by Roger Smith
She winked at Matt. “Pretty boy,” she said in heavily accented English. “He got his daddy’s eyes.” Then she looked up at Burn. “He gonna break some hearts.” She laughed again as she scraped the last of the pink fish guts onto the ground.
Burn walked back to the car still holding Matt’s hand, carrying the fish in a plastic bag.
Barnard drove the Ford along Main Road, Greenpoint. He stopped at a red light and lit a smoke while he waited. He felt the nicotine infuse his system, slowing things down just a fraction. He knew he was hyped. Primed for action. That was good. But he needed to keep his focus. This was a critical time.
A police van stopped next to Barnard, the uniformed woman cop looking down at him. He returned her look and then stared straight ahead, feeling the sweat flowing down his chest, his jeans chafing his thighs. He had that fucken rash again, inflamed red pustules on his ocean of white flesh. He needed a shower, and to change into some of the clothes he’d brought from the container.
The light changed, and he pulled away slowly, working his way through the gears. The cop van surged ahead, getting lost in the traffic. Barnard passed a couple of teenage hookers in short dresses. One of them blew him a kiss. Any other day he would be out the car, flash his badge, and run them off. Scare the hell out of them. Not today. Today his profile was as low as that of a man built like a tank could be.
He saw a sign advertising rooms and turned off into a parking lot. The hotel was small, cheap, and nasty. Home to hookers and dealers and low-rent adulterers. It would suit him fine.
Barnard popped the trunk of the Ford. He had stashed the weapons, money, and clothes in a kit bag. He locked the car and went into reception, carrying the bag.
An unenthusiastic colored man sat watching cricket on TV. He hardly looked at Barnard, took the cash he offered, and slid him a key. Barnard humped his fat up a flight of stairs and into a cramped room. The air-conditioning was noisy, but it worked.
First thing, he stripped and headed for the shower. There was no separate shower cubicle, just a curtain around the bathtub. It was difficult to maneuver his bulk in the tight space, and the spray from the nozzle was weak and tepid.
But at least he was clean.
He parted his butt cheeks and slathered on his ointment. The hemorrhoids had been playing up, aching like hell. He lumbered naked into the bedroom and took a plastic container of baby powder from the kit bag and rubbed it under his arms and between his thighs where the skin chafed when he walked. Then he dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and heavy boots. He sat on the bed, the springs compressing under his weight.
He laid out what he needed. First the Mossberg 500 pump-action, barrel ch the length of the magazine tube. The stock was cut almost to the pistol grip. Barnard had taken it off a Flats gangster, forced him to eat the barrel, then pulled the trigger. He had liked the way it lifted off the top of the gangster’s head and decided to keep the gun.
He cleaned it, checked the action, and pumped two cartridges into the chamber. Then he cleaned, oiled, and loaded the .38 he’d been carrying for the past couple of days. Lastly, he prepared the .32 and strapped it into an ankle holster.
He took a roll of duct tape, a pair of surgical gloves, a piece of cloth, and a couple of black plastic cable ties from the kit bag and stowed them in the small waist bag he’d attached to his belt.
He shrugged on a shoulder holster and slid the .38 into place. He drew it a couple of times, adjusting the hang of the holster until it was comfortable. Then he wrapped the sawed-off in a garish beach towel he found in the bathroom and put it in the kit bag. He zipped the bag, checked around the room to make sure he hadn’t left anything, then headed to the door.
He wasn’t coming back.
If she didn’t go now, she would lose her courage.
Susan Burn walked to the front door, carrying a small overnight suitcase. Mrs. Dollie was washing the picture window in the living room, vigorously working newspaper across the glass until it offered an unblemished view of the world outside.
“Can I help you, Mrs. Hill?”
Susan shook her head. “No thanks, Mrs. Dollie. I’m fine.” Susan tried a smile, but she could see from the concern on the older woman’s face that it was unconvincing.
Mrs. Dollie hesitated for a moment; then she stepped across the employer-employee divide and gave Susan a hug. Susan almost gave in to her tears, wanted to clutch onto this kindly woman and pour her heart out, sob until she was as dry as that burned mountain looming over them.
But she freed herself from the embrace and managed a more effective smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Dollie. For everything. Tell Matt I’ll see him soon.”
Mrs. Dollie nodded. “You look nicely after you, okay?”
Susan maneuvered herself carefully down the stairs, unlocked the door at the bottom of the garden, and went to the waiting taxi. When he saw her bulging stomach, the taxi driver, a middle-aged brown man, hurried around the vehicle to open the rear door for her. He helped her with her case.
“Where am I taking madam?”
“Gardens Clinic.”
The taxi pulled away, and Susan shut her eyes, the air-conditioning taking the edge off the heat.
She had made the decision that morning before Jack and Matt had left her alone in the house. She was going to the clinic to have her baby induced. Her doctor would support her decision after the episode with the detached placenta. She could no longer stand the waiting. Or seeing the effect her fragmenting marriage was having on her son. God, she owed Matt that at least.
After her daughter was born, she was going to call the U.S. Consulate. By then she hoped that Jack would be gone, to New Zealand or wherever the hell he wanted to run to.
When she had said good-bye to her husband that morning, she had made up her mind that it would be the last time she would see him.
When Benny Mongrel reported for his shift in the late afternoon, he went immediately to the kennel to fetch Bessie. She lay panting on the floor of the cage, a dry water bowl in front of her. These bastards couldn’t even see to that. He filled the bowl at a tap and watched her lap all the water down.
Then he hooked her up to her chain and walked her toward the truck. A voice stopped him. Ishmael Isaacs, the shift foreman, calling for him to wait. Isaacs came striding across the yard, his paramilitary uniform sharp with knife-edged creases. He carried a clipboard.
Isaacs gave him the once-over. “Boss tells me you were in there hassling him the other day.”
“I just wanted to ask him something.”
“Why didn’t you speak to me first?”
“You wasn’t here.”
“You don’t go over my head, ever. You understand me?” Benny Mongrel nodded. “Anyways, I’m pulling you off that building site, as of tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“You experienced enough now to go to one of the factories. One of the new boys can take your place.” Benny Mongrel nodded. Suited him. He turned to go. “By the way, you being assigned a new dog.”
Benny Mongrel stopped and faced the foreman. “Why?”
“Look at her.” Isaacs nudged Bessie’s back leg with the toe of a shiny boot. She whined. “Her hips is fucked, man. We had the vet in here today, and he say she no longer fit to work. Tonight is her last night.”
“Can I buy her then?”
“What for?”
“I want to keep her.”
Isaacs shook his head. “No. These dogs are trained attack dogs. They can’t be released into the civilian population.”
“So what will happen to her?”
Isaacs sneered at him. “What, you gone soft or something? Why do you give a fuck? Her days are numbered; she’ll be put down.”
He walked away, with the clipboard under his arm.
Benny Mongrel looked down at Bessie. So, that was it. It was decided. Tonight was the night they would escape. Only two days to payday, but that couldn’t be helped.
Benny Mongrel walked Bessie toward the truck.
/> The sun was low in the sky by the time Burn and Matt arrived at the house. When they walked inside, Mrs. Dollie was sitting in the kitchen.
Matt went up to her, carrying the fish. “Look what we got.”
She smiled at him. “That’s a very big fish.”
Burn was puzzled. “Where’s Susan?”
Mrs. Dollie looked uncomfortable. “She ask me if I would stay the night with Matt. She say she had to go somewhere.”
Burn’s mind was racing. Was she in touch with the consulate? Would the cops be here any moment? He calmed himself. “Where did she go, Mrs. Dollie?”
The woman looked at him, saying nothing, incapable of lying.
Burn spoke as reassuringly as he could. “Mrs. Dollie, I know Susan told you where she was going. I need to know. Please.”
She nodded. “She took a taxi. To the clinic.”
“Is she okay? Was she bleeding?”
“She seemed fine. It didn’t look like there was any problems.”
Burn headed for the phone and punched in the number of the clinic. He spoke to a woman in admissions, who refused to give out any information over the phone.
Burn grabbed his car keys. “Mrs. Dollie, I need to go to the clinic. Will you give Matt something to eat?”
Mrs. Dollie was looking at the fish. Burn shook his head. “No, just make him a hot dog or something. The fish can wait.”
He took the plastic bag and put it in the freezer. Then he headed down to the car.
Barnard sat in the Ford, a few doors up from Burn’s house. It was almost dark, and the streetlights were on. He had been there for two hours, tuning out the heat, the boredom, and the rash that was itching like a bastard beneath his balls.
An hour ago he had seen a taxi pull up. The blonde woman had come out alone. She had climbed into the back of the taxi, and it drove away. A few minutes later a half-breed in a domestic worker’s smock had come out and swept the deck. No sign of the man or the boy.
Then, ten minutes ago, the Jeep had passed him and turned into the garage. Burn driving, the kid strapped into the seat in the back.
Now the garage door rolled up, and the Jeep reversed out. The American on his own.
Barnard watched the Jeep slow at the stop sign, brake lights glowing red in the dusk. Then the Jeep turned down to Sea Point and disappeared.
The half-breed woman and the child were alone.
Barnard would wait a few minutes, until it was completely dark. Then he was going in.
CHAPTER 16
Burn walked up to the desk at the clinic. The young receptionist, a bottle blonde with dark roots, flashed a professional smile.
“I’m here to see my wife. Susan Hill. Where do I find her?”
The woman’s fingers flew over her keyboard. She hummed to herself. “Excuse me just a moment.”
She left him and went across to a telephone that was far enough away to be out of earshot. Her conversation was brief, punctuated by a number of nods and head shakes.
She came back without her smile. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Hill has requested that she have no visitors.”
“I’m her husband.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. Those are my instructions.”
Burn headed toward the stairs, ignoring the woman calling after him.
He took the stairs two at a time, until he found himself on the floor of private wards. He went to Susan’s previous ward, shoved open the door, and stuck his head in. A man sat next to a pale woman propped up on pillows. The woman was weeping and the man held her hand. Burn mumbled an apology and closed the door.
As he approached the next ward, a nursing sister and a uniformed security guard fell in beside him. The sister was a bruiser who looked like she could go ten rounds with Mike Tyson in his prime. She did the talking. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to leave.”
“I want to see my wife.” Burn tried to push past them. The security guard, a big man, laid a warning hand on Burn’s shoulder. Another guard hurried toward them, speaking into a walkie-talkie.
The sister was trying to calm Burn. “Your wife instructed us that she doesn’t want to see you right now.”
The second security man joined them. Burn held up his hands in supplication. “Okay. Fine. At least tell me how she is.”
“She’s fine. Everything is normal.”
“Then why is she here?”
“The procedure will be perfectly routine.”
“What procedure?”
“Your wife, given her condition, has requested that we induce labor. The child will be born a few weeks premature, by cesarean section if necessary, but there is no danger.”
“And when will this happen?”
“Tomorrow morning.” The sister tried a smile. It looked like she was spitting out a mouth guard. “I really think it’s best if you leave. I’m sure once the child is born, and your wife is less … less emotional, she’ll want to see you.”
Burn nodded. He turned for the stairs, the two security men flanking him.
Fires had sprung up again on the mountain, tongues of flame licking the night sky, and the smell of burning reached Benny Mongrel’s nostrils. He was tense, now that the time had come. If they left now, they would have nine hours to make their escape.
Benny Mongrel was about to attach the chain to Bessie’s lead and start the walk into their new life when he saw the fat cop hauling himself down the road. Benny Mongrel stayed still. Waiting. He saw the cop ring the buzzer at the American’s house, heard him saying something into the intercom.
Barnard filled the recess in the wall as he pressed the buzzer, his finger bulging like a dick in a condom through the surgical gloves. After a moment he heard a woman’s voice. The half-breed domestic, nervous. Asking who was there.
Barnard held his police ID up to the camera, tilting it so that it caught the light above the door. “Police. Let me in, please.”
The woman’s voice was tentative, full of Cape Flats’ wariness of the cops. “Mr. and Mrs. Hill aren’t home.”
“I know. That’s fine. I need to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Listen, lady, what is your name?”
Hesitation, then a nervous reply. “Mrs. Dollie.”
“Mrs. Dollie, if you don’t want trouble from me and your boss, you better open this door now. You hear me?”
The threat in his voice worked, and the door clicked open. Barnard stepped inside and shut it after him.
Time to move.
Benny Mongrel hooked Bessie to the chain and clicked his tongue softly. “Come, Bessie. Let’s go.” The old dog heaved herself to her feet, taking a while to get movement into her back legs.
They had a long walk ahead of them. Benny Mongrel knew that he didn’t have a hope of a taxi driver letting him and the dog on board. They would have to do it on foot, stopping frequently so the old dog could rest. Benny Mongrel and Bessie walked down the uncompleted stairway, between the piles of sand and rubble, toward the gate and freedom.
Then a red Sniper armed response car pulled up. Right under the streetlight. Benny Mongrel saw Ishmael Isaacs at the wheel, looking straight at him.
Burn sat in his car outside the clinic. He didn’t know what to do. His mind had been made up; he was ready to shove the pain of leaving his family into some deep vault and get on the plane in the morning.
Now things had changed. Susan was in the clinic. Their daughter would be born the next day. Burn couldn’t leave Matt. He trusted Mrs. Dollie, but there was no way he could just leave the boy with her and fly away. Not until Susan was back at home, in some condition to look after herself and Matt. It came almost as a relief, the feeling that the decision had been made for him. He was staying.
He started the car.
Isaacs lit a Camel and took a long pull before blowing the smoke in Benny Mongrel’s face. He sat behind the wheel, the Sniper car idling, staring up at Benny Mongrel.
ÜWhere you going?”
�
��Just patrolling.”
“Patrolling?” The sneer in Isaacs’s voice grated on Benny Mongrel. Another time, another place, this bastard would be on his way to Allah. “Where you patrolling?”
Benny Mongrel kept himself cool. Not long now. “We walk the front here every hour.”
Isaacs nodded. “Okay.” He puffed, exhaled. “With the fires we got extra units out. These people here are nervous their bloody houses will burn down.”
Benny Mongrel said nothing, keeping his mind blank the way he had learned in prison.
Isaacs put the car in gear. “I might make a turn here later, so don’t patrol too far, okay?” Isaacs laughed to himself and took off with an unnecessary burn of rubber.
Asshole.
Now they would have to wait.
The half-breed maid stood behind the security gate, watching Barnard as he wheezed up to the front door of the house. He saw she was middle-aged, and Muslim, judging from her head scarf. He had no time for them, bloody heathens.
“Good evening, Mrs. Dollie.”
“Good evening.”
“I’m Inspector Barnard.” He kept his hands, in the surgical gloves, out of sight.
“Yes?”
“Can I come inside, please?”
She was unsure. “I can’t let anyone in. My boss has told me that.”
“I’m not anyone. I’m the police.”
Barnard tried to look reassuring. It spooked her more. She shook her head, stepping back from the security gate, reaching into her pocket for her cell phone. “I’m going to phone Mr. Hill. You can talk to him.”
Before she could move out of reach, Barnard stuck a meaty arm between the bars—it just squeezed through—and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her onto the tips of her sensible shoes, her feet kicking. Her eyes bulged with terror as she gasped for air. He grabbed her phone and pocketed it.