He doesn’t ever leave without helping to clean up, it’s like he enjoys chores. The way he works is methodical and precise. He is lost is in his own world as we stand side by side washing the dishes facing the street.
People are still coming and going at his house across the way. The music is loud, but not loud enough to hear what song is playing. It is just a buzzing noise that drowns the sounds of the real killers lurking in the night.
There are couples milling around on the front steps; the door opens and closes as they come and go. They don’t look like gangsters, they look almost normal. If they were in any other house I would say they were just people having fun, but they aren’t, they’re in his house.
Yet, here he is in mine, not over there with these strange new neighbors. He watches them and I see his jaw tense, and his hands move with a hardened purpose as we finish washing up. A very fancy car pulls up to the pavement outside his house, black and shiny, not dirty like cars from these streets, there is no dust on it. The chrome accents shimmer in the streetlight.
As it halts the guys on the steps scramble inside, and Francis shakes his head next to me. The only sounds are the dull buzz and the slosh of dishwater. We don’t talk when we do this together, which is all too often for my liking. Eiran gets out of the car and I hear the sigh that Francis releases beside me.
“Ek moet gaan.” I am going to have to go, he huffs out, wiping his hands dry on a blue dishtowel, then tossing it onto the counter.
He shoves his hands in pockets and looks at the floor between his feet. I watch as he seems to need time to decide whether or not he really wants to return home.
Ma comes back into the room in her slippers and gown, now all ready for bed. In fact I’m surprised she doesn’t have curlers in her hair.
“Dankie Tannie, ek gaan nou huis toe, voor daai klomp my huis afbreek.” Thank you Auntie, I’m going home before that bunch break my house down.
He speaks to Ma, swallowing so his Adam’s apple is all I can focus on. Turning to catch me staring, he looks down at the floor again, “Will jy oor kom, Engela? Dis nie ’n wilde partytjie nie, maar ons gaan so bietjie dans en braai.” Do you want to come over, Engela? It’s not a wild party, just a bit of dancing and barbecue.
I look right past him to my mother who is nodding her head. I don’t want to go, I don’t want to be near him - or them - at all.
“Gaan kind.” Go child, Ma says over his shoulder, not giving me much choice.
“Nee, die baba slaap en ek is moeg.” No, the baby’s asleep and I’m tired. I try avoid the situation and start packing dishes away.
“Gaan Engela, you should have some fun. I will watch the baby sleep.”
My mother’s sarcastic little dig at me doesn’t go unnoticed and I glare at her with fire eyes. I do not want to go over there and be a part of whatever it is that they have brought to our street.
“Kom, Engela. Come Engela. It will be fun, and you can just cross the road right back home if you aren’t happy.” He pushes the issue, looking at me with those brown eyes that I don’t want to trust.
“I do. Not. Want. To Go.” I let each word sound out loudly as I storm past them, out of the kitchen and to my room.
I close the door as dramatically as I can without waking the sleeping baby. The effect is just the same as slamming it would have been, but I slump down onto my bed, and bury my face in the pillow to scream a silent scream of frustration. I allow the truth, of just how out of control I have allowed things to become, sink deep into the pit of my churning stomach.
I heard the front door close hours ago. The music still buzzes, filling the night with a new sinister soundtrack while I lie staring at the ceiling and dreading my visit to Pollsmoor tomorrow.
Listening, I hear them laughing and singing every now and then, the front door opening and closing over and over, cars coming and going. A crazy loud motorcycle arrived, and left again quickly about two hours ago. The sound of the engine roared away and could be heard long after it had gone.
Sleep won’t come and take me away tonight; no, tonight I am awake with my thoughts and the music rumbling around in my head.
Suddenly the buzz turned to riot and I could hear the words of every song blasting through my head. The windows rattled and I prayed the baby stayed asleep, but he was used to gunshots and ambulance sirens ripping through the quiet of the night, so he sleeps soundly.
I try to ignore it. I tell myself to just go to sleep, but I’m stubborn. I can’t even listen to myself and I am soon slipping my shoes on and pulling a top over my pajamas, preparing to go over there and tell them to shut up. I have a baby trying to sleep.
I rile myself up, talking to him in my head, yelling about the noise. I get more and more worked up as I fumble about in the dark looking for keys to open the front door and security gate, which were locked behind him earlier. I flip the switch for the outside light so the front stoep (veranda) is covered in a dull yellow glow that attracts all the bugs from miles around within seconds.
Swatting the miggies (gnats) and moths away, I start off with great zest across the road. Not even his sister partied until this hour. They would all get high and pass out before they could make too much noise.
I stomp over the road without even looking for cars, they shouldn’t be any at three in the morning. The big black car is still parked right in front of the little gate.
My stomach recoils at the thought of Eiran being back here. A ghost is never something you want to see. The wrought iron gate makes a protesting sound as I push it open with some force. There is a couple making out on the steps but I can slip past them with ease, and they don’t even break their lip-lock to glance at me as I pass them, taking the four steps in two strides. For my short little legs that’s quite something on its own.
I stand in front of the closed door and consider knocking, my bravado lost in the reality of standing here and not knowing what I will find inside, or worse, knowing exactly who I might find.
There is no smell of drugs, there isn’t that thickly vile stench of the tik (meth) wafting from under the door. Even the couple on the step might be a little drunk, but they’re not high. Instead I can hear laughter and the shuffle of dancing behind the wooden barrier that keeps me out.
Before I can grab the doorknob to go inside and ask them to stop, it disappears before my eyes and I am railroaded by bodies escaping to the fresh air. Now I can smell sweat and cigarettes as I step inside. They didn’t even notice me.
As I look back at them the girl glances over her shoulder, her eyes meeting mine are filled with mischief and youth. Their laughter dances on the cool night air and they tumble down onto the small patch of front lawn and I am pulled into the house, leaving them behind.
Before I even know what has happened I am yanked into the front passage of the house. The music vibrates in my ears, making me grit my teeth against the racket. I pry at the hand that has my wrist in a vise grip, wanting to stop, wanting to turn and run away.
People dance and rub against each other as we pass them. I stand on paper cups and debris as I trip and struggle against the force at which I’m hauled along. The house is dark and I can’t see clearly until I am stumbling down the back stairs into the yard.
In the moonlight, and glow from a bonfire, I can see people sitting around on old garden chairs and the ground. My eyes land on his and when he realizes it’s me his smile falls and is replaced by something darker. He surges towards me where my fat butt has landed on the floor, and the cackle of whoever was dragging me reverberates around in my head.
I see his fist fly and feel the warm spatter of someone’s blood on my cheek, but I stay firmly planted on the ground as the bodies move about me in slow motion. When the blur of action stops Francis stands in front of me, the light behind him highlighting his menacing size, and he holds out that big hand to me. I don’t take it, instead I struggle to heave myself up off the floor with the grace of a hippo trying to dance.
“Wat maak jy hi
er, Engela?” What are you doing here, Engela? he asks, pulling his outstretched hand back, offended that I wouldn’t take it. When I don’t answer him I get a sarcastic “Well?” growled at me.
Standing up, dusting off my backside, I glare at him. I want to be angry and shout about the noise, but I’ve lost my fight. “You asked me to come. Am I uninvited now?” I huff at him, my gaze down at the ground now. “I had to make sure the baby was sorted out first, I can’t just party Francis. Ek is ’n Ma.” I am a mom.
He just shrugs and turns away, walking back to his chair.
I follow him. I don’t why but I do, suddenly intimidated by all the strange people around me I am drawn to what I know, even if that is him.
“Staan op jou vark, laat die meisie sit. Sies, het jou ma jou niks geleer.” Stand up you pig, let the lady sit. Shame on you, did your mother teach you nothing, he says to the younger man sitting next to him. The guy jumps up, dusts off the seat, and motions for me to sit down. “Gaan kry vir haar ’n drink.” Go fetch her a drink.
He issues instructions like he is their boss, and the man scurries off as I nervously sit down next to Francis. I forgot I came to tell them to be quiet.
Everything is forgotten when he looks at me in the flickering light from the backyard bonfire, which I am almost sure is illegal and against the city by-laws. His dark brown eyes are deep with a thousand emotions, but his mouth stays closed.
Francis is a man of few words, but lately his actions have spoken volumes. The guy who was evicted from his chair hands me a closed beer bottle, and I take it from him.
“Dankie.” Thank you. My words are barely audible, and as soon as he sits down on the ground at the fire, Francis grabs the bottle and opens it for me with an opener on his keychain.
He watches me, those eyes full of dangerous bad-things in the past. His gaze burns me as he just stares at me. The glow of the amber fire make him seem a little less real, like he is not a killer or a rapist; but my heart knows he is a bad man. He hasn’t done one thing since he’s been home that seems bad, he has genuinely turned himself around, but the presence of Eiran makes me wonder about that.
We just stare at each other. I drink the bitter beer that I don’t even like and enjoy the warmth of the fire. The few men and women that were sitting close have moved away from us.
I feel alone and exposed as I look my brother’s murderer in the eye, only I see his best friend and not the boy holding the gun. I finish my drink and the tension is too much. I was an idiot with false courage coming over here. I toss the empty bottle on the pile in the corner behind us and turn to stand just in front of him.
“Naand Francis. Die musiek gaan my baba wakker skrik.” Goodnight Francis. The music is going to wake my baby in a panic.
He turns around, leaning over the back of the lawn chair where he sits like the king of the castle, and bellows, “Haai! Sit dit sagter, ek het bure.” Hey, make it softer, I have neighbors.
And instantly the music is decibels lower. I feel like I won a battle, but a war is still to come between us.
“I will walk you home, Engela.” He stands and puts his hand on my lower back.
The feeling is strange and I immediately want to pull away. As we get to the back door of the house his phone rings, and he stops to answer the call. I listen in to mostly one word answers and a ‘yes ma’am’ before he hangs up.
Still standing in the doorway he turns and calls out at the top of his voice. “Party’s over boys. It’s time to work. Check your phones. One team to the crocodiles, one to the Chem plant. Let’s go.”
The party breaks up as they all start to get themselves up and move rapidly towards the house and cars, girls left all over the place with that jilted lover look on their faces.
“Jammer Engela. Ek moet gaan. Thanks for coming.” Sorry Engela, I have to go.
He kisses me on the cheek, which makes me want to gag and blush all at once, before he leaves me standing there. I am shoved out of the way by the men rushing in and out with duffel bags and keys.
I wade through the chaos, out the front door and back home to my baby and mother. Maybe I will get some sleep now, before I have to visit Nathaniel tomorrow.
The thought makes me ill. I feel the twisting of nerves as my stomach knots at the idea of going there and seeing him.
11
Francis
morning has broken, mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
It’s 07h34 exactly when I pull into my driveway, and see Engela dressed and walking towards the bus stop. Her shoulders are rounded and she looks tired. Maybe we kept her up late, but she is not in her work clothes, she isn’t going to work.
She sees me, but looks away and keeps walking. I can’t explain the need in me to keep them safe, to protect her and her mother. It’s like I need to fix the life they have, because I killed Dan. I have fallen silently in love with the little family across the street and it scares me that I feel that way. Auntie is special to me in a way my own mother couldn’t be, and Engela is reminder of the sister I lost to the world I nearly died for. Her son gives me hope that I can save another generation from making the mistakes of mine, a reason to make things right.
Before I go inside I sit on the top step and just watch for a while, as the place that God forgot slowly wakes up and comes alive with the day.
I shut the door behind me and fall onto my bed amongst the litter of the night before, and sleep until the sun is high in the sky. My stomach growls with hunger and my mouth is drier than the Karoo at noon. I drink some tap water from the kitchen sink and look outside. The guys have sort of cleaned the mess and there is quiet, which means they are out, or passed out.
I open the front door so we can get some fresh air, the house smells like feet and old cheese. Not as bad as the inside of Pollsmoor, but it still stinks. Across the street Auntie is sweeping her step with a grass broom and a baby tied to her back. I can’t hear her from here, but I can see she is talking and singing to the little boy, who laughs and smiles with an innocence that I will never feel in my life.
I am not an innocent man. I am almost convinced that I was born missing that innocence we see in children, like there was always something wrong with me. I watch from inside the security gate as the two interact while doing the daily chores. She is an old woman yet her smile is still young. After a long time she looks at me and calls out.
“Francis ons gaan nou Oros drink, kom jy?”
She asks if I’d like to join them for a drink of orange cordial, the warm water didn’t do much for my cotton mouth so I unlock the gate and start to walk across the street.
As I get to the small front porch Auntie hands the little boy to me when she takes him off her back, and puts the blanket that kept him there down on the top step.
“Sit met Dan, ek sal juice gaan maak.” Sit with Dan, I’ll go make juice.
And just like that I am left sitting on the top step with a baby boy on my lap. He smells so good. I know that’s an odd thing to notice, but compared to prison and living with a bunch of dirty men, he smells like a million bucks.
Auntie comes out with two glasses and a sippy-cup in her hands, kicking the door closed with her foot. She holds out the cluster of drinks and the little guy bounces up and down grabbing his blue plastic cup. I take my glass and Auntie slowly sits down with us, her old bones making it harder for her than me. The way she takes her first sip lets me know just how physically taxing small things are for her.
“Waar is Engela vandag?” Where is Engela today? I ask the question that has bugged me since I saw her leaving just after seven this morning.
“Sy het Pollsmoor toe gegaan, Nathaniel wou haar sien.” She went to Pollsmoor, Nathaniel wants to see her. She says before taking another sip of her Oros, “Ek dink iemand het gepraat, jy weet. Dis nie goed vir haar dat jy hier is.” I think someone said something, you know. It’s not good that you're here.
In all honesty I hadn’t really considered the fact that my being around could put th
em in danger. I thought that the Sewes (Sevens) would just move on now that this street was mine, but clearly I have ruffled some feathers. I felt like I had made it better, that they were safer with me than them.
“Jammer Tannie, ek het nie gedink nie.” Sorry Auntie, I didn’t consider that.
I am sorry, I like them and I don’t want my trouble overflowing into their lives.
“Eder jy as hulle seun. Eder jy.” Rather you than them, son. Rather you.
I am the lesser of two evils I guess, but that certainly doesn’t make me the best choice of friend.
“Ek kan myself skaars maak as dit sal help Tannie, ek will nie hê ek moet dinge swaar maak vir julle.” I will make myself scarce, Auntie, if it will help. I don't want to make life harder for you.
“Nee Francis, ek dink jy is goed vir ons, veral Engela. My dogter, het foute gemaak in haar lewe, maar sy probeer hard om dinge reg te maak. Nes jy.” No Francis, I think you're good for us, especially Engela. My daughter’s made mistakes in her life but she’s trying hard to make them right, just like you.
She looks at me and smiles, she is genuine in what she says. Dan is pouring his juice all over me and the clean step Auntie just washed, but every splash makes him giggle and it’s the most infectious laugh ever. Before long Auntie and I laugh with him.
I help her clean the floor again when she goes to put him down for a sleep. As I finish sweeping off the steps Engela comes in the small front gate, her cheeks are wet with tears and she hugs her body.
One look at her and I know that something went very wrong today. When she looks up and sees me at the door to her home, the tears fall faster. She doesn’t need to say anything to me, I know it is me that is causing those tears.
“Hello Engela.” I greet her and stand the broom up against the side of the house.
“Gaan huis toe Francis, los my uit.” Go home Francis, leave me be.
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