by Mike Nicol
She wasn’t teary, more interested in where they were going to bury Cat1.
In the back garden, Mace suggested. Or what passed for a back garden: a block of lawn surrounded by empty flower beds where only weeds grew. Once in a while Oumou had a man in to trim the grass but the neatness never lasted more than a week. Occasionally there’d been notes from the complex’s body corporate complaining about the neglect, suggesting that they plant daisy bushes.
‘You can put a candle on the grave,’ said Oumou.
‘And flowers?’
‘We can buy flowers, ma puce.’
Mace searched through the cutlery for an old spoon to use as a trowel and found one spotted with rust.
‘You want to dig?’ Christa nodded and they went into the backyard to dig a shallow grave. While she scooped a hole in the earth, Oumou brought out a candle and Mace fetched the dead kitten.
‘I will, Papa,’ Christa said, taking the body, putting it carefully into the hole.
‘Now you’ve got to cover it.’
She shook her head, suddenly clutching at her mother. Mace made to push a handful of soil over the body but Christa stopped him. He crouched to be face to face with her.
‘What’s it?’
Her eyes were teary, she clutched Oumou’s hand.
Oumou said, ‘You want to cover the kitten first, chérie, with a blanket?’ Christa nodded.
They wrapped the kitten in a kitchen cloth and put it back in the hole. This time Christa let her father push over the soil and build it into a mound. Her mother lit a candle, sticking it in the ground about where the kitten’s head would be. For a while they stood, hand-in-hand, watching the flame sputter, shadows dancing on the wall behind.
At supper Christa said, ‘Papa, do kittens go to heaven?’
Oumou reached out to stroke her daughter’s hair, her eyes fixed on Mace.
‘When kittens die, they die just like us,’ he said.
Christa looked at him. ‘We go to heaven.’
Mace shook his head. ‘We die, sweetheart. That’s it. Nothing happens afterwards.’
Puzzled she turned to her mother. ‘Oui, ma puce,’ said Oumou softly.
Christa’s face crumpled. The tears came, big slow ones.
Mace left once Christa was asleep. At the door into the garage Oumou stopped him.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she said. ‘They are not good men.’
‘You’re right. But I owe him. I told you.’
‘For something from the past. This is stupid, Mace.’ She took his right hand and brought him round to face her. He winced as they embraced, and she stepped back. Her arms dropped. Eventually she said, ‘Why are you leaving me?’
His arm ached but he couldn’t see the point in telling her now about the mugging. He took her hand. ‘I’m not. You’re wrong.’ It was an echo of what he’d told Pylon.
‘Then why are you so strange? So cold.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
Her expression brought a heaviness to his chest. Such desolation. Such aloneness. He went quickly, before the hurt could stop him.
11
Sheemina February, in her right hand a glass of wine, stood barefoot before the picture window looking out at the darkness. Nothing visible. Black sky, black sea. She smiled at her reflection: the woman in the trousers and loose shirt smiling back at her.
That in a single day so much could change.
She raised the glass and sipped, leaving a plum imprint of lipstick on the rim.
To recognise but not be recognised. To be seen yet remain hidden. The thought angered her that in the life of Mace Bishop her life had barely registered.
Below, a wave broke against the shore rocks. She glanced down, saw blue phosphorescence run through the white water like lightning.
Earlier, at sundown, a yacht had been anchored there inshore, pretty people lounging on the decks, the women topless. She’d watched their playfulness. A blonde boy draping his girlfriend’s breasts in seagrass.
The blonde boy hard-muscled. Broad shoulders, a swimmer’s figure with strong thighs. Reminded her of Mace Bishop.
What to do about Mace Bishop?
To wait.
Waiting was the trick. Drawing out the situation, setting up the moves.
He was attractive. So much the better. Cocky. Sitting there behind the desk, cool and confident. Looking at her cleavage. Shifting for a glance of her breasts when she’d leant forward. Not caring that she’d noticed. A man pleased with himself and his world. Pleased with his wife, his daughter, his sexy red sports car.
‘Enjoy them, Mr Bishop,’ Sheemina February said aloud.
She turned away from the window to the file on her dining room table. How quickly a man’s life could be compiled. She had it all in an afternoon: the girl’s name, the girl’s crèche, the wife’s name, the home street address, the car registrations, land-line numbers, cellphone numbers, his latest tax return, a bank statement, the work address. A photograph of the woman. Another of the child. Two of the man himself: one coming out of the swimming pool, rising up on his arms, the water sluicing off his body; the other full frontal in a black Speedo. She studied his face: the sharp line of the jaw, the flat planes of the cheeks. The dark eyebrows. The nose flaring softly at the nostrils. A face she had not expected to see again.
Her cellphone rang and she flipped the photograph onto the pile of documents. Thumbed on Abdul Abdul. Before he could speak, said, ‘I told you not to phone me. I am your lawyer. Your legal advisor, not your playmate’ - and disconnected. In two paces she was across at the marble kitchen countertop, filling her glass from the bottle.
‘Prost, Mr Bishop.’ Raising her glass to the room: large open-plan space: white couches facing the sea view, limewashed table and chairs, white flokatis on the ash flooring. A ritual of white. White votive candles scattered about, the only other light coming from a desk lamp. Everything reflected in the picture windows.
She clicked off the lamp and smiled at the order of her lair.
Sheemina February ate at her dining table facing the dark sea. Piazzolla on the sound system. Propped against the wine bottle, the photograph of Mace Bishop in his costume. Sexy. She speared the penne onto her fork and wiped them through red pesto sauce.
Later she went out on the balcony with the last of the wine. Leant against the chrome rail, the metal cold under her arms, a dampness clinging to the ozone air. She finished her wine, dangling the long-stemmed goblet from the fingers of her left hand. The glove off. She let it drop, the glass flashing twice before it disappeared, the fall too long to hear it break.
12
Even at ten the nightclub quarter was hectic. Kids stood around their cars drinking, doors open, sound systems thumping out rap and funk. Mace found a spot for Oumou’s Opel estate a few streets away, checked a round into the chamber of his Ruger, slipped it into his jacket pocket. The street was quiet, some parked cars farther along, a huddle of streetkids in a shop doorway. He sat watching them: they could have been the pack that attacked him. This group was whacked on glue, meths, who knew: curled into one another, covered by plastic and cardboard. Even the slam of his car door didn’t raise a head.
Assurance Street by night was a party. Loud, throbbing, kids dancing in the road. The air sweet with grass, E-pushers doing business unconcerned. Matthew had speakers belting techno mounted on the walls either side his club’s neon sign, a screen now suspended over the entrance showing a loop of nuclear tests. A bomb went off here: inside the club, outside the club, either way, the collateral would be major. First the explosion’s mayhem, then the panic, then the difficulty of bringing in emergency vehicles.
Mace took a look round for Dr Roberto. The guy had seen him and was angling through the throng.
‘Mr Mace,’ he called, ‘the people you want are here’ - he gestured towards the corner. ‘A white man and a coloured, sitting in a Toyota car.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I
t is according to Cuito.’
‘He’s around?’
‘For some time but he has gone now to sleep. He says I must tell you the white man is from this morning. The other man he has not seen before.’
At the club doors Mace could see Pylon waving him over. ‘Watch them, Dr Roberto,’ he said, making off. ‘They move anywhere, even to take a pee you let me know.’
Behind him he heard Dr Roberto say, ‘Maybe I will be needed as a doctor tonight?’ Mace left the question unanswered.
Pylon tapped his watch. ‘Ten o’clock we said. I’m missing the soccer for this: Bushbucks and Kaiser Chiefs.’
Mace gave the French shrug, pushed past him through the doors. ‘Ten-twenty’s not too bad. You could tape the soccer.’
‘I am,’ said Pylon.
Inside two bouncers with magic wands stepped up to frisk him.
Ducky Donald in white, white shirt open to show chest hair, white chinos, white socks and shoes, a black bimbo in black fastened to his arm, intervened, ‘Party time, guys, they’re special guests.’ The one with his wand screeching over Mace’s Ruger grinned. ‘Fuzz?’
‘Whatever you want,’ said Pylon.
‘You know what?’ said Ducky. ‘In my water it says they won’t do it. And you know why?’
Pylon rolled his eyes, shouted at Matthew, ‘Give us some light on the scene?’ The club was as dark as a Gothic grotto.
Matthew punched up the lights. For the first time Mace saw the djs in a box about head level, staring down on them. Both shaven heads. Skinny. Androgynous. Something softer about the one’s face that made her for a woman.
‘You wanna know why?’
The boy dj gave a hand sign that meant nothing to Mace. He waved a greeting. The dj held up some vinyl in return.
‘We’re getting started,’ he said into the mic.
‘Not now,’ said Ducky, gesticulating at the dj, pawing at Mace’s sleeve. ‘Not now, buddy. Give us five, hey.’
At Ducky Donald’s clutching, pain seared up Mace’s arm. Through a grimace to keep in the throb he said, ‘Tell me Ducky. What’s your theory?’
Despite the booze he caught the edge to Mace’s tone, hesitated, then leered forward. ‘It’s because no way that woman’s gonna want the kinda death toll a bomb would set up in here. You know what I mean? One or two and a coupla amputations even she can live with. The body count goes any higher, they’re gonna lose the PR spin.’ Triumph smeared a smile across his face. ‘She blows a bomb, she’s got twenty dead right off.’
‘Which is why we’re going to take a look around again.’ Mace steered a passage to Matthew. ‘The bouncers know what they’re looking for?’ He nodded. ‘You tell them their wands burp for a tooth filling, entry’s denied.’
Matthew spluttered ‘Ca-ca-ca…’
‘Christ,’ Mace filled in for him.
Pylon and Mace did another tour of the premises, mostly by flashlight. Everything was how they’d last seen it.
‘Should of arranged for dogs,’ Pylon said. ‘You can’t tell just looking at things.’ They were at the window in the empty office space upstairs: below the street partied. ‘Seems they don’t even wait for the club to open.’
Mace pointed out the Toyota with Sheemina February’s sidekicks. The coloured guy was on his cell inside the car; the white guy leant against the bonnet, smoking. ‘Mr White I recognise from this morning. Chances are they’re only monitoring. No ways she’d send them in to do the job.’
Pylon rested his forehead against the windowpane. ‘We’re just supposed to hang around waiting for the shit to happen? Or we’re going to hassle them?’
‘No point in hassling.’
‘You’ve got a plan to do anything?’
‘Be patient.’
Pylon clucked. ‘How about Gonsalves? You speak to him?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘And he gave me advice, same as Sheemina February did. Stick to the safaris.’
‘Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful.’ Pylon straightened, clicked the knuckles of his left hand. ‘Talking about Sheemina February, I found out something. She’s STASI trained, explains why she stuck the warder with the sharpened hairbrush. A year before she got caught, pitched up as a legal assistant in a blue-chip firm in town. One smart cookie from what I’m told. Into contractual law.’
‘Now into PAGAD.’
‘Someone’s got to do it. Useful common interests though.’
Mace laughed. ‘In bombs?’
‘I believe.’
‘She wore the glove then?’
‘Birth defect. So the story goes.’ Pylon turned back to the window to scope the street. ‘There were no cars against the curb that would be a help. These guys’re so into car bombs.’
‘Not this time. This time they’ve got to blow the club. Close it down. A car bomb wouldn’t do the structural damage.’
‘Would if it was big enough.’
‘Big enough would be beyond their league.’
Pylon gave his partner a sceptical look. ‘You’ve got a strategy?’
‘Keep Mattie boy from catching it. Like Ducky wants.’
‘Everyone else can go to hell?’
‘We save him, we save everyone.’
People surged in the street towards the club doors, sound came thumping up from below. The rave was on. Pylon pointed at the PAGAD guys on the corner: both were out of the car but not intent on moving. ‘We’d better go party,’ he said. ‘Check out the patrons.’
Pylon did the circulating. Mace took the door. The bouncers were good. Everyone got the going over. If women complained there wasn’t a female for the pat search, he told them if it was a problem they didn’t have to come in. If the wire in their bras got the wands buzzing, he told them get rid of the underwear. They whinged but got the notion. The truly pissed-off came through tits flashing, dangling their bras from their fingertips.
Some said Mace was a pervert. Some said he was an arsehole.
Matthew came up. ‘Wh-what’s th-this?’ Held out a red lacy number. Behind him a raging female.
Mace told him looked like a C cup. Weedy type that he was, Matthew grabbed Mace by the jacket, pulled at him, yelling, ‘Yo-yo-you ca-can’t do this. Ss-top. Na-now.’ Again Mace’s arm burnt with pain.
‘Let go.’ Mace spoke it quietly. Matthew wasn’t coked, wasn’t boozed either. He got in Mace’s face, spit-white flecking at the corners of his mouth. When he didn’t do as asked, Mace kneed him in the balls, catching him as he doubled over. The bouncers made a move towards them.
‘Stay with it guys,’ Pylon cautioned the doormen, stepping in to cover his partner. ‘Keep the clubbers coming through.’
Matthew retched and groaned.
‘Listen, boykie,’ Mace whispered in his ear. ‘Listen good. Get off our case, okay?’ No response. Mace jerked him upright. ‘Okay?’
He coughed, moaning at the nerves it twitched.
‘You don’t like what we’re doing, tough shit. Got it?’ Mace shook him.
‘Al-alright.’ Matthew pushed him away. ‘Alright f-for God’s sake’ - staggering off into the crowd.
‘Runty little bastard,’ said Pylon.
‘I was him, I’d get out of Ducky Donald’s territory.’ The pain in Mace’s arm subsided.
‘Something bothering you?’ said Pylon.
‘Nothing,’ Mace told him. ‘Knocked my elbow.’
They stood taking in the scene: the floor was pumping: bodies in ecstasy. Some sort of smoke rising up around the dancers’ legs, the strobes jagging an effect of disjointed slow motion, like they were looking at puppets being jerked by unseen strings. Two hundred jivers when there should have been half that, dribs and drabs still arriving. One exit a single door wide. You let off a stink bomb people would get killed in the rush for fresh air.
Pylon spoke Mace’s thoughts. Shouted over the beat. ‘He ever intend putting a cap on the intake?’
‘Seems not.’ Mace indicated the back rooms. ‘B
etter take a look there.’
In the chill room a guy chased a coke line along the armrest of a chair. Two others on a couch watched pictures in their heads. Pylon checked the windows were screwed fast the way they should be. The coke man shook his head wildly, gave a roar.
Pylon said, ‘Keep the faith, brother.’
The coker roared again.
Matthew’s stockroom was tight, the security grille locked, bolts latched on the door. Skylights in the male toilets likewise good. The door to the female loo was shut. Mace knocked. A voice said, ‘Give us a break.’ Could have been male or female. The two men waited.
Mace said, ‘Take a bet?’
‘Ten bucks, a dyke.’
Couple of minutes later the door opened.
‘Evening ladies,’ Pylon said.
‘Up yours, ballbag,’ said the hen who’d wanted a break, shepherding her chick away from them. The chick looked stunned, smiling stupidly.
Pylon grinned at Mace. ‘Ten bucks a dyke, that’s twenty.’ He stepped into the loo. One person in there with the toilet and a basin left only squeeze space. Mace heard him groan. ‘Window’s open.’
Meant someone needed a screwdriver to open it. Meant someone had removed two screws. Meant someone was after more than fresh air. Meant someone had got in a screwdriver.
Mace said it.
‘Didn’t come in tonight,’ Pylon replied, stepping into the passage. ‘Someone had to know about how the window was fastened. My theory, the entry’d been cased already, the screwdriver came in with the kittens, they could’ve left it anyplace. Even in the cisterns.’
‘I checked the cisterns.’
Pylon frowned. ‘Problem we’ve got now is how we call this. You tell the people please leave the building calmly, they’ll stampede.’
‘Two things,’ Mace said, the pain coming back to his arm unbidden. ‘Ask the bouncers if anyone’s left yet.’ While he’d been at the door the flow was one way: in. The time was eleven fifteen. What clubber headed home before the wee hours? ‘I’ll have a word outside.’
‘And our clients?’ Pylon loaded the description with some rancour.