Devil's Peak bg-1

by Deon Meyer

  Below the roof ridge was a neon sign with the name and a bright yellow rose. Rap music thumped inside. There were no curtains in the windows. Light shone through and made long tracks across the parking lot, joyful lighthouses on a treacherous black reef.

  Inside they sat densely bunched around cheap tables. He spotted a few European tourists with the forced bonhomie of nervous people, like missionaries in a village of cannibals. He threaded his way through and saw two or three seats vacant at the pinewood bar. Two young black barmen busied themselves filling orders behind it. Waitresses slipped expertly up to them, each wearing a yellow plastic rose flapping from the thin T-shirt fabric above their chests.

  “What’s your pleasure, big dog?” the barman asked him in a vaguely American accent.

  Biehg dawg.

  “Do you have Windhoek?” he asked in his mother tongue.

  “Lager or Light, my friend?”

  “Are you a Xhosa?”

  “Yes.”

  He would have liked to say, “Then speak Xhosa to me,” but he refrained, because he needed information.

  “Lager, please.”

  The beer and a glass appeared before him. “Eleven rand eighty.”

  Eleven rand eighty? Alchemists Inc. He gave him fifteen. “Keep the change.”

  He raised the glass and drank.

  * * *

  “I hope you will still feel like applauding when I have finished,” said Griessel when the ovation died down. “Because tonight I will say what I should have said in nineteen ninety-six. And you won’t necessarily like what you hear.” He glanced at Vera, the colored woman with the sympathetic smile who was chairing the meeting. A sea of heads was turned towards him, every face an echo of Vera’s unconditional support. He felt extremely uncomfortable.

  “I have two problems with the AA.” His voice filled the hall as if he were there alone. “One is that I don’t feel I fit in here. I am a policeman. Murder is my specialty. Every day.” He gripped the back of the blue plastic chair in front of him. He saw his knuckles were white with tension and he looked up at Vera, not knowing where else to look. “And I drink to make the voices stop.”

  Vera nodded as if she understood. He looked for another focal point. There were posters on the wall.

  “We scream when we die,” he said, soft and slow, because he had to express it right. “We all cling onto life. We hang on very tight, and when someone pries our fingers loose, we fall.” He saw his hands were demonstrating this in front of him; two fierce claws opening up. “That is when we scream. When we realize it won’t help to grab anymore because we are falling too fast.”

  The foghorn at Mouille Point mourned far and deep. It was deathly quiet in the church hall. He took a deep breath and looked at them. There was discomfort; the cheerfulness had frozen.

  “I hear it. I can’t help it. I hear it when I walk in on a scene while they are lying there. The scream hangs there—waiting for someone to hear it. And when you hear it, it gets in your head and it stays there.”

  Someone coughed nervously to his left.

  “It is the most dreadful sound,” he said, and looked at them, because now he did want their support. They avoided his eyes.

  “I never talked about it,” he said. Vera shifted as if she wanted to say something. But she mustn’t speak now. “People will think I’m not right in the head. That’s what

  you

  think. Right now. But I’m not crazy. If I were, alcohol would not help. It would make it worse. Alcohol helps. It helps when I walk in on a murder scene. It helps me get through the day. It helps when I go home and see my wife and children and I hear them laughing, but I know that scream lies waiting inside them as well. I know it is waiting there and one day it will come out and I am scared that I am the one who will hear it.”

  He shook his head. “That would be too much to bear.”

  He looked down at the floor and whispered: “And the thing that frightens me most is that I know that scream is inside

  me.

  ”

  He looked up into Vera’s eyes. “I drink because it takes away that fear too.”

  * * *

  “When last was John Khoza here?” Thobela asked the barman.

  “Who?”

  “John Khoza.”

  “Yo, man, there are so many dawgs coming in here.”

  He sighed and took out a fifty-rand note, pushing it with his palm over the bar counter.

  “Try to remember.”

  The note disappeared. “Sort of a thin dude with bad skin?”

  “That’s him.”

  “He mostly talks to the Boss Man—you’ll have to ask him.”

  “When last did he come to talk to the Boss Man?”

  “I work shifts, man, I’m not here all the time. Haven’t seen John-dawg for ages.” He moved off to serve someone else.

  Thobela swallowed more beer. The bitter taste was familiar, the music was too loud and the bass notes vibrated in his chest. Across the room near the window was a table of seven. Raucous laughter. A muscular colored man with complex tattoos on his arms balanced on a stool. He downed a big jug of beer, shouted something, although the words were lost, and held the empty jug aloft.

  It was all too hollow, too contrived for Thobela, this joviality. It always had been, since Kazakhstan, although that was a long time ago. A hundred and twenty black brothers in a Soviet training camp who drank and sang and laughed at night. And longed for home, bone-tired. Comrades and warriors.

  The barman came past again.

  “Where can I find the Boss Man?”

  “It can be arranged.” He stood there expectant, without batting an eyelid.

  He took out another fifty. The barman did not move. Another one. A palm swept the money away.

  “Give me one minute.”

  * * *

  “The second problem is with the Twelve Steps. I know them off by heart and I can understand them working for other people. Step One is easy, because I fu . . . , I know my life is out of control, alcohol has taken over. Step Two says a Power greater than ourselves can heal us. Step Three says just turn over our will and our lives to Him.”

  “Amen,” said a couple of them.

  “The problem is,” he said with as much apology as he could put into his voice, “I don’t believe there is such a Power. Not in this city.”

  Even Vera avoided his gaze. For a moment longer he stood in the silence. Then he sighed. “That is all I can say.” He sat down.

  * * *

  By the end of his second beer he saw the Boss Man approaching him from across the room, a fat black man with a shaven head and a gold ring on every finger. He would stop at a table here and there, almost shouting as he spoke to the guests—from the bar his words were drowned in the racket—until he reached Thobela. There were tiny drops of perspiration on his face as if he had exerted himself. Jewelry glittered as he offered his right hand.

  “Do I know you?”

  His voice was remarkably high and feminine and his eyes small and alert. “Madison Madikiza; they call me the Boss Man.”

  “Tiny.” He used a nickname from the past.

  “Tiny? Then my name is Skinny,” said the Boss Man. He had an infectious giggle that screwed up his eyes and shook his entire body as he hoisted it onto a bar stool. A tall glass materialized in front of him, the contents clear as water.

  “Cheers.” He drank deeply and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, waving an index finger up and down in Thobela’s direction. “I know you.”

  “Ah . . .” His pulse accelerated as he focused more sharply on the man’s features. He did not want to be caught unawares. Recognition meant trouble. There would be connotations, a track with a start and an end.

  “No, don’t tell me, it will come to me. Give me a minute.” The little eyes danced over him, a frown creased the bald head. “Tiny . . . Tiny . . . Weren’t you . . . ? No, that was another fellow.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “No, wait, I must place you. Hell, I never forget a face . . . Just tell me, what is your line?”

  “This and that,”
he said cautiously.

  The fingers snapped. “Orlando Arendse,” said the Boss Man. “You rode shotgun for Orlando.”

  Relief. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Memory like an elephant, my friend. Ninety-eight, ninety-seven, thereabouts, I still worked for Shakes Senzeni, God rest his soul. He had a chop shop in Gugs and I was his foreman. Orlando asked for a sit-down over division of territory, d’you remember? Big meeting in Stikland and you sat next to Orlando. Afterwards Shakes said that was clever, we couldn’t speak Xhosa among ourselves. Fuck, my friend, small world. I hear Orlando has retired, the Nigerians have taken over the drug trade.”

  “I last saw Orlando two or three years ago.” He could remember the meeting, but not the man in front of him. There was something else, a realization of alternatives—if he had remained with Orlando, where would that have left him now?

  “So, what do you do now?”

  He could keep to his cover with more conviction now. “I am freelance. I put jobs together . . .” What would he have done when Orlando retired? Operated a nightclub? Run something on the periphery of the law. How close to a potential truth was the story he was fabricating now?

  “A broker?”

  “A broker.” There was a time when it was possible, when it could have been true. But that lay in the past. What lay ahead? Where was he going?

  “And you have something for Johnny Khoza?”

  “Maybe.”

  Shouts rang out above the music and they looked around. The strong colored man was dancing on the table now with his shirt off. A dragon tattoo spat faded red fire across his chest while bystanders urged him on.

  Boss Man Madikiza shook his head. “Trouble brewing,” he said, and turned back to Thobela. “I don’t think Johnny is available, my friend. I hear he’s on the run. They got him in Ciskei for AR and manslaughter. He did a service station—Johnny never thinks big. So when the court case went wrong, it cost him big money to buy a key, you know what I’m saying. I don’t know where he is, but he is definitively not in the Cape. He would have come creeping in here long ago if he was. In any case, I have better talent on my books—just tell me what you need.”

  For the first time the possibility occurred to him that he might not get them. The possibility that his search could be fruitless, that they had crept into a hole somewhere where he could not get at them. The frustration pressed heavily down on him, making him feel sluggish and impotent. “The thing is,” he said, although he already knew it would not work, “Khoza has information on the potential job. A contact on the inside. Is there no one who would know where he is?”

  “He has a brother . . . I don’t know where.”

  “No one else?” Where to now? If he couldn’t find Khoza and Ramphele? What then? With an effort he shook off the feeling and concentrated on what the Boss Man was saying.

  “I don’t know too much about him. Johnny is small time, one of many who try to impress me. They are all the same—come in here with big attitude, throw their money around in front of the girls like they were big gangstas, but they do service stations. No class. If Johnny has told you he has a contact on the inside for a serious score, you should be careful.”

  “I will.” The farm was not an option. He could not go back. With this frustration in him it would drive him insane. What was he going to do?

  “Where can I get hold of you? If I hear something?”

  “I will come back.”

  The Boss Man’s little eyes narrowed. “You don’t trust me?”

  “I trust nobody.”

  The little laugh bubbled up, champagne from a barrel, and a marshmallow hand patted him on the shoulder. “Well said, my friend . . .”

  There was a crash louder than the music. The dancing dragon’s table had broken beneath him and he fell spectacularly, to the great enjoyment of the onlookers. He lay on the floor holding his beer glass triumphantly above him.

  “Fuck,” said the Boss Man and got up from the stool. “I knew things would get out of hand.”

  The colored man stood up slowly and gestured an apology in Madikiza’s direction. He nodded back with a forced smile.

  “He will pay for the table, the shit.” He turned to Thobela. “Do you know who that is?”

  “No idea.”

  “Enver Davids. Yesterday he walked away from a baby rape charge. On a technicality. Fucking police misplaced his file, can you believe it—a genuine administrative fuck-up; you don’t buy your way out of that one. He’s more bad news than the

  Financial Mail.

  General of the Twenty-Sevens. He got AIDS in jail from a

  wyfie.

  More cell time than Vodacom, and they parole him and he goes and rapes a baby, supposed to cure his AIDS . . . Now he comes and drinks here, because his own people will string him up, the fucking filthy shit.”

  “Enver Davids,” said Thobela slowly.

  “Fucking filthy shit,” said the Boss Man again, but Thobela was beyond hearing. Something was beginning to make sense. He could see a way forward.

  * * *

  His hands trembled on the steering wheel. They had a life of their own. He felt cold in the warm summer night and he knew it was withdrawal. He knew it was beginning—it was going to be a terrible night in the flat of Josephine Mary McAllister.

  He reached out to the radio, locating the knob with difficulty, and pressed it. Music. He kept the volume low. At this time of night Sea Point’s streets were alive with cars and pedestrians, people going somewhere with purpose. Except for him.

  They had made a circle around him once everyone was finished. They gathered around him, touched him as if to transfer something to him through their hands. Strength. Or belief? Faces, too many faces. Some faces told a story in the rings around their eyes and mouths, like the rings of a tree. Heartbreaking stories. Others were masks hiding secrets. But the eyes, all the eyes were the same—piercing, glowing with willpower, like someone in floodwaters hanging on to a thin green branch. He will see, they said. He will see. What he did see was that he was part of The Last Chance Club. He felt the same desperation, the same dragging floodwaters.

  The tremor ran through him like a fever. He could hear their voices and he turned the music up. Rhythm filled the car. Louder. Rock, Afrikaans, he tried to follow the words.

  Ek wil huis toe gaan na Mamma toe,

  Ek wil huis toe gaan na Mamma toe.

  Too much synthesizer, he thought, not quite right, but good.

  Die rivier is vol, my trane rol.

  He parked in front of the block of flats, but didn’t get out. He allowed his fingers to run down the imaginary neck of a base guitar—that’s what the song needed, more base. Lord, it would be good to hold a base guitar again. The trembling limb jerked to a rhythm all of its own and made him want to laugh out loud.

  ’n Bokkie wat vanaand by my wil le a . . .

  Nostalgia. Where were the days, where was the twenty-year-old little fucker who throttled a base guitar in the police dance band until the very walls shook?

  Sy kan maar le a, ek is ’n loslappie.

  Emotion. His eyes burned. Fuck, no, he wasn’t a crybaby. He banged the radio off, opened the door and got out fast, so he could get away from this place.

  11.

  The minister wondered if she was telling the whole truth—he searched between her words and in her body language. He could see the anger, old and new, the involuntary physical self-consciousness. The continuous, practiced offering of mouth, breasts and hair. Her eyes had a strange shape, almost oriental. And they were small. Her features were not delicate, but had an attractive regularity. Her neck was not thin, but strong. Her gaze sometimes skittered away as though she might betray something: a thirst for acceptance? Or was there something rotten? Or spoilt, like a child still wanting her own way, craving attention and respect, an ego feeding on alternating current—now brave, now incredibly fragile.

  Fascinating.

  * * *

  He phoned his wife just after ten, when he knew she would have had her bath and would be sitting on their be
d with her dressing gown pulled above her knees smoothing cream on her legs, and then turning to the mirror and doing the same to her face with delicate movements of her fingertips. He wanted to be there now to watch her do it, because his memories of that were not recent.

  “I am sober,” was the first thing he said.

  “That’s good,” she said, but without enthusiasm, so that he didn’t know how to continue.

  “Anna . . .”

  She did not speak.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with feeling.

  “So am I, Benny.” Without inflection.

  “Don’t you want to know where I am?”

  “No.”

  He nodded as if he had been expecting it.