Choice of Weapon

by Craig Marten-Zerf

  Chapter 3

  Only a few moments after Garrett and Manon had greeted each other the children all came back from school. A tidal wave of noise and youthful energy entered the building, sweeping all before it. There were twenty-six of them. By chance equally divided into male and female. All between nine and twelve years old. The majority were black Africans but there was a smattering of White and Indian children as well. They were introduced to Garrett en masse, greeting him together, their combined voices stretching his name so it came out as ‘Gaaretteh’ instead of the more abrupt original.

  It was close to lunchtime so three of the oldest girls got to preparing food in the small kitchen upstairs. The rest of the children, obviously working to some sort of roster, did general cleaning. Sweeping and polishing and tidying. Garrett was impressed. The place was as squared away as an army barracks. But with incongruous touches. A bowl of flowers. A brightly colored child’s drawing. A teddy bear.

  There was no dining area so each child queued solemnly for their food and then sat on the edge of their bed. When all were seated sister Manon asked Garrett to say grace.

  Without thinking he bowed his head and spoke. ‘Benedic, Domine, nos et dona tua, quae de largitate tua sumus sumpturi,et concede, ut illis salubriter nutriti tibi debitum obsequium praestare valeamus,per Christum Dominum nostrum.’

  There was a pause while none of the children moved, unsure of whether the grace was over or not. Garrett scowled to himself in embarrassment and quickly carried on. ‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’

  There was a chorus of Amen’s and a rattling of cutlery as youthful hunger was assuaged as quickly as possible. The meal was a simple one. Stiff maize meal porridge served with a sheshebo, spicy onion and tomato gravy with small pieces of bacon chopped into it. Water to wash it down. Filling, nourishing. Cheap.

  After the meal the children washed up and then sat cross-legged on their beds to do homework. Garrett and Manon went to her bedroom upstairs and, with the door open, she sat on her bed and he on the single wicker chair in the corner of the room. Garrett tapped two cigarettes out of his pack of Gauloise, lit both and handed one to Manon. She took it with a smile.

  ‘How do you know that I still smoke?’

  Garrett shrugged. ‘You’re French.’

  ‘Belgian.’

  ‘Same difference.’

  She laughed. It was a private joke between them. Not funny, but personal.

  Garrett pointed to a small tin ashtray on the windowsill. ‘So, Manon, why am I here?’

  She took a drag on the Gauloise before she answered. Her lips pink as they wrapped around the white, unfiltered cigarette. The color, virginal, intimate. And when she let the smoke trickle out of her open mouth Garrett had to look away. ‘Children are going missing,’ she said.

  ‘Have you told the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  Another drag of hot smoke. Pout. Release.

  ‘Orphans are so far down the list of priorities that they don’t exist. They ran away. Decided that they didn’t like it here anymore. Just left.’

  ‘Could that be true?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes. But not often. Three have gone missing from here in the last two months. One, maybe two a year, acceptable. Not only that, there are four other Sunlight Childrens’ homes. The same has happened to them. Almost twenty children in two months.’

  ‘What about the Pope?’

  Manon laughed. ‘You mean the Cardinal.’

  ‘Whatever. Chief holy dude. Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘I am a nun, Garrett.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘When you were in the army, could a private have gotten permission to see a general to talk about some groundless suspicions?’

  Garrett shook his head and lit another cigarette off the remains of the first. He didn’t offer Manon a second. She never smoked two in a row.

  ‘I’m not sure that I can help. I’m no detective. I’m a…was a soldier. Now I fix fences, carry things, look after game. Live.’

  ‘I can help.’

  ‘Sister Manon. Detective extraordinaire.’

  ‘Be nice.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Anyway, I didn’t mean me, personally. Do you remember Brain Davies?’

  Garrett peered intently at the glowing tip of his cigarette. ‘The Dentist, my sergeant in Sierra. Of course.’

  ‘He lives here. In Johannesburg. He moved here after the war. About three years ago. Owns a big detective agency. Done very well for himself. I spoke to him and he told me to contact you.’

  Garrett felt a twist of disappointment. The call had not been solely of Manon’s doing. Would she have called at all if it hadn’t been suggested? And what did it matter? She was a nun. Forbidden. Regardless of his irrepressible feelings for her.

  ‘I would have called you anyway,’ she continued. ‘I truly believe that you are the only one who can help.’

  Relief. A warm balm.

  ‘So why did he say to call me?’

  ‘Kindness, I think. He doesn’t believe me. He grew up in an orphanage and said that he ran away all the time. Says I should spend my time helping the ones who stay. Forget the runaways.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Sort of. A lot more swear words.’

  Garrett laughed. ‘He always had a foul mouth.’

  ‘He said that I should call you. Said that he would help you look into it. But really, I think that he simply wanted someone else to tell me that I was wrong. Anyway, he never thought that you would actually come.’

  ‘I need to see him.’

  Manon pulled a slip of paper from her trouser pocket. ‘Here. His office address. It’s close. In Sandton City.’

  Garrett stood up. ‘As good a place to start.’ He leant forward and kissed Manon on the cheek. ‘Good to see you again, sister.’

  Manon smiled. Garrett left the room, closing the door behind him and walking down the stairs. When he came out of the front door the guard was still there. Standing next to his chair, shotgun propped up against the wall. Garrett offered him a cigarette.

  ‘Siyabonga, thank you.’ He took the cigarette and placed it behind his ear for later. Garrett shook the packet at him and he removed another Gauloise and put it in between his lips. Garrett snapped open his Zippo and proffered a flame.

  ‘Wena amaZulu?’

  The guard smiled broadly. ‘Yes, I am Zulu. How come you speak the language?’

  Garrett shrugged. ‘I don’t. Not really. I worked once with a Zulu. Good soldier. Ex South African Defense Force. He taught me enough to get by.’

  The guard drew mightily on his cigarette causing the tip to glow like a blast furnace. ‘That is good. Igama lami ngu Petrus, ngubani igama lakho?’

  Garrett held out his hand and the guard took it. They shook in the African way, reversing grip. ‘Pleased to meet you, Petrus. My name is Garrett. Have you worked here long?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Ever since imbali encane was here. I live in a room around the back.’

  Garrett struggled with the translation. ‘Little flower?’

  Yes, sir. The small nun. Sister Manon. The people call her imbali encane.’

  Garrett smiled. The name was perfect. ‘So, tell me, Petrus, why do you keep your weapon in such a sorry state?’

  Petrus literally took a step backward in shock. ‘Sir, my weapon is in the best of condition.’ He turned around, bent down and pulled a long blanket wrapped item out from under the chair. He stripped the blanket off to reveal a two-foot long Zulu assegai. The blade of the weapon, fully one foot long and three inches wide at its widest point, shimmered in the sun due to the thin layer of protective oil. The edge’s, razor sharp. The wooden handle was dark with the sweat from many thousands of hours of training. He flipped it in the air, catching it by the blade and offered it to Garrett, handle first. Garrett took it and swung it a few time experimentally to get its heft. And then he s
tabbed at an imaginary enemy, twirling and cutting. Blocking, moving, counter thrusting. The blade alive in his hands, whistling and fluting as it sliced through the air. He finished by jumping high in the air and slamming the broad blade down through his fantasy opponent’s clavicle. Twisting the blade and then withdrawing. He handed the spear back to Petrus. ‘Thank you. That is a man’s weapon.’

  The Zulu tilted his head in respect. ‘I see you have fought with the blade before.’

  Garrett nodded.

  ‘But,’ Petrus continued. ‘A different blade. I think, perhaps, the machete.’

  Garrett nodded again.

  ‘So you understand,’ continued Petrus as he pointed at the sad Chinese shotgun. ‘That is not my weapon. That is a rusting piece of shit.’

  The men shook hands once more and Garrett climbed into his Jeep and programmed in the address that Manon had given him. As soon as the satnav found signal he pulled off. He left the driver’s side window open to provide cooling as opposed to using the aircon. He had nothing against air conditioners; they simply made him feel cut off from the outside, whereas now he could smell the dust of the Highveld. A crisp, flint like tang, carried on a hot breeze. The smell of Africa. He drove past what appeared to be some sort of up market golfing estate and then the satnav took him by twists and turns through Bryanston to Sandton City, a massive shopping mall situated in the suburb of Sandton. Garrett was sure that there was a much quicker way, but he let the satnav take control and allowed his mind to wander, keeping only a peripheral attention on his driving. He was excited to see Brian again. The last five years had been solitary. Not lonely, but alone. He had worked hard, listened to his music, talked as much as was necessary and kept his own company. He had walked next to the path; close enough to see it, following it but never on it. And the more that he was alone the quieter was the beast.

  The satnav led him to a massive shopping mall that seemed to stretch for miles in every direction. A glass-topped tower that provided some frame of reference dominated the spreading pile. Garrett followed signs for parking and eventually found himself crawling up an endless spiral ramp while red digital arrows flashed Full at him and directed him onward and upward. Finally a green arrow came into view and he grabbed the first empty space that he could. He memorized the color, row, number and floor and headed off to find the office tower that held Brian’s establishment. Intrepid. A fearless explorer braving the endless damp concrete caverns of the Sandton City car park.

  He followed way-out signs, exit signs, neon signs depicting walking stick figures until, eventually, he came to a pair of enormous glass sliding doors that opened automatically in welcome as he approached.

  And he was in a different world. Marbled floors with brass inlays, sumptuous carpets, stainless steel light fittings and acres of plate glass windows. The African heat held at bay by gigantic air-conditioning units that kept the temperature at a constant twenty degrees Celsius. The people all walked with a purpose, many of them with cell phones seemingly attached to their faces as they conversed simultaneously with their companions walking next to them and those separated by the ether.

  Garrett felt drab in his tired old clothes. Washed out next to all of the noise and vibrancy. As if he were a ghost walking amongst the living. Or a time traveler. He stood still amongst the throng, simply watching, getting his bearings. He did not notice that, while everybody else was getting jostled and pushed by the crowds he was a rock in a pool of calm. People gave him a wide birth without even knowing that they were doing so. Bait fish around a barracuda. He decided to walk until he saw some sort of information signage and moved forward abruptly. The baitfish parted in front of him, driven aside by the palpable force of his presence.

  As it happened he needn’t have worried. The mall was well signposted and he found his way to the office tower with no problem. He took the elevator up to the floor that Manon had given him and found Brian’s offices at the end of the corridor. A discreet sign on the door read ‘Davies Security Consultants’. He opened the door to be greeted by a small reception area dominated by a leather Chesterfield and a dark wooden desk behind which sat a blonde, over made up, receptionist. She was busy talking. She had a pair of those almost invisible headphones on that allows the wearer to talk to someone and keep their hands free. Like some sort of special forces operative. Or Madonna on stage. Garrett hated them. They lacked the essential honesty of a telephone handset. Also, you were never entirely sure if the person was talking to you or answering the phone and you could end up having a meaningless and embarrassing three-way conversation that led nowhere.

  So Garrett simply decided to act as if the receptionist didn’t exist and walked down the corridor that ran off the reception area. He vaguely heard the receptionist squeak behind him. A high-pitched urgent sound like a hamster was being stood on.

  ‘Davies. Where are you?’ Bellowed Garrett. ‘Come on out you spineless Pommie bastard.’

  A door on the left of the corridor burst open and a small man barreled out. Hands held low in front of him, slightly crouched, nostrils flared and eyes slightly slatted. A man who was used to becoming instantly combat alert. He stared at Garrett for fully two seconds, his face tight with anger before he relaxed.

  ‘Garrett. I don’t fucking believe it, my old mukka.’

  He rushed forward and gave Garrett a hug. Like many small men he moved with force and aggression. Even his hug was at full strength and Garrett could feel his ribs creak under the pressure.

  ‘Jesus, man. You look like shit. Fucking long hair, unshaven. You some sort of hippie or something?’

  They broke embrace and stood looking at each other for a while.

  Garrett grinned widely. ‘Hell, Brian. You look like a mister. Suit and tie.’ Davies grinned back, teeth white. Straight.

  ‘Fuck me,’ shouted Garrett. ‘You’ve had your teeth done. You’re beautiful, man.’

  They hugged again. Two schoolboys at the beginning of term.

  ‘Come on, Garrett. Let’s go for a drink. You hungry?’

  ‘Can always eat.’

  They took the elevator back down, ignoring the receptionist on their way out although her squeaks of distress followed them until the doors closed.

  Brian took them to one of the ubiquitous steak houses in the mall that proliferated around Johannesburg like Starbucks infested any other major city. For the same price as a sandwich in England, Garrett had a steak with all the trimmings. He ordered water to accompany. Surprisingly, so did Brian.

  ‘You not drinking?’ He asked the small man.

  ‘Nope. Not since…well. Not since.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘How’s the sleeping?’

  Garrett shrugged. ‘All right. Sometimes.’

  ‘Nightmares?’

  ‘Always. And not only when I sleep.’

  ‘Me too, my friend. Me too.’

  ‘So, Brian. You’re the dog’s bollocks now. Your own company. Expensive suit. New teeth. Give me the low down.’

  ‘Nothing much to tell. After you bottled out on us in Sierra everything went to shit. They ran out of money, no pay came through so the boys and me sort of helped ourselves to a bit. Things got a little tense and we ended up fighting our way to the border. Got through to Liberia. Lost most of the boys on the way. Eventually got a plane out. Hitched a ride with some mad South African who was running guns into the region. Got here. Nowhere else to go so I just stayed. Got into security because it’s all I know. The rest is boring.’

  ‘Manon said that you owned a detective agency.’

  ‘No. She just can’t understand the fucking difference. I wouldn’t know how to be a detective. I’ve hired me some serious muscle. All ex-military. Kitted them out with the best equipment. We protect payrolls, industrial property, that sort of shit. It pays the rent. Barely. So I take it that you’ve seen Manon?’

  Garrett nodded.

  ‘You still in love with her?’

  Garrett said nothing
. Stared at the remnants of his steak. A small piece of gristle. Some blood.

  ‘Jesus, you poor sick fuck. She’s a fucking nun, you asshole. Give it up.’

  ‘Can’t you talk without swearing?’ Asked Garrett quietly.

  Brian shook his head. ‘Of course I can’t, you fucking useless dickhead. How long have you known me?’

  They both laughed and the seriousness of the moment passed.

  ‘But really, Garrett. She told you this missing orphan crap?’

  Garrett nodded.

  ‘Look, my boy. I grew up in an orphanage. It’s fucking shit, I tell you. Ran away all the time. Joined the army on my sixteenth birthday. Be the best.’

  ‘You don’t believe her?’

  ‘It’s not that. She wouldn’t lie. I just think that she’s wrong. Too emotional. You know. She’s been through a lot. Every kid lost is a personal thing to her. She’s just gotta realize that you can’t save them all, especially the ones that don’t want saving.’

  ‘What do you think that I should do?’

  Brian leant back in his chair. ‘Go through the motions. Put her mind at rest. Go and see all of the other Children’s homes and speak to the people in charge. See the Archbishop.’

  ‘She says that you can’t get to see the Archbishop.’

  Brian laughed. ‘She can’t. I’d like to see them stop you.’ He stood up. ‘Look, I’ve got an appointment. Where’re you staying? You got digs?’ Garrett shook his head. ‘Right then,’ continued Brian. ‘You’re bunking with me. No ifs, no buts. Here,’ he gave Garrett a card and a key. ‘On the back is my home address. Hold on.’ He took the card back and wrote on it. ‘That’s the alarm number. Type it into the keypad after you open the door. I’ll see you later tonight’

  They shook hands and went separate ways, Brian paying on the way out.

  The Sweetie man drove one handed, whistling a simple tune as he did so. Jaunty. The same rhythm repeated in different keys. His name was painted on the side of his truck. But not his real name.

  His real name was Khethukuthula Hlanganani but he had been called the Sweetie Man, or mister Sweets for so long now that most people honestly thought that his name was Sweets. He ran a small cash and carry outlet from a double garage at his house. Mister Sweets Cash and Carry.

  The difference between him and the larger traders were twofold. Firstly, he delivered at no extra charge and, secondly, he obtained the majority of his stock from mister J.V. Harribia in Durban. In turn, mister Harribia obtained his stock directly off the ships that were bound for Somalia. The bags of meal and rice emblazoned with the World Food Program logo and underneath, gift of Switzerland or, From the People of the USA. Mister Harribia brought tons of stock every week for less than ten cents in the Dollar. He passed a large percentage of this saving onto mister Sweets. So when it came to pricing on basic foodstuffs no one could beat the Sweetie Man.

  Sweets had got his nickname from his habit of always carrying with him a number of large bags of cheap boiled sweets that he would hand out liberally to the children wherever he was trading. As a result they would often run next to his truck when he was driving through the townships shouting, Sweetie or Sweets at him. He would always oblige, stopping and handing them out to all comers.

  A short man. Graying hair. Double chin on a face that was somehow much fatter than his body. A bass laugh and a smile that showed off his many gold-filled teeth. He was a man well liked by all. And when he stopped to deliver he could always rely on the locals to help him with any of the heavy work because, although he was fit and healthy, his left arm was bent and shriveled. It had been since the early eighties when, during the apartheid years, he had been arrested by the security police and questioned as to his cousin’s whereabouts. He had genuinely not known where his cousin was; if he had he would have told, having always held a rather intense dislike for the man. This line of reason had held no water with the two semiliterate Afrikaners that had been in charge of eliciting information from him. They had beaten him with a baseball bat, breaking his arm so badly that it mortified and almost had to be amputated. There were days when mister Sweets wished that it had been, such was the constant pain.

  They had released him a week later when they discovered that they already had his cousin in custody. He had been there for well over a month. Another reason to dislike him, thought Sweets, he owes me an arm. In all fairness no one had ever seen the man again. Such was the way of things in the dark days. Detention without trial. A shovel and a few feet of dust. He wasn’t missed.

  But now life smiled on Sweets. He had his own business, a truck, a house and, next year, he would buy himself a car. Something nice. A Mercedes or Audi. German. Nothing said success quite like something German.

  He pulled his truck into the parking lot at the Honeydew Children’s Home. He always enjoyed delivering here. The nice sister Manon would always make him a cup of sweet tea and the children would flock around him like butterflies to a flower. Not caring about his shrunken arm, not even noticing or, if they did, coming straight out and asking, what happened to your arm? Always he had a different story; sometimes he said that a lion had eaten it, sometimes a bad wizard had stolen his real arm and replaced it with this one. But at the end he would always give them some sweets and pat their heads. It was good to feel so well liked.

  The only one that he was unsure of was the guard, Petrus. He made Sweets nervous. Petrus was well known by all as man to respect. And to avoid if possible. Although, of late, as he had grown a little older and he no longer picked fights wherever he went. Now he affected indifference, meeting violence with violence but never courting it. Sweets thought that it was probably the presence of the sister that had changed the warlike Zulu. Her presence was a balm to all souls. Pure, beautiful and full of peace.

  He climbed out of his truck and rolled up the back. Before the door was even fully open the children had arrived. Voices high and excited. Crowding close. Hello mister Sweetie. Hello Sweets. Hello.

  He picked up a huge bag of gumdrops and started handing them out.

  Garrett had taken twenty minutes to find his car and, after he had finally got out of the labyrinthian parking garage, fired up the satnav, got pointing the right way and driven to Brian’s address, a further forty minutes had passed. When he pulled into the gated townhouse complex where Brian lived he could still clearly see Sandton City in his rear view mirror. A walk of perhaps fifteen minutes.

  He parked in a designated space outside Brian’s garage that was attached to his house. Then he unlocked the house door, disarmed the alarm and went in, carrying his bag with him.

  Although not large the interior of the house was stupendous. Staggeringly opulent. And unless the ex-SAS soldier had suddenly developed some sort of taste, obviously furnished by a professional. Furthermore, a professional who had been given a blank check. The entrance hall led to a large open plan living area, a copper cowled fireplace stood in the middle of the room separating the sitting area from the dining. Behind that lay the kitchen, a work of art in stainless steel and glass. Glass fronted refrigerators, thick glass counter tops, glass cupboard doors. Recessed lighting refracted through all of the glass and painted prismatic rainbows across the travertine marble floor. A hand carved African Teak table dominated the dining room. The wood dark and heavy, the chairs carved with a lighter hand, leather cushions on the seats. Woven wall hangings decorated the walls and offset the bright African colorings of the sofas and wingback chairs in the sitting area. Bowls of Ostrich eggs, austere metal sculptures and vases filled with arrangements of driftwood and feathers were scattered around the room, each one artfully placed so as to drive your attention to the next piece until your eyes finally came to rest upon the prize: an oil on canvas, perhaps three foot by two foot, displayed on an easel. A savage image, the colors a dark and brooding mix of red, green, black and brown.

  The artist had applied the paint using a palette knife with such force that, in some areas, he had actually p
unctured the canvas. It was not a beautiful piece but there was something compelling about it. Primal. A visceral thing. It took Garrett a while to work out what the image was actually depicting. But when it came to him it was obvious. A man in full combat gear, a machete held in his right hand, his head thrown back. His mouth wide open in a scream. And in the bottom corner of the canvas, in white paint, the signature. Brian Davies.