Choice of Weapon

by Craig Marten-Zerf

  Chapter 18

  Garrett knew the doctor’s name, he knew what he looked like and he knew where he worked. But now was the time for patience. Subtlety. This was not a man living on the fringes of society. On the edge of legality. No, this was a respected doctor. A surgeon. And, unlike the other hits that Garrett had instituted, this would attract much more attention from the law. Garrett was going to use that fact to his advantage.

  The first thing that he and Petrus did was to visit the hospital where the doctor worked. A middle sized private hospital. Very different from the National Health piles that Garrett was used to. Wall to wall carpeting, pastel colors and tasteful paintings as opposed to ragged vinyl, institutional phlegm-green and dirty handprints. He went to the reception area and asked if doctor Jakobs was in. One of the receptionists checked her computer.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir but mister Jakobs is in surgery at the moment. Actually he’ll be in theatre all day. Scheduled to finish this afternoon. Two thirty.’

  Garrett cocked an eyebrow. ‘Mister?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Surgeons are misters. GP’s are doctors. Would you like to leave him a message?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll try again later.’

  Garrett walked back to the car where Petrus was waiting.

  ‘He’s here. If we come back at two and wait we can follow him, see where he lives.’

  ‘Okay, Isosha. Why don’t we get something to eat?’

  ‘Cool. Also, I need a hardware store.’

  ‘You drive, I’ll direct.’

  Garrett turned right out of the hospital and then almost immediately left. They meandered through a myriad of walled townhouse complexes. Mostly Mediterranean style knockoffs in colors that architects refer to as Salmon or Savannah and normal people refer to as pink or yellow. Every now and then, in an effort to be different, someone had designed a neo-Georgian Bauhaus pastiche in blinding white. All angles and simple lines except for the front doors that were surrounded with elaborate porticos supported by decorative pilasters. A horrific blend of styles that made no sense apart from screaming out, look at me, I cost a fortune. Lifestyles of the rich and tasteless.

  Small shopping centers consisting mainly of restaurants and bars, more townhouses and then a huge mall. Petrus directed Garrett into one of the massive parking areas. They locked the Jeep and hiked to the entrance.

  Petrus went to buy some food and Garrett spent some time in the hardware store. They met back at the Jeep. The two of them sat in the car with the doors open and ate the food that Petrus had purchased. Samoosas, filled with spicy lamb mince. Half a dozen bottles of lurid orange pop to wash it down. Afterwards they lit up and Garrett put the contents of his hardware bag into his pockets. A pack of nylon cable ties and a tube of superglue.

  They had a couple of hours to kill before they went back to the hospital and they spent them in repose. Sitting idly in the car, smoking. Talking, but not much. The radio on in the background. Talk radio. Was breast-feeding in public acceptable? Bored housewives, receptionists sneaking a quick call at work, social workers, the odd student and of course the obligatory talk radio nut squad. Professional antagonists that kept the show alive and kicking. Garrett listened with amusement, Petrus with ill concealed irritation.

  Garrett started the Jeep and they drove back to the hospital, parking on the road outside where they had a good view of the exit. It wasn’t long before the doctor drove out, BMW M5, Raybans, hair slicked back exposing ears like wing nuts. He drove fast. Confidently. Garrett struggled to keep up. Fortunately he did not go far, pulling into one of the ubiquitous walled complexes. Armed guards at the gate. He showed his pass and drove in. Garrett waited outside.

  ‘Shit. What now.’

  Petrus laughed. ‘No problem. How much cash you got on you?’

  ‘Lots. Thousands.’

  ‘Give me five hundred.’ Garrett shifted in his seat, unzipped the top of his money belt and stripped out some notes. Handed them to Petrus.

  ‘Cool. Now drive up.’

  Garrett approached the gate. The guard held up a hand. Petrus hit the button and his window slid down. He beckoned. They spoke. Zulu. Voices low and urgent. Petrus turned towards Garrett.

  ‘Another two hundred.’

  The soldier complied. Petrus and the guard shook hands.

  Petrus wound his window up. ‘Drive through. Then go left. He’s at number twenty-six on the right hand side. He lives alone, no family. Uses a maid service so no one else at home.’

  ‘The guard was helpful.’

  Petrus nodded. ‘Money well spent. There, pull in.’

  Garrett turned the Jeep into the driveway at number twenty-six. Behind the BMW.

  ‘So’, continued Petrus. ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘No plan. We go in. We explain things nicely to him. We leave. He never touches a child again for the rest of his life.’

  ‘Nice. Simple.’

  The two men climbed out of the 4x4 and walked up to the door. The steel blade of the machete lay against Garrett’s back. Cold against the furnace of his anger. He rang the bell. After a short while the doctor came to the door.

  ‘Hello. Can I help?’ Expression concerned. A correct bedside manner. Lips almost smiling. Helpful.

  Garrett punched him in the mouth snapping his two front teeth off at the roots and smashing him back into the house. Both he and Petrus hurried in, closing the door behind them. Garrett bent over the prostate doctor.

  ‘Right, listen. You make a noise, any noise and I will break your neck. Understand?’

  The man nodded. Garrett pulled him up by his shirtfront and dragged him down the corridor. The house was a large double volume open plan affair. Sitting area, dining area, freestanding bar. White tiles on the floor. Pastel curtains.

  Garrett pulled out one of the dining chairs and slammed him down onto it.

  The doctor whimpered. ‘What do you want?’

  Garrett ignored him, looking around for the phone. Found it. A table in the corner. Portable. He picked it up and put it on the dining room table. And then he stared at the doctor. The doctor that had raped the children. The doctor that had murdered the children. The doctor that had filmed himself doing it.

  ‘Please,’ the doctor begged. ‘I have credit cards. I’ll give you the pin numbers. You can draw money from the ATM.’

  ‘We’re not here for money.’

  ‘What then?’ Genuinely puzzled.

  ‘We are here because of the children.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Garrett pulled one of the DVDs from his pocket and placed it on the dining room table.

  The murderer went white as the color drained from his face.

  ‘Oh Jesus. I…it wasn’t. I…they made me do it. Yes, they made me do it. Please, I’m as much a victim as the children.’

  Garrett pulled the machete from his belt.

  ‘Oh God, please. I’m sick. You can’t, I’m sick. That’s why I did it. It’s a disease; I’ll go for therapy. Oh God. Please don’t kill me.’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘We aren’t going to kill you.’

  The doctor stared at him, a flicker of hope in his eyes. ‘Not?’

  ‘No, but we heed to talk.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Talk. Of course.’

  ‘How long does it take an ambulance to get here?’

  The man stared at Garrett as if he were an alien. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a simple question. If you phone your hospital for an ambulance, how long will it take to get here?’

  He shook his head. Little drops of crimson detached from his pulped lips and scattered across the white tiles. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Guess.’

  Twenty minutes. Maybe twenty five.’

  Garrett looked at his watch. ‘Okay. So, who made you do it?’

  ‘Men. Bad men.’

  ‘Specifics, doctor. Specifics will keep you alive.’

  ‘There was an Englishman. Ex soldier of some sort. We
did it at his place. In Hillbrow.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘A Nigerian. He always dressed in traditional clothes. A sort of kaftan thing.’

  ‘An agbada.’

  ‘Whatever. But we hardly spoke. Neither of them watched. The Brit would clear up afterwards. Keep prying eyes away. The Nigerian would take away the DVD. That’s all.’

  ‘Who paid you?’

  ‘No one. I did it for free.’

  ‘I need some names, Jakobs.’

  ‘I swear, I don’t know. The Nigerian lived in Hillbrow, I think. I think I heard him say that. Wait, his name was…not sure. A girl’s name. Val…Valerie?’

  ‘Doctor, you want to live, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well we need more than that.’

  ‘Please. I don’t know.’

  ‘What about others like you?’

  The doctor shook his head. Garrett punched him again. Hard. His nose broke with an audible crack and blood spurted onto the pristine white tiles. He flipped over backwards onto the floor. Garrett dragged him up. Placed him back on the seat.

  ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘We contact each other over the net. Through unrelated websites. We use code. No one knows who the other person is. Not even what country they’re in.’

  Garrett stared at the doctor for a while and then he pulled the cable ties from his pocket and threw them at him. He made no effort to catch them. They fell to the floor. ‘Pick them up.’

  The doctor did so. Clumsily. Fear fumbling fingers.

  ‘Are you left or right handed?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. Put one around each wrist. Pull them as tight as you can.’

  Again the baffled look. ‘What?’

  Garrett stepped forward and slapped him. Hard, knocking him onto the floor. ‘Get up and do it.’

  The doctor crawled up onto the chair and tore the packet open. Black cable ties spilled out. He put one around each wrist. Pulled tight.

  ‘Tighter,’ commanded Garrett.

  He pulled tighter. Puffing as did so. Blood dripping steadily from his ruined mouth, his pulped nose.

  ‘Please, I’ve told you all I know. You said that you wouldn’t kill me. Please.’

  Garrett picked up the phone.

  ‘What’s the telephone number for the hospital?’

  The doctor told him. Garrett dialed.

  ‘Hello, yes actually you can help. It’s an emergency. I’m phoning from doctor Jakobs’ house. Yes. Please could you send an ambulance as soon as. There’s been a horrific accident. The doctor has been very badly hurt. Oh, and could you send the police as well. It’s seems as though there has been some foul play. Thank you.’

  Garrett cancelled the call and put the phone down.

  The door crashed open and the beast burst from its cage. Howling as it ran free. He swiveled and struck. The machete swept down in a glittering arc, slicing through the killer’s right hand and bedding into arm of the dining chair. An animal howl tore from the doctor’s throat. And the blade struck again.

  The cable tie tourniquets stopped a lot of the blood flow but the tiles were soon still slick with red. The pedophile thrashed around on the floor. Keening wordlessly. Garrett put a boot on his chest to stop him moving. Then he lent down and, using the tube of superglue, glued the DVD to the murderer’s forehead. He turned to Petrus.

  ‘That’s so everybody knows. Come on. Lets go.’

  They did not speak. The enormity of what they had just done. The brutality of their deed had robbed them of their own essential humanity. Garrett drove automatically. Back to the orphanage. His exterior calm. Almost serene. But inside him the beast ran free, howling its joy, reveling in its very existence. Its animal stink filling his soul. And part of him ran with it. Liberated by an act of retribution. But the other side of his essence shrank back in horror. Not from what he had done but from the way that he had done it.

  They pulled into the orphanage parking, got out of the car and went to Petrus’ room. Garrett couldn’t face seeing Manon. He needed time. To think. Readjust. He had no idea how he was going to tell her of the fate that her wards had suffered. Garrett sat on the small stool; Petrus opened a case in the corner of the room and took out a bottle. He cracked the top and offered it to the soldier. Garrett shook his head.

  ‘Drink some, Isosha.’

  ‘I don’t drink. Well, I try not to.’

  ‘Why? Because you think that it will lead to unhappy thoughts? Violence? Too late for that, my friend.’

  Garrett smiled. ‘True,’ he accepted the bottle. Tilted, drank. The clear spirit was harsh on his tongue, burning his throat as it went down. Tears sprang to his eyes. ‘Jesus, what is that?’

  Petrus laughed. ‘The finest cane spirits. Triple distilled. It’s like rum. Rum for grown-ups.’

  The guard offered Garrett a cigarette. Texan plain, as rough and uncompromising as the cane spirit. Garrett accepted with a nod of thanks. Lit up off the proffered match.

  ‘Tell me, Isosha, have you heard of ubuntu?’

  Garrett shrugged. ‘Vaguely. Some sort of African philosophy.’

  ‘Not really. It is hard to explain, hard to translate. The complete Zulu proverb goes; “Umuntu ngumuntu ngamantu,” which means: “I am a person through other people.” In other words, if you treat others as less than human then you will lose your own humanity.’

  Garrett pulled hard on his cigarette and then stared at the glowing tip. Rolling the white tube between his fingers causing tiny sparks to pepper down. A miniature firestorm.

  ‘He deserved it.’

  ‘Hey, I saw the videos. He was worse than an animal. Whatever we did he deserved.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything. Ubuntu is very difficult to achieve. But I think that it is an admirable thing to strive for. And you, Isosha? Do you have any creed?’

  Garrett nodded.

  ‘What is it?’

  The soldier raised the bottle and took a swig. ‘Fuck them all.’

  Petrus laughed. ‘I see that you are a philosopher.’

  ‘Yep, deep thinker, that’s me.’

  Garrett lent back against the wall. His mind wandered. The smell of cordite. Green jungle. White tiles. Red blood. On the edge of his hearing he could hear the children playing in their dormitories. And in another time and place he could hear them screaming. Shaking with terror. On the bare earth. Strapped to a bed, a camera rolling. The cane numbed his feelings. He drank more.

  ‘We haven’t stopped anything,’ he said.

  ‘We have stopped a monster.’

  ‘So? They’ll find another monster. Monsters are easy to find. There’s one under every child’s bed at night. They’re everywhere.’ He passed the bottle to Petrus.

  ‘So what next?’

  Garrett shrugged. ‘No idea. We’ve got nothing. Some random Nigerian called Val-something, lives in Hillbrow. And some sort of long-range sniper dude that may, or may not be, helping us.’

  ‘He’s definitely helping us.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ve seen a lot of shooters in my life but nothing that comes close to what that guy can do. If he wanted us dead we would be out of commission by now. But who is he? And another thing, what am I going to tell Manon about the missing children?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘Shit, Petrus. It’s heavy. Can she take it?’

  ‘She’s stronger than she looks. You, of all people, should know that. In fact she’s probably stronger than us. She has her faith. What do we have? An old Zulu proverb and a belief that everyone should go and fuck themselves. I’m telling you, we can take it, and if we can take it then she can take it.’

  Garrett sucked on his cigarette. Petrus was right. Manon could take it. Her faith was her pillar. But Garrett wasn’t sure if he could. He had no faith. His engine was driven by anger and anger is a fragile emotion; its strength transitory, burning bright and brief
. And like any flame it needed to consume to live. In Garrett’s case it was consuming his soul.

  ‘He stood up. ‘I’m going to tell Manon.’