Payback - A Cape Town thriller

by Mike Nicol

  What did faze him were the emails: how someone had got the photograph; known about Isabella buying up Oumou’s exhibition. He was stone-walled here.

  On the afternoon Mace notched up brownie points, he took Oumou and Christa to the five o’clock showing of Lord of The Rings at the V&A. Christa’s choice which was fine by him, plenty of action to stir the blood. Afterwards, Oumou said why didn’t they go downstairs to the Fish Market for calamari, Christa’s favourite and a restaurant easy to get the wheelchair in and out of. The Fish Market another fine choice, Mace thought, this time saying it out loud. And that all the on-screen fighting had made him thirsty for a long Windhoek.

  They got inside no problem, the restaurant not too busy this early in the evening. Ordered a Coke for Christa, white wine for Oumou and the draught, the waiter then going into his spiel about the fresh fish on special that could be grilled and served with baby potatoes or pan-fried with butter, without butter, with garlic, without garlic, served with a baked potato or chips. French pommes frites-type chips. They ordered calamari and onion rings and baked potatoes with sour cream dressing all-round.

  When the drinks arrived Mace said, ‘What’ll we toast to?’

  And Christa answered, ‘Frodo.’

  Oumou laughed. ‘Frodo, ma puce! With the hairy feet.’

  ‘I liked him,’ she said, ‘for wanting to get rid of the ring. That was cool.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mace. ‘It was an evil thing.’

  ‘But pretty, oui?’ Oumou fingering some of the amber beads in her necklace.

  ‘Just shows how people fight over pretty things.’ Mace took a long pull at the beer. It left a moustache on his upper lip that made Christa laugh and he used the back of his hand to wipe it off.

  ‘Men,’ said Oumou. ‘Men fight, no.’

  ‘This’s true,’ said Mace. ‘But there’s always a woman in it somewhere.’

  ‘Cate Blanchett’s my favourite,’ said Christa.

  ‘See,’ said Mace. ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘But if there wasn’t a ring, Papa,’ said Christa, ‘the fighting wouldn’t have happened. She didn’t make them fight.’

  Mace reached across and brushed her cheek with the fingers of his right hand. ‘You win, C, I give up.’ Looking at his daughter sitting there, her legs hanging down. Glanced too at his wife and saw the flight of hurt cross her face. Still, the swimming was bringing a little movement back into Christa’s legs. He could see it. A bit of strength too. Not enough yet to stand, but enough that he could feel resistance if he held her up, her feet pressed against the floor.

  ‘Maybe some things can be corrected,’ the surgeon had said. ‘I’m not going to tell you she will walk again.’

  Their calamari came and Mace said that perhaps in the school holidays he should take time off and they could get away somewhere, like to a game reserve.

  ‘The Kruger Park?’ said Christa, her eyes on her father, Mace saying through a mouthful that yes, Kruger was an option.

  ‘I will see,’ said Oumou, ‘where we can get bookings.’

  Mace believed, watching mother and daughter making plans, that if he sold one or two of the smaller stones it should cover costs with money to spare. What a pleasure!

  * * *

  ‘But how do we have the money for this holiday?’ Oumou wanted to know when they sat side by side on the couch in their lounge, a fire in the grate, Mace nursing a Johnny Walker black that he wished was blue, Dr Kiambu’s whisky tasting having given him a liking for finer things.

  ‘We can afford it,’ he said. ‘In the summer we’ve got so many clients signed we won’t be sleeping, either Pylon or me. Nor’s Kruger Italy where Pylon wants to go. That’s expensive. He’s talking airfares for the three of them that’d equal our holiday.’

  Oumou reached for his whisky, took a sip.

  Mace said, ‘I can get you one?’

  ‘Non.’ Oumou shaking her head, pulled a face at the taste.

  He took back the glass. ‘Something else?’

  She curled against him. ‘I can think of it.’

  Mace could too. Sometimes, you acted on the spur of the moment you could score all down the line. Tomorrow, on the way to fetch Ducky Donald from the hospital, he’d stop at the broker’s, get the fellow to make an arrangement. Now he ran a hand under Oumou’s jersey, his fingers touching the scars across her stomach, sliding towards her breasts.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘no bra!’

  6

  Ten days after the killing of Mo Siq, the city crouched, drenched and shivering under a low sky. The sort of day that was a copy of the last one Mo Siq lived.

  On this morning, Sheemina February, opening the front door of the house she was selling, said to Mikey Rheeder, ‘Mikey, let me tell you something about this house.’

  ‘That you used to live here,’ said Mikey Rheeder. ‘You’ve told me.’

  ‘Mikey’ - she stepped into the hall, the heels of her boots hard on the floorboards, echoing through the empty house - ‘shut up and listen.’

  He came inside and closed the door. They stood in the hall, Sheemina February staring down the passage to the kitchen, Mikey looking up the stairs at the landing.

  ‘What for?’ he said. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘Shh,’ said Sheemina February. ‘Hear how this house creaks and groans.’

  ‘Houses do that. What’s the big deal?’

  ‘Like someone’s in the house, walking about.’

  Mikey Rheeder listened and said, ‘Hey, that’s weird. That’s really weird. Who’s it up there? A ghost?’

  ‘No one. Just the house.’

  He squeezed past her into the lounge, looked around at the marks on the fitted carpet where furniture had stood. ‘You wouldn’t catch me living in a place like this.’

  ‘Scared are you, Mikey? Scared of strange noises?’

  ‘There’re ghosts,’ he said. ‘I’ve been on this tour this guy runs in Cape Town. You go to all the houses where there’s ghosts. Some rooms in the Castle, that spook house on the bend there in Rondebosch, the one with the turrets, other places he said people were murdered. ‘Strues, I got this really cold sensation in my blood. Like someone’s stroking down my arm very lightly, raising my hairs. That’s spooky stuff.’

  ‘I lived here three years, I never saw a ghost.’ Sheemina February opened the door beneath the staircase, switched on a light.

  ‘Still cleared out though.’

  ‘I move around, Mikey. Different parts of the city, depending on my mood.’

  ‘What’s down there?’ He stepped back into the hall to peer down the stairwell, a short flight of wooden stairs ending at a door.

  ‘A cellar. That’s what I wanted to tell you about. Come, let me show you.’

  She went down first, bending to enter the low doorway, taking the stairs carefully, one gloved hand steadying herself against the wall. Unlocked the rough plank door, switched on a neon light that hummed and popped as it lit up inside the cellar. The cold was physical, like walking into a fridge.

  Mikey dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket. ‘This’s grim. ‘N’ it smells.’

  ‘I found out,’ said Sheemina February, ‘that this was the cellar of the first house built here, probably a one-roomed farmhouse.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be impressed?’ said Mikey.

  She shrugged. ‘Some people are. It’s history. I found out that house was burned down in seventeen eighty-one. Set alight by a mob. Inside was the owner, an English doctor. The reason the mob burned it down was because they thought he was a paedophile. Afterwards, no one could find his corpse.’

  ‘You better tell this to the man who runs the ghost tours.’

  Sheemina February sat down on the bed, on the new foam mattress, smoothing the creases from her skirt. She picked up a chain that was fastened to an iron wall-pin at one end and to a pair of handcuffs at the other. ‘I’m telling you, Mikey.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Mikey. ‘Hey, what’s
that shit?’

  ‘Let me finish. I said I’m telling you because underneath this floor we’re standing on is earth. You lift up these flagstones, that’s what’s below. No concrete foundation, nothing but earth.’

  ‘So?’ Mikey cocked his head.

  ‘So you’ve got some unfinished business, and I’ve got some unfinished business. Both with the same man.’

  Mikey frowned. ‘Who’s this?’

  Sheemina February sighed. ‘How about Mace Bishop?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mikey, ‘that’s true, yeah’ - taking his hands out of his pocket. His left hand buckled and bent, shaping his right into a gun, going ‘Pow, pow’- grinning.

  ‘What I’m getting to,’ said Sheemina February, smiling at Mikey slowly coming up to speed, ‘is that before I sell, maybe it would be better to throw a concrete floor in here.’ She held out the house keys and he took them. ‘The house is on the market, but the market’s quiet. Also the agent’s taking a holiday out of the country. Nobody’s got any business here for ten days, two weeks. Neighbours see a bunch of building boys mixing cement, they’re going to think I’m doing minor repairs to meet a sale. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Alright,’ said Mikey, jangling the bunch of keys. ‘I see where you’re going. I can see uses for that chain.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sheemina February. ‘Problems solved then.’ She got up and headed for the cellar door. ‘Let’s get out of this freezing cold.’ She paused. ‘Tomorrow. Nothing dramatic, Mikey, you understand me. Keep it toned down.’

  Mikey switched the light off, locked the door, following her up the stairs, his eyes on her larney boots rising into her long coat. ‘Same deal as with the other one?’

  ‘That’s fine.’ She waited for him on the stoep, the outside warmer than the inside of the house. Which had been one of the drawbacks to living there, that the place was an ice-chest in winter.

  Mikey came out. ‘You suppose the English doctor’s down there?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  He laughed. ‘It’s gonna get crowded then.’

  Sheemina February, driving away from the house, thought it didn’t matter how Mikey Rheeder played this one, or Mace Bishop for that matter either, the outcome was going to be satisfactory. As a gesture, though, she bought a single deep purple long-stemmed rose in a box from a florist on Kloof. Had it delivered to Mace Bishop’s office.

  Mikey Rheeder, standing on the driveway looking up at the house, thought he could have some fun here. Keep the guy in the cellar for a while, smash some of his fingers to show him what it’s like. Mace Bishop could scream his lungs out down there, wasn’t going to be anybody who’d hear him.

  Then other thoughts occurred: that he’d heard about Mace Bishop doing a diamond deal, also that maybe there was a way to get Sheemina meshed in. People he knew would pay for that.

  Mikey Rheeder said aloud, ‘Hey, who’s a clever dude?’

  7

  On this wild morning, either Mace or Pylon was to collect Ducky Donald Hartnell for a site visit.

  To Mace, the newspaper spread across his desk, a mug of coffee at hand, the heater warming his feet, the thought of chauffeuring Ducky Donald Hartnell to a site meeting never had been a must-do and was becoming moment by moment less so. He listened to the fall of rain on the corrugated-iron roof and said, ‘I’ll flip you best of three.’

  To Pylon on the couch, a newspaper across his lap, a mug of coffee at hand, the thought of chauffeuring Ducky Donald Hartnell to a site meeting was a non-starter. He listened to the drum of the rain and said, ‘D’you think the cops are doing anything?’

  ‘About what?’ said Mace, searching for a five-rand coin in a jar of change he kept for car-guard tips.

  ‘About Mo’s killing.’

  ‘I suppose. Why not?’

  ‘In five days not a mention in the newspapers. Not a cop on our doorstep. This’s how they investigate?’

  ‘Must be a long list of people to see,’ said Mace emptying the jar on his newspaper, spreading the coins across the print. ‘Our names aren’t a high priority.’ He found a coin. ‘Heads or tails?’

  ‘I’m not doing that,’ said Pylon. ‘This’s got your name on it.’

  ‘Forget it. Not in this weather. Come on, fair’s fair.’

  ‘Also, you’d think the newspapers would be worrying at it. Writing those reports where the cops say they’re at a sensitive stage. Except they aren’t. Writing them I mean.’

  ‘Probably the cops aren’t at a sensitive stage either. Heads or tails?’

  ‘How about you offering for once?’

  ‘You mean like you do?’

  ‘It’s been known.’

  ‘Uh uh, china, not today.’

  Pylon said, ‘Shit, who came up with this idea anyway?’

  ‘The way I recall it,’ said Mace, ‘you did. All those years ago. Heads or tails?’

  ‘Tails.’

  Mace flipped: tails. Pylon called tails again. Mace flipped: tails.

  ‘Want to see if you’ll win the third one?’ Pylon said.

  Mace flipped, caught the coin in his palm, slapped it down on the back of his hand and kept it covered. Pylon called heads. Mace took away his hand: heads.

  ‘If you flipped and I called I’d win,’ said Mace.

  ‘Sure,’ said Pylon ‘but I’m not going to.’ He cracked a page of his newspaper. ‘Look at it another way, bro, you’ve got a more exciting life.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Mace.

  He took the Spider parked at the curb, intending to use Ducky’s BMW for the downtown leg. If Ducky was going to get shot at again, Mace didn’t want bullet holes in his car, or blood splatter on the upholstery. Also, he had to admit, the BM was faster in a tight situation.

  At the bottom of Barnet he noticed a grey Camry hard on his pipe. Followed him into Vrede, right into St John’s, down Plein to the traffic light. A lone driver, difficult to tell if it was a man or a woman. Not that he was concerned at this point.

  The light went green, the Camry tracked him left into Spin, Adderley, Wale, up to Buitengracht, down to Strand. Another red traffic light, the Camry one car back. Mace’s interest aroused, but the situation far from critical.

  On the green he took Strand to the robot at Chiappini, and a sudden right down the hill, only a block or two above Ducky Donald’s building site. The Camry followed. No longer a coincidence. Mace braked hard in the middle of the street, and leaped out, shouting. The Camry swerved and accelerated, jumped the red light into Somerset on squealing tyres. Hooters blared at this craziness, cars skidding about the intersection. Not a pleasant sight, but Mace got the number and phoned it through to Pylon for his contact at Traffic to do a quick scan. The rest of the way to Ducky wondered what advantage was to be had from harassing him? Although he’d been there before.

  ‘A site visit’s not a secret,’ said Ducky. ‘Architect, engineer, builder, project manager, building inspector, a couple of secretaries, have to be about seven people know of the meeting excluding the two of us. Someone in there’s keeping tabs on me, they’re gonna know about it. Stands to reason. Also have to know that I’ve engaged you. So they start the nonsense to put a cracker in your jocks even before you’ve got here.’ He laughed. ‘Seems to have worked, I’d say.’

  Nor did Pylon come back with helpful news. The plates on the Camry belonged to a twenty-five-year-old Datsun registered to a woman on the Flats.

  ‘Not even worth checking out,’ he said.

  ‘Worth a phone call,’ Mace said.

  Pylon groaned. ‘Ease up, bru. It’s going nowhere.’

  Still, came back three minutes later that the Datsun in question was up on bricks in the woman’s backyard, had been like that for ten years and no it didn’t have number plates on it anymore. ‘Satisfied?’

  Mace told him he was a great help.

  On the drive from Ducky’s house to the site, Mace was pleased not a grey Camry to be seen. Didn’t seem to be any car following them.

/>   At the site, despite the rain, about twenty, thirty people crowded the entrance, waving placards, singing songs they’d last sang at the barricades during the eighties. Some priests and imams stoking the emotions but no politicians that Mace could see. The cops had been called and kept the mob back from the gate. All the same, he reckoned, if someone in their midst pulled a gun, Ducky Donald was going to be very close to the action as he walked past.

  Mace stopped the car a block away before anyone had seen them.

  ‘Not good, Ducky.’

  They sat considering: staring at the demonstration through each pass of the wipers. Didn’t take a psychologist to see the people were worked up. Not even the wet and cold were going to send them home.

  ‘Maybe someone’s office would be a better idea?’

  Ducky Donald drummed the armrest with the fingers of his good hand. ‘No ways. This lot have gotta know I’m not shit scared.’

  He looked shit scared to Mace. Licking his lips, his voice coming from a dry mouth. ‘Last thing they’re gonna do is hit me out here. In front of the cops. It’s not their style. Their style’s your drive-by. Your pipebomb hurled through the bedroom window. Out here, on the street, they want publicity. Give the reporters something to write about. Don’t you think?’

  Mace shrugged. ‘My advice is we drive away.’

  ‘Nah, Mace.’ He opened the door. ‘You’re going soft. That’s crap. What I’ve done’s been patient and understanding. I’m looking after their bones for heaven’s sake. My conscience’s clear. What I’m not gonna do is store their bones in my new building. That’s outta the question. Completely. Is that unreasonable? I ask you? Come’n tell me? All they gotta do is find somewhere to bury the bones, I’ll even pay to dig the hole. I’ve told them. Just not in my building.’ He got out of the car, leant back in. ‘Switch off. Let’s go. You’ve gotta be there to take the bullet for me.’ And pulled his hyena grin.