Black Heart

by Mike Nicol

  ‘So how far’s this restaurant?’ Silas wanted to know as the taxi rolled down the driveway.

  ‘Higher up the hill,’ said the driver. ‘Not far. Not even five minutes. Nice place to stay too, you ever come back here. Great views. Very cosy.’ He glanced round. ‘You tourists?’

  Veronica thinking, Never. We’re never coming back here. When we get home we’re going nowhere outside America. Hearing Silas say, ‘A business trip. You know, thought we’d take advantage and see a new city.’ The cab driver saying, ‘Great city. Love it.’ Silas coming in, ‘You born here?’ ‘Born here, been here all my life. True Capie.’ Veronica wondering why was this so much worse than Colombia? People’d got hurt in that shakedown too, but hurt, not killed. Here you got blown away. Somebody snapped their fingers, pow. You’re dead. You couldn’t talk to people here. You couldn’t reach a mutual understanding. Here it was their way or no way. Awful scheming evil people. That woman. Sheemina February. The thought of her: the lipstick, plum red like someone had slashed open her face. The eyes, icy. Blue as winter skies. The black leather glove. She shivered at the thought of the black leather glove. The woman’s voice, always her voice cutting in, sarcastic, poisonous, sinking her fangs into your soul. She shuddered. From this deep place heard Silas calling her, ‘Veronica, Veronica. This’s it.’ Heard Silas and the cabbie sorting out the fee.

  Then she was outside in the cold night air, the cab driving off. Silas saying, ‘Nice young man. The nicest man we’ve met here.’ The two of them walking into the bright foyer, a hostess smiling at her. The knot back in Veronica’s stomach, pressing up against her lungs. ‘Please, Silas,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the bathroom.’ The hostess pointing. ‘It’s over there, ma’am. First door.’ In the cubicle Veronica got down on her knees, hurled up into the bowl.

  50

  The German and the Swede followed Mace and Pylon over the mountain, two back in a string of cars held up by a truck – commuters heading home from the city. The speed a slow sixty kays an hour. Kalle tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, impatient. He crushed out his cigarillo in the ashtray. Ahead darkness, distant spots of light. About them the rise of cliffs and slopes. Kalle did not like mountains. He was a Malmo boy. At home on the coastal flatlands. Mountains made him claustrophobic.

  ‘I do not like mountains,’ he said, breaking into Jakob rabbiting on about maybe coming to Cape Town for a holiday in the summer.

  ‘What?’ Jakob glanced out at the black tops about them. ‘These are not mountains. They never have snow on them. Too low.’

  ‘They go up,’ said Kalle, ‘that is enough.’

  ‘Ah no. If you cannot ski on them they are only hills.’

  The train of cars came down into a valley, the road flattening between a shopping mall and the razor-wired walls of a suburb. At an intersection, Mace and Pylon going right.

  ‘We will be behind them,’ said Jakob.

  ‘What can I do? They won’t see us. We are nothing but bright lights.’

  They followed the Opel station wagon past McDonalds into the mall car park, towards a block of flats.

  Jakob crouched in the seat when the Opel’s tail lights glowed red. Swore. Kalle taking the Merc behind and past the stopped car, pulling into a bay fifty metres away between two SUVs. He killed the engine. In the rearview mirror watched Mace and Pylon sitting in the car.

  ‘What’re they waiting for?’ said Jakob.

  ‘Being cautious.’

  ‘Them? That is a joke.’

  Five minutes passed before they saw Mace and Pylon leave the car, walk towards the block of flats.

  ‘They did not see us.’

  ‘No.’

  Jakob closed the laptop. ‘So now we find out which flat. You or me?’

  ‘You,’ said Kalle. ‘I am the driver.’

  Jakob pursed his lips. Said, ‘It is better when I am the driver. Safer, I think.’

  ‘What is this about my driving?’

  Jakob didn’t respond, got out of the car.

  From the shadows of the entrance gate he watched the two men go into the stairwell, appear on the first floor. Talking happily. No worries. Stupid amateurs to Jakob’s way of thinking. They stopped at the third door. The one called Pylon scoping the car park and the entrance, a quick sweep that couldn’t have told him anything. The one, Mace, opening the door. If Vasa Babic was in there, he wasn’t rushing forward to welcome them. Jakob reckoned Vasa Babic wasn’t in residence.

  Back in the car he told Kalle his thoughts.

  Kalle said, ‘They are here for some reason.’

  ‘Which could be any reason.’

  ‘We can wait,’ said Kalle. ‘What else have we got to do?’

  ‘We could have supper,’ said Jakob.

  Kalle offered him a cigarillo.

  51

  Mace and Pylon let themselves into the flat, slipping through the doorway like thieves. Closed the door softly. Stood with their backs against the door, checking out the room: the television on mute, news images flicking across the screen, casting a blue light. Max Roland’s laptop on the table among empty coffee mugs. A copy of You magazine on the couch.

  Pylon pushed off from the door, said, ‘We own this place right? So why do I feel like a tsotsi?’

  ‘Because that’s what we are,’ said Mace, taking the hard drive from his pocket. ‘Criminals stealing intellectual property. And do we care?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Mace switched on the laptop, plugged in the hard drive, navigating through the pop-ups. A bar appeared on the screen with the legend: copying files, giving a megabyte figure and time – one hour, twenty-two minutes. ‘Jesus,’ said Mace, ‘bloody hour and a half almost. Whizz-bang government technology for you. Fast as a pensioner.’

  ‘You better hope Tami can stay the course,’ said Pylon.

  ‘You and me both.’

  Pylon eased himself onto the couch so as not to hurt his arm. Picked up the magazine opened at the celebrity spread. ‘What shit’s this Tami reads?’

  ‘Vital info,’ said Mace. ‘People in there could be clients one day.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Mace peered at the screen. ‘There we go: one per cent downloaded. Clever stuff these NIA boys run around with.’ He straightened. ‘I’m famished. You fancy fish ’n chips or a burger?’

  ‘Fish’s fine,’ said Pylon, caught up in the celebrity’s adoption of a black child. ‘Better take this home for Treasure, get her worked up about rich whiteys buying our children. The new slave-owners.’

  Mace didn’t know what he was talking about.

  In the Ocean Basket Mace’s phone rang: Oosthuizen.

  ‘Where’s Roland?’ he said. ‘He’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘Chaffing my colleague in a restaurant,’ said Mace. ‘One of the perks we offer our clients.’

  ‘You’re telling me the laptop’s not in safekeeping?’

  ‘Where d’you think I am?’

  ‘You’re at the safe house?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  One of the Oosthuizen silences that Mace let play out until the scientist said, ‘I’m coming to collect it.’

  ‘That’s not a good idea. You want protection for your product, that’s what we’re providing.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said Oosthuizen. ‘I’m the only one I trust. Our arrangement is over.’

  ‘And Roland?’

  ‘You keep him till tomorrow. That’s all I’m paying.’ He disconnected.

  ‘Salt and vinegar?’ said the guy at the counter.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mace, ‘lots of it.’ Thinking, oh shit.

  52

  Veronica, sitting with a glass of water on a couch in the foyer, said to Silas and the hostess, ‘I’ll be alright. Really.’ With trembling hand brought the glass to her lips. The hostess said, ‘You sure you don’t want a Grandpa?’ Veronica frowned, questioning. ‘A headache powder,’ said the hostess. Veronica nodded, smiled wanly. Heard Sila
s say to the hostess, ‘Can you arrange another cab?’ The hostess saying, ‘Ag shame, sir. What a pity. I’ll check the other one hasn’t left yet.’ When she’d gone Veronica said to Silas, ‘Not that one. Another one.’ Silas, shooting back his cuff to glance at his watch. ‘It’s getting tight.’ ‘Please, Silas.’ Silas saying, ‘Okay, okay’ – looking at the hostess returning, shaking her head. ‘I’ll get one straight away.’

  The taxi took fifteen minutes to arrive. Veronica sitting on the couch with the cold in her bones, the nausea still at the back of her throat, wondering if she’d ever feel normal again. Silas pacing the foyer, checking his watch like he was timing a race. Coming over to whisper to her, ‘This’s tight now. We’re sliding into check-in time. The cab doesn’t come soon, we’re not gonna make it.’ Veronica reached up for his hand. ‘Stop, Silas. Sit down for a minute. You’re making it worse, hopping about like a crow.’

  The hostess came over. ‘Everything alright?’ Silas told her his wife was feeling worse. ‘Ag shamepies,’ she said to Veronica, touching Veronica’s shoulder with the tips of her fingers. ‘The taxi won’t be much longer I’m sure.’ ‘Can you find out?’ said Silas. ‘My wife’s really not well.’ The hostess saying, ‘Of course, sir.’

  Veronica pleaded with Silas, ‘Please, hon, you’re working me up. Sit. Sit for five minutes.’ Patting the couch until Silas perched next to her. She put the glass on a side table, took his hand. ‘Hold my hand, hon, please hold my hand.’ The two of them sitting holding hands, not talking. Veronica thinking of her pregnant daughter and the coming grandchild. Wondering what it would be like to hold the baby. Her granddaughter. They knew it was a girl. Had seen the scans of the minute creature no longer than her finger. So far away. It all seemed so far away.

  The hostess called over from the desk. ‘They say he left ten minutes ago. Another five at the most.’ Silas said to Veronica, ‘It takes about twenty, twenty-five to the airport. This’s crazy. We shoulda gone straight there with the other cab.’ He stood up, started his pacing again.

  We shouldn’t have, thought Veronica. This was the right way to do it. The careful way. She watched Silas standing at the door, gazing into the night. Praying, let us get there on time. We have to for the sake of our grandchild.

  Silas turned. ‘There’s a car coming. Can’t see if it’s a cab.’ Peering out. ‘Yup, it’s a cab.’ Veronica watched him stride across the foyer towards her. A huge grin of relief on his face, talking to her in Choctaw. Telling her it was all going to be alright. He helped her up, returned the glass to the hostess, thanking her for her kindness. The hostess protesting, ‘The least we could do, sir.’ To Veronica saying, ‘Get better quickly, ma’am. We’d love to see you again for supper.’ Veronica thinking, no, never, never never. But smiling gratitude for small mercies at the hostess, then looking round to see a man at the door in trainers, jeans, a woollen jacket with the collars zipped up to his chin. Black hair, black eyes. Saying, ‘Hello, folks. Taxi for Mr and Mrs Dinsmor.’ Silas saying, ‘That’s us.’ The fist tightening in Veronica’s stomach for no reason. Every nerve on high alert. The cabbie smiling kindly at her.

  In the taxi, the warm, leathery taxi with the Cowboy Junkies playing softly, the cabbie twisted in his seat to look back at them. ‘Where to sir, ma’am?’ ‘The airport,’ said Silas. ‘Quickly.’ The cabbie frowned. ‘Rightio, sir, and sir’s luggage?’ Veronica knowing something was wrong, the way the man had moved behind them down the steps silent as a cat. Athletic. Tense. His eyes everywhere. Reminding her of someone … Someone she couldn’t place. And his voice. She’d heard it before, or one like it. That lilt to the accent. The glove around the fist. Heard Silas saying, ‘We’re not leaving, we’re meeting someone.’ The cabbie nodding, ‘Oh, right. When we get there you’d like me to wait?’ He started the car. Silas raising his voice, ‘No, that’s alright. We’ll be fine.’ ‘No trouble, sir.’ Silas keeping on. ‘We’ll be fine. A business meeting. Could go on a coupla hours.’ Veronica saying to Silas in Choctaw, ‘Enough. You sound like you’re explaining.’ Silas responding, ‘I am.’ The cabbie saying, ‘You’re native Americans. How cool.’ Silas said, ‘Please, mister, we’re late already.’ The cabbie’s eyes coming on them in the rearview mirror. ‘No trouble, sir. Enjoy the ride.’ The music being wound up a notch. ‘Your kind of music isn’t it, sir.’ ‘Sure is,’ said Silas, although Veronica knew it wasn’t at all. She said to Silas in their language, ‘I don’t like this man.’ Silas squeezed her hand.

  Veronica stared at the dark suburbs. She had no sense of the city, no idea if they were heading for the airport or in the opposite direction. She could see the mountain rising to their left, a spray of lights below the motorway to the right. She recognised the windmill from the afternoon. She’d seen it not long before they were released at the shopping centre. The windmill on the opposite side of the road now. Was that the way it should be? Was this the direction? At the worry the nausea rose in her throat. Veronica swallowed hard to keep it down, tasted bile. On a tight corner into an underpass, Silas slipped against her, the two of them sprawling into a corner. The cabbie apologising, ‘Sorry, folks, sorry, hey. That’s a bad one that corner. Very sharp.’ Veronica and Silas righting themselves to see an airport sign overhead. Silas nodding upwards. The cabbie said, ‘This is Settlers Way we’re on now all the way to the airport.’ At least they were on the right road. Veronica thinking, Why’m I like this? Why’m I scaring myself? – her vision blurring at the rush of lights on the incoming lanes. But this was a highway. Highway was good.

  Until not five minutes later the cabbie took an off-ramp, Veronica, floating in her granddaughter’s world, hearing Silas say, ‘Where’re you going? This isn’t the airport.’ A huge building like a factory and cooling towers ahead of them. The cabbie replying, ‘No, sir, short cut through the back streets.’ Silas arguing, ‘The highway’s fine, the traffic’s fast, stay on the highway please.’ The cabbie protesting this was better. There were roadworks ahead on the highway, this way they’d miss them. Just this quick detour then back on the highway. ‘Promise, no problem.’ Silas losing it, shouting, swearing at the cabbie to get back on the motorway. The cabbie driving faster, braking hard, swinging right through a gate onto a track across open ground. The factory complex dead ahead. Silas trying to open the door, the cabbie with a gun out now, waving it about, shouting at them to shut up or he’d shoot. Veronica closed her eyes, knew this was everything she’d dreaded.

  The cabbie stopped beside the building, switched off the ignition, switched on the cabin light. Leering back at them. ‘Silas and Veronica, aren’t we the naughty ones?’

  Veronica thought, waste land. Dereliction. A place that was no place. A darkness so intense it was as if the city had vanished. Always there were these sorts of places for these sorts of moments.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Silas.

  The man grinned, rubbed the muzzle of the gun against his cheek. ‘You can call me Mart.’

  ‘I don’t wanna call you anything,’ said Silas. ‘I wanna know what you want?’

  ‘Me? Nothing.’ The man Mart kept the grin, letting them get a good look at the gun. ‘I’m the hired help. See this?’ He showed them a voice recorder. ‘This’s what they gave me. This means your answers will be your answers. Because they don’t trust me to remember your exact words. They think I’ll get the details jumbled. Mart the half-wit. What a joker. Memory like a sieve. Why they give me this. This way nobody gets confused. Okay?’

  Silas said nothing.

  Veronica said, ‘In six months we will have a granddaughter.’

  ‘Well isn’t that sweet,’ said Mart. ‘Grandpa and grandma. Congratulations. So here we go grandpa-and grandma-to-be, question one? You ready?’

  Veronica said, ‘This was all a mistake.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Mart. ‘All I know are the questions. Well not many questions, actually. Just three. Number one: This morning you agreed a deal?’ He held the voice recorder towards t
hem. ‘This’s where you answer, my friends?’

  Silas said, ‘We’ll speak to Sheemina February. Take us to her.’

  ‘You’re gonna speak to her,’ said Mart. ‘When she plays back what you’ve got to say. Ne? Sharp, hey, modern technology for you.’

  ‘You do not have to kill us,’ said Veronica.

  ‘Phone her,’ said Silas.

  Mart said, ‘Guys, you’re not listening. I’m a tolerant sort. Laid back. Happy-go-lucky. No axe to grind. So don’t give me uphill. Please. Answer the questions. You can go catch your plane, I can go home, play among the melons.’

  Veronica said, ‘You’re going to shoot us. You’re not going to let us go. You shot those men.’

  ‘The question, ma’am. Afterwards we can do the argy-bargy. Promise. But, yeah, you’re right, I won’t lie to you. I shot those moegoes. Waste of space both of them. No loss to the world. Now we got that outta the way let’s do the questions, hey. Make sure we’re on the same page here? Know what I mean? That we understand the rules of engagement. We do, don’t we?’ His eyes flicking between them. ‘Course we do. So again: this morning you agreed a deal? What you say to that, grandpa?

  ‘We’ll speak to Sheemina February.’

  Mart sighed. ‘This’s not going well, folks. Perhaps what I should do is ask you all the questions. Give you a context you can work in. How’s that? Mr Reasonable am I. Question two then: You’ve got an important meeting tomorrow, will you be there? Question three: You wouldn’t be doing a runner, would you?’ That’s it. Just speak into the mic and we can all go about our business, no harm done.’