He loves to bounce on my lap when we drive on the bus.
When the wheels scream to a stop he slaps my thigh so hard I know there will be a mark, and his putrid breath kisses my cheek.
They get off the bus first, reminding me that they can see everything I do. I wait so no one can see me pulling up my zip before I get off the bus.
I don’t bother wiping my tears, I just hug my arms tight around my body and walk the short way home, hoping that they don’t follow me.
For once someone is looking out for me and they go off in the other direction, making crude hand gestures at me. My relief is very short lived when I find Francis on the top step of my house.
The fucking root of all my problems is here to see me at my worst. I’ve just had my body violated and he’s here to violate my mind, my peace.
The anger of the whole day, my whole life roars out of me as I go inside and let my mother know exactly how dangerous having him around is.
Still he sits outside.
I can see him there. Can’t he tell he isn’t wanted?
Is he stupid, or does he just want to see us get killed?
When I cannot take it anymore and my mother is crying her eyes out, I go back outside. I want him to leave. Go to his side of the street.
What I didn’t expect, what I never expected when I slapped a known murderer, a convicted rapist and hardened gang member across the back of the head, was for him turn on me with a weapon that could wound me worse than any gun.
The kiss of death.
I watched Eiran arrive. I know Francis was watching me from the kitchen window, but I couldn’t pick myself up.
I didn’t know how to stop the wound he made, from bleeding.
When he leaves with Eiran I slip back inside and go cry in my room with my baby clinging to me like a little monkey. This is love, the tiny human holding onto me when I’m falling apart, that’s love.
Nothing Francis could ever offer will come close to this love. I don’t think he could even say the word love with his tarnished soul, but then again who am I to say that? I am not innocent.
When my little boy is asleep and my tears have dried in crusty streaks down my face, I lay him down in his cot and go to shower; to wash away the dirty touches from the bus, to brush Francis’s kiss off my teeth.
But, mostly to wash away the feelings it made me feel: the warmth, the surrender, and the need. I felt so many things within that soft, forced kiss. Things I am not ready to name, not even to myself.
I listen until all hours of the night, but he doesn’t come back. He left with Eiran and didn’t come home. It worries me. I shouldn’t care a shit, it would be better if he never came back, but here I am at three in the morning peeking out my curtains to see if the car I heard was him.
When it’s not, I get up because now I’m awake, and go watch the TV, with no sound on, in the lounge. The sunlight filtering through the net curtains and the sound of a car driving slowly, crunching the small gravel stones on the edge of the street, wake me from a hazy doze.
I scramble to look out the widow behind me, but it’s not Francis, just some of the guys that seem to live with him now. They look tired as they drag themselves inside the house without even shutting the garage door.
The security gate swings closed behind them with a loud metal bang and they disappear inside.
I wonder if he’s in there?
Did I miss him coming back while I was sleeping on the couch?
I wipe the crusty sleep from the corners of my eyes, that were puffy from crying. I want some coffee and the comfort of food.
That’s probably why my bum is so big, not from having a baby but from eating my feelings. I put some Jungle Oats in a pot and put the kettle on. The old, brown, wall clock says it’s five-thirty in the morning, way too early for a Sunday.
It’s church today. We will have to get up and dressed in our ‘kerk kleure’ (Sunday best) and walk down the road to the church. Ma will want to go early because she’s on tea duty this week.
Pouring the hot water over the instant coffee granules and three spoons of sugar, the aroma fills my lungs with hope for a better day. Thoughts of yesterday come back and I drink the coffee and try shove them away.
The porridge cooks on the stove. The sound of the sloppy bubbles popping as it boils and the sweet smell makes my empty stomach growl. Impatiently I get a bowl ready with the milk and sugar, waiting for the second it’s ready.
Not long after I dish up I hear Ma stirring from her side of the house. The flushing toilet reminds me I need a pee, and then I hear the soft click of the door and the shuffling of her slippers on the floor. I boil the kettle again and get her teacup out.
“Môre.” Morning, she greets in her morning voice, that cracks with years of smoking and age.
“Môre, Ma.” Morning mom, I say sheepishly, because I was an epic bitch to her yesterday and I shouldn’t have been. This isn’t all her fault.
“Are you finished throwing tantrums?” she asks, while she pours the hot water into her teacup.
“Jammer Ma,” Sorry Mom, I apologize for my stupid outburst and mentally try to work out if I can blame PMS.
“Francis is ’n goeie man, hy het slegte dinge gedoen maar hy het ’n haart wat goed is Engela.” Francis is a good man. He did bad things, but his heart is good, Engela.
She talks softly, also glancing out the window to see if he is there, like talking about him will make him appear. I want to believe her.
Something in me knows that he isn’t all bad, but my head tells me he’s a murderer and rapist, so it doesn’t matter how good he is. The way he kissed me didn’t feel like a murderer’s kiss, not that I would know, but it didn’t feel wrong.
“Ma, he’s a killer. No matter how good his heart is he killed my brother. And God knows how many others.”
I sound convincing – well, to myself I do. My mother just ignores me and dishes porridge for herself.
“Go get dressed and wake Dan, I don’t want to be late for church. Ek moet die tee vandag doen.” I have to make the tea today.
I push my chair back. Ma is still cross with me, I can tell, and she’s not ready to talk. She likes to simmer down first before she tells me how angry she is.
Before I can leave the room I catch a glimpse of her sad eyes, and she says, “You know when I came home with you from the hospital, you were so little. You looked like Dan, he’s definitely your son. But Francis, he was here with your brother waiting. He hovered over you like you were going to break. He wasn’t always a killer Engela, once upon a time he was a little boy who would have died for you.” Her eyes get teary and she looks out the window again. “These streets are a hard place for little boys with no fathers. It’s hard for them to stay good.”
I know she’s telling me about him, but also cautioning me about what my son will have to survive.
I go to get dressed for church. When I get to my room my little boy is sitting in his cot giggling at his favorite toy, a little stuffed airplane from a Disney movie. He’s had it since he was born, and it never leaves his sight for long.
“Kom Kind, dis mos kerk vandag. Laat ons God aantrek.”
Come child, it's church today. Let's put on God.
I pick him up and get my dose of morning cuddles, and then dress him in his Sunday clothes.
He bounces on his bum, loving the way my mattress is springy while I put on church clothes. It’s my favorite blue dress, and the flat pumps that don’t hurt my feet.
I used to love Sundays, but today doesn’t feel like every other Sunday.
The sun is warming up already as we get the push-chair out the front door. Ma helps me carry it down the stairs to the path.
The wheels keep catching on the uneven paving as we battle our way to the pavement, so we can walk in the blistering heat to the church. I see him walking to the front door, he’s in fancy clothes.
He didn’t look that way when he left. I know, I remember the way his white t-shirt felt when
my hands ran up against it. Those aren’t his faded jeans either. He looks like he doesn’t belong here. He looks like Eiran. His hands are in his pockets, his dark eyes on me, like they have been since the moment he came home. He stops before he gets to the steps and turns to look at us, a smile pulling one side of his mouth.
“Ons gaan kerk toe.” We’re going to church, I say before I know what I’m doing, his smile made me feel silly. “Kom jy?” Are you coming?
I’ve lost my mind. Francis swings around and walks towards the gate. I can see the one crooked tooth as his mouth opens in a wide grin, like I just asked him for ice-cream, and not to go to church.
“Ek kan kom.” I can come. He’s already crossing the street when he answers me. Ma shakes her head, I see it out the corner of my eye as Francis steps up on the pavement with us. “Let me push the pram.”
His hand takes the one handle I let go of, and the other brushes mine as he moves it out the way. Ma walks in front, and him and me are side by side, with the pram in front of us, and little Dan is squealing because the bumpy ride to church is his favorite thing.
There are no more words spoken, we just walk. There are other families walking to church. The older Ooms (uncles) have hats on, with ties and polished shoes. The Aunties all have their best dresses and heels on.
Their faith astounds me. I go begrudgingly to church every week; I have no hope that things will ever change. Yet, they have blind faith that their God will just make this world right somehow.
Halfway down our street, just before the corner where we will turn for church, Francis takes my hand in his, pushing Dan with one hand.
I want to pull it away, I want to cry, but it also feels so special.
No one has held my hand before.
Nothing about Nathaniel was ever soft or loving, and sweet like this. He was all passion and physicality, he just bulldozed me, broke me and made we weak.
Francis holding my hand doesn’t feel like any of that, instead I stand a little straighter and a smile pulls at my lips. Sneaking a glance at him I see his smile too.
Maybe he is good.
I just don’t know if I want to find out.
Right now, this very minute, he feels good. Bad men don’t go to church, do they?
That’s what I wonder while we walk down the road, holding hands like the Auntie and Uncle ahead of us.
At the church gate Ma turns to us and says, “Ons hou nie hande in God’s se huis nie. Julle kan later vry.”
We don’t hold hands in God’s house. You two can flirt later.
We are told off like teenagers and let go quickly.
I can see Francis blush and get shy.
13
Francis
God’s House and the Devil’s playground
I feel guilty stepping inside a church. I have done things that no god could ever forgive. I am unclean, even in these shiny clothes that make me look like I belong, inside me is festering pit of bad things. Even now, even without my gang, I am no better. I am cleaning up dead bodies, selling guns, and I have a sick feeling my new boss is worse than any gang boss I could ever imagine.
He is a powerful man, not just here, but around the world. At least I’m not killing people. I look at it that way. I am doing better. I might not be doing good, but I am not doing the worst.
She let me hold her hand, I don’t know why I wanted to, I just did.
It felt good, right in a way. It sounds stupid even to me, but Engela is mine. I remember when she was born, I told Dan she was mine, he could have my sister instead.
We ended up in a fistfight over it on the back grass. I always knew she would be better than all of us, even then.
People are looking at me, and not in a nice way. I see the whispers and the side eyes. I know what they are saying, but today I don’t really care because Engela asked me to come here, so I came.
There is a berg wind (hot mountain katabatic wind) blowing today, and even though it’s winter I’m sweating in the unseasonal heat.
I helped Auntie after church. I washed the tea dishes and Engela dried; two of the girls from Sunday school pushed Dan around in his pram until he fell asleep.
He’s like this little light that shines all the time, it never goes out even when he’s asleep. I will never have a son, or a child at all. I know that because I am done killing people, and I would have to kill someone to have a child.
So I take the moment to appreciate just how perfect he is while I push him home again after church. This time she holds my hand and I watch her smile all the way up the road. Auntie has asked me to stay for lunch, but Eiran is waiting outside my house when we get there.
“Jammer Auntie, lyk my ek moet werk. Miskien volgende week.” Sorry Auntie, looks like I’ve got to work. Maybe next time.
I excuse myself from lunch and cross back to my side of the street, getting one last look at them before I get in Eiran’s car and we drive off.
“We need to talk seriously, Francis.” Eiran sounds different as we drive away from home and back towards his house, “I am going to do something, and it’s probably going to get me killed. I have done everything so you will take my place. I trust you. You are not like them, you can work with the guys. They will respect you.”
I don’t understand what he is on about, in truth he is frightening me.
“I can’t work with those people, Eiran. I can’t even read or write properly. I didn’t even get a grade four. Is jy mal? Are you mad?” He must be crazy. “What gaan jy doen? Moenie stupid wees nie. What are you planning to do, don’t be an idiot.”
We stop outside the building that has the same company logo as our work cars on it; it’s very fancy. Too fancy for someone like me.
“Your office is on the fourth floor. Tomorrow you’re coming in with me so you can learn. I need you to learn. The old man won’t live forever and we need to make sure you are in Avery’s good graces – for the record that’s a very hard place to find yourself.”
Ah, Avery, the woman he watches all the time. Even when we aren’t working he is like her shadow. Last night he watched all night, his home is carefully positioned and arranged so he can see inside hers.
There is some sort of dangerous obsession going on, but I’m too afraid to ask him. The heat in the car is oppressive and I pull off my jacket and roll up my sleeves.
“This all sounds stupid. Aren’t you hot?” I look at him and he’s dressed like it’s snowing out. The Berg wind has made it hotter than a summer day out.
“I’m boiling, but I don’t show my skin, so I just suck it up. The aircon is on, it’s not that bad.”
I glare at him like he has lost his mind. It’s like a million degrees even with the aircon on. We drive back to his place in the sweltering heat and go upstairs. The first thing he does is look through the telescope, and binoculars he has set up facing her home.
“What’s with keeping all covered up? You convert to Islam or something funny while I was gone?”
I have to ask, it’s bothering me.
Eiran steps back from the big window pane, closes the blinds, making the room gloomy and dark, then when he turns to me he shrugs off his leather jacket and begins to unbutton his shirt. Beneath it is a white vest (wife beater) like my oupa (granddad) would wear.
How is he not dying under all that clothing?
My eyes adjust to the dim light and I blink to focus, but I am not out of focus, Eiran’s body looks like he came right out of a horror movie. It looks like reptile skin, mottled, with tattoos in places.
I can’t look away. How did he survive?
“She did that to you?” I stutter out in absolute horror.
How’d that skinny little woman do all that?
Eiran turns his back, I see his shame, but I see his love too.
“Every single cut was by her hand, her beautiful, soft, sweet, murderous hand.”
On his back I read the inscription Avery cut my heart to ribbons with her cold knife of love.
“I wish s
he’d killed me that day, but I’m grateful she didn’t. Living like I am is hard. I know she loves me, Francis. She has to love me, but I also know she won’t ever let herself be with me.”
I missed all of this, inside the four walls that housed me I missed these things. I didn’t have a first love, or a job that could get me killed, or even the faintest idea how much he was hurting.
We are brothers, not by blood, but by something deeper. If he needs me to to this — whatever this is, then I will do it.
“Okay, I will do what you need me to. But Eiran, I am not a clever man like you.”
“You don’t need to be, you will work for her Dad, not Callum. He’s a good man in a bad business, that’s all. Just do the job and they will look after you. You and her.” He pulls his shirt on and looks at me with knowing eyes. “You have fallen in love with that family. Rowan will make sure you and them are taken care of.”
I just stay quiet and think. Sometimes it’s better to think than it is to talk. Eiran fetches some beers from the kitchen and we sit on his couch in the dark. “You think they are going to let me be? You know, if you are gone?” I ask him after some time and about four beers.
“The agt’s will, but you know Engela isn’t theirs, you’re playing with big fire there. I cannot really help with that one. The boy belongs to their boss inside. Francis, if I’m honest, you should leave them be. Moenie kak aanjag nie. Don’t look for shit,” he says.
I’m not sure I could just leave them alone. I can’t act like they’re not there, right across the road from me.
“She’s already been warned about you. One of my boys said they got her on the bus yesterday. They’re watching.” I don’t want her to get hurt. “Handtjies vashou, isn’t a good idea. Jy weet hoe werk die dinge boet.” Holding hands in public is a bad idea, you know how things work brother.
“Ja ek weet. I know.” I do know, and if they’ve already threatened her, they will be watching – both of us.
“Stay here for a bit. Clear your head. We go to work tomorrow, let it cool off, Francis.”
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