Black Heart

by Mike Nicol

  What’d Mart Velaze said when he gave him the hard drive? ‘I hear you know Sheemina February.’ That smirk on his dial. The ace spook playing spook games. Keeping him in the corridor, not letting him see into the flat. Had to be a shitty flat in a building like Unitas. Pensioners, Congolese, street-working coloured chicks. Not the sort of place Mace’d figured for Mart Velaze.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Mace’d said.

  ‘Cool chick.’

  ‘Like hell.’

  ‘Connected,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘Like you wouldn’t believe. Government, business. A mover and shaker. Not a pie she hasn’t fingered in this city. Not a woman you want to mess with, buta.’

  ‘That’s supposed to mean something?’

  Mart Velaze toyed with the hard drive. ‘Nothing much. Thought you might just like to know. Au revoir, buta. Your patriotism is appreciated. Enjoy your dollars.’

  ‘We had an agreement,’ said Mace.

  ‘For the time being.’ Mart Velaze giving him a camp waggle of his fingers as he closed the door.

  Problem there, Mace thought, staring at the ceiling, was that the issue of the Cayman Island money was just that, an issue. Sheemina February knew. Mart Velaze knew. This was going to come back to bite them in the bum. Sheemina February he would deal with but Mart Velaze. Mart Velaze was a problem. He might say he wasn’t but he was.

  Then there was the bank. The overdraft issue. The bond repayments, or the one he’d skipped. As if years and years of on-the-dot repayments didn’t mean a thing! Came down to the nub they’d want a business plan. Proof of an income stream. Trouble was, what income stream? Mace groaned. Jesus! The Oosthuizen contract a stuff-up. The Dinsmors a write-off. A few ongoing guarding jobs more hassle than hallelujah. Nothing on the books to keep the bankers off his back. What could he tell them? Hey, people in suits, take my house. Feel free. Put a father and his daughter on the streets. No worries. Jesus H Christ. Knowing them they’d have the news clippings too. All the crap about the Dinsmors’ kidnap. All the lowdown on Max Roland. Vasa Babic. Whoever he was. The complete dissing of Complete Security.

  God.

  Mace rubbed a hand over his face. Sat up, Cat2 at the end of the bed staring at him. Fat chance of getting to sleep. Sometimes he wished he read so at times like this he could read. He switched the radio on, got the mad snakes that populate the late-night talk shows. Some adder hissing about bringing back the death penalty. String up the murderers, rapists, paedophiles. Way to go, china, Mace said aloud, switched him off.

  At the back of the stillness, could hear a rhythmic thump in Christa’s room. Couple of days ago it was 50 Cent. At least this he could handle. Beneath that a synthetic whine. Bloody teenage girls. Mace checked the time. Eleven p.m. Why was she still awake? What was she doing? He wanted to shout out, Hey, enough. Let’s get some sleep. Knew that no ways in hell he was going to do that.

  Mace slipped down into the bed again, buried his head beneath the pillow.

  ‘I see a line of cars hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm.’

  In her room Christa shaved off her hair using Pylon’s electric hair clippers. Sat in front of her mirror working at it pass by pass, shearing the cut shorter each time. Sometimes getting the wrong angle, nicking herself in the process. The nicks bleeding as badly as any razor slice. And sore. Nothing like the rush of drawing the blade across her flesh. This was painful, made her flinch each time the teeth chewed her scalp. She ended up with a patchy fuzz, some runnels of blood, drying.

  ‘This is for you, Maman,’ Christa said to her image in the mirror.

  Wednesday, 27 July

  57

  The man could hear the rumble of the morning traffic on the highway but he waited until the muezzin called before he moved. In the grey light shoved off the cardboard sheets that covered him, crawled fully clothed out of the sleeping bag, talking nonstop. He was wearing his shoes, old Nikes. He slept in his shoes in case the night got tense. Last night it had, but then the tension had let up and he’d gone back to sleep. He kicked the cardboard into a pile, covering the sleeping bag, talking. He wasn’t bothered about other bergies finding them. Five days he’d been using the building he hadn’t seen anyone else. He opened the door, looked up, a metal sky over the cooling towers. Still talking, he moved out onto the concrete to take a piss. When the flow came he stopped talking, sprayed the weeds, grinning at the rising steam. As the urine diminished his words welled up. He shook off, jammed his cock into his trousers, his eyes scanning the derelict buildings and the rank yards for signs of the night.

  He found them in the long grass beside the track. Stood over them scratching his beard, talking. He walked away, came back, walked away, came back. All the time talking, an endless rush of words that dried his tongue with their intensity, left a crud around his mouth. He crouched beside the couple, his words spraying over them, forming on their clothes like dew. He fingered the material of their jackets, damp from the night, talking, talking.

  He removed their shoes first. Then their rings and watches, snapped off the man’s necklace. These he put into the pockets of his trousers. He circled the couple, his speech become a stream of invective until he had to stand still, gasping, panting out a word at a time. When he was calmer he unbuckled the man’s belt. Examined the trousers but the man had crapped himself, they were useless. He turned to the woman, raising her gently, a nurse with his patient, eased her out of her jacket, careful not to bang her head when he laid her down again. With the man he was less attentive, rolled him over to pull off his fur coat.

  He walked down the track across the wasteland, behind him the towers, ahead the traffic backing up on the approach road to the highway. He talked without pause, glancing left and right as he walked. He carried a plastic bag in one hand and a pair of woman’s shoes in the other. His coat was too long, wet at the tails where it swept over the dirt. When he reached the commuters in their cars, he turned in the direction they were headed, shambling along the gravel verge as if he’d stepped from an antique age.

  58

  For Mace the day started badly. The phone woke him from a dream of bats streaming out of a date-palm grove like smoke. He and Oumou in her desert city of Malitia, walking on the old battlements at sunset, watching the bats. Coming towards them a woman ringing a hand bell louder and louder, ringing it in their faces. The woman tearing off her burka. Sheemina February.

  He groped for the phone on the bedside table. Pylon.

  ‘Have you seen the paper?’

  Mace switched on a light.

  ‘It’s still dark. Don’t you sleep?’

  ‘Babies don’t let you sleep.’

  ‘Hell,’ said Mace, ‘what time’s it? I was having a nightmare.’

  ‘At least you can wake up from a nightmare. What’s written here’s more difficult to shake off.’

  ‘What time’s it, did you say?’

  ‘I didn’t. Six-thirty. You want to hear what the bitch’s written.’

  ‘That Rachel Pringle?’

  ‘Her exactly. Big photie here of you and Max Roland. Page three. Looks like you’re not happy about the picture at all.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Other hand, Max’s smiling like a celeb. Underneath that it reads, listen to this: “Protection for a wanted man”. Save me Jesus, the shit these people write. “Arriving yesterday at Cape Town airport were security operator Mace Bishop with his client the Serbian commander Vasa Babic (also known as Max Roland) wanted by the International Criminal Tribunal in the Hague for crimes of genocide and gross human rights abuses during the war in Kosovo. Babic has been on the run for years and is now being protected in a safe house in Cape Town by the controversial security company, Complete Security.

  ‘“Recently Veronica Dinsmor, an American client of Complete Security, was kidnapped while Bishop and his colleague Pylon Buso were in attendance. Two men were shot dead during the incident. The kidnappers released Mrs Dinsmor unharmed yesterday afternoon. Commenting on the appearance of Vasa Babic
in the city, Mr Bill Hill, chairman of the security industry’s regulatory authority, said that private security firms had a moral duty to observe international directives. ‘This Vasa Babic is a wanted man,’ said Mr Hill. ‘He stands accused of horrible crimes. By protecting him Complete Security are in violation of our code of practice, they are probably in breach of the law, but more importantly they are behaving unethically.’ Mr Hill said that his organisation would look into the irregularities. In the meantime he was referring the matter to the South African Police Services and Interpol.”’

  ‘Shit,’ said Mace.

  ‘Yeah, isn’t it?’ said Pylon. ‘But there’s more.’

  Mace groaned.

  ‘This’s worse. Page four story, not very big admittedly. Headline: “SARS brace security company.” “Brace” – where d’they think this is? America? Bloody headline writers.’

  ‘Makes me want to cotch,’ said Mace.

  ‘Wait’ll I read it, you will.’

  Pylon cleared his throat. ‘“Complete Security are under investigation by the South African Revenue Services for failing to declare foreign funds. According to a spokesperson for SARS, the owners of the company, Mace Bishop and Pylon Buso, failed to take advantage of the recent amnesty on foreign exchange holdings. ‘We have received information which requires investigation,’ the spokesperson said. Bishop and Buso were responsible for sourcing weapons internationally for MK during the years of the armed struggle. See also, ‘Protection for a Wanted Man’ on page three.” Nice, hey?’

  ‘Sick-making,’ said Mace. ‘Seems we need a talk with Mart Velaze. Perhaps make some things clear to him.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘Let me get the girls to school first,’ said Mace, ‘then we’ll sort it.’

  Mace showered, was in the kitchen cooking porridge oats when Christa came upstairs. He stared at her. His daughter in her school uniform, tie unknotted, bald headed. Actually not so much bald headed as scalped: patches of fuzz hair and scabs. Head like the marabous of Malitia. The storks of death.

  ‘What?’ he said, his voice sounding distant. Rasping, hoarse. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Papa,’ said Christa. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Your hair. Where’s your hair?’ Mace having flashbacks of the package he and Oumou’d been sent of Christa’s hair. After she’d been kidnapped. Her head like now shaved and torn. Shouting, ‘Chrissakes, girl, what have you done?’ Mace rushing at her, grabbing her by the shoulders. ‘Where’s your hair? Where’s your hair?’ Shaking her.

  Christa snapped back at him. ‘Papa, Papa, you’re hurting me. Let go.’ Struggled against him.

  He pulled back his hand, would have slapped her, would have hurt her, would have … He let his hand flop down.

  For a long moment stared at his daughter, his daughter glaring back at him. Tears in her eyes. And something else. Hatred? Anger? Disgust? For an instant, a spark of hurt. His vision blurring. Hearing Christa scream ‘Why don’t you love me?’ Hearing it over and over again. Then she was gone. Out of his grip and gone.

  He followed her down the stairs to her room, calling, ‘Christa, Christa. Hang on. Please.’ Her door slammed in his face. Locked. ‘Christa, please. Let me in, C.’ Standing there useless, the fury draining out of him. Mace lent his forehead against the door. This early in the morning he felt he’d been awake for hours. ‘Please, C. I’m sorry.’

  He heard the lock click, opened the door. The shock of her shaved head staggering him again. He wanted to grab her, hug her, wanted to know why. He reached out for her. She stepped back.

  ‘Why, C? Why?’

  ‘Because Maman is dead,’ she screamed at him. ‘And you don’t care.’

  Mace went rigid. ‘I do, Christa. That’s not true. Not true. How can you say that?’

  ‘It is.’ She was crying now. Shouting at him through the tears, ‘It is, it is, it is.’

  He took her hand, drew her to the bed. They sat side by side. Mace put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer. The hurt of her words burning in his chest.

  ‘Why, C?’

  She sobbed, heaving her grief. Told him through the weeping that a teacher had said some people shaved their heads to show they were in mourning. A cultural tradition. That was why she’d done it. To show she was in mourning for her mother.

  ‘But it’s not our culture,’ said Mace when she’d quieted. ‘We don’t do that.’ He could hear the phone ringing upstairs. Then it stopped and his cellphone rang. ‘What people shave their heads?’

  ‘The Xhosa. Pummie said.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Mace. ‘I don’t know. We’re not Xhosa.’ The landline rang again.

  Christa pulled away from him. Her face smudged and smeared, raw with misery. ‘Maman was someone. She told me stories of her life. Showed me pictures. Of Malitia. Of her family. That’s where I belong.’

  ‘You belong here,’ said Mace. ‘We came here. You’ve grown up here. Maman wanted to live in this city. She didn’t want to live in Malitia anymore. We’re Cape Town people.’

  ‘We’re no one,’ said Christa.

  The landline stopped, his cellphone started.

  Mace said, ‘I’ve got to answer that.’ He pulled her close in a quick hug. ‘Come to the kitchen, we’ll talk some more.’

  Going upstairs he smelt the porridge burning, the kitchen clouded with smoke. He scorched his fingers getting the pot off the hob and under the tap. Had his hand in the water flow when the phone rang again. He snatched up the mobile. Oosthuizen.

  ‘I’ve been phoning you for five minutes, Mr Bishop. On both phones. That’s not good. Doesn’t create an on-the-ball impression.’

  Mace shook his burnt fingers to ease the pain. Said, ‘Far as I recall I don’t need to create a good impression with you. Far as I’m concerned you’re a write-off, Mr Oosthuizen. An expense. Like a bad debt.’

  ‘Better that, than an impimpi, a rat. That was slimy, Bishop. Underhand. Really low-level stuff.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t give me that, you know what? Max Roland’s what. Selling him out’s what. How much’d they pay you? A couple of grand? Ten at the most? All because you’re pissed off with me. You’re scum, Bishop. Shark shit.’

  ‘What the hell’re you on about?’ Mace thinking, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know about the data transfer.

  An Oosthuizen silence. Mace didn’t let it get anywhere. ‘I haven’t got all day, arsehole. So bugger off.’ He hung up. Christa wearing a beanie in the doorway watching him. ‘I burnt the porridge,’ Mace said, holding up his red fingers. ‘Cornflakes okay?’ His cellphone rang: Oosthuizen.

  Mace said, ‘You don’t give up?’

  ‘Right now,’ said Oosthuizen, ‘Max Roland’s in a holding cell at the airport. Awaiting rendition. Snatched out of your hands, Mr Bishop. Hands that I was paying for. Not only that, his picture’s in this morning’s newspaper with you. Miss Rachel Pringle’s gonna love it when I tell her you sold him out.’

  Mace saying, ‘That’s bullshit.’ Thinking, Tami?

  ‘Tell it to Miss Pringle. One other thing: I’ve cancelled the settlement cheque. Not much point in paying you to look after Roland for two days now you’ve sold him to the head-hunters. Enjoy your life, Mr Bishop.’ Oosthuizen’s Chihuahua yapping in the background.

  Mace put down the phone, said to Christa, ‘I’m okay about what you’ve done. I am. I was shocked that’s all.’ He took a step towards her. Held out his arms. ‘Give me a hug.’ She was hesitant but she did. They stood clasped. ‘You don’t have to wear the beanie,’ said Mace. Christa looked up at him. ‘Honestly.’ He smiled. ‘I mean it. Tell you what, this afternoon you can shave my head. We’ll both mourn your ma.’

  Christa said, ‘You promise.’

  Mace held her at arms’ length. ‘Sure.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘Can you do the cereal, C? I’ve got to make another call.’

  Christa gave him a look that Mace recognised as pure Oumou. When Oumou was reaching t
he limit, about to give him her version of the riot act. It brought up goosebumps.

  Mace phoned Tami, her phone ringing through to voicemail. He left a message, ‘I know you’ve got the day off. And that’s still the case but ring me asap.’

  Mace got Christa and Pumla to school in the Opel station wagon. Had wanted to take the Spider, except it wouldn’t start. Had sat there trying to swing the engine until the battery died. Christa beside him, keeping her eyes averted. Eventually she’d said, ‘Papa, it’s getting late.’ He’d said, ‘Once more’ – given the battery two minutes to recover then killed it stone dead. No option but the Opel. They changed cars, the Opel firing first time. Mace caught a twitch on Christa’s lips. Said, ‘I suppose you think that’s very funny?’ She’d shaken her head but they’d both sniggered.

  After dropping the girls, he was heading for Mart Velaze’s Unitas pad when Captain Gonsalves rang, redirected him to the cooling towers.

  ‘You maybe wanna get your arse here,’ Gonsalves said. ‘Take a break from the routine.’

  ‘Why?’ said Mace.

  ‘Two stiffs. The Dinsmors. Done execution-style.’

  Mace thought, This’s all I need. Pulled to the side of the road to make a U-turn. Said to Gonsalves, ‘Why’re you calling me? They sacked us. You heard them.’

  ‘Thought you might like to know. Sort of after-sales service.’

  Mace hooked a turn into a gap in the traffic, causing mayhem and hooters. ‘Stupid Americans.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Gonsalves. ‘Show your concern. Spin some good press outta it. Fella like you needs all the good press he can get. Considering what the Cape Slimes writes about you.’