by Quig Shelby
A haunting mist began to envelop the ground. It covered everything as it crept irretrievably towards Joost’s front door. He heard the noise again, then a hissing, and this time outside his daughter’s room. He ran in, and lifted up the window, nearly bowled over by the swirling wind.
A school essay, proudly signed Hildegard van Houten, was lifted like a paper aeroplane to the porch outside, before the window fell shut. Joost couldn’t see through the fog bank, but a wild cat with stripes scavenged it between jagged teeth, and ran into the grasslands. Later, when Joost’s flight touched down, it was dropped in Oribi Gorge, onto a simple stake in the ground. Nearby there was a wooden effigy, known by some locals as Dankoly - the voodoo god of revenge.
Chapter Four
Two Years Later
Felix was plying his trade in possibly London’s dingiest nursing home. The corridors were narrow, and the air was stale. The lighting was gloomy, and the dark brown walls appeared glued together like subterranean insect chambers.
‘I hear Molly passed away last night,’ said Agatha, joining Felix in the office.
‘Yes, a real shame,’ he replied, invoking no sincerity in his voice.
Agatha glanced in the sink at the tablets.
‘I found them on the floor in the TV room,’ he lied.
Not all of the patients were compliant, and often the struggle wasn’t worth it.
Agatha smiled, knowing the only tablets Felix never threw away were the sleepers. She was the nurse upstairs, burnt out, but quite fit in the dark blue uniform she wore to work. She could still turn a head or two, but her beauty was fading, and it scared her. She was divorced, liked a drink or more, and was occasionally inebriated on duty.
It was the start of the night shift, and Felix was stocking up the drugs trolley. Tablets he knew wouldn’t be taken were already waiting to be washed away, along with others he didn’t want to give, though he signed otherwise - naturally. Agatha was missing some omeprazole, and took a spare box from the cupboard.
‘Try and stay away from the chocolates,’ she teased Felix on her way out.
With his sweet tooth, and Dela’s big meals, Felix had piled on the pounds since their wedding day. Whilst his East African wife remained eternally slim. He wondered if she’d ever swallowed a tape worm.
Felix pulled down the long sleeves on his tunic, hoping to hide the rope burns. Dela had lived up to her promises, but instead of a slave he’d found a mistress, and for the last fourteen months his suffering had been her delight - although often his.
Felix hadn’t killed a patient since leaving Greenpastures, but he was inexplicably drawn to Ernest Downing, a hunched man with Huntington’s disease. Perhaps it was the bleating in his voice, or the gentleness in his eyes, that marked him out, reminding Felix of his own weakness. Dela knew of Felix’s past, and the two patients he had killed, but they shared a lot of dark secrets.
‘Hi Ernest,’ said Felix jauntily, bringing in his medication.
Ernest just nodded, and blindly tilted his head back for the capsules, before sipping some water from the other medicine tot. He wasn’t fooled.
Felix joined Agatha upstairs. She was sitting in the resident’s lounge with her feet outstretched, rubbing moisturizer into her hands. But Felix only rubbed his lower back, wondering how much longer he could keep going.
It was no use; his back was playing up again, and he couldn’t sleep. He went downstairs and, instead of waking the carers, checked the patients. He lingered a little longer in Ernest’s room, looking at the two African statues on the dresser, before almost lifting a pillow to finish him off.
‘Another tiring night baby?’ asked Dela, massaging his back, as he lay on the bed between mountains of pillows.
‘As always,’ sighed Felix, adding ‘just a little lower.’
‘Let me get some lotion,’ said Dela, going to the bathroom next door.
She soon returned on top of him, wearing nothing but a scarlet silk dressing gown.
‘Oh yes,’ purred Felix.
He glanced at the clock, knowing Dela never gave him more than ten minutes of heaven; but there was plenty of hell.
‘Only one night to go,’ said Felix, and then he was off for four nights.
‘Felix I’m doing a reading this afternoon. So sorry honey, but you’ll have to ....’
‘I know, stay out of the way.’
Voodoo high priestess Dela Eden Obi had all kinds of things going on in their high rise council flat in the heart of the city; fortune readings, talismans, and potions to contact the Spirits. But she didn’t stop just there; she cured HIV, purportedly, and cast spells - occasionally using human body parts. And all with a soft gentle face.
‘Can you manage that?’ asked Dela smiling ‘or have I got to tie you up again?’
Felix was caught in two minds, as he looked at her painted and curled lips.
‘Don’t worry I’ll leave you alone today, besides you probably need time to wrap my birthday present,’ said Dela smiling.
Felix gulped. It was Dela’s birthday tomorrow, and he hadn’t bought a thing. But he was worn out, and decided to get some rest first.
He could feel Dela rolling him in the bed. He’d overslept, and was running late for work. He quickly got dressed. As Felix tightened his belt, Dela searched her wardrobe for a colourful kanga dress, and one of the headscarves she loved so much.
Din, Dela’s elder brother, arrived just as Felix was buttoning up his duffel coat. Din was always smiling, tall and thickset, but his relaxed demeanour could quickly turn. He bade Felix’s farewell, before joining Dela in the lounge. She was kneeling in front of her Dankoly shrine, pouring gin over the fetish, whilst wishing the undoing of her best customer’s competitor. Businessman Gasper Owido had prospered over the years, with Dela’s blessings, but now he, and some others, were pushing for more powerful spells. Naturally these came at a higher price - for everyone concerned.
Din was also seeking his sister’s powers. An old friend, Vankoni, was arriving from South Africa tomorrow, and he sought a charm to help him pass through immigration. Din had his own racket dealing drugs, and had a job waiting for him.
Felix went upstairs to see Agatha in the office, and drool temporarily over her uniform.
‘Hi I’m Bheki,’ said the agency nurse, holding the communication book.
‘Where’s Agatha?’ asked Felix, momentarily disappointed.
‘Who’s Agatha?’
‘She’s the regular nurse.’
‘I don’t know, but the agency rang me this afternoon to cover.’
‘Well pleased to meet you Bheki. I’m Felix.’
He’d never seen a live African albino before, only the head at the bottom of Dela’s freezer last year. According to Dela the spells cast from those ears alone had paid for their last holiday. He gave Bheki a long hard stare. She was used to that, but Felix wasn’t undressing her with passion, he was seeing pound signs.
Tendai Mathebula, the hooker from Mozambique, had become Bheki Ncube registered nurse. Fifty thousand pounds had helped the real Bheki retire early in Harare, in exchange for a red passport, and a nurse’s PIN. The rest of Kofi’s money had gone on her north London apartment, and smuggling Eudy into the UK.
Felix was still racking his brains on what to buy Dela in the morning, when he found himself in Ernest’s room; he was fast asleep. The statues would make an ideal gift, and Ernest was too absent minded to notice them missing. He dropped the first one silently into the empty pillowcase, but in the mirror his eyes met Ernest’s.
Ernest threw the bed sheets back, vainly searching for his walking stick. But a carer had moved it near the door, before tucking him in bed. Felix smiled.
‘It’s only because I care about those who suffer,’ Felix lamented, picking up a soft fluffy cushion; white, and shaped as a l
amb.
Ernest, grimaced as Felix approached, the latter’s eyes shining. Ernest’s heart couldn’t take the strain, and he felt a crushing weight pressing on his chest. Feebly he reached towards the bedside table, and the medication on top, but Felix moved it just out of his reach.
Ernest’s thin lips were now blue, pursed in agony, and he was struggling for breath.
‘Tut tut,’ said Felix, watching life ebb away, amused on the edge of the bed.
Felix checked for a pulse, but the silent killer had struck. Omitting Ernest’s beta-blockers had been worth it, and Felix wasn’t the one left red faced.
Felix quickly threw the booty into his car, before joining Bheki to soothe his nerves. She slipped the diary, crammed with notes, back in her Louis Vuitton bag.
Naturally Ernest was a little unresponsive in the morning, but it was just a paper exercise, and Felix didn’t even have to stay behind.
Dela looked at them one last time. They were about twenty inches tall, one male the other female. It was always difficult to tell what she was thinking, but finally she released her verdict.
‘Fakes,’ she said ‘good ones, but copies none the less.’
Felix sighed.
‘Oh don’t worry,’ said Dela ‘it’s not your fault, and they do make a lovely present.’
He tried to raise a smile.
‘Anyway, sit here, beside me, and give me a birthday kiss,’ she said.
She patted the sofa, and Felix obliged, obediently.
‘The gods have promised me a fortune, but perhaps not this way,’ said Dela.
‘I did meet this rather interesting nurse last night,’ said Felix, trying to make amends.
‘Go on,’ said Dela not really listening, and placing the statues on the coffee table.
She wouldn’t tell Felix about the underside ‘Made in China’ stamp. But neither would he tell her about Ernest. It felt like he’d bought something in the sales, only to discover it was cheaper the previous month.
‘Yes, she’s from Zimbabwe.’
‘Oh,’ said Dela, still deciding on the best position; though they were destined for the smallest room.
‘And she’s an albino.’
‘Really,’ said Dela.
Intrigued, she turned around to face him. Her eyes were glowing.
‘Yes, and she has a sister too, who lives with her.’
‘Now that is interesting.’
Felix could breathe again; god how he ached to please her.
‘Perhaps this is what we’ve been waiting for. A little bloodshed perhaps, but you’re not averse to that are you my dear husband.’
Felix grinned. Dela knew his strong points; he felt appreciated, loved.
Their body parts were worth far less in Africa, though equally valued. In Europe, exotic smuggled birds were expensive; extremely. Dela had customers flung far and wide, as well as her inner circle; she would have no shortage of buyers.
‘Anyway,’ said Dela ‘it’s my birthday today, and I think I deserve a little playtime.’
Playtime for Dela meant something altogether different for Felix, but still he was off for four nights, and wheals didn’t last forever.
Their body language always gave the game away, and it was obvious, to anyone that knew them, Dela carried the whip hand in their marriage. But there was even more beneath the surface. The spare room was both a voodoo temple and a dungeon, and Felix was about to get his comeuppance.
Upon instruction he removed all of his clothes, his demeanour more humble than usual. His wrists cuffed tightly in front, he was pushed into a room where only candles lit the walls. The dungeon was decorated with tasselled whips, paddles both leather and wooden, various gags some ball, and all manner of unusual and wicked restraints. Images of vengeful voodoo gods, and their victims, screamed at him from the walls. There was a large serpent looking down from the ceiling, and in the middle of the room a pole, where the Spirits would communicate with Dela.
Mistress was head to toe in black leather. Evil personified, with the face of an angel. Her slave knelt as she rolled a mask over his face. His eyes peered through the slits, a metal zip undone across his mouth, but there was no safe word to save his torment - Dela just liked to hear his squeals.
Dela circled menacingly whilst berating her stooge. She held a cane, tapping it against the palm of her hand threateningly. And she wasn’t shy in giving him a taste, scoffing at his excitement.
Ordered to stand completely still, welts were drawn across his behind with brushstrokes of the bamboo. The more he tottered forwards, the harder came the next strike. Obedience had to be instilled, but eventually satisfied a lesson had been learnt, Dela rested the cane, before giving her submissive chapter and verse on his incompetence. Felix stared forlornly at the floor.
His wrists were now chained to the wall above his head, causing him to stretch, whilst his ankles were forced apart with a pole. Dela’s curses turned the air blue, as she clipped clothes pegs upon him. Eventually the hurt and frustration shot out of him, and he hung like a deflated vinyl toy.
Whilst chastising her charge for lack of control, Dela withdrew the devices, before handing him a cloth, and a bucket of warm soapy water. Once the dungeon was cleansed he followed her into the bedroom, head bowed in humiliation. Dela was awaiting her reward, and like any good pilgrim he kneeled before his goddess. Sex without humiliation was like murder minus the risk - routine; and both of his transgressions helped to turn his two dimensional existence into 3D.
With Dela napping Felix went to the laundry basket, and his tunic. He removed a sheet of paper from the top pocket. It was a photocopy of Bheki’s timesheet. In the top right corner it read ‘Caring Hands Nursing Agency’. He’d give them a call later today; he could do with the extra income.
Chapter Five
A cloud of anticipation hung over the roulette table, and gaming chips covered the numbered green baize, waiting patiently as the ball spun around the rim of the wheel.
‘No more bets. No more bets, thank you,’ shouted the croupier, as the ball hung loosely in the wheel, about to drop.
Din thumped the table next door, catching the pretty inspector’s eye one more time. She sat perched on a high chair between both games.
‘Seventeen black,’ announced the croupier.
He placed the dolly on top of several coloured gaming chips, and cleared the table of all losing bets. Studious gamblers watched for any hint of a mistake - and any chance to cheat.
Odd had been empty until the very last second, but someone had slipped a hundred pounds onto it, just as the ball was dropping. It should have been removed, but the croupier chose to ignore it.
‘One hundred pounds,’ he said, pressing four £25 chips into the stack on odd.
Long red fingernails, curved like claws, swooped onto the two stacks.
‘Thank you,’ said Dela Eden Obi.
‘You were lucky,’ whispered Joost in her ear.
Joost van Houten also played the tables at The Four Horsemen, and he and Dela often bumped into one another; although they never asked each other’s name. Casinos were for the anonymous.
‘Luck favours the brave,’ said Dela smiling.
In fact the croupier was the son of her neighbour, who just happened to owe a hundred pounds for the illegal skin lightening cream she sold.
Joost was having no such luck, and in the morning would be glad he’d left his credits cards at home. Self-destruction was his burden for leaving South Africa alive.
The croupier quickly paid out all other winners, pulled the wheel towards him to increase its momentum, and shouted ‘place your bets please.’
He flicked the small white ball away from him, and it rocketed around the wheel under the brim. He was dealing a busy game, and hands were everywhere over the table.
Another odd number was hit, and this time Joost chanced his arm.
‘Late bet,’ said the croupier with exaggerated disdain, and he slammed the chips back down on the table, in front of Joost.
Dela looked at him, and shrugged her shoulders. The inspector smiled. This time there was no Din, no distraction.
There were no windows, no clocks; time and season had been forgotten. Some sailed a pirate ship, others the Titanic. Walls were an international tapestry but hooked into a game, or a player.
Din wandered back from the bar, and joined his sister’s side. The casino was a great place to sell his gear, and John Lacey, his runner, was with him. John had a permanent frown, and looked like something the cat had dragged in. He didn’t walk between the tables; he hovered like a black cloud about to rain. He approached Joost, who promised to buy some smack later in the week. He’d long stopped taking the antidepressants, preferring to wallow in a high.
Joost only knew it was late, when he played his last chips on blackjack. John Lacey was in the crowd looking over his shoulder, and Din muscled in to remind him about his debt.
John looked a little worried; he’d already blown the money on his own habit, and Din was becoming impatient.
Joost was eyeing up one of the hookers that hung around the place, but they were too expensive. He’d pick up some street meat in his car instead.
Joost tumbled into his flat. He’d blown his brains at the casino, and then got wasted with a two bit hooker and a bottle of gin - only one thing remained. On the wall he swung the crocodile mask along, exposing the back in a recess. He delved his hand into the hollow, like a bear scooping honey from a tree, pulling out the last packet of heroin, and his kit.
Joost spilled a line of brown powder onto the creased tin foil, and gently heated it underneath with the gold lighter. As the smoke began to rise he sucked it through a thin glass tube, chasing the dragon.
The opiate was now jumping across his blood-brain barrier, like tiny soldiers racing into enemy territory. He slid into his chair and they raised the flag of victory - his demons were temporarily defeated.