Black Heart

by Mike Nicol

  ‘My heart bleeds.’ Sheemina February stopped the vehicle at the gate, waited for the security guard to emerge from his Zozo hut, taking his time. When he saw it was her he changed his pace. The guard’s sudden acceleration gave her an idea. Maybe it would be better to get Max back asap. She could see advantages opening up. New possibilities. Yes, a change of plan. She smiled to herself. ‘So squeeze Mister Bishop.’

  ‘I thought …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That it was best to keep him out of the country until the end of the week. When we spoke that’s what you suggested.’

  ‘Sometimes what we want isn’t possible, Magnus. Listen to the Zen masters, go with the flow.’ She drove through the gateway, raised a hand in greeting to the guard.

  The gravel road became a sand track with a middle hump, redgrass and flat shrubs scraping under the car. She drove slowly across the upland, the track gradually dipping towards the sea, the cottage just visible in the dunes above the shoreline.

  In two months, work would begin: a vast tract transformed into a golf estate – greens, fynbos clusters, bunker holes and homes. The cottage become a project manager’s office, the birdsong given to the growl and whine of bulldozers. A shame really. But that was progress. In the end the birdsong would be back to bring joy to hundreds of hearts.

  Until then she could enjoy the wildness. An hour from the city, close to her apartment, the lair become the web.

  Magnus Oosthuizen said, ‘Bishop can’t move sooner.’

  Sheemina February laughed. ‘Everybody can move sooner, Magnus, for an enticement. Especially Mr Bishop.’

  ‘I’m paying him a fortune.’

  ‘You haven’t paid him anything yet.’ She stopped the BMW in a clearing behind the cottage. The sea was wild, pounding against the outer rocks, waves taking spume high up the beach. Farther out, patches of sunlight breaking through the clouds, glistening on the ocean. Maybe, she thought, you’ll never have to, but kept this to herself. ‘You sort it out, Magnus. It’s your boy who’s scared.’

  That’d give him pause, it did. She stared at the sea, a faint smile on her lips.

  ‘He means a great deal of money to you,’ said Oosthuizen.

  ‘To both of us.’ She enjoyed reminding him. Enjoyed remembering how much money Max Roland meant. ‘So do the right thing, Magnus. Tell me how it goes.’

  She disconnected. Connected to Mart Velaze.

  ‘Blue eyes,’ he said in greeting.

  Sheemina smiled. Mart always trying it on. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘we need the weapons committee to bring forward Oosthuizen’s hearing. How’s Friday sound?’ She heard Mart suck in air.

  ‘Friday! It wasn’t even scheduled for next week.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what’s the rush?’

  Sheemina stared at the ocean: waves slamming white and high against the rocks. ‘Timing,’ she said. ‘Upping the ante. Getting such a rush going nothing will stop us.’

  Mart whistled. ‘Sounds very sexy.’

  ‘Can you do it? Shift the committee?’

  He clucked his tongue. ‘Nothing I can promise.’

  ‘Mart the fixer,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a reputation.’

  Mart Velaze spluttered a response.

  Sheemina February said, ‘I’m sure you can.’ And hung up. Such an operator Mart Velaze, he’d pull it off. She sat in the X5 enjoying the warmth of the winter sun, listening to the piep of prinias in the thickets. Noisy little birds. There could be worse places to hole up for a day or two. She couldn’t see it taking longer than that before she had Mace Bishop where she wanted him.

  23

  ‘You didn’t ask for advice,’ said Mace to Silas Dinsmor, ‘and I don’t give it. Usually. But this’s it anyhow.’

  ‘I don’t want it,’ said Silas Dinsmor.

  ‘Like I said, here it is anyhow.’ Mace and Silas Dinsmor in a casino coffee shop. ‘You’re making a mistake. Forget the deal. Tell them you can’t do business this way. I can get you on the radio this afternoon, you can make it public: the offer’s withdrawn, release my wife, we’re booked on tomorrow’s flight. Outta here. I just want to go home, forget this ever happened. Please let my wife go.’ Mace scraped a teaspoon round the cup to gather the espresso froth. Licked it clean. ‘That sort of thing. The desperate husband at his wits’ end.’

  Silas Dinsmor hadn’t touched his cappuccino.

  ‘If there was a spy in that meeting, the word’s got back already, I’m calling their hand. The way I figure it they’re going to make contact now and contact means we’ve got a dialogue going. Something to work with.’

  ‘You’re playing with her life.’

  ‘I told you, we’ve done it before. You don’t know Veronica.’

  ‘I know the scene here. You don’t.’

  ‘Can’t be any worse than Colombia.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. All I’m saying is the way it happens here, you don’t get quarter. Understand one thing, the rage levels are way high. Nobody does anger management. People hit up against argie-bargie they go, to hell with this, bam, bam, shoot their way out. Happens all the time. You saw it last night.’

  ‘My way,’ said Silas Dinsmor. ‘I thank you for your opinion, Mr Bishop, but this is my call, my hand.’ The problem exactly, thought Mace. The gambler gambling.

  Silas Dinsmor saying, ‘You’re my security people. Come down to it, my bodyguard. Contracted for that and that’s how we’ll continue.’ He kept his eyes off Mace while he talked. ‘How I’d like this relationship. Businesslike. Don’t go Pike Bishop on me. I don’t do disloyalty.’

  Mace kept his thoughts to himself, what point in telling Silas Dinsmor yet again this wasn’t business, this was his wife’s safety, her life most likely. Said, ‘Okay. We’ll stick to that.’

  ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  Silas Dinsmor pushed the cappuccino into the middle of the table. ‘I don’t think I’ve the stomach for that.’ He stood. ‘I want to take a walk round the place. Get the feel.’

  You’ve got to be joking, thought Mace. Said, ‘Not a good idea.’

  Silas Dinsmor leant towards him. ‘I’m not going to say please.’

  Mace stared into the man’s eyes, an opaque dullness. Injun eyes. How did some people get to be such arseholes? He pushed back his chair. ‘Alright then.’ What risk was there to Silas Dinsmor in the casino? Scale of one to ten: down round about one. ‘Let’s go.’ Mace breaking the rules, checking the messages on his phone as they walked.

  Four missed calls, four messages.

  He got through to his voicemail.

  12:11 – Pylon: ‘I’m still at the hospital, okay, for some time probably. Treasure’s in labour. Bunch of fingers dilated, whatever that means. Nothing doing yet though except the contractions. Here’s a strange one: remember at the Mo Siq funeral a smiley NIA type pitched up, called himself Mart Velaze. Then at the Popo Dlamini killing there was a creepy white guy hanging around, NIA written all over him. Well, now black Mart’s back on the scene. Dropped in to comfort me. Seems the agency likes keeping a watching brief on us. What’s going on we don’t know about?’

  12:21 – Gonsalves: ‘Hey, Mace Bishop, talk to me. Nah! Don’t then. Still, pellie, you wanna know about some police work, course you do, we got the name of the tsotsi stole the car. The red Golf. Impressive hey? Soon be talking to the owners. Maybe even take a look at this tsotsi’s shack. You wondering how it’s done? We’re amazing, man.’

  12:22 – Tami: ‘There’s some stuff I found about Dinsmor you need to know. Some more stuff.’

  12:46 – Magnus Oosthuizen: ‘Very constructive discussion this morning, Mr Bishop. Only thing is we need to tighten up the timeframe. My man’s getting edgy. Two days is pushing it. Call me. This’s urgent.’

  They walked into the banks of slot machines. Mace with his eyes on the patrons. More women than men this time of day. Feeding the coins in, watching the barrels roll. Here and there the clatter of
a win. A couple of men with their wives. Tourists. Retirees making the most of their sixties.

  He thumbed through to the messages, thinking today of all days Treasure had to pick it. Thinking Mart Velaze, Mart Velaze, hadn’t there been a Mart Velaze in the camps? A youngster. A hot kid who was being flagged even then for training in the East. Had to be the same guy. The past resurrecting. Which, Mace knew, was never good news. But it could wait. So could Gonsalves and Oosthuizen. He browsed the messages:

  12:09 – A number he didn’t recognise. The message consisted of four digits and the words ‘Square now.’ A security code. Mace grinned. Hadn’t even cost him grease money. He saved the sms to his phone’s SIM card.

  12:27 – Tami: ‘Need to talk. Urgently.’

  12:53 – Pylon: ‘I’m a father. Have been for fifteen minutes.’

  12:55 – Pylon: ‘It’s a boy.’

  He had to phone him. The man must be ecstatic, over the moon, bursting with it. A son, too. That’d please Pylon the most. Mace smiled, was about to tell Silas Dinsmor, Pylon’s a father when he saw them: two women playing blackjack at a far table, the one, the pageboyed one, watching them. Silas Dinsmor saw them too.

  ‘Cute,’ he said.

  ‘Very,’ said Mace, wondering what it was about the women caught his attention. The way they were dressed? The boots? The white blouses open to a swell of tits? The casual brazenness of them?

  Silas Dinsmor chose a roulette table away from the women. Away, but in direct sight of them. Only one punter playing a red combination.

  The croupier racked a few low chips from the green. Said, ‘Place your bets.’

  The punter put down three chips on red variations: two splits and a straight up, took him a good couple of minutes to decide.

  ‘Sir?’ said the croupier, looking at Silas Dinsmor.

  ‘No, no.’ Silas Dinsmor waved his hand. ‘Not this time.’

  The croupier nodded, spun the wheel.

  Mace kept the women in his side vision. Not difficult, the white blouses blazed like beacons.

  With a flick of his wrist, the croupier set the ball circling. Once, twice, third time it dropped down, bounced onto the wheel, ran freely, slotted into black eleven.

  The women were both looking their way. Mace could sense it, a change in their posture. He glanced up from the table, caught their eyes. The one dropped her gaze, the other didn’t.

  ‘Red-only’s gonna kill you,’ Silas Dinsmor said to the punter. ‘Try two streets. I’d say sixteen and nineteen.’

  ‘And you?’ said the punter. ‘Let’s see you put them down.’

  ‘Too early.’

  The punter snorted. Went back to his red variation: a nine-twelve split, seven straight up.

  The croupier spun the wheel. The ball slotted twenty-one.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Silas Dinsmor. ‘I should’ve had money on it.’

  The punter grunted. The croupier swept up the chips.

  Mace realised the blaze had gone from his side vision. Just the croupier at the blackjack table, laying out cards to a middle-aged couple.

  ‘Where’re the girls?’ said Silas Dinsmor.

  Mace said, ‘They’ve left.’

  ‘Couple of sirens. We couldn’t have cut it for them.’ Silas Dinsmor laughed.

  Mace wondered how he did that with his wife abducted.

  24

  If they didn’t give her water soon she was going to die. Simple as that. Veronica Dinsmor, Dancing Rabbit, tried to plead with her eyes. Stared at the nice one, the one behind the desk, the driver. Please give me water.

  ‘What’s it?’ he said, taking his feet off the desk. Coming forward to lean on his elbows, looking her straight in the eyes.

  She made a high-pitched hum in response. Tried to put desperation into it.

  ‘You come here in winter, what d’you expect, it’s cold.’ He got up pushed the gas heater closer to her. ‘What’s her problem?’ he said to the short one. ‘You think she’s cold still?’

  Veronica Dinsmor kept staring at him, raising the pitch of her hum. Her throat felt like it would crack. Her tongue was curled back, stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  ‘The heat makes her piss stink,’ said the short one.

  She hurt from the blows she’d taken earlier. She felt faint. Her sight blurring, the driver’s face sliding out of focus.

  The driver saying, ‘Untie her hands’ – fishing a ballpoint and notepad out of the desk drawer. The notepad headed Bob’s Auto Spares, fancy scrollwork of cogs and spanners across the top.

  Short-arse said, ‘Yes, baas.’ Got a fierce look for the sarcasm.

  When the ties were off Veronica couldn’t feel her wrists. Slowly she rubbed one hand over the other. Flexed her fingers, stiff from the cold and reduced circulation. The driver held the paper and pen at her. She took it. Dropped the Bic. The driver picked it up, gave it back to her. She wrote: ‘Water. Please. Please.’

  ‘What’s it she wants?’ said the short one.

  ‘Water.’

  The short one backing off, shaking his head. ‘Aikona.’

  She was looking at the two of them like they were playing a tennis match. Realised that in all this time they’d not used names.

  ‘How can we do that? We undo her mouth she’s gonna scream. No ways American.’

  ‘Hey, my brother. Tula.’

  She held up her hands for the pad and ballpoint.

  ‘No ways, American. This’s not Mr Stupid here.’ The short one coming back, stabbing his index finger at his breastbone. ‘You see Mr Moegoe, look again, American.’

  The driver dropped the pen and paper in her lap.

  ‘I will not scream,’ she wrote. ‘Take money from my bag. Buy food.’ She held up the pad.

  The driver took it. Snorted.

  ‘Ja, and nou. What what?’

  ‘The mama’s paying for lunch.’

  ‘Of course. Why not?’ The short one bending to bring his face level with hers, his words rank and hot, ‘Luister, American, you scream, we cut out your tongue. One time, first thing, no problem.’ He waggled his tongue at her. ‘Strues.’

  She nodded. Brought her hand up to her mouth to tear off the duct tape.

  The short one grabbed her arm, ‘No, American,’ he said. ‘No shit, I said.’

  Again, they fastened the tie around her wrists, though not as tightly, not with her arms behind her back. That was something.

  The short one fetched her purse from the van, pulled out two hundred notes.

  ‘Get some pies,’ said the driver. ‘Big Jacks.’

  ‘Jou moer, my bra,’ said the short one. ‘Up yours. You go.’

  The driver held out his cellphone. ‘You gonna talk to her, my brother, if she phones?’

  The short one muttering as he walked off.

  ‘Make it a Coke, as well,’ said the driver. ‘Some more cigarettes.’

  The short one gave him the finger.

  Veronica heard the factory roller door slide up, felt a cold rush of wind, the door being slammed down again.

  The driver clucked, went to sit behind the desk, his eyes on her.

  She made the high humming, hoping that he’d remember her note for water.

  He shook his head. ‘Wait, my lady. He comes back you can have water. But I warn you, you scream I’m gonna hit you one time. Like my brother says, cut out your tongue.’

  She sat it out, the time it took the short one to buy food. Drifting in and out with the thirst. Losing focus. Bringing herself back. Her face hurting. Her jaws aching from the gag. Her throat on fire. Her tongue might have already been cut out, so stiff in her mouth she couldn’t feel it. Once she went down, her head flopping forward. The driver shot round the desk, slapped her back to consciousness.

  ‘Come, my lady.’ Stinging slaps to her face. ‘Come, my lady’ – following up with a string of words in his own language. She liked the my lady bit. Even in the fear and thirst liked the my lady.

  The short one came back with pies
and Cokes.

  They warned her again not to scream. She nodded, unable to take her eyes off the cooldrink cans. The driver opened one, stuck a straw in it. He peeled back the duct tape told her, ‘Spit out the gag.’ She couldn’t. Her jaws too stiff. Her tongue not functioning. He had to pull it out. Pushed the straw between her lips, said, ‘Suck, my lady.’

  She could manage that. Held the can in her bound hands, sucked down the Coke. They watched her. Ate their pies, watching her.

  When she could move her tongue she tried to speak. Had to clear her throat a couple of times.

  When she could she said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Alright, my lady,’ said the driver, swallowing the last of his pie. Getting up with the duct tape in his hand.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, ‘wait. I won’t scream.’

  She watched him pause, staring at her. ‘It’s our orders.’

  The other one, the short one, said, ‘Orders is orders.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But no one is going to find out.’ Glancing from one to the other. Keeping her eyes on the driver. ‘Five minutes,’ she said. ‘Give me five minutes.’

  The driver nodded, sat down.

  ‘What’re your names?’ Veronica looked at the short one then back at the driver. ‘It won’t hurt to tell me.’

  25

  He couldn’t wait two days. Max Roland sat at the table staring out at the distant square as the darkness came, knew he couldn’t wait two days. He stood up, walked to the window. Below, the grind and groan of the camel at the wheel had ceased. The camel stood facing a wall. Did it dream of desert vistas, Max Roland wondered?

  He was packed in thirty minutes. Had been living out of his suitcase anyhow, the room not furnished with a cupboard. Had decided to get to the airport, make the booking there. At one a.m. a flight left for Johannesburg. This much he knew, getting the airline schedule among the first things he’d done. He thought about phoning Magnus Oosthuizen, decided that would be best done from the airport. Once he was booked, through customs, waiting to board. He went downstairs.

  The men were in the reception room as usual. Chewing qat as usual. The television on, its sound off, the radio wailing Arab pop. They all greeted him, smiling green teeth. For the first time since he’d arrived, he hadn’t chewed qat. This was not a time to chew qat. He needed to be alert. Watchful. He waved his hand in greeting, told the man behind the reception desk he was checking out.