by Mike Nicol
Neither Zuki nor Kortboy responding.
‘You’re the hired help in this, aren’t you?’ That got their attention. Both men looking at her. ‘You’re doing this for someone else.’ She shifted on the chair to face Zuki. ‘The person you phone. You had to kidnap us. Your friends got shot. These people don’t even send you food. Don’t give you a chance to sleep. Must be nearly twenty-four hours you’ve been on the job and no back-up. Why’s that? Think about it, son. Why’s that?’ She held a hand out towards Kortboy. ‘You too, son. Think about it.’
Veronica let that hang.
Then: ‘You’ve not done this before, I can tell.’
Kortboy exploding. ‘Ah, shit, man. This is shit.’
‘What happens,’ she said, ‘what’s probably happened is that your masters have asked for a ransom. Silas isn’t going to pay that. Not straight off. I know him, he’s not that sort of man. He’ll do a deal in his own time. So this isn’t going to be over quickly. It’s going to take days. The three of us in this place for days and days.’
‘No,’ said Kortboy. ‘Forget it.’
‘Also,’ Veronica pressing on while the two men stared at her, ‘as soon as that call’s made, the police start working out where it’s come from. They can do that. If your person hasn’t been clever, hasn’t used a public phone, they get him in a couple of hours. Even with public phones they’ve got ways to do it, the cops.’
Zuki dug out his cellphone, toyed with it.
‘Those calls you’ve made. When they get to the person you’re phoning, they’re going to get to you. With cellphones they can do that easily. I saw it once on CSI. You get that show here?’
Zuki nodded.
‘Another thing: have you asked why you had to do the kidnapping, hmmm? Why you had to take both of us? My husband and me, we should both of us be here now. Then who was going to pay ransom? We’re businesspeople, there’s no one in this country to pay ransom for us. So then you have to think there was another reason. Someone wanted us out of the way for a while. That’s what I reckon. But now it’s all messed up.’
‘Shit,’ said Kortboy. ‘This is shit, my bra.’ Kortboy beating his fist against the van.
‘The best option,’ she said, ‘is for you to walk out now. Leave me, take the van and get away.’
‘She’ll kill us,’ said Zuki.
‘Ah, shit man.’ Kortboy giving the van another pummelling. ‘Shit man. Shit, shit, shit.’
Zuki spewing a run of language at the short man.
Veronica thinking. Thinking: to make a run for it, bang on the door, scream? Or to sit this out? Sensing a hesitancy in the boys. That’s what they were. Boys. Young men in age but boys really.
The boys gone quiet, Zuki’s cellphone buzzing an sms. He said to Kortboy, ‘Someone’s coming.’ Holding up the phone for him to see the message.
That decided Veronica. She made for the door, trying to pull it up, banging on it, screaming help me, help me, help me. Kortboy slamming her against the metal, his hand coming hard over her mouth, her head pulled back by the hair. She bit into fingers. Kortboy let go, punched her twice in the temple. Veronica went down.
They tied her to the chair again. Her feet strapped to the legs, her arms tight behind. She bled down her face, long runnels from old cuts reopened.
‘Not the gag,’ she said, panting, begging, ‘not the gag.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Kortboy.
Zuki shook his head. ‘Why, my lady? Why must you do that?’
‘American bitch,’ said Kortboy. ‘Talking shit to us.’ He stuffed a cloth in her mouth, wound duct tape round and round her head.
Veronica looked at the men. They’d fetched their guns, laid them on the desk. Zuki back in his chair. Kortboy on a stool. Both of them staring at the gas heater, spluttering on one panel. It gave out. The flame diminishing, dying. The cold settled in.
‘Shit,’ said Kortboy.
Zuki said nothing.
‘Where we going to get gas from now?’
Zuki’s phone rang. He answered, didn’t say a word. Said to Kortboy. ‘There’s a guy outside. Open the door.’
‘You ill, my bra?’ Getting up to do it all the same.
The man ducked under the door as Kortboy hauled it up. Had a silenced pistol in his right hand pointed at the floor. Wore Latex gloves. Over his head a balaclava with holes at the eyes, nose and mouth. Said, ‘Howzit, butis.’ A pink mouth in the grey wool. ‘Bit of a rush here, gents. Sorry about that. At least your shift’s over.’
Took out Zuki first with a head shot. A small wop. Zuki’s head jerked backwards, tilted to the side, otherwise Zuki didn’t even move where he was sitting. Still had his cellphone in his hand. The guns lying on the desk, a short reach away.
Kortboy, behind the shooter, pulling down the garage door, took one in the face as he looked up, a second in the heart. He dropped right there.
Veronica Dinsmor watched. Watched the man swing his pistol arm up and fire at Zuki, continue the movement through half a turn of his body, shoot twice, wop, wop hitting Kortboy. A killer. The way Zuki and Kortboy would never’ve been killers. The way they didn’t even see it coming.
Watching the killer she knew he wasn’t going to shoot her. Wouldn’t have worn the balaclava for one thing. Would’ve done her first as she was first in the arc of his shooting.
She could see his teeth at the mouth as if he were smiling.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t be helped really.’
He stepped over to Zuki, eased the cellphone out of his fingers. Went to Kortboy, searched through his pockets until he found the short man’s phone. He stood in front of Veronica. Veronica’s full attention on him. On the gun he held.
‘Not such a great place to hang out. Bloody cold.’ He unscrewed the silencer, dropped it into a pocket of his bush jacket, stuck the gun in his belt. From an inside pocket took out a bottle and a syringe in a sealed packet. Waved this in front of her eyes. ‘Don’t have to worry about HIV.’ He tore the packet, fitted the needle to the syringe. Plunged this through the seal on the bottle. ‘Nighty, night, Mrs. Well not nighty, night as such. More like sleep tight. When you wake up you’re gonna think you’re in heaven compared with this place.’
Veronica Dinsmor screamed, came out as a long nnnnnnnn.
‘I’ll give them one thing,’ said the man. ‘They do a good gag. Sometimes I’ve seen gags so useless you can hear people screaming next door. Got you tied down nicely too. So relax, Mrs. Don’t worry, be happy.’ He clenched the syringe between his teeth, bent down behind her to pop a vein in her arm.
Veronica Dinsmor felt the jab, more a stab. Gave the nnnnnnn scream, the knock-out drug burning into her blood.
‘Shoulda done that slowly,’ he said, ‘sorry for that. Time is tight.’ He was blurring in Veronica Dinsmor’s vision. He seemed to be holding a camcorder, videoing her. ‘Pleasant dreams, Mrs,’ she heard. And what might have been a tune he was humming.
28
Mace picked up Christa half an hour late. She was pissed off. Sat in the Spider plugged into her iPod drooping a sullen lip. Mace wanted to belt her one. The last thing he needed was a teenager throwing a sulk.
Going down Edinburgh Drive, grey drizzle, grey light, the cloud low on the mountain, commuter traffic streaming home in the opposite direction, Mace got pissed off himself. The resentment of self-pity. If Oumou was here this wouldn’t be happening.
They’d be at home. Christa sprawled in front of the TV doing her homework. The cat curled on the couch. The house warm with cooking. Oumou padding about in his socks, probably still in her pottery overalls, a crusty smear of clay on her face, the smell of clay in her hair.
He’d come in, he’d get their smiles. Light him up like a Roman candle.
Tried to say, I’m doing my best, Christa. I’ve got serious shit happening right now. There’s a kidnapped woman out there. Frightened. Hurt, maybe. Wondering if she’s going to live. Terrified moment by moment. There’s Pylon woun
ded, I’m having to handle things alone. There’s the bank jumping on my neck. Cut me a little slack, okay. I’m here. I’m thirty minutes late but I’m here. We’re together.
It came out as: ‘What’s your problem, C? Why do we have to live with your selfishness day after day?’
She heard him through the buds in her ears, through the rap of 50 Cent: Just a Lil Bit. Before the tears, snapped back, ‘Why aren’t you like Pylon?’
‘What? What’s that?’ Mace stretching over to jerk the buds from her ears. ‘Listen to me.’ Steering with one hand, his left clamped about her wrist, hard.
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘What’d you say?’ Squeezing. ‘Tell me.’
‘Aww. Papa.’ Christa jerked her arm out of Mace’s grasp. ‘Let me go.’ A red Chinese bangle around her wrist. The tears starting.
‘Christa, what’d you say?’
A sob. ‘Nothing.’
‘That I’m not like Pylon. You want me to be like him. Uh? That’s what you want. Uh? Okay tell me how? Tell me what Pylon does I don’t do for you.’
Tears from Christa.
‘Come on I’m listening. Now’s your chance. Stick it to your papa.’
‘Don’t …’ the tears choking off her words.
‘Hit me, C. This’s the moment. Stick the daggers in.’
‘Papa!’ Christa hunched away from him.
The sight of her cowering took the heat out of Mace. The tremble of her shoulders.
‘Oh Jesus Christ, Christa, Jesus Christ, I’m sorry.’ Reaching out for her, even as she cringed from his touch.
Going up the climb towards Newlands Forest, Mace eased off the road into a parking bay beneath the wet oaks. Killed the engine.
Christa said, ‘Don’t, Papa. Don’t touch me.’
They sat: Christa sniffing; Mace staring at the bright headlights of rush hour. Times like this he hated. Couldn’t stand the pain it caused him.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Neither of them saying a word. Christa put the buds back in her ears.
‘Wait,’ said Mace. ‘Wait.’ Taking her hand. ‘I’m sorry, okay. I shouldn’t have done that.’ The words ended there.
Christa sniffed.
Mace leant towards her, reached a hand out to draw her in. For a second he felt resistance, then she yielded. Let him hold her, shifted towards him. He could feel her trembling, held her until the trembling stopped.
She was so slight. Wiry, small-boned, more her mother’s build than his. Her head cupped beneath his chin, the smell of her hair in his nostrils, musty like Oumou’s would be at the end of the day.
Oumou. He closed his eyes, raised the image of her in a long dress, a loose dress, gliding from the pool deck towards the house. The shape of her body visible against the light. A body he couldn’t hold again.
Because of Sheemina February. Tonight he’d be in there, in her apartment, find out what her case was and end this thing. This thing that had gone on for too long.
A flower-seller tapped on his side window, a blur through the condensation. ‘Hello my larney, my Mr Gentleman.’ Mace wiped the window with his sleeve. ‘Buy a bunch, my larney, for your little cherrie there.’ The flower-seller soaking wet in a hoodie, the flowers a sad mixture of yellow and red wrapped in plastic. ‘My last bunch, my larney, special price for yous.’
Mace waved him away.
Christa, straightened out of her father’s embrace, said, ‘Buy them, Papa. Why not?’
‘Cos he’s a bloody drunk.’ Wound down his window anyhow.
‘Beautiful dahlias, thirty rands, my larney. Jus twenny-five rands, for the beautiful wife, so very young.’
‘My daughter,’ said Mace, digging out some notes, handing over a twenty and a ten. He took the flowers, water dripped onto his trousers.
‘So what, my larney?’ said the flower seller. ‘I myself like the young ones.’ Gave Mace a grin, his tongue where his front teeth should’ve been.
Mace said, ‘Where’s my change?’
‘Ag, my larney, give a man a small commission. Yous mos the one with the babe.’ He winked, backing off, preparing to run if Mace wanted it that way.
Mace’s hand on the door handle.
Christa said, ‘Papa, let it go.’
‘What?’
‘We’ve got the flowers.’
‘Lekker, lekker,’ shouted the flower seller. ‘Nice night, my larney, nice night.’
Christa took the flowers, put them at her feet.
‘It’s all wet on the floor.’
‘It’s a leak,’ said Mace.
‘Can’t you fix it?’
Mace turned the ignition. The Spider fired with a bit of throat and smoke. ‘Some things you can’t fix.’ He checked the rearview mirror, took a gap in the evening rush.
Christa said, ‘Hey, this isn’t a race track.’
Laughter in her voice. The old Christa. Mace gave her a glance, caught her eye, both of them looking quickly away.
She reached over, plugged a bud into his ear. ‘Listen to this.’
Mace heard what he hated, the bullet jive of a rapper.
‘What’s it?’
‘50 Cent. He’s cool,’ said Christa. ‘Got these moves. I love him.’
Settled for the nauseating 50 Cent and his chicks all the way to the gym, connected to his daughter by the thin wire of an iPod.
He parked two rows back from the entrance, a car park of high-end silver metal. This time of the late afternoon, Mace preferred: the young looking after their bods, the old looking after their hearts – mortality whichever way you figured it.
Christa opened her door, held out her hand to the drizzle. ‘This is so mad,’ she said. ‘Like what’re we doing?’
‘Having fun,’ said Mace.
Christa came out of the change room wearing her black Speedo and lycra shorts, joined Mace at the pool edge. A couple of swimmers doing laps, an old codger with a wooden board kicking his way up and down. They moved to two free lanes.
‘Fancy new outfit,’ Mace said.
Christa didn’t respond, fitting her hair into her swimming cap.
Mace thought, best to leave the fashion styling alone, young girls and their bodies being what they were: sensitive. Said, ‘Long and slow.’
Christa tested the water with her foot, shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
‘Okay, we’ll play it by the clock. See where half an hour gets us.’
They dropped in, kicking off from the wall. Mace let his daughter settle the pace. He’d swum more than she had since Oumou’s killing, chances were she wouldn’t last half an hour.
Halfway down the length he could feel the rhythm set in, his thoughts blanking, the reptile moving up from the dim recesses of his brain. Swimming he could be alive without thinking. Without feeling. No sensation but the working of his muscles, the bubbles streaming from his mouth.
When Mace broke back to glance at the clock they’d done almost thirty minutes, Christa showing no signs of stopping. Had to be she was training at school on the sly. Not telling him. He powered after her, touched her foot.
She looked round. ‘What?’
Mace pointed at the clock. ‘Enough.’ Panting a bit he realised.
‘Race you,’ she said. ‘To the end and back.’
A length and a half.
Mace said, ‘Go.’
She had a metre on him, didn’t let him take any of it for the distance. It was Mace at the end heaving for air more than she was.
‘See,’ she said. ‘Who’s the slowcoach?’
At the restaurant, Prima’s at the Waterfront, the waiter in an orange overall flirted in French with Christa when he brought her Coke.
She came back at him in the same language. Mace reckoned, if a black face could blush it probably did.
‘Merde. Excusez-moi, excusez-moi.’ The guy almost spilling Mace’s beer as he poured it, going into an exchange with Christa, looking like he might cry with happiness.
He turned his French on Ma
ce until Mace held up his hands.
Christa said something, the waiter saying to Mace, ‘You look French. Like tourists.’
In winter? Mace thought.
The waiter took their order, told Mace he had a lovely daughter.
‘What was that about?’ said Mace, sipping the head off his lager.
‘He wanted to know where I learnt French. I told him Maman was from Malitia.’ She stirred the straw through the ice in her Coke. ‘He’s from Congo. A refugee. He said his family was killed two years ago. All of them.’
‘There’s lots of them like that,’ said Mace. Raised his glass to Christa. ‘Have been for years and years.’
They clinked glasses.
‘Santé.’
‘Why d’you always say what Maman used to say?’
‘Why not? It sounds better than cheers.’
Mace wiped a foam moustache from his upper lip. ‘So you’ve been training,’ he said, ‘on the quiet?’
‘Non.’ She shook her head, hair floating about her face. ‘You didn’t ask me.’
‘You didn’t tell me, more like it. What else’ve you been doing you haven’t told me?’
‘Nothing.’ She gave him the cute look: her drink’s straw touching her lower lip, the glass of Coke in her left hand, her big brown eyes peering at him through a fringe of hair. ‘You’re going to teach me to shoot this Saturday, right?’
‘That’s what I said.’ Mace supposing there’d be some time to fit it in when he wasn’t dealing with kidnappers and errant scientists and closet arms manufacturers who had Chihuahuas as pets.
‘Really?’
‘Of course. But first …’
‘What?’ Her expression anxious. The cute face gone rigid.
He saw it. Reached for her hand, her fingers not responding to his.
‘Relax, C,’ he said. ‘Tell me about your day. Tell me about school. Tell me what you’d have told Maman.’
‘You’re not Maman.’
‘I’m doing it for her now,’ said Mace. He took back his hand, watched Christa’s hand scuttle into her lap.
‘You’re my Dad.’
Mace decided not to push it. ‘Tell your Dad then.’