“Add in some bush-tick berry while you’re at it,” Tweedledee adds.
“One can never add too much bush-tick berry,” Tweedledum agrees. “Two Happy-Chappy Cocktails coming right up.”
“Two?” I ask.
Tweedledum disappears into a different hut.
“It won’t kill Mnumzane Hlanya to take his medicine either,” Tweedledee explains, staring daggers at Gramps. I can only guess what she knows about my grandfather. “Now,” she turns her attention back to me, “let’s talk about the plan.”
“What plan?”
“What plan, she asks.” Tweedledum shuffles out of the hut carrying two brown glass mugs. She pushes one into my hand, and one into my grandfather’s before slumping into one of the low seats. “What plan…?”
“Do you think it will be best to exclude them?” Tweedledee asks her sister. “Drink!” She points a finger between me and Gramps but keeps her eyes on Tweedledum. They seem to communicate without words.
I lift the cocktail to my lips, hoping it doesn’t taste as bad as it smells, and drink.
The thick, herbal mixture congeals in my throat. I push through, swallowing hard, and try not to think about what I’m putting into my body. It knocks my breath away.
“Okay,” Tweedledee says.
I’m still swallowing, not willing to stop for fear of my taste buds protesting.
“We’ve decided it will be for the best not to include you in the plan.”
“What plan?” I repeat in a gasp as the tonic moves sluggishly to my stomach.
Tweedledum hands me a glass of water, seemingly produced out of thin air.
I grab the glass, throw it back, and allow the tepid water to run down my throat.
“The plan of keeping you alive,” Tweedledum answers.
“I like that plan,” Gramps says. “Let’s do it.”
“You don’t know what the plan is!” I snap.
“You’re high strung, Little Red,” Tweedledee says. “We have a cocktail for that. Want one?”
~
There’s this general belief that if you don’t believe in something, it’s unlikely you’ll be affected by it.
This is nonsense.
Disbelief might be a natural barrier against esoteric attacks, but barriers of any kind are not indestructible. It’s not a matter of religion, race, intellect, or any of the other things differentiating one person from another. It’s about whether or not the unknown force is strong enough to break down the barrier to affect you, and if you’re strong enough to resist. Life, love, faith, the entire bloody universe, isn’t black and white or linear or logical. It defies those known barriers. It’s a squiggle, a fuzzy concept, an unknown variable.
The same can be said about muti and magic and the whole pseudoscientific world that swirls around it.
It’s just my opinion, and in no way do I expect the world to adopt my view, but considering what I’ve seen and experienced (and what others have seen and experienced), it’s difficult to take another standpoint on the matter.
Did the concoction, prepared by arthritic hands, have any magical properties to it? Did the drink somehow purge whatever foulness was in me?
I honestly cannot say.
Better question: Do I believe a herbal tonic is able to purify or heal a person?
Well, I wouldn’t say it’s impossible. Improbable, maybe, but not entirely impossible.
“Did you know your mother is a doctor?” Gramps says, pulling me out of my thoughts about the twins.
My words dry up. My mom’s a taboo subject. Not because my father or grandfather don’t want me to know her, but because I don’t want to know her. Anyone who walks out on her day old baby’s life, and never even sent so much as a lame apology, deserves to be forgotten. So no, I don’t know my mom’s a doctor. I don’t want to know.
“She’s a neurosurgeon. Best in her field, I’m told.”
“What does it have to do with anything?” I almost yell.
“Talking about the weather seemed mundane under the circumstances.” Gramps says. “I’m just making small talk.”
“No, you’re baiting me. Why?”
“Concern makes me do silly things. Apologies.” He takes a deep sigh.
“Pops?”
“You need a break from the occult consultation side of the business,” Gramps explains. “I know you don’t like hearing it, but you need a break. If you don’t want to take a holiday, after we’ve closed this case, then I’m assigning you to something less important. I’m sorry, but you’re burning yourself out and I’m—”
“I know, and I agree.”
He glances at me, frowning.
“As soon as Him’s been caught, I’m taking six weeks off. I want to go visit Dad in P.E, and then I’m going to New Orleans for a couple of weeks. I’ve always wanted to go.” I say.
“Alone?”
“Who am I going to take along?” I ask. “You need to keep an eye on the firm. Dad’s got his… wife. Leila might be available, but I doubt it. There is nobody else, so I’m going alone. Yes.”
“Okay. I’m sure Precious won’t mind being boss for a while, though.”
“Pops, I love you for wanting to come along, but the open cases will gather dust if one of us isn’t there to keep them in line.” I push my fingers through my lacklustre hair. The heat’s even screwing with my volume now. Ugh.
“New Orleans, huh?” He changes lanes. “I thought you’d be more interested in Russia.”
“Oh, Russia’s definitely on my list of places to visit, but I’ve had this urge to see New Orleans for the longest time.”
“It’s not anywhere near Mardi Gras time, though. And I doubt you’ll be in time for a Halloween visit,” he explains.
I smile. “I’m not interested in Mardi Gras or Halloween, Gramps. I’m going for the jazz and blues, and history.”
“They certainly have plenty of that.”
I play with the hem of my denim cut-offs. “Pops, this is completely off-topic, but why do you keep making excuses for Howlen?”
“Well, Esmé, everyone’s broken in some way or another. You are, I am, your dad is. But Howlen’s just a tad more broken than most people. I know it doesn’t seem like it at first, what with his swagger and skill, but he’s got a past, love.”
He inhales deeply and then goes on “When he was a kid, around twelve or thirteen, his biological sister was kidnapped. Howlen, his sister, and his grandfather were out and about town doing some early Christmas shopping, when the eight-year-old girl got snatched away. They never found her, not a single trace. And Howlen blamed himself for her disappearance. He still does. His grandfather blamed himself too, so much he took his own life eventually.”
I look up to my grandfather, feeling like an asshole for being such a bitch towards Howlen, but this revelation doesn’t change the fact that Howlen treated me like I’m worth less than I am. “I didn’t know.”
“I’d appreciate it, as will Howlen, if you don’t mention it,” he says. “This time of year, heading up towards Christmas, is always a bit tough on him.”
“We’re nowhere near Christmas, Pops, but sure, I won’t tell.”
Gramps turns into Pretoria where skyscrapers grow on the horizon reaching to the heavens as though they’re searching for salvation. Surrounded by green foliage and the purple Jacaranda blossoms, which set apart Pretoria from the other capitals in the country, I can’t help but feel a sense of devotion. No matter how bad this city’s crime gets, how corrupt the government becomes, how terrible the neglect is, my heart will always belong to Pretoria.
My grandfather must sense my emotions, because he softly says: “Every country has its secrets, every culture has its taboos, every house has its cross, but home is home.”
Chapter 36
Precious walks into my office, her arms folded and lips pursed in obvious disapproval. I ignore her by double-checking some of the case files I’m preparing for Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy’s interrogation. She crosse
s the office, her colourful maxi dress swishing as she walks, sits in the vacant chair opposite mine, and tuts.
“Tokoloshes?” she says, as if it’s enough of an explanation for why she’s pissed off at me.
Maybe it is.
Precious doesn’t scare easily, but she’s still a South African. We’ve all heard the stories and many of us fear the living shit out of the damn legend. Who wants to wake up to having a toe being bitten off? Nobody. Those little bastards create more havoc than just biting off toes, though. Leave tokoloshes to their own devices and before you know it you’re six feet under, or worse—someone you care for is dead.
“Yes, Precious,” I answer. “Tokoloshes.”
“Do I need to be concerned for myself and my family?”
“No, Precious. Gramps and I’ve already sorted things out, I think.”
“You think?” Precious’ voice rises. “Esmé, I don’t do tokoloshes. I can handle the other stuff, but I draw the line there. You understand me?”
“I do, but the killer doesn’t even know you exist, so—”
“Don’t assume,” she cuts me off. “You and Howlen both said we were dealing with something new as far as this killer is concerned. So, don’t assume Him doesn’t know I exist.”
The intercom system announces someone at the front gate.
Precious sneers, an automatic response these days, as she stands up. “We’re not done here.” She marches out of my office toward the landing.
A second video system was installed upstairs during the renovations, in case a receptionist wasn’t downstairs to open the gate for clients, police, or whoever needed entrance to the building. This makes things easier for everyone, except, it seems, for Precious.
“We’re upstairs,” I hear her say, before she buzzes whoever was out front, in. Precious makes her way back into my office. “Louw,” she explains with a thumb over her shoulder.
“Oh,” I answer. “Okay, but you were telling me off about something before?”
“It can obviously wait.” She throws her hands into the air and flips her weave over her shoulder in one movement, before she sits down in the chair. Her devil-may-care attitude is cranked up to eleven, today. Sheesh. There isn’t time for me to call her out, because of the heavy footfalls bounding up the stairs.
“What do you want now, Detective?” Precious says when Rynhardt is framed in the doorway.
“We got him,” Rynhardt says.
“You’ve got Him?” I ask.
“No, not Him. We’ve got the other guy.”
“What other guy?” Precious says. “Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy?”
“Yeah, that one,” Rynhardt answers.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we call Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy by his real name now?” Precious asks Rynhardt.
“In a perfect world, we’d know his real name. Unfortunately, he comes with seven forged IDs, a handful of aliases, and no priors we can get our hands on. So you may call him whatever you want,” Rynhardt explains. “Even Mosepi’s calling him Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy, anyway.”
“I thought we were planning a whole sting operation to catch him,” I say, flipping through some files I may, or may not, need during the interrogation. I’m not nearly as prepared for this showdown as I want to be.
“Our guys picked him up speeding down WF Nkomo,” he says.
A file falls out of my hands, lands on the floor beside my desk, and papers scatter everywhere. I bend down to put it back together, but when I right myself in my chair again, my eye catches on the wall above the door. I halt dead cold, hoping it is my imagination playing tricks on me.
“I wish they’d rather trailed him to wherever he wanted to be in Pretoria West. We might’ve picked up Him along the way,” Rynhardt continues, but his words grow distant, fainter.
My blood pumps in my ears while the hair on my neck stands at attention. Sulphuric-smelling air blows through my office, tracing the contours of my shoulders as though I’m being caressed by the breath of a lover. This sensation sends cold shivers across my flesh.
Brave of Him to attack me in broad daylight while there are witnesses. Or, maybe Him’s just evolving further, growing bolder.
How many different layers are there when it comes to megalomania?
“Precious,” I say. Unmoving, I stare at the wall and I wait until her attention is on me. Rynhardt’s voice fades into the background, until I’m sure he’s stopped speaking. “Please tell me I’m not seeing things.” I keep my voice as level as possible.
“What? Motherfucker,” she gasps.
Good, it’s not my imagination then.
A plume of red smoke leeches from a new crack in the wall, curling in various tints of crimson and scarlet and wine. The smoke does not rise to lick the ceiling or fall away to attack the door frame. It merely hangs there unnaturally, never growing in size and never fading away, acting to disconcert those who witness it. Him must be aware of the change in the game, why else would this display of power be needed?
Sour air is now being breathed straight into my face. It’s a noxious smell reminding me of the nightmare I had a few weeks back.
“Leave,” I command, keeping my voice as level as possible. Him’s here now, in some form or another. He’s been watching me, calculating every move to make my torment more sadistic. But I cannot lose my head. And although I’m visibly shaking, I’ve already made my decision: I will not be bullied into fearing ghosts and monsters and unseen entities.
Acrid spittle sprays onto my face from nowhere and the smoke flares. I’ve had enough.
“Leave!” I shout my command. “You are not welcome here. You do not scare me!”
“I’m going to get Christiaan,” Precious says. She leaves my office.
Rynhardt peers into the corridor: “Doctor Walcott!” he shouts.
“What’s the commotion about?” Howlen enters.
We don’t need to give an explanation.
“I thought you’ve already dealt with this,” he says to me.
“When would I have had the time?” I snap back. “Can you deal with this? I have to go to the precinct.”
“Am I forgiven?”
“For ditching me at a strip-club to hang out with a prostitute? Not in this lifetime.”
“Jesus, Esmé. I have issues, okay?” He walks to my desk and slams down the paperwork he brought along. “I’m sorry for leaving you in a shoddy part of town, for going off with another woman, and for being a total douche.”
The plume of smoke grows bigger, then smaller, then bigger again. It’s as though it’s breathing.
“I don’t forgive you for that, but I’ll be civil if you’ll get your head out of your ass.”
“Deal.”
I look back at the wall. “I will revel in your defeat, Him.” I spit his nickname, grabbing the files and stuffing them underneath my arm. I head to where Rynhardt stands, still staring at the smoke. “Let’s go, I want to see if we can speed up this chase by a few months,” I say to Rynhardt.
He falls into step beside me, still not commenting on the smoke.
Rynhardt seems to be taking everything in stride, but then the human psyche is strange. It protects people from incomprehensible and horrible things, until it stops. Then, their worlds shatter, and the resounding crash when everything catches up with them is something only a depressed poet can accurately describe.
It would be a shame if the intergalactic wrecking ball hits Rynhardt’s world too hard.
He drives us to the Pretoria West Police Station, a mixtape playing in the background, while I’m trying to make sense of the files on my lap.
“Detective Mosepi has done the preliminary interrogation,” Rynhardt says after a while. “He’ll debrief you as soon as we get there.”
“Mhmm,” I grunt. “Do you want to talk about it, Rynhardt?”
“About?”
“You know,” I start. “About my proficiency in attracting trouble.”
“I’m not bothered.”
I remain unconvinced.
“Honestly,” he says.
“If you want to talk about it, though—”
“I’m okay,” he says. “It takes a lot to scare me, Esmé.”
“Okay,” I answer, but I’m dubious of his so-called well-adjusted façade.
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, before casting his gaze back to the traffic jam ahead of us. “Look, nobody knows this, not even my family, but I’ve encountered my fair share of unusual activity.” Rynhardt glances at me from the corner of his eye, probably thinking I’d be surprised by his confession.
I’m not. Instead, I wait for him to continue his tale.
“You don’t seem impressed.”
“Everyone’s had their run-ins with the weird and wonderful, Rynhardt. People just don’t readily admit it.”
“Yes, but—” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“No, please go on, I’m listening.”
Rynhardt grimaces. “I was born with—” He stops midsentence again. The suspense is killing me, but before I can say anything about him spitting it—whatever it is—out, he switches to Afrikaans: “Ek is met die helm gebore.”
“You were born with second sight?” I nod.
“You don’t believe me. Forget I said anything.”
“I do believe you. I’m thinking about all of the cases I’ve worked on relating to second sight. Some of them were quite interesting, while others were somewhat disturbing.”
“You’ve worked on stuff like this before?” he asks.
“Oh yes,” I explain. “Snyders International studies all of the fringe sciences. NDEs, HSPs, Shadow People, Ley Lines, Alternate Dimension theories, you name it.”
He narrows his eyes. “NDEs and HSPs?”
“Near Death Experiences and Hyper Sensitive People,” I offer.
“So you’re actually a paranormal investigator?”
I frown. “No, I’m an occult crime expert. I have degrees in Criminology and Theology, and I’m starting work on my B.A Anthropology next year.”
Rynhardt is silent, then he says: “I don’t get it.”
“What’s not to get? Snyders International is a business like any other. We were established to study the fringe sciences in particular, but like all businesses we sometimes have to do things we don’t like in order to break even every financial year. This is where ritual crimes come in. We consult on cases for the SAPS, act as expert witnesses in trials, and try our best to explain certain events as scientifically as possible for the general public. When we’re not doing that, though, we’re conducting studies and experiments to understand the world beyond our own. Snyders International is trying to build a bridge between science and fringe sciences, so the “unknown” can be explored by more people.”
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