•
Zane passed Strandfontein, a bustling beach spot in summer. Tonight white lines crisscrossed the empty parking lot making it look like a massive gaming board, or a place for giants to hopscotch. Lights perched high on poles appeared ghostly in the ozone.
A few hundred metres further, on the R310 road, Zane stopped and scanned the dark bush on his left. It did not rise very high but he knew from daytime visits that it was dense and thick. His intense staring picked up nothing. Only when he diverted his focus did he become aware of a faint glow in the black blob of the bush. He pushed his bike towards it, probing small passage ways as he went along, sometimes having to lift his bike when he found none. The terrain consisted of vegetation-covered dunes becoming higher as he moved further inland. The higher dunes created bigger hollows and it was in one of these that he found the source of the light – a lamp dangling from a branch, and a log fire next to which sat Malaki Makonnen.
‘My friend, sorry to barge in like this,’ Zane said wearily as he put his bike down and took off his rucksack.
Malaki bounced up and embraced Zane. ‘Jesus be black! What brings you here so late?’
‘Long story … but first, can I stay with you for a few days?’
‘No problem cotching here, you know that.’ Malaki had a surfer’s build – V-shaped lateral muscles, a deep chest, and legs that looked underdeveloped by comparison. It gave him the suppleness to kneel on his longboard as he paddled. Calluses below his kneecaps bore witness to it. But what set him apart were his dreads – at least twenty major locks and many more small ones that would have made Bob Marley proud. They hung on him like a mane adding to his look of strength. Yet he was gentle, and calm. Zane breathed easier.
‘How are you, Malaki?’
‘Cool runnings,’ Malaki said throwing another log on the fire, ‘I and I are worried, though.’ He shook his dreads, ‘Riding in like this in the night.’ Malaki was a Rasta whose language was sometimes confusing but Zane knew his friend was expressing concern for him. They had met by chance soon after Malaki started teaching surfing at Strandfontein, when Zane was still a member of the Evangelicals. Malaki showed Zane there was another, cleaner, more natural way, the way of the sea. The rest, as they say, was history – Zane and Chantal had cut ties with Hannibal and Zane applied for the job at BAT.
‘Malaki, I’m sorry I couldn’t pack properly … brought no food, I’ll get some tomorrow but right now I could eat a horse!’
Malaki got up and fetched a bag of groundnuts, a packet of raisins, bread, rolled oats, milk, and Cape summer fruit. ‘The raisins are good on bread … honey too pricey. I and I could eat some more anyway.’ Malaki tried to eat only unprocessed, natural food – Ital in Rastafari. He avoided alcohol, canned food, coffee, fizzy drinks, salt, and condiments. Pig, crab, and shrimp were also out because they were scavengers of the dead. Zane would have given up his bike at that moment for a big Mac and a plate of chips. Malaki’s real name was Jan Arendse, formerly a member of a notorious gang in Hanover Park. What saved him, he claimed, was surfing, not the ‘trickery’ of shortboards but true soul-surfing that only a longboard could give. That break had been provided by members of the Strandfontein lifesaving club when they gave Malaki an old board full of dings. Malaki learnt not only to fix dings but also to ride a board. Through soul-surfing he found God – Jah to the Rasta – and finally himself. Jah spoke to Blacks in a way European religions didn’t and couldn’t, like Jesus was Black and Africa was Zion or heaven. Not that Malaki regarded himself as Black. His parents were Coloured but his grandfather was a Shona from Rhodesia who married a Coloured woman in Cape Town. It gave Malaki his dark brown shoe polish colouring. To create dreads he had twisted the juice of an aloe into his hair, slept with a wool garment under his head, and refrained from washing his hair for a month. He re-named himself Malaki, adding Emperor Hailè Selassiè’s original name, Makonnen, to it. Cutting loose from the Flats had been the final act in the redemption of Jan Arendse. His no-sham way of life in the bush at Strandfontein had made Malaki the ultimate natural man.
They talked until the fire died down. Once or twice Malaki made a hissing sound by sucking his teeth. Zane wasn’t sure if it was to express surprise or disapproval but he held nothing back, he had to get it all out, just as Lena’s wound had to be cleansed of puss. When Zane got to his misgivings about his new liquor account, and why he felt the way he did, Malaki nodded vigorously, and said, ‘Those who sell alcohol work for Babylon, Zane. One day, be free too of the polytricksters of Babylon.’
‘You know what really got me?’ Zane paused because he’d kept it to himself all this time. ‘It was when the client told the agency he wanted the rainbow nation, all the colours, to be seen drinking these new coolers – Coloureds and Blacks and Indians and Whites happily together. I mean, how phoney is that, Malaki, because that’s not the way it is, and how immoral, as if we don’t have a drinking problem already!’
‘I dunno who believes that stuff, man, it’s not real life. That love isn’t real, Zane, it’s just love of money.’
Zane thought of Sarai’s world. What was the difference really between sex workers selling their bodies, and advertisers selling alcohol? Both were prostituting themselves.
Malaki pointed at Zane’s ‘bed’ – a sleeping bag on a thick reed mat under canvas stretched between branches – and said, ‘One love, Zane, sleep well. I and I will talk more tomorrow, and surf.’
Zane opened his rucksack and spread the contents on the mat – his karate gi folded up would serve as a pillow, he had his toiletry bag and a towel that he used for showering at the dojo, a spare T-shirt, and, tucked away in the rucksack, his bank card and fifty rand. He felt strangely excited that he had come on his journey with so little. He rolled up his new black belt carefully and put it away. It felt as satiny as the day he had bought it but now, in the bush and on the run, Zane was struggling to recapture the thrill he had felt when he first tied it around his waist.
Malaki blew out the lamp and threw sand over the coals. Zane zipped himself up in his sleeping bag. On his back with his eyes shut he relived Hannibal’s vicious attack. It was as if Hannibal had gone mad, as if he needed to kill Zane tonight, and all because Zane had turned Chantal against him years ago? It didn’t quite make sense. Zane opened his eyes to help him shut out the images of Hannibal, and thought of the special meaning that ‘I and I’ had for Malaki and all Rastafarians, and how for him it meant only one thing – Zane Hendricks and his shadow rider.
•
In the morning he phoned Lena and Chantal to make sure they were alright. Both expressed concern for him. Then he walked inland through the bush for about two kilometres until he reached town where he drew money from an ATM. He bought what he thought he and Malaki would need for a week. On the way back he bought a snoek for R35 and two Hotnots for R40 from a bakkie that had positioned itself on the side of the road with the morning’s catch. The open back of the vehicle was filled with fish. Next to it on a rack, splayed snoek hung brown-dry. On impulse, Zane bought two. Hungry gulls screeched as they mock-dived the bakkie.
Malaki and Zane went down to the beach. The car park was beginning to fill up. Malaki took his longboard from the club and gave Zane one belonging to a friend. The boards had been patched up in many places and had no leashes which meant long swims to the beach if their riders fell off. Malaki and Zane waxed the tops and the rails thoroughly for grip, and paddled out skirting the rock pool and the kelp – to the backline two hundred metres away.
For the next three hours Zane could put the world and its threats aside. In the water away from the land he felt safer even though he knew that False Bay was home to Great Whites. He shouted back gleefully at a gull as he positioned himself for the next take-off having watched Malaki ride a wave with bubbling wake, standing with easy grace as if he had not a care in the world. And Malaki truly had nothing.
Twenty-eight
Keeping himself composed Hannibal met Philander’s gaze
. Philander had unexpectedly arrived at Hannibal’s house in the early evening and was now sitting stiffly on the couch. In his civvies and with his greying temples he could have been an ageing salesman were it not for his clipped questions and the hardness in his eyes. Any inclination Hannibal might have had of offering Philander something to drink evaporated in spite of the day’s accumulated heat pushing through the roof and the open windows.
Hannibal disliked Coloured cops with blue eyes and wavy hair. For a start they didn’t fit in with the Flats and secondly, they had the kind of hair he could only dream of, like Danny’s. If they were detectives it was another black mark. If they carried the name Philander it was like a stalking hunter to a Cape buffalo.
‘You still haven’t answered the question, Hannibal – are Cupido, Gatiep, and Curly members of the Evangelicals?’
‘I told you, your detectives have already been here asking the same thing. Didn’t they tell you?’
‘As a matter of fact they did. They said no.’
‘So, why waste my time, Sarge?’
‘I’ll tell you, Hannibal … by the way, I’m a Warrant Officer and I suppose you know that too?’
It was Hannibal’s turn to keep silent.
Philander said, ‘I’m here because I don’t believe Kuscus and Fritz and I don’t believe you. I think they are being paid off by you and your gang … have been for a long time.’
‘Sarge, so what if the three men you mentioned are members of my gang? Is the problem that they are members – which you can’t arrest them for – or because they’ve committed crimes, which you can only arrest them for if you’ve got proof?’
‘My friend, you are known for being too clever for your own good.’
For the first time Hannibal felt a twinge of unease. It was what the Gnome had said. It was a bad omen. Philander knew something, why else would he be here if he’d already talked to Kuscus and Fritz? With a blank expression Hannibal stared at the man in the steel-grey suit. He was finally in the cage with Detective Warrant Officer Philander.
‘You know what?’ Hannibal said evenly, his eyes a lifeless black, ‘it’s because of your dead wife that you’re here. You’ve wanted to nail me all this time and you can’t, and now you’re trying something else, not so?’
Hannibal saw Philander flinch. It couldn’t be fear – Philander wasn’t the sort – it was more like deep pain. Philander had been trying to take him down from the moment he stepped into the house, like all Hannibal’s opponents did. Hannibal was not only still standing – he had Philander on the back foot.
‘You know and I know your men killed her, Hannibal, and then you paid Kuscus and Fritz to botch the investigation.’ Philander stood up. ‘I’m asking you for the last time, what do you know about Cupido, Gatiep and Curly?’
Hannibal also got up and walked to the door to indicate the meeting was over. He put on his best swagger to show his disdain for the detective. Without a word he let Philander out. Halfway to the gate, Philander said over his shoulder, ‘If you don’t know about them, Hannibal, then I’ll tell you – they’re all dead. And yes, they were all Evangelicals.’
‘So?’ Hannibal called after him.
‘Well, your car with two men in it was seen entering the Cape of Good Hope Reserve the week Curly’s body was found at Miller’s Point, the one with the special spoiler, you know.’
Hannibal froze. Fuck those angel’s wings. God had finally taken His revenge. And Hannibal had proclaimed Him dead.
•
An hour later, Hannibal was still thinking. Philander had to be dealt with, now. Zane, Chantal, and Lena could wait. How nearly had he succeeded with Zane! He grimaced. That Zane should have been saved by a dumb street hump was almost too much to bear. And then he vanished, just like that. For two days, in the morning and in the evening, Hannibal had waited in vain outside the flat, a new bloodlust pulsing through him in the knowledge that Zane had crossed him twice, first with Chantal then with Lena. When Hannibal realised Zane had disappeared he set out to find Lena’s house. For once he was lucky – in the street Sarai had described to him he saw Lena coming home one evening. He had walked away, to plan how he was going to kill her. Then, suddenly, Philander appeared as if he knew what was happening.
Hannibal didn’t turn on the lights – they would hurt his burning eyes. All he wanted was to blow Philander to pieces but he knew he couldn’t, not in the house, not anywhere. There was no telling what Philander had written in his files, and the station would have a record of his visit. In a few months yes, then he could do it, but he didn’t have months, he had only days.
He phoned the Gnome and told him he had to see him – tonight.
•
It felt strange sitting in an unfamiliar chair in Sasman’s house, at night, and without Danny. Terrance had been unhappy about the interruption to his evening and he had driven Hannibal to Plattekloof in silence. In a few days’ time he would take Sasman to the airport for his flight to Hong Kong.
‘So what brings you here, Hannibal?’ Sasman asked suspiciously.
‘You’re not gonna like this.’ Hannibal braced himself. He talked rapidly, giving Sasman only the headlines knowing he might not get to the end. He was right.
‘Fuck it, fuck, fuck it!’ the Gnome screamed before Hannibal got to Philander’s telling last remark, his words spitting out like bullets. He seemed to puff up to twice his size. He grabbed a porcelain vase from the mantelpiece and smashed it on the floor. The Dobermans were instantly on their feet, eyes roaming the room for signs of a threat. Hannibal closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
‘I knew it, I just knew it! How you’ve screwed up, Hannibal!’
‘Jerome, he has to be killed, we got no choice, man.’
Sasman went still. The Dobermans calmed down but remained upright. ‘I’m not sure. Killing Curly and the Thai girl is one thing, but this …’
‘I know Philander. He won’t give up, especially not now – he knows too much.’ He told Sasman about his car’s angel wings being seen at Cape Point. If that didn’t get the Gnome off his hairy arse nothing would. What Hannibal kept to himself was the identity of the man on the train. Once he’d taken care of Zane, he’d tell Sasman. Wherever Zane was he had to come back, he had a job, a flat, he had parents, and he had a sister.
The Gnome looked horrified. ‘Jesus, it gets worse. Seems we have no choice, but the detective is your problem, Hannibal, not mine. Leave me out of it.’
‘No, Jerome, we all gotta stay out of it – me, my men, you, none of us can touch Philander. There are too many connections.’
The Gnome stared at Hannibal. Hannibal plunged in, ‘Let Danny sort out Philander. All we should worry about are our alibis. The triads organise hits all the time and they never talk, and if you pay them enough …’
‘Hold it! You mean you pay,’ Sasman said bitterly, ‘you caused the shit. Maybe I bring my flight forward, and you … you can go somewhere for a few days where people can vouch for you. No, maybe I should make sure he’s history before I go, I mean, how can a man enjoy fireworks and pussy while worrying about a fucking detective?’
‘Hey, I thought we were partners, Jerome? Anyway, I haven’t got that kind of cash … tell you what, how about we go fifty-fifty – I pay half of what Danny wants for Philander, and I take care of Lena and the man who was with her on the train. I know where she lives … he might even be with her.’
The beginnings of a smile formed around the Gnome’s pinched mouth. ‘Ah, something you should’ve done long ago you’re now using to bargain? You’re something else, Hannibal.’ He was almost friendly, ‘Okay, you got a deal – I’ll sort out Philander, you pay half, and you fix Lena and the man. With Philander it’s gotta be now.’
Hannibal’s brain went on high alert. It had been too easy. Sasman only ever thought of himself. His style was to float above the shit while everyone else was sinking in it, remain untouchable while those around him got taken out or fingered. The Flats provided a never-ending
supply of human fodder for his schemes. It was unlike the Gnome to commit to the killing of an investigating police officer and allow the man who suggested it – Hannibal – to carry on living. It would change their relationship, leave Sasman in charge but weakened. There was no way Sasman would allow it.
Lettie came into the lounge to sweep up the porcelain pieces. The various parts of her didn’t go together – black eyes and blonde hair, wrinkled face and bare feet, full figure and timid walk, distant and aware at the same time. As she cleaned, the sound of colliding shards gave an extra brittleness to the atmosphere. Hannibal had never been able to tell if she was char or lover or both. Could she be the Gnome’s mother? He had never heard her say a word. She was like Terrance and the Dobermans, seeing to the Gnome’s needs in silence, insiders by virtue of never saying no or asking why.
There was no turning back for Hannibal now. ‘I’m making it real easy, Jerome. Here’s Philander’s address, he lives with his two daughters, wife’s dead. And here are his shifts for the week. The night shift’s good, not when he arrives at the station but when he goes home tired early in the morning. Everyone will have work on their minds, he’ll be thinking about breakfast and sleep. Make it happen in broad daylight, when it’s the last thing he expects.’ He gave the Gnome a dazzling smile, ‘It’ll be just another hijacking, Jerome. Ha, ha, what an amazing irony that he should die in a hijacking just like that wife of his!’
‘Just like that, eh?’ The Gnome snapped his fingers.
Hannibal got up. ‘No more difficult than creating an alibi, Jerome. Let me know which morning.’ But he knew that in the back of the Benz the time for dreaming was over.
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