by Ian Martin
“Do you mind if I use the loo?” he said.
“Go ahead,” said Trudy. “But you’ll have to use one of the bathrooms upstairs. There’s a problem with the guest toilet and the bloody plumber’s only coming on Monday.”
Some medicine cabinet. It was actually a grocery cupboard packed full of drugs to treat every physical, psychiatric, or psychosomatic ailment known to the fucked up citizens of the 21st century. Pain-killers, sleeping pills, stimulants, sedatives, anti-depressants, mood stabilisers, tranquillisers, beta blockers, liver tonics, diuretics, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics, cold and flu preparations, cough suppressants, expectorants, emetics, laxatives of all kinds including suppositories and enemas, antacids, anti-motilities for diarrhoea, anti-fungals, probiotics, mouthwashes, vaginal douches, multivitamins, tonics, anti-oxidants, anti-histamines both oral and topical, antiseptic creams, lotions and ointments. And then all the homeopathic and complementary medicines designed to cure anything and everything. This wasn’t a medicine cabinet; it was a fully stocked dispensary. It even contained Claude’s Viagra.
Matt took the three analgesics as well as two Voltaren, for his knee was swollen and beginning to throb. Better have a glass of milk, or the heartburn and pain in his stomach that he sometimes suffered from would turn into an ulcer.
As he opened the fridge door he heard an almighty crash from the lounge. What the fuck was that?
That was the sound of a heavy piece of wrought iron garden furniture being thrown against the sliding door leading to the patio. It was also the sound of the shatterproof glass breaking into ten thousand little pieces. Trudy began to scream and Claude to shout. There were also other men’s voices speaking in English and African lingo.
Jesus, thought Matt, we’re being burgled! And he was without a weapon.
He strode to the back door, opened it, and ran for the cover of the trees some fifteen metres away. As he reached them his foot caught on something and he fell headlong into a tangle of ferns.
He was about to get to his knees when he heard voices at the kitchen door. With his face pressed to the damp soil he lay motionless in the dark and listened to footsteps in the yard. Then the back door closed.
Inside the house two of the men dealt with Claude while the other three dragged Trudy, still screaming, upstairs to the master bedroom. Yes, the same master bedroom where Matt had witnessed the doggy behaviour.
They were stabbing, or rather pricking Claude with their knives.
“Where the keys?” they kept saying. “Where the car keys?”
Claude led them to the study. The keys were on the desk.
“Where the safe?” the one asked, but the other had already found it behind a Boonzaaier landscape. He lifted it off its picture hook and threw it on the floor. It was a shitty painting, anyway. The colour of the mountains was all wrong. Claude didn’t need any more pricking to open up.
A cushion was cut open and its stuffing dumped on the carpet. Then the swag was loaded: piles and piles of cash in different currencies, Kruger rands, any amount of jewellery and watches and gadgets like cellphones and ipods and blackberries. Also packets of dagga and cocaine. Makes you wonder who the criminals were.
One of the men hurried from the study, unable to resist the soprano’s passionate singing from above. Up the stairs he went to join the fun, leaving his mate to deal with the white pig.
Meanwhile, Matt had got to his feet and discovered that it was a garden spade he had tripped over. That lazy devil Simon had neglected to put it back in the tool shed. Swine! He could have broken his ankle.
Trudy’s shrieking was a little muffled because the bedroom was on the other side of the house. It could be mistaken for some trash Hollywood movie being played loud on the TV. He stood listening, thinking about how to summon help.
Then it began to dawn on him that although his heart was pounding and he was breathing rapidly, his head had cleared and he was oblivious to any pain in his knee. He was actually feeling more alive than he’d felt in a long time. The old lust for battle that he used to experience before a rugby match was once again coursing through his veins. If only he had a weapon.
Weapon? What was that thing he was clutching in his right hand? Wasn’t that a seriously vicious instrument of medieval warfare? This could act as a sword, an axe and a club all in one.
Cautiously he made his way through the kitchen and into the passage. The commotion upstairs continued unabated. From the open study door he could hear his uncle’s voice, desperate and pleading.
“You don’t have to kill me,” he was saying. “I can give you more money. And alcohol.”
Matt peeped into the room. Claude was in his chair behind the desk where he’d been told to sit. The burglar stood facing him, his back to the door. He was examining one of Claude’s guns prior to firing it.
The thieving black bastard. Dormant hatred erupted in him. Coal black, actually. Ebony black. Must be an Angolan, or Congolese, or something. Xenophobia and righteous indignation were injected into the engine of rage. These foreign black bastards were stealing and raping right here in Constantia under the very noses of the black bastards whose birthright it was to steal from the white trash and rape the white bitches.
Matt opted for the axe version. He grasped the shaft of the handle with both hands and moved into the room. He raised the weapon above his right shoulder, took aim, and swung with all his considerable strength. It was a good job the ceiling was high and there was no chandelier to get in the way – that would have been a real fuckup.
As it was, his unimpeded swing was well nigh perfect – enough to make a professional golfer nod his head in approval. The blade of the spade split the villain’s skull open like a coconut. The force of the blow also threw the man forward to land face down on the desk.
Claude was afforded a brief opportunity to examine the inner workings of a human super computer – the model manufactured in Hell by Satan and Co and distributed worldwide. Then the body slid backwards onto the floor.
Upstairs it hadn’t been exactly uneventful either. Trudy had been putting up a spirited fight, which helped to protract things a bit. Then there’d been an altercation about who should go first and, to cap it all, the fourth man had arrived on the scene, also with his tongue hanging out and eager to get down to business.
But now they’d settled their differences and were getting on with it. Two of them held her arms at the head of the bed. The silly little skirt had been pulled up to her armpits and the panties were off.
Trudy screamed in terror and waved her legs in the air with wild desperation. But by kicking and flailing she was exposing expanses of white thigh to full view. The whiteness only served to accentuate the contrasting blackness of the big triangle with its irresistible loose-lipped allure of unattainable finality. This further incensed the already crazed beasts at the foot of the bed. They both tore off their trousers. Their organs were swollen to grotesque dimensions. Then, in their insane hatred for every living thing on the planet, themselves included, they charged headlong into battle, the ancient war cry pounding in their heads: Rape! Rape! Rape!
Hey, but not so fast; hold it; who comes here?
Fat Uncle Claude to the rescue, that’s who comes here, my chinas. He strode into the room with six-guns blazing. Well, not quite, but he did have a pistol in each hand. One of them he placed against the left ear of the nearest rapist and pulled the trigger. This resulted in what seemed to be an explosion in the right ear accompanied by a spurt of blood and brain gunk.
The other rapist was shot clean between the eyeballs as he turned to face the gun-toting gatecrasher. Claude picked off black bastard no. 3 with a heart shot. But the other burglar proved more elusive. Claude shot him three times and he still wouldn’t fall over. Instead he staggered towards the door like a drunk who had decided it was finally time to go home.
Whack! It was Matt who had just come up the stairs and was again trying out his multi-purpose garden implement. What a fine club! Whack, w
hack, whack.
Trudy was sitting up, leaning on her elbows, knees raised, legs parted. Like she was lying on the beach watching the youngsters playing in the waves. Her black triangle was fully on view. Matt remembered some crap from the Old Testament Horry had once quoted him: To look upon the nakedness of thy mother is wickedness, an iniquity, and an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. This is an unclean thing to do, and risks being punished by the cutting off of the balls, stoning, and casting out into the wilderness, naked. Accordingly, he averted his eyes, and in so doing he picked up some movement on the other side of the room.
Somebody was about to emerge from behind the curtains covering the door to the balcony. Good God, another black bastard! It was time to try out the sword option. He ran at the curtains and jabbed viciously. Just as he had suspected: the resistance of flesh and bone. There was a muffled gasp of pain as the housebreaker tried to double up. The outline of a head made the curtain bulge.
Whack! Matt was back to clubbing. Whack, whack. The figure must have gone limp. The curtains slowly billowed out and the body emerged and fell prone on the floor. Holy shite! It wasn’t another black bastard after all. Oh my Christ! Ben Apollis. Ophabia’s father.
11
“How could you have known that it wasn’t another burglar?” asked Horry. “You can’t blame yourself. Anyway, you didn’t kill him. He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Matt. “But he’s in a coma. He will be dead when they turn off the life support.”
They were on Eastern Boulevard heading for Cape Town Station and the bus terminus. The sun had set and lights were coming on all over the city. Ships in the harbour and out in the bay were also lighting up.
Horry was taking him in to catch the 8PM Greyhound to Grahamstown. It would travel through the night and get there about 9 the next morning. But what’s happened to Matt’s car? some bright spark might ask. Nothing: it was safely parked in Constantia and, with the new security Claude was installing, it had to be pretty safe.
No, the reason Matt Dreyer was going off to Rhodes University on the bus was due to one of his numerous health problems, narcolepsy. Because of all the medication he was on, and because of his depressive state, which the medication was supposed to be addressing, he tended to fall asleep at unpredictable moments in the day. Not an innocuous condition to have if you were driving a car, especially over a long distance. Baie gevaarlik.
“I was speaking to your uncle,” said Horry, “and he reckons it shouldn’t be a problem with the law if Ben does die.”
“Yah,” said Matt. “Claude’s good at covering up murders. He knows the right people.”
Jesus, thought Horry, the guy’s already loading himself up with a shithouse full of guilt.
At the Greyhound terminus it was busy. It looked like the bus would be full. He helped Matt with his luggage and waited with him until it was time to board. They shook hands, briefly.
“Thanks a stack, Horry. You’re a good guy.”
Horry watched him mount the steps and then hurried off back to his car – if it was still where he’d left it.
It was. He joined the evening traffic heading out of the city. Matt had put him in a sombre mood. It felt like a heavy weight was bearing down on him and his thoughts were negative and uncharacteristically bitter. Everything was negative. His car had not been stolen. It wasn’t his parents’ house that had been burgled. It wasn’t his girlfriend who sucked cocks and now threatened suicide. He didn’t have a whole lot of blood on his hands. He wasn’t a doped-up depressive going off on his own to a new university, a new town where he knew no one. Fuck, he was glad he wasn’t Matt.
It was getting light as they left Port Elizabeth. Matt felt exhausted. Through the long night he had dozed maybe once or twice.
The vegetation was changing and the landscape was becoming more hilly. They were moving into settler country. One settler, one bullet. Were whites in the Eastern Cape proud of their settler heritage? The reactionary racists might be, but they probably kept it to themselves. The road began to climb and wind its way over a mountain pass, or poort. Then at the top of the valley they turned off and descended into Grahamstown.
It was a scruffy little town built on a narrow plain and radiating into the surrounding hills. Most of the buildings were old and in need of maintenance. This must be British colonial architecture, he thought. Not like the Cape Dutch style of Stellenbosch, which he remembered as having a much more vibrant and prosperous feel to it. There was refuse in the storm water channels, and groups of shabbily dressed darkies were already gathering under trees or on street corners, having despaired of finding work for the day.
The bus turned off Somerset Road onto the campus. Prince Alfred was a tree-lined avenue that climbed steeply uphill. Progress was slow, not only because of the incline but also on account of the numerous speed bumps and pedestrian crossings. Large academic buildings, mostly old and a bit battered looking. Plenty of students wandering about, a good mix of colours but predominantly white. This was an elitist place for sure, gradually adapting to 21st century South Africa but still a way to go. By the time he graduated he’d be part of the new elite. If he graduated.
They passed a big three-storey building and he saw the stone plaque: Graham House. This was his residence.
At the top end of the road the bus stopped and everyone got off. Loaded up with his luggage he limped back down the hill. The pavement was uneven, tree roots having broken up the surface, and sometimes he had to duck under overhanging branches. Twice he stumbled and nearly fell. Ahead of him were two girls. The one in a short skirt had long shapely legs deeply tanned by the summer sun. It made him think of Ophabia, so he not only had to contend with pain in his knee, but his heart as well.
He had to climb two flights of concrete steps to the entrance doors of Graham House. The warden, a tall, sandy-haired young man with thick round spectacles was playing pool with the reception committee in the Common Room. They were all superficially friendly and welcoming. They took his bags and led the way.
His room was on the second floor. The sparse furnishings had been worn by years of rough treatment but there was a view and the room was spacious enough. After they had left he lay down on the bed and felt the tiredness wash over him in waves. For a while he lay there looking up at the ceiling, and then a question slowly formed in his mind: What the fuck was he doing here?
In the first week he managed to avoid most of the bonding sessions as well as the early morning serenading of the girls bullshit. It was also registration week. He ended up electing to study Journalism, History, Politics, and Sociology. He would have liked to take Xhosa, but he was told it was difficult and required a lot of learning. If you live in Africa you should be able to speak an African language, for God’s sake. But he didn’t want to over tax himself. Maybe next year.
Lectures and tutorials started and he began to get into the routine of university life. He even made an interesting acquaintance. Ed October was a coloured oke, a first year student also doing Journalism. Both being from Graham House they were given a collaborative assignment to work on. They agreed to meet in Ed’s room.
Ed’s room, according to Ed, was the worst room in Graham House. It was situated on the ground floor right next to the Common Room for maximum noise pollution, was long and narrow like a hallway, received no direct sunlight, and had a rising damp problem. He had been allocated this room as a result of discrimination, he claimed. Matt couldn’t figure out on exactly what grounds this prejudice was based – something to do with the fact that Ed had never been to school.
“I am a threat to them,” he said. “They had 12 years of expensive schooling in order to prepare them for university. Then I come along with no formal schooling at all and I’m probably better prepared then most of them. It undermines the raison d’etre for 12 years of their lives.”
Ed claimed to be self-taught, but it turned out that his parents were broadly educated alternative types – his mother was a pharma
cist and his father some kind of artist. And he had followed the Cambridge distance-learning curriculum. So Matt suspected he’d received a far more intensive educational experience than if he had actually gone to school. Anyway, Ed was different, like Horry Horowitz was different.
Stuck to Ed’s door were two A5 posters advertising his websites. One was called apocalyptix.com, and the other 2010bigcon.co.za. The first carried articles and reports and a forum on global warming, over-population, species extinction, pandemics, criminality, social disorder and militarism. All sorts of doom and gloom, the-end-is-nigh stuff. Also a section on euthanasia and assisted suicide.
The 2010 site was intended as a piece of investigative journalism and would look good on his CV. It would expose the corrupt relationship between FIFA , media corporations, the SA Government and big business.
Yes, Ed October was incredibly cynical and pessimistic. But he was also remarkably cheerful and exuded so much enthusiasm that he appeared certifiably manic.
Matt was into his fourth week at Rhodes. He had gone and bought himself a laptop and the necessary adaptors and cables and was now plugged into DC++, the student file-sharing network. He could do lots of academic research on the Internet. Also, he had access to a vast source of music and movies; even books and comics and art.
It was a warm afternoon. His door was locked. He was sitting naked in front of the computer watching some hard-core porn. It was at least six weeks since he’d had an erection, and now that he was feeling stronger, more capable of getting on with his life, he thought it time to get his libido going again. The woman was sucking a man’s dick while being fucked from behind by a third party. Then his phone rang.
He froze the image and looked at the phone. What did that fat creep want on a weekday afternoon? He hadn’t heard from his mother at all – she was undergoing major therapy and popping sedatives like they were Smarties.