City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  I pushed, but the door didn’t budge. It was stuck. I used my shoulder. Flies buzzed around my head. The door swung open and I stepped into the shack. As usual my eyes took their time to get used to the dark, but the smell hit me immediately, and I knew. I knew even before I saw him.

  When I was a boy, I once saw a man who could juggle with fire. He stood on a street corner and kept tossing burning sticks from one hand to the other, without dropping them or setting himself alight. Lucky Mosweu was like that man. He was like the man playing with fire. I wiped the tears from my eyes with my arm, I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. I did not mind that the man leaning on his spade saw me crying. I was in a cemetery after all, and today, I had lost a friend.

  There was a phone box two blocks away from the cemetery. If I’d had Letswe’s cell phone with me, I could have used it, but I’d left it at the shelter. When I reached the phone booth, I fished the piece of paper Adrian had given me out of my pocket and used all the coins I had on me. The phone rang twice before he answered. I told him to meet me at the dynamite memorial in the cemetery. He had to come straight away. I gave him no time to ask questions. I dropped the phone and left it swinging on the cord.

  I returned to the shack. When I got there, I pulled my shirt up over my nose and held my breath. Inside the shack, I knelt and leaned over the body of Gideon Mosweu, careful not to tread in the dark mass of blood that had thickened around his head. His eyes were open and there were flies crawling over his face. I reached under the table and found the gun he had taped to the bottom and ripped it free and ripped the tape off. I put the gun in the back of my trousers and tightened my belt. On my way out I stumbled over Lucky’s legs. That was why the door couldn’t open before. His feet were blocking it. I left the door open behind me.

  Outside, I went down on my knees and buried my hands in the dead leaves. When I had finished puking, I got up, wiped my mouth and ran until I’d escaped from the shadows of the trees into the blinding sun. At the drinking fountain I stopped and swirled water around in my mouth and spat the taste of vomit out. I splashed water over my face and neck.

  As I walked birds sang in the trees, and there on the lawn was a mynah with its green-purple wings glittering in the sun, showing off. I picked up a stone and threw it at the bird, but hit a grey marble headstone instead. The bird flew off into a tree.

  ‘Fool,’ I shouted. It was useless blaming the bird. Futile. That was the word the Nigerian was so fond of. It was futile to run, he had told me. Lucky should have run away. He should have . . .

  They must have made him kneel before they shot him. I could picture him kneeling on the floor of the shack, thinking about the gun he had taped under the table. So clever, Lucky Mosweu. He should have had the gun on him, like that day he had pointed it at me. My thoughts went to Hope. She would have to pay for the funeral. Lucky would be buried in one of the city’s cemeteries, one of the new ones on the outskirts of the city. He would not have an angel watching over him.

  I looked at the bright blue sky to the south and the black clouds to the north and down at the red earth under my feet. All I could think about was that I was the one who had to go and tell Hope Mosweu that her son, Lucky, had been shot in the head.

  28

  BAD DAY SO far: armed robbery in Ellof Street, then off to break up a fight in which a man was stabbed. Now they were called to Berea where a body had been found in the boot of a car. Got there just before lunch. Radioed in the registration number before they had a look inside. Turned out to be a vehicle hijacked in Edenvale two days ago, a blue Ford Sierra. It was parked outside a block of flats. The smell was bad enough, but seeing what was inside . . . Hell, he had not seen anything like it before. The body was torn to bits. Arms shredded, chunks of his face gone, half his leg ripped off.

  ‘Looks like he’s been put through a meat grinder,’ Adrian said.

  ‘Dogs,’ Robert said.

  ‘Shit.’ Adrian reached for a cigarette.

  ‘Look at them, watching us.’ Robert motioned with his head at the two men loitering down the street.

  ‘Ja,’ Adrian said. ‘Abaju’s men?’ It was his turf after all. His block of flats, his street, his fucking runners everywhere. ‘You think this was his work?’

  ‘No,’ Robert said. ‘Not his work. I know who did this.’

  An hour later they headed back to the station – neither of them felt like lunch. As they walked into the office Adrian’s phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number. ‘Hello.’ The line was bad and traffic roared in the background. ‘Siphiwe? What’s up?’ Adrian searched for a pen and notepad on the desk. Couldn’t find one because it was Ferreira’s desk and it was a tip as usual. ‘Siphiwe?’ He had already hung up. Something bad had happened.

  They made it to the cemetery in sixteen minutes – no way the flying squad could beat that. They began searching for the dynamite memorial Siphiwe had referred to. Took ten minutes to find it, and that was after they’d asked for directions from a man resting on his spade, and in that time, walking up and down across the lawn, the sun burned the skin off his nose. He needed a proper hat. They found Siphiwe sitting on the black marble step of the memorial.

  ‘Eh, bru. What’s up?’ Adrian was relieved to see he was in one piece, but when Siphiwe looked up, he stared at Adrian as if he didn’t recognise him.

  ‘Siphiwe?’

  He got to his feet and started walking, still not saying a word. They followed him to a shack under the trees in the corner of the cemetery. Adrian only spotted it when they were close. It was surrounded by shrubs and bushes, camouflaged with dead leaves. What kind of a person would choose to live here? Not that he was superstitious or anything like that, but putting up a house in a fucking cemetery? Had to be some kind of nutter. Then the thought struck him. It was the perfect hiding place. He felt a surge of anticipation for what they might find inside. Could be to do with Letswe. He followed Robert’s example and got his gun out.

  The smell gave it away. He had been a cop long enough to know what death smelled like. They went inside. Adrian had to bow his head to get through the door. Siphiwe waited some distance away in the sun. It was pretty bad. A young black man with a fake Rolex and designer jeans. The victim had been shot in the back of the head. Close range. It must have happened within the last twelve hours. He could be wrong, he wasn’t a pathologist. Robert was on the radio to the station. The duty officer, Violent Crime Branch, local records, forensics, the usual lot, all on their way. Adrian had often wondered about a victim’s last moments. What went through his mind? What it was like to face death without any defence? Hell, he only hoped he’d never find out.

  He stepped outside, desperate for a cigarette to get the smell out of his nose, but instead he did what he was trained to do. Secured the scene. He started a search, working his way out in a circle. All of this he wrote down in his blue notebook. The exact time they had arrived, found the body, every step. By the time he was done, Robert was already briefing the two detectives from Violent Crime.

  ‘We’re handing the crime scene to them, Adrian,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  One of them smirked.

  ‘We’re handing it over. Duty officer’s on her way.’ That would be Captain Margaret Rose. Superintendent Pahad was on duty the previous weekend. Had one hell of a weekend, Adrian had heard. Covered fourteen murder scenes on Saturday night.

  Robert was already jotting the handover down in his notebook: time, state of the body. By the book. If anyone fucked up, they could prove it wasn’t them. Another police car pulled in under the trees. Adrian was glad to get away from the scene. Creepy place. He went looking for Siphiwe and found him sitting on the lawn, head in hands.

  ‘What happened here, Siphiwe? Did you know him?’ Adrian offered him a cigarette. He noticed that Siphiwe’s hands were shaking.

  ‘His name is Lucky Mosweu.’

  ‘Shit,’ Adrian said, already not liking it. ‘Any relation to Hope Mosweu?’

  �
�Her son.’

  The woman had been attacked by one of the Nigerians and now her son had had his head blown off. He reckoned it was safe to call this one drug-related, like half the murders in the city. Robert was approaching them, quick strides, in a hurry.

  ‘Your friend promised he would deal with that Nigerian,’ Siphiwe said, his gaze fixed on Robert, his voice rising. ‘He said he would take care of it. Did he? No, he did nothing. Look at this now. Lucky is dead and nobody can bring him back.’

  ‘I’m sorry, bru,’ Adrian said. ‘I really am.’

  Robert joined them. He gave Siphiwe a hard stare. ‘The Nigerian did this?’

  When Siphiwe didn’t answer Robert nodded. ‘Remember what I told you? That man will pay. I shall make him pay.’ He motioned with his head. ‘Go,’ he said in Zulu. ‘We’ll say we got an anonymous tip-off.’

  ‘You think the Nigerians are your only problem?’ Siphiwe asked. ‘You think they are bad?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Robert asked.

  ‘You must find McCarthy Letswe,’ Siphiwe said. ‘Find him. Kill him. There is big trouble coming to Johannesburg. You know what his weapon of choice is? Do you know? An RPG-7. He is mad. He will kill everyone. He is killing the Nigerians one by one. He is going to kill me.’

  ‘An RPG-7?’ Robert asked.

  ‘You must find him,’ Siphiwe said. ‘What is wrong with you police? You must do your jobs.’

  He marched off, not looking back.

  ‘Fuck,’ Adrian said. ‘An RPG. He’s going to blow someone up.’

  ‘He’s been blowing things up from the day he moved back to this city,’ Robert said and spat sideways. ‘That’s why we’re getting out of here. Back to the bank. You know those ATM bombings?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘That’s Letswe’s doing and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s fed up with small change and goes for the big one.’

  Adrian didn’t normally suffer from insomnia, but tonight he lay awake. He gave up trying to sleep after a while and switched the light on. A cricket screamed outside his bedroom window. Dogs barked further down the street. He kept thinking about Siphiwe. He hadn’t seen him that angry before. He hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid. He’d have to drop in on him, to check he was OK. He wouldn’t go as a policeman, just as a friend. That was the least he could do.

  And he couldn’t stop thinking about Letswe. How the mention of his name caused terror on the streets. No one wanted to talk. No one dared. If Letswe knew what Siphiwe had told him . . . The image of the body in the boot flashed before his eyes. According to Robert, Letswe was known to feed people to dogs. A moth beat its wings against the lampshade on the bedside table. Trapped.

  Yesterday an inspector and constable were ambushed in Benoni. Shot dead. Front-page news. Both had families. Being a cop was tough. You could leave your house in the morning, go to work and not return home. It could happen in an instant. Hell, he knew that. Sooner or later he’d be the one looking into the barrel of a gun, looking into the eyes of a psycho like Letswe. He made up his mind about one thing: when that day came, he’d go down fighting.

  The next day, 13 October, his old man’s birthday. For some reason he remembered. One of those memories that popped up uninvited, and was cast aside again without much thought.

  Halfway through lunch, Robert got a call from Horne. Adrian could hear Horne’s voice growing louder, sounding frantic. Not that it took much to get him worked up, but Robert’s face was like a block of ice, telling him something was wrong.

  ‘What’s he on about?’ Adrian asked, but Robert was already up and making for the door.

  ‘Let’s go, whitey.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Simmonds Street,’ Robert said. ‘Horne says Letswe’s about to hit the bank. He had a tip-off.’

  ‘No way,’ Adrian said. ‘If Horne took it seriously, he’d go there himself, not send us. He’d want to be the one getting Letswe.’

  ‘We’ll check it out, Adrian. That’s all.’

  ‘And where’s our backup?’ Adrian asked. ‘If Letswe shows up, he won’t be alone. So you and I are expected to take on an army? Hang on, this is bullshit. I bet Horne’s on his way to Market Street, because that’s where Letswe will hit. If Horne gets Letswe, he’ll take the credit, get his name in the papers again.’

  ‘Go round the corner and slow down,’ Robert said. ‘I want to see what’s going on first.’

  ‘Hell, bru. I really don’t know about this.’

  ‘Adrian, three years ago Horne had a tip-off that Letswe was planning a robbery. We waited for him, in numbers, but he spotted us. A bloodbath followed. Two of our boys and a civilian dead. One of Letswe’s gang killed, one arrested, but the rest of them escaped. I don’t know where Horne gets his information, but he’s been right before. Last time we screwed up, we moved in too fast. That’s why we’re going in alone. Keep your eyes open.’

  ‘OK,’ Adrian said. ‘Let’s check it out.’ He’d have loved to know who Horne’s informant was. One of his mates in Organised Crime Branch most likely. Robert made him drive past the bank twice before they parked in a side street. They approached the bank on foot, pushing through the lunchtime crowd.

  PART THREE

  THE HAND THAT HOLDS THE GUN

  29

  LUCKY MOSWEU WAS dead. The words echoed through my head as I put one foot in front of the other, and found a rhythm of their own, with my feet hitting the street, with the sound of traffic and the music blasting from shops and people’s voices. I relived how I felt, standing in front of Hope, telling her the news. I stood there kicking my toes into the pavement like a child, not knowing what to do. I wanted to put my arm around her, but it would not have been right. She was old enough to be my mother. In the end, I just walked away, and with every stride, anger boiled up inside me.

  In the street behind me, Hope was wailing. I looked over my shoulder and saw an old woman in a brown dress shuffling over to comfort her. If only I could change the way things were. My heart burned inside my chest. That was how it was whenever bad things happened. You wished you could step back in time. You said, if only this or that. That was how I had felt after my brother’s death. If only I had said no when he’d suggested we rob the old man. If only I’d insisted Lucky move out of that shack.

  I counted my steps to the end of the street. The gun pressed hard against my back. I pulled my shirt down to make sure it was covered. The Zulu had promised he would take care of the Nigerian, but now, with Lucky dead, I didn’t think his plan was any good. It would be best to kill the Nigerian, the way he had killed Lucky. To make him kneel on the ground and shoot him in the head. Letswe’s way. I’d show that Nigerian. Make him pay for Lucky, for Hope, for all the people he’d killed. I’d go with Letswe to the Nigerian’s house. I’d be there when Letswe killed him.

  I found myself in an alley in Berea. I wasn’t sure how I got there, but all around me were bad buildings and bad streets – so many empty buildings, burnt-out shells, with shadows of people moving behind windows covered by plastic sheets, or black bin bags. Some of these buildings had been bricked up and had coils of razor wire around the entrances, but the squatters broke through the barriers and made it their own. Washing hung out of windows. The smell of shit was everywhere. And, as always when I looked at these blocks of flats, I thought about my life. It could have been me, stuck in a dark room in a place like this. But I had been lucky. I’d found Grace and her shelter.

  I was somewhere between the Hillbrow Tower and Ponte City. I tried to think of the best way home. If I could find Harrow or Smit Street, I’d be OK. But I had to watch myself. There were streets in this area that no one could walk through safely. I would have to turn back and go round the long way, and then I stopped walking.

  There, hanging around the bottom end of the alley, were two of the teenagers I’d bumped into the other day with Adrian. There were many of these kids roaming the streets. Malunde, we called them. Those of the street. Some of the children a
t the shelter were once street children as well. Some of them used to sniff glue and smoke dagga and I’m sure they must have stolen things, but nobody at the shelter would steal or smoke dagga. Grace would not allow it.

  The two boys were watching me, and although I couldn’t see the expressions on their faces, I knew their plans from the way they approached me. Chins up, bodies tense, and their eyes on me, like the Nigerian had had his eyes on Hope the day he’d stabbed her. I searched for an escape route. We were the only people in the alley. If I ran now, I could still make it, but running would only take me further down this alley, to a part of the city I didn’t know. There could be more trouble waiting round the next corner.

  My heart began to pump faster. I felt cold, but I wasn’t afraid. Everyone in this city seemed to think they could do whatever they wanted. Steal and kill as they wished. I didn’t run. I waited for them. They came up close to me, one slightly behind the other, ready to cut me off if I tried to escape. Their eyes danced from side to side, then fixed on me. It was the taller one – the one with the red T-shirt and the Afro hair – who pulled the knife. He did it swiftly, as if he had practised many times. He seemed to expect me to show shock or fear. When I didn’t react, he stepped forward.

  ‘Money, cellphone,’ he shouted. Spit flew from his mouth. ‘Gimme your money. Gimme your phone.’

  On another day I would have tried to run away or begged them to leave me alone, but today was different. Today I was angry.

  ‘Gimme your fucking money.’ He waved the knife at me.

  I ripped Lucky’s gun from under my shirt and pointed it at the tall one. He froze on the spot. For a moment I saw Lucky’s face in front of me, smiling, happy. I saw him as he was on the day we first met, looking strong and fierce, and with the anger something else grew inside me. Sadness. I felt as if my heart would break. But this was not a time for tears.