by Graham Lang
‘Reggie! Reggie, where’re you, doll?’
I lie in the darkness, listening, half-awake. I feel wretched: my mouth tastes foul; my head throbs. Outside, the generator drums; dogs are whining. Dogs? A sudden memory of Gator unleashes a confused flood of images: Jervis’s demonic face. The brawl at the hotel. Reggie’s angry departure. The spinning universe. More stumbling and crashing. More anguished braying.
‘Reggie! Where’re you, doll?’
Brak’s shadow briefly eclipses part of the thin rectangle of yellow light around the closed door. The slap of a hand against the wall outside in the passage. Heavy footsteps breaking into a faltering run. A crash of breaking glass. A tormented wail. I’m about to get up when the shadow returns. I lie there watching as the shadow pauses, swaying across the strip of light. I can hear Brak’s laboured breathing.
The door bursts open. Brak stands there, silhouetted against the light, swaying on his feet. He teeters up against the door jamb and almost falls over. Though his face is in shadow I feel his eyes fix on me.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
I stare back. ‘Hey, Brak. What’s going on, man?’
‘Where’s Reggie? Who the fuck are you?’
‘What –?’
‘You heard me. Who the fuck are you?’
‘Come on, Brak! What’s your case, man?’
Brak fumbles around on the wall and switches on the light. I sit up, momentarily blinded.
‘For Chrissake, Brak!’
He is grotesquely drunk, nearly toppling over as he leans forward, peering at me stupidly, mouth agape. Still in his work overalls and boots. Eyes glazed, angry. I don’t know what he is seeing. Certainly not me.
He staggers forward. ‘Who the fuck are you? Where’s Reggie?’
I get to my feet. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you, man? I’m Frank! Remember? Frank – your friend? Your china? Reggie went into town, remember?’
He sways at arm’s length from me, teeth grinding. I hold up my hand. ‘Whoa! Come on, Brak! Back off, man! It’s me – Frank!’
Brak stares at my bare legs protruding beneath my vomit-stained shirt. He thrusts a wavering finger in my face. ‘Where’s she? Where’s Reggie? You’ve been screwing her, hey?’
‘What?’
He bends over and looks under the bed. Then he straightens up unsteadily and faces me again. He nods, certain of something.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Brak! What’s your bloody problem, man? Reggie’s not here! Back off!’
‘You’ve been fucking her, hey? My wife.’
‘What are you talking about? Back off, man!’
A long, wild stare. He thrusts out his jaw. Taps it. ‘Big man, hey? Just walk into my house. Come on, big man. Hit me. Gimme your best shot.’
‘Fuck off, Brak! Get away from me!’
‘Just walk into my house and fuck my wife, hey? Come on.’ Taps his jaw. ‘Now’s your chance. Come on, big man. Hit me. Better do it now ’cause you’re not gonna get another chance.’
‘Brak, this is Frank! Frank – from Que Que!’
As I speak, his eyes follow my lips, his mouth opening and closing as though repeating my words. He looks down, nodding, contemplating something. And I don’t even see it. An explosion of white light in my skull. I reel back against the wall, stunned. My left ear big and burning. A caged roar behind clenched teeth. He hurls himself at me, hands grasping for my throat. Berserk. We grapple. He swings a punch and misses, grabbing my neck instead in a headlock. That insane braying. I feel the power in his arm closing like a vice, crunching the vertebrae in my neck. I struggle wildly, yelling at him to stop.
‘Cut it out, Brak! Fuck off, man!’
His face presses against mine, his eyes bore into me. Reeking terribly, he grunts and pants as he wrestles with me, heedless of my cries. We stumble and crash around the room. A table breaks under our weight. He grabs my head and butts me hard between the eyes. I feel the skin split, my nose crack. I gasp for breath, tasting blood, warm, metallic. He flings me to the cement floor. I roll as he kicks at my head; he misses and falls on top of me. The stench of his sweat and panting breath. A sharp stabbing pain in my chest. Growling like a beast, he bites my shoulder. I scream in agony. He pounds my head against the floor. Tries to gouge my eyes. Terror surges through me. Brak is possessed by a fury so immense, so unstoppable, I cannot see how I’ll emerge from this alive. He straddles my chest; punches me again and again in the face, but is too close to land a solid blow. He straightens up and swings at me with all his might. I jerk my head to the side; his fist cracks against the floor, the momentum of the blow tips him over. Frantically I wrestle out from under him and get to my feet. Grabbing a broken table leg I smash it down on him, again and again. No effect, except to enrage him more.
It’s only Brak’s drunkenness that saves me. He labours to his feet, slips and falls, whacking his head against the floor. A resonant whump. He lies there, dazed. I hit him as hard as I can across the head with the table leg and run for my life. I flee through the house, barely registering the carnage of broken and overturned furniture. Out on the veranda, the first thing I notice is that Gator is loose. He and Cracker are milling around on the veranda, old enmity apparently forgotten. Just my fucking luck to have this bloody brute of a dog loose and me, covered in blood, fleeing his master, his saviour. I picture myself being chased down and savaged, torn to pieces. But the dogs just bark and yelp in confusion as I sprint barelegged, barefoot down the drive. Cracker construes it as some sort of game and frolics along with me until we reach the broken gate where I stop and yell at him: ‘Go home! Go on, voetsak!’ Another bygone bit of vernacular that leaps to my tongue. He stops and looks at me with a hurt expression. I pick up a stone and make as though to throw it. ‘Go on, voetsak!’ Go home!’ Crestfallen, Cracker turns and slinks off back to the house.
I keep running down the road, turning every so often to glance back. After a hundred metres or so the adrenalin that has sustained me thus far drains suddenly from my body, as though from a rupture. My legs buckle; exhausted, I collapse on the side of the road and crawl under some bushes, gasping for breath.
I wipe the blood from my eyes with my shirt. My tongue flops around my parched mouth. Only now do I realise the soles of my feet are bristling with thorns. One by one I pull them out. I lie there, struggling to catch my breath. In the growing light I watch the house. The dogs mill around the front door, whining in the still morning air. A pair of doves starts calling from some thorn trees close by.
I wait. The sand in which I lie is cool and soft. Relief at having escaped the house floods through me.
Then Brak lurches from the house, a rifle in his hand. He staggers up and down the veranda, pointing the gun wildly. Incoherent raving. The doves cease their morning song. Brak stumbles down the veranda stairs, sprawling headlong onto the driveway. The gun goes off; a sharp whine as the bullet ricochets off into the bush. The doves burst from the thorn trees with a clatter of wings. Cracker scoots around the house, yelping, tail between his legs. Gator approaches Brak warily and gently licks his face. Brak clambers slowly to his feet, cursing loudly, and staggers over to the garage. Pulls open the doors, yelling like a madman. Goes inside, reappears. He stares out at the surrounding bush, cocks his head to one side. Then he lurches around the yard firing shots randomly off into the bush. The shots crack and echo in the stillness. I crawl deeper into the scrub, away from the road. I lie flat in a shallow donga behind a clump of trees. A bullet hits an ant heap twenty metres away, sending up a puff of red dust. Another clips a branch from one of the trees behind me. He fires again and again. Then silence. He stands, teetering against a gatepost, peering open-mouthed out at the bush. Everything is still; everything quiet, save my pounding heart. Brak grabs a handful of bullets from his pocket and reloads, stooping unsteadily to pick up some rounds he has dropped on
the ground. He cocks the rifle and leans against the gatepost, scanning the countryside. His eyes swing towards the trees behind me. For a moment he seems to be looking straight at me. I return his gaze, mesmerised. I think of that wounded man he hunted and killed, how when their eyes locked, the man’s fate was sealed. Hunting is intuition, Brak said. I pray that he is too drunk to follow any intuition now. I only breathe when Brak turns away and looks down the road. He yells something, then lifts the rifle, aims and fires two shots, before staggering back towards the house. At the veranda steps he stops and stares, perplexed, as Gator approaches him. He looks back towards the gate once more, then goes inside.
I wait. When Brak doesn’t emerge from the house again, I get up and start limping towards the main road.
At the crest of a low rise a kilometre from the main road, I see Reggie’s car heading towards me, a plume of brown dust billowing behind. It accelerates up the rise and skids to a halt next to me. Through the whirling slipstream dust I see Clara is with Reggie; hazily I register the horrified expression on her face. It occurs to me that I must look less than spruce: standing there in my underpants, my vomit-stained shirt torn and bloody. I can barely see through my puffed up eyes; my upper lip is split and swollen.
They get out. I’m light-headed, nauseous; I seem to be swaying. Clara grabs my arm, steadying me.
‘Frank . . . Jesus, what happened, Frank?’ she says.
I just look at her, struggling to focus, my mind blank.
Reggie peers into my face and gently touches the gash between my eyes. She feels around my scalp, locating two big lumps on the back of my head. ‘Probably concussed,’ she says to Clara. She looks into my eyes. ‘Frank, can you see me properly?’
I nod.
‘Where’s Brak, Frank?’
I point back down the road.
‘At the house? Is he still drunk?’
I nod. ‘He’s got a gun. He’s crazy. Don’t go there, Reggie.’
Reggie looks down the road. ‘He won’t hurt me. Let’s go.’
‘Shouldn’t we be getting Frank to a hospital?’ Clara says.
Reggie inspects the gash between my eyes again. ‘Ja, you can take my car but drop me off at the house first.’
‘Don’t go there,’ I say. ‘He’s crazy.’
‘I have to, Frank. I’m more worried about him than you right now.’
‘No, Brak caused this,’ Clara argues. ‘He can bloody well wait.’
Reggie looks at her, resolute. ‘All I’m asking you to do is drop me off at the house. A few kilometres won’t make any difference.’
‘Don’t go back there, Reggie,’ I plead. ‘He’s not . . .’
What I was going to say slips my mind.
Reggie smiles. ‘I know what I’m doing. Brak needs me now. Just drop me off at the house.’
‘Don’t go, Reggie,’ Clara says. ‘Look at Frank. Fuck Brak! You’re mad to go anywhere near him.’
Reggie turns towards the car. ‘Are you going to drive, or must I?’
Clara turns to me and slaps her hands on her thighs helplessly. I struggle to make sense of the situation, yet something in Reggie’s assuredness calms me. The morning sun beats down on us.
‘Make up your minds,’ Reggie says, getting into the driver’s seat.
I climb into the back.
‘This is crazy,’ Clara says, getting in next to Reggie.
No one speaks as we drive. The car rattles loudly along the road. The sight of the house triggers a sudden panic in me, though I struggle to remember this morning’s incident in sequence or detail. My memory seems able only to conjure up Brak’s mad face and his drunken braying. Reggie stops at the gate. For a while we just sit there looking at the house. Cracker runs up, wagging his tail, cautiously followed by Gator. Reggie heaves a long sigh and gets out. She pats Cracker and allows Gator to sniff her legs. Gator gives a long trilling howl.
Reggie leans in the window. ‘I’ll pick up the car from your place sometime, okay?’
Clara nods.
‘We can’t leave you here,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.’
‘We’ll wait awhile, just in case.’
Reggie’s eyes scan my face. ‘You need to get yourself seen to.’
‘We’ll wait. Let us know if everything’s okay.’
We watch her walk up the driveway and enter the house.
‘What happened, Frank?’ Clara asks.
I shake my head. ‘Not now, Clara.’
We sit in silence, waiting. No sound from the house.
Then Clara says: ‘In case you’re wondering how I happen to be here, Reggie came banging on the door last night after midnight. Wanted to know if Vic was there – she thought Vic could maybe talk some sense into Brak. But Vic and my mother decided on the spur of the moment yesterday to go to Victoria Falls for a break. Reggie spent the rest of the night talking to me about Brak’s problems. I’m sure she didn’t think it would come to this, though.’
‘I wasn’t wondering,’ I reply.
‘Why did you get so drunk? Reggie told me she’d warned you about Brak’s drinking.’
I shrug.
Clara shakes her head and turns away, staring out the window. A wave of tiredness overwhelms me. I struggle to keep my eyes open. I try to inspect my thorn-ravaged feet but can’t seem to focus properly. Then Reggie emerges from the house and comes down the drive, my trousers and shoes bundled up under her arm. She hands them to me.
‘He’s asleep. Passed out on the floor. Take Frank to the Mater, Clara. I’m sorry about this, Frank. He can be a monster when he drinks.’
‘Are you okay staying here?’ I ask.
Reggie nods, her face strained. ‘I know him, Frank. The only person he’s likely to harm when he sobers up is himself.’
‘Do you want me to talk to Jervis?’
‘No, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. It’s not the first time we’ve been in this situation.’
Clara shifts across to the driver’s seat. Reggie straightens up and stands back from the car.
‘I know it’s a big ask, Frank,’ she says. ‘But try not to hold it against him.’
She waves tiredly as we drive off.
XI
My travel insurance covers my medical expenses at Bulawayo’s private Mater Dei Hospital. My injuries are ‘superficial’ according to the doctor who examines me: slight concussion; a gash between the eyes requiring six stitches; a broken nose that will heal on its own and look no worse than it already does; a stiff neck; some bleeding beneath the scalp at the back of my head; and other minor cuts, swellings (two black eyes and a thick lip) and abrasions. This along with a king-sized hangover. The doctor prescribes a few days bed rest.
Since Hazel and Vic are away for the rest of the week, Clara insists that I stay at the house in Hillside (a relief, since I’d be mortified for the Ogilvy household, including Rosie and Geldof, to see me in this state). ‘You can recuperate in peace,’ she says. ‘The maid and gardener have been given the week off, so we have the place to ourselves.’ She installs me in the main bedroom and equips me with a pair of Vic’s pyjama shorts. I shower and get into bed, feeling distinctly uncomfortable about invading Vic and Hazel’s inner sanctum, yet too exhausted to object. From where I lie, half-paralysed by painkillers, I can’t escape a large painting on the wall of a charging buffalo, its eyes glinting and horns silhouetted against a setting sun – the same painting that once graced the lounge in Vic’s farmstead long ago. Also in my line of vision is Hazel’s chaotic dressing table with its unbelievable clutter – magazines, hairdryer, cosmetics, lotions and potions. How much make-up does it take for a woman to look so unadorned? A small galaxy of photographs stuck to the mirror. Much like my mother’s dressing table used to be. I sleep for
hours. When I wake in the late afternoon my clothes have been washed and are neatly folded on a table next to the bed. The vomit gone from my shirt, the bloodstains not entirely. Clara tells me she has explained the situation to Milton. She has organised for him to pick up my car from Prospect Autos and drop it off later this evening.
I feel sufficiently recovered to get up for a light meal of toast and soup, my first meal in almost two days. Clara and I sit in the lounge eating off our laps. I try to explain what happened but the precise details are increasingly elusive; I can only manage a sketchy summary. I even try to joke about it, but inside I’m shaken, empty. I struggle to make sense of anything. Nothing is solid, dependable.
Milton arrives in the Nissan just as we finish eating. He lugs my suitcase inside and sits in the lounge; he chats briefly, cheerfully, something about Vernon having made his school’s First Cricket Team – exceptional for someone so young. The lights go out; Milton doesn’t miss a beat, continuing his banter while Clara goes around lighting candles. He says that Geoffrey Dlamini was dismayed to hear of Chombo’s deceit and wishes to assure me that he will renew his own efforts to track Lettah down. This reminder of my original purpose here is like salt in my wounds. A woozy anger rises. I feel like sending word back to Geoffrey to stop playing games. There’ll be no more money for fruitless searches. Or if his dismay is genuine then for God’s sake wise up. There’s no need to atone for anything. Not in this place where the only rules are those of tooth and claw.
But I just nod dumbly. At one point Milton looks at my swollen face and seems about to say something but doesn’t – I think my expression tells him the subject of Brak is out of bounds. He gets up to go. I awkwardly shake his hand for no particular reason. My voice quavers as I thank him.
While Clara drives Milton home I try to phone Brak. The line is dead. I don’t know why I tried. Perhaps, bizarrely, I seek his love like a child who has been chastised. For am I not also to blame? Reggie’s warnings about Brak’s drinking; the smashing of the guitar – why didn’t I heed the signs? Brak’s drinking makes my own occasional excesses seem like child’s play. I know nothing about the frightening realms in which a man becomes something else through drink. A beast set loose.