by Mike Nicol
She brushed past him, stopped, half turned towards him. ‘No need. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer man.’ Again the smile. ‘But perhaps I should offer you condolences for the loss of a business partner?’
‘Hardly,’ said Mace. ‘Not our league.’
‘No? I think very much your league. From what I remember. That little Luanda adventure.’
Before he could answer, Pylon, standing in the doorway of the boardroom, said, ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘Ah, the gallant Mr Buso,’ Sheemina February said. ‘What a pleasure.’
Pylon stepped in front of her. Said to Mace, ‘You’re letting her in?’
‘It’s alright.’
‘Be gracious,’ she said, ‘like Mr Bishop. I’m their legal representative.’ The passage was narrow, they were close together. ‘Don’t carry grudges, Mr Buso, they lead to intestinal problems. Ulcers. Irritable bowel syndrome. Now, please. My clients and I have matters to settle with Mr Hartnell. That, I believe, is why we’re here.’
‘No crap,’ said Pylon. ‘You got that?’
She flashed her smile: the white teeth, the plum lipstick. ‘Or what?’ She waggled the fingers of her right hand. ‘Or what, Mr Buso?’
Pylon took a pace back to let her into the room. ‘Don’t push it.’
‘Oh I know my place,’ she said. ‘The question is, do you?’
He caught her by the shoulder but she made no effort to shrug off his grasp. Merely waited until he let her go.
‘You’re muscle, Mr Buso. You look strong but in here’ - she tapped his chest with her left hand, ‘you’re weak.’ With that entered the room. Pylon caught Mace’s eye, and drew a finger across his throat.
‘What we want,’ Sheemina February told Ducky Donald half an hour later, ‘is for the bones to go back where they came from.’
He shook his head, ‘No ways. No ways in hell.’ Turned to Mace. ‘We’ve been through this, boykie. A thousand times. I said no before. I’m saying no still.’ Holding up his bandaged hand to her. ‘I don’t scare.’
Sheemina February touched the glove on her left hand as if she might take it off, said, ‘Nor do I.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Ducky. ‘Doesn’t mean shit. I’m talking about the hits you ordered.’
‘What we want,’ Mace said, ‘is for you’ - pointing at her and the priests - ‘to call off the hitman.’
‘That has nothing to do with us,’ said Carney.
‘Absolutely,’ said Jabaar. ‘We condemn it.’
Sheemina February leant back in her chair. ‘That is a radical group. We have no control over them.’
‘But you know who they are.’
‘We suspect we know who they are,’ corrected Carney, Jabaar nodding agreement.
‘I know them, yes,’ said Sheemina February. ‘They’re radicals. They will not listen to Reverend Carney or Imam Jabaar. They have had enough talk. Since 1994 they have been preached to but nothing changes. Once a woman called us God’s stepchildren. We are still that.’
‘Ah, save me Jesus!’ Pylon threw up his hands. ‘My heart bleeds.’
‘You’re black,’ she said. ‘What do you know of our lives?’
Ducky Donald was enjoying this, grinning hugely at Pylon and Sheemina February trading insults, Carney and Jabaar supporting her. Abruptly he thumped his hand on the table. ‘Children, children. I give in.’
A sudden silence, everyone looking at him.
‘You can have your crypt. A small room in the basement not the foyer. A symbolic gesture. That’s it. What you do with the rest of the bones is your indaba.’
Mace watched Ducky, the man’s small eyes beneath the wiry eyebrows darting from Sheemina February to Carney, Jabaar, back to the lawyer. The priests not believing what they were hearing, Sheemina February poker-faced.
Pylon said, ‘Hallelujah brothers.’
Mace wasn’t so sure, knowing Ducky Donald Hartnell.
‘What about a plaque?’ said the imam.
‘Sure, whatever.’ Ducky held up his hands about half a metre apart. ‘About this square I can live with. In brass. Tasteful, alright. No shitty wording about oppressive colonial masters. Any stuff like that it doesn’t go up. And it’s your baby. You’re the descendants. So you pay. Bring it to me with four screws I’ll put it up.’
‘Prominently.’ This from Sheemina February.
‘How about next to the lifts?’
Mace frowned in wonder at what he was hearing. Ducky Donald at a hundred and eighty degrees and sounding like Jesus Christ.
Reverend Carney looked satisfied. ‘God is great,’ said Imam Jabaar. The two priests shook hands as if they’d achieved a significant victory.
Sheemina February said, ‘We’ll need it in writing.’
‘Write it now, I’ll sign it,’ said Ducky. ‘You’re the lawyer.’
‘I’ll draft it,’ she said, stacking her papers. ‘A proper contract.’
‘Then send it to my lawyers,’ said Ducky, rattling off the name of a legal firm. ‘The buggers charge enough, they can argue with you about the wording.’
When the priests and Sheemina February had left, Pylon said to Ducky, ‘What was that about?’
‘Seeing the light, boykie,’ he said, helping himself to a single malt from their cabinet. ‘You get to a point where you think, what the hell? What does this mean anyway? Hey? A stack of bones in a locked room. Ten, twenty years’ time someone’s gonna clear them out, throw them away. Who’s gonna know the difference?’ He glanced from Pylon to Mace. ‘A plaque in the foyer. ‘People’ll stop seeing it. Any friends they have come visiting are gonna say, hey, isn’t this cool? Imagine that?’
‘Not what you said before,’ Mace reminded him.
‘Like I said, what’s it mean? Call it weaving in the historic heritage of our city.’ He sipped his drink. ‘That’s good don’t you think? Something for the spin doctors.’
9
Mace sat up that night after Oumou and Christa had gone to bed with two words in his head: Sheemina February. Threw rooikrans faggots on a log fire and nursed a tawny port. Thought: why’d this woman bother him? Outside a gale crashed through the stone pines: the mountain howling.
During the meeting, at every moment, he was aware that across the table sat the woman who’d okayed Christa’s kidnapping. Probably okayed, wasn’t in it, he was sure she had. Abdul Abdul being no more than a sidekick really. Sheemina February, the woman who gave Christa the pain. The nightmares. The flashbacks. The woman who put her in a wheelchair. If he looked up, Sheemina February would catch his eye. Sometimes smile, taunting. Always hold his glance for too long. Sitting there blatantly. Challenging. Daring him. Like she knew something he didn’t.
The pale blue eyes. The delicate nose. The lipstick on her Penelope Cruz lips. The perfume. Her hair uncovered. What was he supposed to do here? What was he supposed to feel? Hate? Anger? Fear?
He felt some of that, the hate, the anger. Was disconcerted by her, he had to admit that. He could do without having her pitching up in his business.
After the meeting Pylon had said, ‘How could you let her in here? Are you mad? After what happened, how could you? Save me Jesus! She kidnapped your daughter. Could’ve got Christa killed. She’s evil. Pure bloody undiluted evil. And you let her walk in like this isn’t our place to say who comes in, who we keep out. What’s in your head?’
What, Mace wondered, what was in his head?
That he hadn’t stood up to her? Why was that?
Something in some dark corner he couldn’t remember?
Or something else? Her words at the concert: that he was guilty. Of what though? Trying to get the truth? Selling guns?
More like he’d let her in out of curiosity. To see where it would go. How matters would pan out. Once there hadn’t been time for that sort of consideration. You acted. Earlier times he’d never have left the two Yanks alive, that Paulo and his bird, for the justice system to deal with. The justice system had more chance of
cocking it up than of dishing out justice. Earlier times he’d have done them, saved everyone the trouble. Maybe even have done something about Sheemina February in earlier times. A weakness creeping in here. A sense that it made no difference.
He sighed, took a long swallow of the port.
Perhaps Pylon was right. He should’ve been decisive, kept her out.
After the meeting he’d had a swimming session with Christa. Coaxed her to put in two extra lengths, working her harder than normal. Willing strength into her legs. Mace watched her and thought, this is the triumph. The defeat of Sheemina February.
Some defeat, getting Christa to swim extra lengths.
He let the fire burn down, finished the port. Went to bed with the thought: Sheemina February’s rubbing your nose in it. What the it was, he couldn’t imagine.
10
Ducky Donald shouted into his phone, ‘What’s your problem? What’s it you don’t understand?’
Oupa K said, ‘What?’
So Ducky told him again at full volume.
Oupa K said, ‘Now?’ Then, ‘Chief, come again.’
At which Ducky Donald took the phone from his ear and looked at it in wonder as if the instrument wasn’t working properly.
He heard the words, ‘Alwyn, shit man, don’t do that.’ Then Oupa K talking to him again, saying, ‘Shh. There’s no need to shout. Talk nicely, okay?’
Ducky Donald stared at the television screen: a car chase through shopping arcades of the Via Roma. He put the phone back to his ear and said, ‘What’s this Alwyn doing that I’m straining to get your attention?’
‘Taking all the duvet,’ said Oupa K, the grunts of a tug-of-war audible to Ducky.
‘Five thou, I’m offering. Why’s that a problem?’
The Minis going up onto a rooftop, racing round a test track.
‘It’s midnight,’ said Oupa K. ‘That’s a problem place to start with.’
‘Keep off the boys, pal. That’s a problem place to start with.’
He heard Oupa K sigh. ‘I’m listening to you. I don’t need shit.’
‘Ten grand.’
‘I am at home, in my bed. I was asleep.’
Ducky Donald barked a laugh. ‘Sure, sure. You and Alwyn nice ‘n cosy.’
The Minis now bouncing down the stairs of a church, a wedding happening in the background. Leaving the cops in the Alfas looking stupid.
‘Also it is storming. And it is cold.’
‘Then this’s gonna warm you up,’ said Ducky, aiming the remote at the TV screen, getting back to the main menu. He clicked on scene selection: started the car scene all over again.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Oupa K. ‘When I can get some guys to do it.’
Ducky Donald watched the loot being loaded into the Minis. ‘Tomorrow’s good. It’s what I’ve been talking about. You leave right now, it’s tomorrow by the time you get there.’
‘Uh-uh. Not my party. I got people do this for me.’
On screen, it’s mayhem in the arcades. Ducky set down the remote to pick up a tumbler of brandy and Coke, his teeth clicking against the glass. He’d been to Oupa K’s house once with Matthew and had peeked in the bedroom: a kingsize mattress and base set on a shaggy white rug that was almost wall to wall. The rug smelt of dog, even though Oupa K kept his dogs chained in the yard. Probably all the shit from the street that Oupa K and his bumboys tramped in embedded in the fur.
Ducky scene-hopped to the end, the bus teetering on the edge of a cliff, gold sliding down the floor.
‘What else’re you doing tonight that’s gonna earn you ten grand? For an outlay of what? I dunno. Maybe five hundred bucks. And two hours of your time. Three hours max including travelling.’
‘’Cos I’m lying here. Cosy like you said. So tomorrow night.’
‘Don’t you understand?’ Ducky raising his voice again. ‘For Chrissakes, I need it done now. Come’n Oupa. Do me a favour.’ He paused for Oupa K to come in but the guy didn’t. ‘It’s easy, okay. Nothing to it. No security, no alarms, nothing. You’re back in your bed before morning.’
This time Ducky didn’t fill the silence, forcing Oupa K into it.
‘At seven I coulda made a plan. At ten I coulda made a plan. At nearly twelve I’m not gonna make a plan. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’
‘’Cos I didn’t know earlier. You didn’t occur to me earlier. I only thought of you now.’
‘Tomorrow, chief. That’s it. Duze time.’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Hey, hey, hey, chief. Five, ten, fifteen. In five minutes of talking. Another five minutes you’re gonna be at thirty.’
The man had a point, fifteen was way beyond its worth but Ducky wanted it handled and he wanted it handled tonight. ‘That’s it. Take it or leave it. I know other fish in the sea.’
Oupa K laughed. ‘Hey, what’re you talking? I’m not asking any price, chief. You came to me. Other fish’ve got nothing to do with this. Maybe you should slow down the brandies.’
‘Hell, Oupa! Must I go on my knees? That gonna make you happier than fifteen K?’
‘That’s what Alwyn’s doing.’
Ducky flicked back to watch the opening shots coming down the pass.
‘I don’t wanna know what Alwyn’s doing. I wanna know if you’re going to help me out.’
Oupa K gave a long sigh of pleasure. ‘Oooooo … Alright. Alright. Say I do this, chief. How’re you paying?’
Ducky paused the movie. ‘The soon as you do it, the soon as you get here, it’s all yours. Just bring the video of the fire as evidence so’s I can see it.’
Silence from Oupa K. Then: ‘You got an address for me there, chief?’
Ducky Donald gave him directions. ‘Leave now, Oupa. I wanna hear it on the morning news.’
Before he thumbed off the connection he heard Oupa say, ‘We’re on our way, chief. Any moment now.’
11
For Mace the day started badly. He had to collect Francisco off the London flight at 7:00 a.m. 7:00 a.m. was still deep into what he considered a dark and stormy night. To make matters worse he phoned ahead and was told, the flight’s on schedule. So 7:00 a.m. his wheels were rolling: fifteen minutes to Cape Town International at that time of the morning against the traffic. His thinking was: Francisco’s disembarking, going through passport control, collecting his baggage, hitting the queues at Customs, it was going to be quarter to eight, eight o’clock before he’d cleared. Enough time to relax with the paper and a cappuccino, maybe also a blueberry muffin, at a concourse café.
Wrong.
On the N2 outgoing a lorry’s lost its load, the traffic’s at a dead stop for thirty minutes. Bang goes the coffee break.
It’s gone eight by the time he gets to the airport, there’s a different story on the ground. Sorry, sir, the flight’s been delayed for thirty minutes because of bad weather.
Okay, he reverts to plan A: a cappuccino, a blueberry muffin and the newspaper.
Only problem: no more blueberry muffins, no more newspapers. Sorry, sir, everybody wants a newspaper, sir, because of the delays.
He gets the cappuccino which is more a latte and a second-hand Cape Times with a story torn out on page three. This means the article on page four about the court case due to open in the High Court in a few hours is mostly missing. The court case featuring Francisco’s brother-in-law, the punkish Paulo and his delightful bint, the viper Vittoria. The lead paragraphs are about the murder of the American tourists and the link to the earlier killing of the Italian couturiers but that’s all. Mace has to wait until he can get someone else’s discarded paper to find that he’s made the last paragraph:
‘In a surprise development, security operator, Mr Mace Bishop, is to be subpoenaed by the accused on allegations of torture. According to the police, no charges have been laid against Mr Bishop. He is not under investigation.’
He’s staring at these words thinking so much for Gonsalves sorting it when Gonsalves calls. ‘Nice write up,’ he says. ‘A fi
ne achievement to make the news.’ He gives Mace the sound effects of tobacco chewing.
‘I thought you’d organised something.’
‘You know with miracles they take a little longer’ – a slurp of saliva causing the captain to drag out the last word. ‘The sheriff’s men been on to you yet?’
Mace tells him, I’m not at home, I’m not at the office, the way the day’s shaping I’m not even going to be in at the start of the trial.
‘Keep on ducking and diving,’ Gonsalves says, ‘stay ahead of the law.’
For which advice Mace thanked him and joined the chauffeurs and the company drivers and the tour couriers holding up signs for Mr and Mrs So and So. Francisco came out ahead of the pack.
No preliminaries, no beating about the bush. ‘What I wanna do first, Mace,’ he said, ‘is tour the sight. This’s haunting me, the exact location of the final moments of her life. Maybe it doesn’t make sense to you. But me, I can’t get it outta my mind.’
Mace checked his watch. ‘The court’ll be sitting round about now.’
‘We got time for the court after. This first.’
They drove out to the sand dunes, Francisco silent all the way, staring at the low grey sky and the wild sea. The mountain and the city across that stretch of water a brooding dark.
Where the road comes down into Big Bay Francisco said, ‘Would that be Robben Island out there?’
Mace told him yes.
He said, ‘I heard about it.’
They drove on in silence for the next ten, fifteen kilometres, Francisco sitting there tense in his Burberry and brogues, giving off a faint scent of mint. At the junction to Atlantis he said, ‘This’s a long way outta the city. How’d that asshole think to come here?’
‘He talks about that,’ Mace said. ‘On the tape.’
‘You gonna let me hear his squealing?’
‘Up to you. I can make copies and drop them off. Except some of it’s harsh, I have to say.’