Devil's Peak bg-1

by Deon Meyer

  He draped the last white shirt over the chair and then stood indecisively in the center of the room.

  He could not stay here.

  He needed to pass the time until he could attempt sleep again. And he must think through this matter of the woman.

  He picked up his wallet, pushed it in his trouser pocket, took the key card for his room and went out the door, down the stairs and outside. He walked around the corner to Dock Road, where the people were still walking to their weekend. He fell in behind a group of five colored men and kept pace with them up Coen Steytler. He eavesdropped on their conversation, following the easy, directionless talk with close attention all the way to Adderley.

  * * *

  It was not André Marais’s fault that Operation Woollies descended into total chaos. She acted out her role as a lonely, middle-aged woman skillfully and with vague, careful interest as the man began to chat with her between the wine racks and the snack displays.

  Later she would think that she had expected an older man. This one was barely thirty: tallish, slightly plump, with a dark, five o’clock shadow. His choice of clothes was strange—the style of his checked jacket was out of date, the green shirt just a shade too bright, brown shoes unpolished. “Harmless” was the word on her tongue, but she knew appearance counted for nothing when it came to crime.

  He asked her, in English with an Afrikaans accent, if she knew where the filter coffee was, and she replied that she thought it was that way.

  With a shy smile he told her he was addicted to filter coffee and she replied that usually she bought instant as she could not afford expensive coffee. He said he couldn’t manage without a good cup of filter coffee in the morning, charmingly apologetic, as if it were sinful. “Italian Blend,” he said.

  Oddly, she explained to Griessel later, at that moment she quite liked him. There was a vulnerability to him, a humanity that found an echo in herself.

  Their trolleys were side by side, hers with ten or twelve items, his empty. “Oh?” she said, fairly certain he was not the one they were looking for. She wanted to get rid of him.

  “Yes, it’s very strong,” he said. “It keeps me alert when I am on the Flying Squad.”

  She felt her guts contract, because she knew he was lying. She knew policemen, she could spot them a mile away and he was not one, she knew.

  “Are you a policeman?” she asked, trying to sound impressed.

  “Captain Johan Reyneke,” he said, putting out a rather feminine hand and smiling through prominent front teeth. “What is your name?”

  “André,” she said, and felt her heart beat faster. Captains did not do Flying Squad—he must have a reason for lying.

  “André,” he repeated, as if to memorize it.

  “My mother wanted to use her father’s name, and then she only had daughters.” She used her standard explanation, although there was no question in his voice. With difficulty she kept her voice level.

  “Oh, I like that. It’s different. What work do you do, André?”

  “Oh, admin, nothing exciting.”

  “And your husband?”

  She looked into his eyes and lied. “I am divorced,” she said, and looked down, as if she were ashamed.

  “Never mind,” he said, “I’m divorced too. My children live in Johannesburg.”

  She was going to say her children were out of the house already, part of the fabrication she and Griessel had discussed, but there was a voice from behind, a woman’s voice, quite shrill. “André?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and recognized the woman, Molly, couldn’t recall her surname. She was the mother of one of her son’s school friends, one of those over-eager, terribly involved parents. Oh God, she thought, not now.

  “Hi,” said André Marais, glancing at the man and seeing his eyes narrow, and she pulled a face, trying to communicate to him that she would rather not have this interruption.

  “How are you, André? What are you doing here? What a coincidence.” Molly came up to her, basket in hand, before she realized that the two trolleys so close together meant something. She read the body language of the man and the woman and put two and two together. “Oh, sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt something.”

  André knew she had to get rid of the woman, because she could see in the clenching of Reyneke’s hands that he was tense. The whole affair was on a knifepoint and she wanted to say: “Yes, you are interrupting something” or “Just go away.” But before she could find the right words, Molly’s face cleared and she said: “Oh, you must be working together—are you also in the police?” and she held out her hand to Reyneke. “I’m Molly Green. Are you on an operation or something?”

  Time stood still for André Marais. She could see the outstretched hand, which Reyneke ignored, his eyes moving from one woman to the other in slow motion; she could actually see the gears working in his brain. Then he bumped his trolley forward in her direction and he shouted something at her as the trolley collided with her and she lost her balance.

  Molly screamed incoherently.

  André staggered against the wine rack, bottles fell and smashed on the floor. She fell on her bottom, arms windmilling for balance, then she grabbed at her handbag, got her fingers on it and searched for her service pistol while her head told her she must warn Griessel. Her other hand was on the little microphone that she held to her mouth and said, “It’s him, it’s him!”

  Reyneke was beside her and jerked the pistol from her hand. She tried to rise, but her sandals slipped in the wine and she fell back with her elbow on a glass shard. She felt a sharp pain. Twisting her body sideways she saw which way he ran. “Main entrance!” she shouted, but realizing her head was turned away from the microphone, she grabbed it again. “Main entrance, stop him!” she screamed. “He has my firearm!” Then she saw the blood pouring from her arm in a thick stream. When she lifted up her arm to inspect it she saw it was cut to the bone.

  * * *

  Griessel and Cliffy leapt up and ran when they heard Molly Green scream over the radio. Cliffy missed the turn, bumping against a table where two men were eating sushi. “Sorry, sorry,” he said and saw Griessel ahead, Z88 in hand, saw the faces of bystanders and heard cries here and there. They raced, shoes slapping on the floor. He heard Marais’s voice on the microphone: “Main entrance, stop him!”

  Griessel arrived at the wide door of Woolworths, service pistol gripped in both hands and aimed at something inside the store, but Cliffy was trying to brake and he slipped on the smooth floor. Just before he collided with Griessel, he spotted the suspect, jacket flapping, big pistol in his hand, who stopped ten paces away from them, also battling not to slip.

  But Cliffy and Griessel were in a pile on the ground. A shot went off and a bullet whined away somewhere.

  Cliffy heard Griessel curse, heard high, shrill screams around them. “Sorry, Benny, sorry,” he said, looking around and seeing the suspect had turned around and headed for the escalator. Cupido and Keyter, pistols in hand, were coming down the other one, but it was in fact the ascending escalator. For an instant it was extremely funny, like a scene from an old Charlie Chaplin film: the two policemen leaping furiously down the steps, but not making much progress. On their faces, the oddest expressions of frustration, seriousness, purposefulness—and the sure knowledge that they were making complete idiots of themselves.

  Griessel had sprung up and set off after the suspect. Cliffy got to his feet and followed, up the escalator with big leaps to the top. Griessel had turned right and spotted the fugitive on the way to the exit on the second level. He heard Griessel shout, glanced back. Griessel could see the fear on the man’s face and then he stopped and aimed his pistol at Griessel. The shot rang out and something plucked at Cliffy, knocked him off his feet and threw him against Men’s Suits: Formal. He knew he was hit somewhere in the chest, he was entangled in trousers and jackets, looking down at the hole near his heart. He was going to die, thought Cliffy Mketsu, he was shot in the heart. He couldn’t die now. Griessel must help. He rolled over. He felt heavy. But light-headed.
He moved garments with his right arm; the left was without feeling. He saw Griessel tackle the fugitive. A male mannequin in beachwear tottered and fell. A garish sunhat flew through the air in an elegant arch, a display of T-shirts collapsed. He saw Griessel’s right hand rise and fall. Griessel was beating him with his pistol. He could see the blood spray from here. Up and down went Griessel’s hand. It would make Benny feel better; he needed to release that rage. Hit him, Benny, hit him—he’s the bastard who shot me.

  * * *

  Thobela Mpayipheli was waiting for the traffic lights on the corner of Adderley and Riebeeck Street when he heard a voice at his elbow.

  “Why djoo look so se-ed?”

  A street child stood there, hands on lean, boyish hips. Ten, eleven years old?

  “Do I look sad?”

  “Djy lyk like the ket stole the dairy. Gimme sum money for bred.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “What’s

  djor

  name?”

  “Thobela.”

  “Gimme sum money for bred, Thobela.”

  “First tell me your name.”

  “Moses.”

  “What are you going to do with the money?”

  “What did I say it was for?”

  Then there was another one, smaller, thinner, in outsize clothes, nose running. Without thinking Thobela took out his handkerchief.

  “Five rand,” said the little one, holding out his hand.

  “Fokkof, Randall, I saw him first.”

  He wanted to wipe Randall’s nose but the boy jumped back. “Don’ touch me,” said the child.

  “I want to wipe your nose.”

  “What for?”

  It was a good question.

  “Djy gonna give us money?” asked Moses.

  “When did you last eat?”

  “Less see, what month is this?”

  In the dusk of the late afternoon another skinny figure appeared, a girl with a bush of frizzy tangled hair. She said nothing, just stood with outstretched hand, the other holding the edges of a large, tattered man’s jacket together.

  “Agh, fock,” said Moses. “I had this under control.”

  “Are you related?” asked Thobela.

  “How would

  we

  know?” said Moses, and the other two giggled.

  “Do you want to eat?”

  “Jee-zas,” said Moses. “Just my luck. A fokken’ stupid darkie.”

  “You swear a lot.”

  “I’m a street kid, for fuck’s sake.”

  He looked at the trio. Grimy, barefoot. Bright, living eyes. “I’m going to the Spur. Do you want to come?”

  Dumbstruck.

  “Well?”

  “Are you a pervert?” asked Moses with narrowed eyes.

  “No, I’m hungry.”

  The girl jabbed an elbow in Moses’s ribs and made big eyes at him.

  “The Spur will throw us out,” said Randall.

  “I’ll say you are my children.”

  For a moment all three were quiet and then Moses laughed, a chuckling sound rising through the scales. “Our daddy.”

  Thobela began to walk. “Are you coming?”

  It was ten or twelve paces further on that the girl’s small hand clasped a finger of his right hand and stayed there, all the way to the Spur Steak Ranch in Strand Street.

  22.

  She sat staring at the window without seeing.

  “I thought I was cutting myself because of my father, at first,” she said softly, and sighed, deeply, remembering. “Or because of Viljoen. I thought I was handling the work and that I was okay with it.”

  She turned and looked at him, back in the present. “I never clicked it was the work that made me like that. Not then. I had to get out of it first.”

  He nodded, slowly, but did not respond.

  “And then things changed, with Carlos,” she said.

  * * *

  Carlos phoned early, just after nine, to say he wanted to book her for the whole night. “Carlos does not want money fight. Three thousand, hokay? But you must look sexy, conchita. Very sexy, we are having a formal party. Black dress, but show your tits. Carlos wants to brag. My guys will pick you up. Seven o’clock.” He put the phone down.

  She waited for her anger to rise and fade. She sat on the edge of the bed, with the cell phone still to her ear. She felt the futility, knew that her anger was useless.

  Sonia came up to her, doll in hand. “Are we going to ride bicycle, Mamma?”

  “No, my love, we are going shopping.” The child skipped off towards her room as if shopping was her favorite activity.

  “Hey, you.”

  Sonia halted in the doorway and peeped over her shoulder mischievously.

  “Me?” She knew her part in this ritual.

  “Yes, you. Come here.”

  She ran across the carpet, still in her green pajamas, into her mother’s arms.

  “You’re my love,” Christine began their rhyme and kissed her neck.

  “You’re my life,” giggled Sonia.

  “And your beauty makes me shiver.”

  “You’re my heaven, you’re my house.” Her head was on Christine’s bosom.

  “You’re my only paradise,” she said and hugged the child tight. “Go and get dressed. It’s time to shop till we drop.”

  “Shoptill hedrop?”

  “Shoptill hedrop. That’s right.”

  Three years and four months. Just another two years, then school. Just another two years and her mother would be done with whoring.

  * * *

  She phoned Carlton Hair and Mac for late-afternoon appointments and took Sonia along to Hip Hop across Cavendish Square. The sales people paid more attention to the pretty child with blonde ringlets than they did to her.

  She stood in front of the mirror in a black dress. The neckline was low, the hem high, bare back.

  “That is very sexy,” said the colored shop assistant.

  “Isn’t,” said Sonia. “Mamma looks pretty.”

  They laughed. “I’ll take it.”

  They were too early for her hair and make-up. She took her daughter to Naartjie in the Cavendish Center. “Now you can choose a dress for yourself.”

  “I also want a black one.”

  “They don’t have black ones.”

  “I also want a black one.”

  “Black ones are just for grown-ups, girl.”

  “I also want to be grown-up.”

  “No you don’t. Trust me.”

  * * *

  The carer looked in disapproval at her outfit when she dropped Sonia off.

  “I don’t know how late the function will finish. It’s best if she sleeps over.”

  “In that dress it will finish very late.”

  She ignored the comment, hugged her daughter tight. “Be good. Mamma will see you in the morning.”

  “Tatta, Mamma.”

  Just before the door closed behind her, she heard Sonia say: “My mamma looks very pretty.”

  “Do you think so?” said the carer in a sour voice.

  * * *

  It was a weird evening. In the entertainment area of the house in Camps Bay, inside and outside beside the pool, were about sixty people, mostly men in evening suits. Here and there was a blonde with breasts on display or long legs showing through split dresses and ending in high heels. Like décor, she thought, pretty furniture. They hung on a man’s arm, smiled, said nothing.

  Quickly she grasped that that was what Carlos expected of her. He was ecstatic over her appearance. “Ah, conchita, you look perfect,” he said when she arrived.

  It was the United Nations: Spanish-speaking, Chinese, or Oriental at least, small men who followed her with hungry eyes, Arabs in togas—or whatever you called them—who ignored her, each with his mustache. Two Germans. English. One American.

  Carlos, the Host. Jovial, smiling, joking, but she felt sure he was tense, nervous even. She followed his example, held a glass, but did not drink.

  “You know who these people are?” he asked her later, whispering in her ear.

  “No.”

  “C
arlos will tell you later.”

  Food and drink came and went. She could see the men were no longer sober, but only because the conversation and laughter were a bit louder. Ten o’clock, eleven, twelve.

  She stood alone at a pillar. Carlos was somewhere in a kitchen organizing more food to be sent. She felt a hand slide under her dress between her legs, fingers groping. She froze. The hand was gone. She looked over her shoulder. A Chinese man stood there, small and dapper, sniffing deeply at his fingers. He smiled at her and walked away. All she could think of was that Carlos must not see that.