Payback - A Cape Town thriller

by Mike Nicol

  ‘So buy,’ said Mace. ‘Get into the market.’

  ‘Buy? For what I’ve got to lay down on a house in the suburbs I could get five in the township.’

  Mace shook his head. ‘You’re tight, you know that. Take the money out the bank put it into property. Spreading your portfolio, they call it.’

  ‘What? Buying a duplex?’

  ‘If you have to be that cheap, sure, buy a duplex.’

  ‘I should buy something else?’

  ‘Spend the bucks, okay. Get somewhere decent.’

  ‘Be Mr Flash? Move into the City Bowl?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s big bucks, Mr Bishop. Big bucks. More bucks than I’ve got.’

  ‘Don’t kid me. I’ve got it, so you’ve got it.’

  ‘Not enough you don’t need a bank loan.’

  ‘That’s what banks’re for.’

  ‘To take your money. Sure, I’ve seen that. When you finish paying you could’ve bought the house three times.’

  Mace laughed. ‘Helps you get stuff’ - dug in a pocket for his vibrating cellphone. An SMS. ‘Bad advice, Mr Advisor.’

  He handed the phone to Pylon. ‘A message from Miss February.’

  Pylon read it, checked the details. ‘You’re sure? This is her cellphone number?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘This mean there is a bomb?’

  ‘It means she doesn’t like it the club’s up and running.’

  ‘So why send it to you?’

  The phone rang. Pylon looked at the screen.

  ‘It’s Oumou.’

  Mace took the phone, connected. Could hear her breath catching as if she’d been running. Heard her gasp, ‘The men have Christa.’

  22

  Mace felt the chill in his blood. Thought: I didn’t set the alarm. Oumou and Christa were asleep. He should have set the alarm. Even if one of them had woken and triggered the system, so what? So when the armed response checked back, Oumou could have told them, sorry, a mistake. Happens all the time.

  If he’d set the alarm, the passives would’ve caught the men the moment they broke in, the sirens would’ve blasted high decibels all over the house. The armed response would’ve put through a query call. Even supposing the men had guns to Oumou’s head, they’d have made her answer the phone. She’d have said, No problem, this is Oumou Bishop, but she’d have given the wrong password. Three minutes flat armed response would’ve been all over the set. Worst case scenario: a hostage situation.

  In a hostage situation there was a high percentage chance it could be talked out. Mace knew this. Knew too, in kidnap situations the police statistics were not promising on a favourable outcome.

  This was a kidnap situation. Because he didn’t arm the house.

  Because he didn’t arm the house.

  The loop that spun his head as he crossed the city, ran lights, shot stop streets, left a trail of irate hooters.

  Mace rushed into the house with Pylon hard behind him. Oumou sat at the kitchen table staring at the night outside the window. She had gone deep into herself. As they held one another he could feel the tightness of her muscles, a run of shivers when she tensed.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘They came in the studio,’ she said.

  ‘When?’

  She shrugged out of his hold, sat where she’d been sitting to stare into the dark. Above her eyebrow was a livid bruise, a cut at its centre that had bled, blood-runs streaking her temple. ‘They were in the bedroom, three men in those hats over their faces.’

  ‘Balaclavas?’ Mace took a chair opposite her. ‘How long after I’d gone?’

  ‘It wasn’t many minutes. Christa was watching television while I lay with her.’

  The thing about Oumou was that she didn’t accuse him. She did not say: if you had not been so stubborn. If you had not argued with Christa over the earrings. If you had listened to her, then we would not have quarrelled. You would not have stormed out of the house. She said none of these things. He did not believe she even thought these things. He did. He knew that in the normal course, the house would’ve been armed when he left.

  Pylon squatted beside her. ‘Can you describe them? Their size? Blacks? Coloureds?’

  She shook her head. ‘Non. The one hit me too quickly.’

  He looked at Mace. ‘Were waiting for you to leave. Had to be.’

  ‘And the time lapse? That was three hours ago.’

  ‘Oui. They made me swallow something. Or they would burn Christa with a cigarette.’ Oumou bowed her head not wanting Mace to see her tears.

  His cellphone rang. An SMS: ‘If you want to see your child, stop the club.’

  Oumou reached out for the phone. ‘It is about Christa?’

  Pylon asked, ‘Same number as the last one?

  ‘Same number.’

  Oumou gripped Mace’s arm, her eyes fastened on his. Moist, pleading. ‘You must tell them to stop. Quickly.’

  Mace connected to Ducky Donald. To Pylon said, ‘Anyone we know can run a trace on this number?’

  Pylon nodded, already dialled up to his contact.

  Ducky came on. ‘Mace, where are you boykie?’

  Mace told him he wanted him to close the club. Told him why. Told him he owed him a favour.

  Ducky Donald said, ‘Shouldn’t you be talking to the cops?’

  ‘You owe me,’ Mace said. ‘I’m calling it in.’

  ‘Due respects, Mace, I don’t owe you this big.’

  ‘This is my child.’

  ‘Which I appreciate.’

  ‘So do it.’

  ‘Any other time, Mace boykie, I would. But I can’t. I’ve got a private party here. By invitation only.’

  ‘One last time, Donald,’ Mace said, not shouting, keeping his voice level, ‘for the sake of my daughter’s safety I’m asking you to stop your party.’

  Ducky Donald didn’t even pause to consider. ‘No can do, Mace. Not the sort of thing you can tell judges and politicians.’

  Mace thumbed him off before he heard anymore. Replied to the SMS that the club would be packing up.

  Oumou said, ‘She is gone, no?’

  ‘No.’ The word exploded from him. ‘No. We are going to get her back.’ He stood gripping the sides of the kitchen sink, staring at the face reflected in the window. A face with faint lines in the cheeks that one day would be deeply etched. A face with a thin mouth, eyes that were holes in this black reflection.

  In this mirror he could see Oumou at the table watching him; Pylon behind her, leaning against a counter. A silence settled. The only sound the hum and throb of the fridge. For long minutes they did not move. Until his cellphone bleated an SMS: ‘Everyone is still dancing.’

  Pylon said, ‘Phone the number, talk to them. It’ll give my guy more time.’

  ‘No need,’ Mace said, ‘whoever it is, is at the club.’

  Ducky Donald threw his arms out, expansive, sympathetic. ‘Mace, what can I say to you and your lovely lady wife.’

  Pylon said, ‘Cut it Ducky.’

  They stood outside the entrance door, the only place you could speak without shouting.

  ‘What I want, Ducky,’ Mace said, ‘is for the djs to stop for thirty seconds. That’s all I’m asking.’

  Ducky was stoned, his pupils pinpricks. He stared at Mace, frowning. Mace didn’t blink until he looked away. ‘Thirty seconds?’

  ‘All I’m asking.’

  ‘The favour sorted?’

  ‘We’d be square.’

  Ducky thrust back into the club, sending a bouncer tottering. Mace followed, Oumou and Pylon behind him. Saw Ducky shouting at Matthew, Matthew looking over at them, shaking his head. The expression on Matthew’s face like he’d swallowed piss. Ducky pushing him aside, skipping into the dj box, a startled DJ Shrapnel staggering back as Ducky stopped the music. Took a couple of seconds for the dancers to realise they’d been abandoned.

  To a rising chorus of irritation, Ducky said, ‘
Friends, just thirty seconds then we’re back on the beat.’

  Mace had already connected to the number. Even above the buzz of annoyance could hear a cellphone ringing. Could see its keypad flashing green where it lay on the bar counter. Pylon got to it first.

  ‘This anybody’s?’ he called out, holding it up, not expecting an answer.

  ‘Play the music. Play the music,’ people shouted back.

  DJ Shrapnel obliged while Ducky Donald saw his guests to the door. ‘Can I give you some advice, Mace?’ he said without waiting for the go-ahead. ‘Like I said, call the cops, that guy Gonsalves.’

  Mace jabbed a finger against Ducky Donald’s chest. ‘Tomorrow, Ducky, I want your guest list.’

  At home, Mace sat long hours in Christa’s room staring at her empty bed. Cat2 warm in his lap, Cupcake lying against his daughter’s pillow. Sat rigid, unmoving, nausea in his stomach, a heaviness tight across his chest. He had the word kidnapped on a loop through his mind: kidnapped, kidnapped, kidnapped. Like the slap of a big man’s hand belting a child. With each strike he fought to keep Christa’s face before him; fought to keep out the image of her backed into a corner, bruised, frightened. He wanted to scream. He kept the howl trapped in his lungs. He wanted to act. He kept still. Before dawn he lay down on her bed, eyes fixed on a mobile of colourful birds suspended from the ceiling. It didn’t move. He didn’t sleep. He cursed Ducky Donald.

  23

  The men stood around the mattress looking down at Christa lying there drugged with anaesthetic. Wearing only a T-shirt and broekies as she had when they’d snatched her. Her legs bare, curled half-foetal. They passed a joint between them. Each taking two hits at a time, holding in the smoke, letting it out slowly.

  Mikey dropped the end on the floor, ground it out. ‘So what now?’

  ‘We wait.’ Abdul Abdul took a polaroid camera from his tog bag.

  ‘Pretty kid, hey,’ said Mikey.

  ‘You wanna put your thing in her?’ said Abdul.

  ‘Why not? Pass the time.’

  Abdul focused the camera on him. Mikey held his hand to the lens.‘There’s people I could get hold of would pay for her. Argentinians. They’re doing it all the time. Coloured kids mostly. Like her. There’s a preference, so it would seem.’

  ‘Perverts. Alla yous.’ Abdul stood over the girl aiming the camera down.

  ‘Hell,’ said Mikey, ‘that’s old. Didn’t know you could still buy those.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Abdul. ‘This is old.’

  ‘And the film? Where d’you get that?’

  ‘A contact.’

  ‘Pretty as a picture,’ said Mikey as Abdul clicked off the photograph, the camera whirring out the result. ‘Lips like that she’s gonna give good head. Surfer I know, he’s into kids. Once showed me some pictures of kids doing stuff you wouldn’t believe. My friend says when a kid does a blow job, doesn’t matter boy or girl, it’s their teeth does it for him.’

  Abdul peeled the strip off the image, waved it for the emulsifier to work. ‘Mikey the sick whitey. Into kiddy porn, hey. Sick, my friend. Dis-gusting. You know about this, Val? Our paedophile friend. Maybe we should cut his dick off.’

  Val laid a blanket over the girl.

  ‘Spoil his fun.’ Abdul Abdul laughing, holding out the slowly forming image to Mikey. ‘Something for you to wank on.’

  Val found another blanket and covered the girl with that too.

  Abdul thrust the photograph at Mikey. ‘I mean it. Give our friends an extra charge. Take it. Come’n take it.’

  Mikey did, holding up the image to the light, the little kid seeming fast asleep, peaceful, her hair mussed. He looked down at her. Cute. Really cute.

  ‘What’s gonna happen with her?’ said Val.

  Abdul shrugged. ‘Something. Depends.’ He leered at Mikey. ‘Hey, Mikey.’

  24

  8:30 a.m. For twelve hours Christa had been in the hands of her kidnappers.

  Mace and Oumou stood in the front office of Fortune, Dadoo & Moosa. Mace noting well-used furniture, some framed certificates on the walls. A carpet in need of replacing. An image of we’re-not-ripping-you-off. The receptionist smiled at them. Not a nicety either returned.

  Mace told her they wanted to see Sheemina February.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ Still the smile, a batting of eyelids brushed with pale green.

  ‘Listen,’ Mace said, leaning over her console, ‘just get her out here.’

  ‘Please,’ said Oumou, ‘this is very urgent for us.’

  The receptionist punched a button on her consul, a male voice answered. ‘There are people here for Sheemina,’ she said. The voice told her he would be right out.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ she said to them, a tiny diamond stud in her left nostril glinting in the light of a desk lamp.

  ‘It’s not going to be that long,’ Mace said.

  Oumou sat though, the hurting for Christa taking more out of her than personal suffering ever had. They waited. Mace gave them five minutes then headed for the door he reckoned must lead to the offices.

  The receptionist called out. ‘Excuse me.’

  He ignored her, opened the door. A man in a bowtie said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You heard her,’ Mace said. ‘To see Sheemina February.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Jesus, guy, just get her.’

  ‘I am Reginald Fortune,’ Mr Bowtie said, ‘perhaps now you will tell me your name?’

  Mace did.

  He nodded. Ushered them back into the reception area. ‘I am afraid Ms February is out of town.’

  ‘Where? Since when?’

  ‘That is no business of yours.’

  ‘Damnit, it is.’ Mace thumped the wall, dry wall boarding that shook at the blow. ‘Get her on the phone.’

  Oumou came round to face Fortune. ‘Please, can you help us talk to her.’

  ‘I’m sorry that is impossible. As we speak Ms February is in London. If you make an appointment I’m sure you’ll be able to consult with her when she’s back in two days’ time.’

  ‘Non. That is too late. Non.’ Oumou sat down, the tears coming.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Fortune. ‘I can’t help you any further.’ He gave a slight nod and made to leave.

  ‘Wait a minute, pal,’ Mace said, grabbing his shirt sleeve. ‘I met with her yesterday. She didn’t say anything about going away.’

  Fortune shook himself free. ‘Without knowing who you are, Mr Bishop, I cannot see why she should. Her business is her business.’

  ‘PAGAD is her business.’

  Fortune put his hand on the door handle. ‘She represents some of that organisation’s members.’

  ‘Twice she has threatened my clients for running a nightclub.’

  ‘I very much doubt that.’

  ‘You think I’m lying?’

  He paused. ‘Mr Bishop, Sheemina February is a lawyer, she is not an activist.’

  ‘My child has been kidnapped,’ Mace shouted. ‘Abducted from our house. On the night my clients reopened their nightclub. Eight hours after Sheemina February warned them not to. In my presence. Where is my daughter? Where has she got my daughter?’

  Reginald Fortune didn’t respond.

  Mace grabbed him, bunched both hands into the lawyer’s shirt, knocking off the man’s bowtie. ‘Where, you bastard? Where is my daughter?’ Speaking each word separately, the heat suddenly out of his voice, gone cold, deliberate. ‘Tell me.’ Jerking the man up on his toes. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Mace, leave the man,’ said Oumou, reaching up to restrain him with one hand, rubbing the tears from her cheeks with the other. Mace let go of the lawyer and Fortune bent to pick up his bowtie, clipped it on.

  ‘Do you want me to call the police, Mr Fortune?’ said the receptionist.

  He shook his head at her. ‘No, no, there is no need. Mr and Mrs Bishop are just leaving.’ He opened the inter-leading door to his office. ‘If your daughter has be
en kidnapped Mr Bishop perhaps you should be talking to the police, not accusing my colleague. I shall overlook your assault.’

  ‘Please,’ said Oumou, ‘where is our daughter?’

  ‘Mrs Bishop,’ said Fortune, ‘I do not know. We are a firm of attorneys, not gangsters.’ With that shut the door.

  Mace smashed his fist against it, tugged at the handle but it was locked.

  Again Oumou calmed him. ‘Come, she is not here.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said Mace. Softly, then shouting it. ‘You bastard.’

  ‘Do you want to make an appointment to see Ms February?’ asked the receptionist.

  Mace said, ‘When your Ms February phones in, tell her to call me.’ He flipped a business card onto the desk. ‘Immediately.’

  In the car Oumou said, ‘Do you believe she is in London?’

  Mace eased the Spider out of the parking space into Queen Victoria Street, a car-guard holding up advocates on their way to chambers for them.

  ‘She could be. She could be anywhere. Only thing I know she wasn’t at home last night. Pylon was round there.’

  ‘She has got Christa?’

  ‘My guess, no. But my guess she knows about it. Could be why she’s in London.’

  Oumou went quiet and still. In this silence they drove Orange, Molteno, into the quiet suburb, took Woodburn, Glen Steps to the driveway of their house, the gates open. Mace drove in, parked in front of the garage door. Oumou didn’t move to get out.

  ‘This is because of the club?’

  Mace looked up at the mountain, clouds down low on it with more wet weather coming in. Already the wind picking up.

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Then they will not take Christa away? For slavery?’

  He put a hand over Oumou’s where they lay knotted in her lap. ‘She is still in the city. We’ll find her.’