City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  ‘Out! Now!’ I grabbed his arm and pushed him towards the door. ‘Go! Look out for trouble.’ I turned to face Lucky. ‘No,’ I said to him, pointing my finger at his chest.

  Lucky shrugged. ‘Just an idea, my friend. We can all be rich, you know. There’s enough for all of us.’

  ‘No,’ I said once more. I shook my head, trying to find words. ‘He’s just a boy.’

  Lucky threw his hands in the air. ‘OK, bad idea. You’re right. He’s too young. Finish your beer, my brother.’

  I downed what was left of my beer. Lucky sat with his hands behind his head, staring at me.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ I said.

  He just laughed.

  I turned round in the door. ‘How many people have you told about this stupid plan?’

  ‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘Just you.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone else about it, OK? And be careful. You must be more vigilant.’

  ‘I am vigilant,’ he said. ‘I’m looking out for trouble all the time.’

  I didn’t think he was doing a good job, looking out for trouble. Trouble could come from any direction. If he was caught napping in the shack, he would be cornered, and although I was still angry, I worried about him too.

  ‘You must get a new place to stay,’ I said. ‘This is no good.’

  ‘I shall think about it,’ he said. ‘We shall discuss it on Thursday.’

  We shook hands.

  ‘Sala gabotse, my brother,’ he said.

  ‘Sala hantle,’ I replied in Sotho.

  There was no sign of Msizi, but when I whistled, he came running from behind the shack.

  ‘You are not a good lookout,’ I said.

  ‘I had to pee,’ he said. ‘I was looking out and I saw nobody. There are only dead people here. I don’t like this place.’

  Neither did I. Not because of the dead people – well, that too – but because of the silence. Even the sound of traffic was muted, as if it did not dare to intrude. When I looked back at Lucky’s shack, I felt cold. I was glad for my room at the shelter and for my bed and for the good people whose paths had crossed mine.

  I took Msizi’s hand and we headed for the fence, cutting through the trees in which a red-chest cuckoo sang non-stop. Morakhulộng, we called it. The Afrikaans people had a strange name for that bird: piet-my-vrou. I searched the branches and leaves, but only spotted two turtle doves. We climbed through the palisade fence again, and walked all the way round the cemetery.

  ‘He’s clever, that one,’ said Msizi and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Lucky’s shack.

  ‘He’s a fool.’

  ‘But it’s a clever plan. We’ll be rich.’

  ‘You should not have heard about it. He should not have asked you that.’

  ‘I heard everything,’ he said. ‘I heard about the money and the key under the carpet.’ He screwed his face up and clicked his tongue. ‘It’s a good plan. I like it.’

  ‘Next time you stay at home.’ I was angry at Lucky, not at Msizi. Lucky didn’t have a plan. He had nothing, and suggesting that Msizi must climb through the window . . .

  ‘Lucky’s not clever,’ I told Msizi. ‘One of the Nigerians is looking for him and when he finds Lucky he will kill him. Lucky owes him money. He will make an example of Lucky. That will be his motive.’

  ‘What is motive?’

  I explained it to him.

  ‘The Nigerian will not kill Lucky,’ Msizi said. ‘Lucky’s got a gun.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The Nigerian will also have one and he will bring his people with him. They will all have guns. Big ones. Guns are bad news, Msizi. We shouldn’t be talking about guns.’ It was a gun that had got me into trouble four years ago: a toy gun that had looked real. The gun that my brother had used to scare the shopkeeper. For what? We were fools. But I couldn’t help thinking about what Lucky had said: a safe full of money – more money than I could imagine. If there was a way to get in there . . . Fool, I told myself. It was no good dreaming about that money.

  ‘It is a silly word, motive,’ Msizi said.

  I rubbed his head. ‘What do you know? You’re just a boy.’ I threw a playful punch at him and he ducked, then he started to run circles around me, while I tried to grab him. Msizi almost ran into a man standing on the pavement. A huge man with a shiny bald head and thick gold chains around his neck. I went cold. With all this playing about, I had not paid attention to the streets. I had walked myself into big trouble. Another man shouted my name from the other side of the street.

  ‘Eh, wena, Siphiwe Modise, woza. Come here.’

  He had appeared as if from nowhere: McCarthy Letswe. His bodyguard, the man with the gold chains, stood in front of me, leaving me no room to pass. Not that I would have tried to escape. I was too scared to run from these men. They would hunt me down.

  ‘Go home, Msizi.’

  Msizi was staring at the man with his mouth open.

  ‘Go home now!’

  He sprinted down the street.

  I crossed the road to where Letswe waited. Without having to look over my shoulder, I knew the big man was behind me. Today, they would surely kill me.

  ‘What is your business with Obembe?’ Letswe asked when I reached him.

  ‘The Nigerian?’ I swallowed hard. My mouth had dried up.

  Letswe nodded. ‘The one who wears the Mickey Mouse ties.’

  ‘I have no business with him,’ I said.

  ‘Someone saw you talking to him in Marshalltown last week. Do you work for him?’

  He sounded like he did the other day, calm, as if we were talking about the weather, but I knew he had a temper, that he could be calm one moment and angry the next. I didn’t want him to become angry, so I told him how the Nigerian had stabbed Hope.

  ‘I tried to help her and that made the Nigerian mad. He beat me up. He threatened to kill me. Every now and again he shows up and tries to scare me. He worries that I will tell the cops that he stabbed that woman.’

  ‘He’s a dog, that man,’ Letswe said and spat on the pavement.

  I nodded. ‘He is a big man with his knife, threatening to kill people and stabbing old women.’

  ‘Yes,’ Letswe said. ‘Anyone can do that.’ He stared past me up the street, then his smile disappeared and his little eyes fixed on me like a snake’s.

  ‘You talked to the pigs?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir.’ I was out of breath from all the talking and from the fear that had settled in my chest.

  ‘Sharp,’ he said. ‘You are not a fool. Listen.’ He waved me closer with his hand. ‘You will see what happens to that Obembe. His knife will not help him. You will see what happens to people who get in my way. Eh, William?’ he called over my shoulder. ‘Nobody fucks with us. We’re not afraid of little boys with knives.’ He spat again. ‘Siphiwe, if that man comes to you again, you tell me, OK? You tell me what he wants.’

  I nodded. Letswe slapped me on the back.

  ‘See, William, I told you. He’s a good man, Siphiwe.’

  And just like that, I was alone again. Letswe and his big man had gone. This was a bad place, this city, and it was only getting worse. It was getting harder to stay out of trouble every day. Here I was walking down the street not concerned with anyone else’s business and look what had happened. I felt sick. Msizi was waiting for me round the corner, his eyes big.

  ‘Who was that?’ he asked.

  ‘That man? He’s the devil. You don’t need to know his name. You watch the newspapers, Msizi, soon we shall read about people dying in this city. It will be because of that man. If you see him, you run, OK? Don’t look at him, just run away.’

  ‘OK,’ he said and grabbed hold of my hand.

  When we reached the shelter, I put on my old shirt and trousers and went to check on the vegetables. Grace was watching me through the kitchen window. She often teased me about these vegetables, saying they were like my children. I said yes, they were, and I didn’t like leaving my
children sitting out in the sun all day. That made her laugh. But it was true, the new carrot plants were frail and needed watering twice a day because of the heat. I took a deep breath and let the scent of the soil and the plants wash over me. I’d try not to think about Letswe and his business with the Nigerians. That was not my problem. I had survived another day.

  21

  WHEN PROGRESS STEPPED outside the next morning he was greeted by a cold mist that swirled through the streets, over the rooftops of rows of identical shoebox houses, but by the time he arrived at Lucille’s house the mist had disappeared and the sun was bright.

  ‘Jackson,’ Letswe greeted, ‘go with Lucille. Look after her.’

  Progress made an effort to look glum, but it was hard to keep the happiness from his voice.

  ‘Can Joseph not go?’ he asked.

  ‘She doesn’t like Joseph,’ McCarthy said.

  ‘Thabo?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m telling you to go,’ Letswe snapped. ‘Stop talking back.’

  He would spend the morning with Lucille. Only the two of them. The others were laughing at him.

  ‘You are the new man, Jackson,’ Thabo said. ‘You get the toughest jobs. Shop, shop, shop. Carry the bags, open the doors and you cannot sit down or have a break, Lucille will watch you.’

  ‘Jackson, let’s go.’ Lucille came marching into the living room, her red handbag over her shoulder. ‘Why are you pulling that face? Come, I do not have all day.’

  Progress jumped up and ran after her. In the garage, she tossed the car keys at him. ‘You can drive, Progress.’ She winked at him. ‘To Sandton City.’

  And Lucille talked all the way, telling him to watch out for this van, look out for that man crossing the road.

  ‘You are a back-seat driver,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘When I’m in the car with McCarthy I am not allowed to say anything about his driving. He gets mad at me.’ She told him about her business, how she was ready to open a third salon. ‘McCarthy’s money started me off. His name protected my business like a sangoma’s charm, but I did all the work. Soon it will be a chain all over Gauteng. A Lucille’s Beauty Parlour in every city.’

  ‘You’ve done well,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said and yawned. ‘I did not get any sleep. The dogs were barking all night. It is that yellow dog, it keeps me awake, and when I go outside, it watches me all the time, waiting for a chance to attack. It has been like that since the day McCarthy brought it over, growling at me when I dare step into the backyard. My own backyard! I asked McCarthy to kill it, but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘I shall shoot it for you.’

  ‘You are very kind, Progress.’

  ‘I love you, Lucille,’ he said.

  She turned on him, angrily. ‘Don’t you say that, Progress Zebele! Don’t, he will find out.’ She sighed and put her hand on his leg. ‘In the end, love only gets you that far. Life gets hard, love fades. You fall out of love. It does not matter. Love or no love, I am tied to McCarthy.’

  ‘I will kill him,’ Progress said.

  ‘No, you won’t do anything stupid. I shall deal with him. I have a plan.’

  Progress stared at her. ‘A plan?’

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ she said. ‘I shall deal with McCarthy, do you understand? I am the only one who can.’ He searched her face but could not read her, her eyes showed no anger, no fear. She was much more than just a beautiful woman. She was strong but it was not the kind of strength men understood. He knew she was dangerous, and still he loved her, loved her even more.

  ‘Will you kill him?’ he asked.

  ‘Me? I don’t think so,’ she said, her face turned away from him. ‘I know him better than anyone, Progress. I know his mind. But you must say nothing and don’t come to see me again. We have to be careful. Things will be easier when McCarthy is dead.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘How? I’m not sure yet. But I shall think of something.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘But –’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Say nothing more. Don’t ask me about this.’

  They did not speak of it again. They went shopping and had lunch and he didn’t even taste the food, he just listened to her talk.

  When they returned Progress stood outside her house, smoking a cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. How simple she made it sound. When McCarthy is dead. He knew that whatever she had said she already had a plan to kill him, a way out. He wondered if there was room for him, in Lucille’s world, that world she spoke of, where all stories had happy endings.

  Two days later Lucille phoned him. It was almost ten in the morning and he was watching a house in Bez Valley that he suspected belonged to the Nigerians.

  ‘Progress,’ she said, ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. Whatever she needed, he’d do it.

  ‘You have to arrange a meeting for me,’ she said. ‘But it’s dangerous. McCarthy must not find out.’

  ‘Who do you want to meet?’ he asked.

  ‘Sylvester Abaju.’

  He could not believe what she was asking.

  ‘Progress?’

  ‘Lucille, I don’t know about this.’

  ‘It’s the only way.’

  She ended the call and he stood, phone in his hand, not knowing if a minute or ten had passed. Meet Abaju? Nobody met Abaju. How did she think he was to do this? Make an appointment? He knew what she wanted to do and how dangerous it was. For her, and for him. You must make a decision, Progress Zebele, he said to himself. What do you want? It was an easy question to answer. He wanted Lucille.

  Progress stood with his back against a tree, smoking a cigarette. Midday, the street was quiet, but for a man on a bicycle with a young girl on the back, clinging on. A Ford Escort passed him, engine roaring. Further on, he heard the city noises, the drone of traffic on the M2. He finished his cigarette, flicked the end over his shoulder and lit another. Up and down the street houses stood locked up behind high walls or fences, large square houses, built at a time when space was not a problem. Not a wealthy area, never had been, but there was a time when this was an all-white neighbourhood. Poor white people used to live here. Poor? These houses were big compared to township houses. Three, four bedrooms; still, all about location with white people, wasn’t it? And these inner-city suburbs always had a bad name. He was two blocks away from the shelter where Siphiwe Modise lived. He’d been waiting for twenty minutes, taking the time to consider his plan. Not much of a plan, but it was all he had.

  Ten minutes ticked by and then three boys came racing round the corner, pushing and shoving each other. School uniforms: grey shorts, blue shirts, grey socks that had crept down their legs. Progress straightened up, and stepped out from under the tree.

  ‘Eh, wena, yes, you, come here.’

  The boys froze. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Progress said. ‘I just want to ask you something.’ He took a ten-rand note out of his pocket and crossed the road. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked the tallest of the three.

  ‘Vuzi,’ the boy said. His black school shoes were covered in dust; his shirt had a button missing. He looked ready to run, but he had one eye on the money. Progress rubbed the note between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Do you know Siphiwe Modise?’ he asked.

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Go call him for me, I am a friend of his, from school. Take this money, buy yourself some sweets.’

  The boy had quick hands. The money vanished into his pocket and he was off, his friends with him. Progress waited, checking his watch. He didn’t have all day. That boy better not mess about. It wasn’t long before he noticed the tall kid standing on the corner, checking him out.

  ‘Siphiwe Modise,’ Progress called and strolled over to him, hands in his pockets.

  ‘Who are you?’ Siphiwe asked when he came close. ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘My name is Jackson Zebele.’

  ‘You were not in school with me.’

>   ‘No, I wasn’t,’ Progress said.

  ‘What do you want?’ Siphiwe stepped back. ‘I’ve seen you somewhere.’

  ‘In the market, some time ago, I was with Letswe.’ Even saying his name had people scared. Siphiwe’s eyes betrayed his fear. Progress smiled.

  ‘He asked me to watch you. He doesn’t trust you. But I like you, Siphiwe. So I thought, maybe we should talk. You can do something for me, and if Letswe asks what you’re up to, I’ll say you’re up to nothing. You’re minding your own business.’ Progress held up his hands. ‘Don’t worry. Letswe didn’t send me here today.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Siphiwe asked again.

  ‘What do I want? All I want is to meet with the Nigerian, the one you know, Matthew Obembe.’

  ‘So, go and meet him.’

  Progress could tell that he was nervous, ready to run, just like that boy earlier. He was not a fighter, this kid. He’d never be any more than a lookout. Progress felt angry all over again, recalling how Letswe had treated this boy – as if they were old friends. He’d show Letswe what he could do. He’d show them all.

  ‘I want you to arrange a meeting with Obembe,’ he said.

  ‘You are crazy,’ Siphiwe said.

  ‘You can do it for me. Just go and ask him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are in a difficult position, Siphiwe,’ Progress said. ‘You are caught in the middle. You know how it is with Letswe. He only has to suspect you and he will kill you.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that and you will be dog food. And there’s the Nigerian. If he thinks you are close to Letswe, he will kill you. Maybe he will only shoot you in the knee, or maybe he will shoot you in the head. There are many ways to die, Siphiwe. I know this. Bullets are quick. If you have a choice –’

  ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘We have a lot in common,’ Progress said.

  ‘I don’t know those people, I can’t help you.’

  ‘Am I standing here with a gun against your head?’

  Siphiwe stared at him.

  ‘No,’ Progress said. ‘That is not my style. I am not threatening you. I’m asking for a favour. That Obembe, he talks to you. All I want is to speak to him. You sort that out and I owe you, and I am a man who keeps his word.’