by Mike Nicol
‘He say anything interesting?’ said Mace.
‘I do not understand Arabic,’ said Roland. Then laughed. ‘Ah, a joke, Mr Bishop. You are very funny. Let me tell you a joke.’
Mace’s cellphone rang before the joke got underway: Magnus Oosthuizen. Mace wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t rather hear the joke.
‘You have made contact?’ said Oosthuizen.
‘What kind of language is that?’ said Mace. ‘Your colleague is standing next to me.’
An Oosthuizen pause. Then: ‘No one is following you?’
Mace did a slow 360. ‘I’m looking around and no, no one’s following us. Why would they? If anyone’s interested they’d know we’re heading for Cape Town. They’d know the flight. They’d be waiting there.’
‘They’re interested, Mr Bishop. ‘Believe me. And they’ll be waiting. So you’re going to have to pull the moves. Show us how good you are.’ Mace heard high-pitched yapping in the background.
‘Give your Chihuahua a kiss,’ he said. ‘Little dogs need a lot of love.’ He disconnected before Magnus Oosthuizen could go into one of his silences, steered Max Roland towards the check-in counters.
His phone rang again: estate agent Dave.
‘Dave here,’ said the property man. ‘Guess what my son, I thought about it, your question. And it all came back, in a proverbial flash, what happened.’
‘Not now, Dave,’ said Mace. ‘Now’s not good.’
Dave talking right over his objection. ‘What happened was I was sitting in my office when in she walks, this colleague of mine. Haven’t seen her in months. Probably a good six months. Actually thought she’d gone to Australia. But there she is, plonks herself down, says, Dave, saw you at the deeds office the other day but didn’t get a chance to chat and thought you’re the man I need to see. How’s your Atlantic seaboard portfolio? After we’ve had a natter, of course. Turns out she’s short of stock, has a client and wants to propose we come to an arrangement. As it happens we can. While we’re talking she drops into the convo that the last place she sold was to a rich female lawyer. Jackpot bells go off in my noodle. I say, coloured lady with amazing blue eyes? She says, yes. Major coincidence. But that’s how the world ticks over, my old son.’
‘Unless it wasn’t a coincidence,’ said Mace. ‘Did your arrangement work out?’
‘As it happens, no. Didn’t get to square one.’
‘Seen her since?’
‘Not exactly. Then again we’re not kissing pals.’
‘So this is it,’ said Mace. ‘You don’t see her for months. You start making some inquiries about Sheemina February at the deeds office, next thing this colleague walks in and offers information about Sheemina February. Helluva coincidence.’
‘Way of the world, my son. Happens all the time.’
‘When it happens in my life it’s not a coincidence.’
‘Mind the old ego, my son, could trip you up.’
‘So long, Dave,’ said Mace, keying him off.
At the check-in counter Mace wheedled two seats on the nine o’clock flight. Wasn’t really a duck-and-dive move, more because he wanted to get back to Cape Town chop-chop. Ditch Max Roland for one thing. The scientist was seriously irritating.
As they boarded, he got two more calls. The first from the reporter who’d been at him the previous afternoon, the second from Pylon. He pushed the reporter to voicemail, caught Pylon.
‘You heard about the DVD,’ Pylon going straight into matters.
‘I did.’
‘You got the scientist?’
‘I have.’
‘There’s something come up,’ said Pylon. ‘I’m watching now through my window Mart Velaze depart in a larney X5. Very nice car for an agent to drive. I’ve just had a bit of a history lesson from Mart about Herr Roland, and what he said may be true and it may not. All the same something we need to consider.’
‘I can’t now, I’m in the plane.’
‘Call me soonest.’
‘Quick thing: how’re you?’
‘Flying high. Drugs and fatherhood. Magic potions.’
Mace switched off his cellphone.
Max Roland said, ‘Popular man.’
Mace fastened his safety belt. ‘Seems like I can say the same for you.’
33
What Mart Velaze came to tell Pylon was this: Max Roland wasn’t kosher.
Tami had just collected Pumla for school with a moody Christa in the passenger seat, wouldn’t even smile at Pylon as he waved them off, Pylon thinking Mace had to do something there pronto. The kid wasn’t shaping. He swallowed two painkillers with his coffee, called Treasure.
‘You can stay another day if you want,’ he said, hoping she would. ‘No need to rush this.’
‘Nonsense. Nobody does. I’m a nurse, Pylon. I can manage. How’s your arm?’
‘Hurting,’ he said. ‘In certain positions.’
‘Take the muti. You see why I need to be home? Also I have to get out of here. Patients die in hospitals from the viruses, septicaemia, superbugs they haven’t even got names for yet.’
‘You work in a hospital.’
‘My point. I know about it.’
‘How’s Hintsa?’
‘Beautiful. That’s another thing. I’ve been thinking, lying awake here thinking: he’s not going to the mountain.’
‘What?’ said Pylon. ‘What mountain?’
‘For initiation.’
‘Initiation. When did this come up?’ Pylon sipping at his coffee listening to hospital noise: a television up too loud, babies squalling. Wondering how Treasure had got to this topic.
‘Have you seen the newspaper?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Eight deaths in the last ten days. Because of this precious initiation ceremony of yours.’
Pylon said, ‘Save me Jesus, Treasure. He’s two days old. This’s not the time to be talking about initiation.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it, even before he was born. And it’s out. No ways, no discussion. We can clip his foreskin in a hospital but no initiation.’
‘Okay.’ Pylon wanting out of this discussion, wanting to say I thought you said hospitals were dangerous places. He didn’t. Instead said, ‘Okay. When he’s old enough we can talk about that.’
‘Sitting in the bush doesn’t make teenage boys into men. What they think is, fine, I’ve been to the mountain, I’ve worn the skins and the white paint, I’m circumcised, now I can drink and sleep around. I’m not into that, Pylon. The primitive stuff doesn’t work for me.’
‘It’s tradition. Our tradition.’
‘My point. Initiation’s stuck in the past. We have to move on.’
Pylon sighed, but kept the sigh off-phone. ‘We’ll talk about it later. We’ve got sixteen, seventeen years to go.’
‘Maybe, but that’s my line: no time on the mountain with his mates. No old indunas with rusty assegais to butcher him. Every year boys die. Then there’s the ones mutilated. For life. So you men can feel like men.’ She broke into Xhosa, telling him that it was out of the question. Father and son would have to adjust.
Pylon kept pacifying, careful not to sound like he was humouring her. Treasure caught even a hint of that in his voice she’d go ballistic. When she’d swung off her high horse, he said he’d arrange for a taxi to collect her at eleven.
‘I’ll be waiting. Tell them that. No African time arrangement. Eleven sharp I’ll be waiting.’
He didn’t doubt it. No sooner got the taxi lined up than the intercom buzzer went.
‘Mart Velaze,’ said the voice. ‘Something I need to see you about.’
Pylon sighed again. What was his case? Said, ‘What’s your case? When a spook pops up, there’s always something going on.’
A snigger. ‘You got it, buta.’
‘So what’s so desperate seven o’clock in the morning’s a good time to disturb me?’
‘Max Roland. The man your partner’s bringing in.’
‘I know w
ho he’s bringing in’ – Pylon putting some emphasis to the spook phrase.
‘So come’n, buta. Hear me out. Won’t take five minutes.’
‘Go away.’
‘Ah, man. This’s not the attitude. Focus. Hear what I’m saying: Max Roland isn’t Max Roland.’
‘That’s spook paranoia.’
‘Five minutes,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘It’s chilly out here.’
Pylon groaned. Buzzed him in.
‘How about a cup of coffee?’ said Velaze, crouching at the gas heater to warm his hands. ‘I’m freezing.’
Pylon boiled him a cup of instant, Mart Velaze rabbiting on about what a nice cluster development Pylon had moved into. How much better than staying in a township.
‘Used to be your mate’s, wasn’t it?’ Not waiting for Pylon to answer. ‘Before Mace went larney bourgeois. City Bowl. Chrome and glass. The high-end lifestyle of Mace Bishop. Out there in the red zone, way beyond his means.’
‘What d’you want?’ said Pylon, giving him the coffee.
‘I’m right, hey? That’s what I heard. Complete Security not so completely secure in the finance department. Thanks to your buta getting beyond his station.’
‘Max Roland,’ said Pylon. ‘Remember.’
Mart Velaze tasted the coffee, pulled a face. ‘Instant’s all you’ve got?’ He pointed at the espresso pot on the stove. ‘What about one of those?’
‘Takes too long,’ said Pylon. ‘You’d be leaving as it percolated.’
Mart Velaze gave his snigger. ‘Don’t be like that.’
Pylon looked at him. ‘You’ve got three minutes left.’
‘Buta, man. What’s with you? I’m doing a favour here, no need for disrespect. Where’s the common courtesy?’
‘You’re in my house nice and warm drinking my coffee before it’s light. That’s common courtesy, Mart. So what’s your story?’
‘Are we gonna sit down?’
‘Perch on a stool.’
Pylon drew a stool across from him at the breakfast counter. Grimaced as he sat.
‘The arm still paining?’
‘Talk.’
‘Buta, buta, buta. What’s with you? Where’s the old gun-runner? The arms dealer? The cool brother I used to hear tell of? Swanning round the dark continent in ancient Dakotas and those Russian transports. The Antonovs. Trading ordinance in the hot spots. Man, buta, you and your mlungu mate were legends.’ He took a swig of coffee, swallowing hard. ‘Now what’ve we got? Mace and Pylon, muscle-men to the rich and famous, keeping the celebs secure on their surgical safaris. Except these days our heroes are losing people. One client assassinated. Another client kidnapped. Not good for business. Also they’re off the moral mountain top sloshing about in the lowland bogs. Taking on whatever scumbag comes wading through the slime.’
Pylon stood up. ‘Out.’
‘I haven’t started, buta.’
The two men doing the hard eyeball.
Snigger, snigger. Mart Velaze took a pull at the coffee, pushed the mug into the middle of the counter top. ‘That’s awful, Mr Buso.’ Pylon reached over, put a grip on Velaze’s hand, squeezed. Velaze: ‘What? You’re going to crush my hand? The Pylon and Mace busta-hand special. I don’t think so.’ He unhooked Pylon’s fingers one at a time. ‘Listen up, buta. Max Roland’s real name is Vasa Babic. Serbian cousin. Nice enough to meet and talk to but, man, he’s got a vicious streak.’ Mart took a disc and papers out of an inner pocket of his bush jacket, smoothed the papers on the counter. ‘You got a laptop handy we could look at some pictures?’
‘Do you see a laptop?’ said Pylon.
Mart Velaze glanced round the kitchen. ‘A computer?’
‘In my daughter’s room. I don’t know if I want you in her room.’
‘A DVD player?’
Mart pointed through the archway to the open-plan dining room and lounge. ‘Got to have one of those. Even shack dwellers have them.’
‘Words will do,’ said Pylon, ‘I don’t need to see pictures.’
‘You wouldn’t want to miss these. Believe me, your life will be enriched.’
‘Your time’s up.’
‘Look at this, okay. Then I’m outta here.’
‘Promise.’
‘Scout’s honour.’ Snigger, snigger.
‘Come,’ said Pylon taking him through to the lounge.
‘Your basic system,’ said Mart Velaze slotting the DVD into the player. ‘I’d have thought you might be a hi-tech sort of man. Into gadgetry. Anyhow.’ He took the remote, pressed play. ‘What we’ve got is three short takes on the mind of Vasa Babic. Ready, buta. Here we go.’
The screen went blue.
‘That’s sky,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘Cameraman likes to give us lots of sky. Probably finds it artistic. Soothing.’
The camera drifted left to some puffy clouds, the sort of clouds kiddies would draw, then down to the tops of trees, pulling back for a wider longer perspective of forested hills, grassy meadows in the foreground.
‘Very pretty,’ said Pylon.
‘Wait. Here’s the thing coming now. Listen. What’s that sound?’
A sloshing noise. Pigs grunting.
‘Animals,’ said Pylon.
‘Pigs to be precise. A farmyard scene. Look.’
A house came up. A double-storey stone building with small windows. Basic but pastoral, set against tall trees.
‘Quaint, hey. Rustic. Now hear this.’
Voices. People wailing. Babies crying. A loud voice shouting the same word over and over.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘Shut up.’
A shot, not loud. The cacophony stopped. Then a howl of anguish.
The camera drew back to give more setting to the farmhouse. A tractor, a car up on blocks. The wailing filled the soundtrack. Over this a voice called out a name.
‘Where’s this?’ said Pylon. ‘What’s this got to do with Max Roland?’
‘Patience, Mr Buso. Patience. Hear that name being called? Vasa. Turns out to be the cameraman.’
A clear voice close to the camera mic responded.
‘That’s our man Vasa.’
‘What’s he saying?’
‘Shoot them.’
The camera rose above the house to focus on a buzzard hovering over the meadows. The soundtrack was switched off. Silence. Just the predator fixed in the sky.
‘End of movie one. Arty, hey? Everything off-camera.’ The picture blacked out. ‘Next one’s a little different. Sort of grittier.’
Blue sky again, the camera dropping down fast through a blur of green and brown onto the face of a teenager. Thirteen, fourteen years old. The camera staying tight on her face.
‘Pretty girl,’ said Mart Velaze.
‘She’s lying on the ground? Outside.’
‘Very observant, Mr Buso. She is. Don’t know where though. No soundtrack to this one unfortunately.’
The girl had her eyes open, wild brown eyes all over the place. Her jaw rigid, her mouth drawn wide in what Pylon reckoned had to be a scream. Her head thrashed about until a pair of hands locked her face on to the camera.
‘Someone’s kneeling at her head to hold her like that,’ said Mart Velaze.
The girl shut her eyes, her face screwed up in pain.
‘I don’t want to see this,’ said Pylon.
‘Keep with it. Watch her face. See how she bites her lip. Bites so hard it bleeds.’
The girl’s teeth went red, blood and saliva welling onto her chin.
‘You know how sore that is? Biting your lip. Hurts like buggery.’
The girl was rolled over, her head banging against the ground. The hands clamped again about her head, pressed her left cheek onto the dirt, made her look straight into the camera.
‘I don’t need this,’ said Pylon. ‘What’s it got to do with Max Roland?’
‘Everything. Wait. See that.’
The girl spat, red globules spraying the camera lens.
‘Plucky ch
ick. But now.’
The camera angle changed putting the face into profile. The frame shaky, sometimes slipping to show a hand splayed beside the girl’s head. The photographer’s left hand.
‘Takes some doing, hey. Strong fella can support himself on one hand, film her with the other. And shaft her.’
The hand came into view again, Mart Velaze pressed pause.
‘There you go. There’s what you need. Good an ID as you’ll get except fingerprints. See the deformed pinkie: like it forgot to grow. Check out Max Roland’s left hand some time. Odd thing, he still plays a mean piano.’
‘Where’re you going with this?’ said Pylon.
‘Background,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘Filling you in.’ He fast-forwarded. ‘Enough of that, you get the picture. Anyhow I’ll leave the disk, you can show Mace.’ He stopped when the screen went black. ‘Now here you have a different point of view.’
A family came on screen: grandparents and a baby. The grandmother in black holding the baby swaddled in a patterned blanket, the grandfather in jacket and grey trousers. The grandmother unsmiling, the grandfather uneasy as if this might be a joke. The sound on.
‘The cameraman is asking them to film him,’ said Velaze. ‘Here we go, he gives the camera to the granddad, tells him just to hold it straight to his eye. Look who comes into the frame, you wouldn’t recognise him yet but that’s your client, Max Roland aka Vasa Babic. He asks if he’s in focus. The grandfather nods yes and Vasa tells him to hold the camera steady. Handsome guy, your client, hey. No wonder the birds come fluttering to him.’
The face of a thirty-something, wholesome, boyish with floppy blond hair, grinning. Good teeth.
‘Now check out the look in Max-Vasa’s eyes. Like, where’s the laughter gone? We’ve just got killer eyes there, buta. He’s still talking, though.’
Pylon could see it. The man’s eyes go dead, his mouth still working, the grin still there but the eyes without any glint to them.
‘He’s saying, that it’s kind of them to film him, that he can send it home to his family.’
A few seconds of this with no one talking, the focus trembling slightly. Then two quick gunshots, the camera sliding off Max Roland, another gunshot, the picture a blur of colour going into black. Another three shots.