. We steered your grandmother toward him. Your father made an acceptable choice and so no intervention was necessary. Then you and your brother appeared and I saw the gift begin to blossom in both of you. I’ve watched you for a long time,�
� he says. ‘And I’ve become more and more excited that you might be the one.’
‘And here I am,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Here you are, with your powers growing but not yet fully realised.’ He giggles and raises a hand lazily. The chubby orderly appears. ‘I must admit I’m glad this charade has come to an end.’ The orderly hands him a syringe. I yank at my handcuffs but they just bite deeper into my wrists, causing a thin trickle of blood to drip down onto the floor.
‘Psychosis is a terrible thing,’ Mirth says.
‘You would know,’ I spit out.
He holds a syringe in front of my face. It is filled with a radiant liquid. ‘Your Obambo friend was very generous with his donation,’ he says.
‘You killed him?’ I say. The orderly wraps a thick arm around my neck and holds me in place.
‘He’s not dead,’ Mirth says with a little laugh. ‘Yet.’ He slides the needle into my arm and pushes the plunger.
Deep fault lines of pain open up in my skull and dark, blotchy spots begin to swirl in front of my eyes. A worm pushes through my brain and begins gnawing at the space between my eyes, trying to get out. The brainworm begins to chew through my grey matter and I scream as it erupts in my skull. It’s not a worm at all; it’s an eye on a thick cartilaginous stalk. Awareness cleaves through existence. I can see. Everywhere. With my eye I travel the facility. I see rooms filled with horror; people being experimented on, things in various stages of transformation.
The walls of this facility can’t contain me. My mind roars into the night sky like a dragon searching for prey. It curls around the mountain, stalking, swirling, whipping in a never-ending frenzy of perception. The blanket of lights spreads out below me. In its streets, businesses, shops, brothels, restaurants, flats, houses, churches, mosques, yoga studios, crack dens, student digs, old-age homes, taverns, spaza shops and shebeens.
I can see the throbbing pulse of beliefs, ideologies, secrets, desires, memories and ambitions like halos around the ant-like people. They flow together like some giant four-year-old has poured food colouring onto an ant farm and is watching the colours mingle.
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