Pop-Splat

by Ian Martin

  “But hey, now I come to think of it, I’m not all that far from you. If I go to Stanford and cut across to the N2 it’s only about half an hour or so. Then another ten minutes to Endless River. And it’s a quiet day for me today – shouldn’t be a problem.”

  An hour and a half later Horry’s blue Ford Fiesta pulled into the Shell Ultra City at Riviersonderend. They got out and went into Steers for something to eat.

  “James Joyce said drowning was the easiest of deaths,” said Horry, as he got stuck into an English pig of a breakfast. And he remained as scrawny as ever. Matt, who’d been putting on a kilo a week since going to Rhodes, restricted himself to a poached egg on toast. “Ever tried reading Joyce, Matt?”

  “Only once,” said Matt. He didn’t mind Horry broaching the subject. Maybe it would help. “Total Greek. Unintelligible ramblings in an archaic tongue. And virtually no punctuation. I wanted to read his descriptions of having a bowel movement and wanking. Couldn’t even find them. But anyway, how the fuck could he have known that. And how can you compare? You can’t try out different ways of dying, like stabbing, strangulation, poisoning, or necklacing. Surely a lethal injection is easier than drowning? No, Joyce talks kak, man.”

  The weather was mild. Although the day was warming up it was pleasant for driving. The N2 proceeded in long undulations, keeping the mountain range to its right. The wheatlands were brown stubble with sheep chomping mindlessly on dry stalks, eating and shitting their way to the abattoir gates.

  Horry decided to distract Matt from the ordeal ahead of him by telling him about the affairs of the Fifty Fifty Foundation.

  “Members of the Foundation are encouraged to take a pledge,” he said. “It goes like this: ‘I vow to use every opportunity that comes my way to defecate on the altar of religious conviction, and wipe my arse on the flag of national pride.’ Offensive, hey?”

  Matt laughed. Sometimes he wondered about his friend’s state of mind. The outrageous statements, the grandiose ambitions, the delusions of power to affect future events – weren’t these the hallmarks of a manic personality? Shouldn’t this guy be on medication too?

  “So you want to eradicate religion and nationalism?” he said.

  “That’s the intention,” said Horry. “Look, the Foundation is actually a think-tank made up of radical individuals who share some common perceptions and want to develop certain ideas.”

  “Is one of the shared perceptions that humans are vermin?” asked Matt.

  “Exactly,” said Horry, grinning with fiendish enthusiasm. “Worse than rats. We’re all in agreement about a fundamental truth: humans are not noble creatures made in the image of God – unless God is the Devil in disguise. But fuck God. There is no God, and we’re an unlovely and unloved species. We’re a quarrelsome, treacherous bunch, viciously cruel and extremely destructive. We’re also cunningly intelligent. It therefore makes sense to use this intelligence to curb our disgusting inclinations. We must regulate our behaviour to prevent us from forming selfish elites that dominate at the expense of others. We must also protect the environment from the contaminating effect of the human presence.”

  Matt yawned, not because he was bored but because he was feeling more relaxed and susceptible to stored up fatigue.

  “I suppose you’re going to change the whole world order?” he said.

  “For fucking sure,” said Horry. “The present political and economic situation only works for the rich minority. To have a proper democracy we need a World Parliament based on the principle that all humans are equal. It would soon become evident that there is very little value in maintaining separate nation states. There should be only one nation – the human race. Then it would become clear that we don’t have enemies. And without enemies, why would we need the military? If the worldwide military juggernaut was to be dismantled and there was a major transfer of technology a massive quantity of resources would become available for the benefit of all.”

  “Mmm,” Matt mumbled. The slobbish young man’s head was beginning to nod and jerk. Oh well, he did have this narcolepsy problem and… ah, what the hell. Horry decided to carry on: maybe some of it would get through at a subliminal level.

  “At Grootbos we’ve been discussing a whole range of issues and setting up an agenda for the launch of the Foundation in September. We envisage a world without politicians. Instead, there would be panels of experts mandated to produce utilitarian solutions that would be monitored by the people they affect. Every World Citizen would have a voice via the Internet, and supercomputers would monitor and evaluate progress being made. All sorts of radical social restructuring would take place. Values would have to change. Rampant consumerism would be reversed. Ubuntu and Gross National Happiness would replace organised religion. In order to discourage envy and greed, advertising would be restricted to directories. The drugs trade would be legalised and regulated, and an educational… Matt?”

  Matt’s arse had slid forward and his head had fallen back against the rest, slightly angled towards the driver. He was snoring and some drool began to well from the corner of his half-open mouth. Christ, but he was an unhealthy spectacle! He looked forty, not twenty. That blotchy, bloated face, double chin, bags under his eyes.

  No point in talking to someone as dead to the world as this. Oh well. It was just a pity he hadn’t got round to some motivational stuff. He had wanted to tell Matt that although the human race was despicable, and the planet was totally fucked up, and the future looked impossibly bleak, especially for their generation, it was nevertheless important to have an idealistic dream. Even though you knew it was naïve idiocy, you had to pretend and live hopefully, positively. He had wanted to urge his friend not to give in to despair.

  Trudy and Claude didn’t look happy to see him. No welcoming smiles. Claude seemed worried and irritable, and turned away so as not to have to shake his nephew’s hand. Trudy was tense and more bitchy than ever. She had become very jumpy since her close encounter with the naughty black men who had wanted to do rude things to her. She still didn’t like going out. And she was off sex, which wasn’t good for Claude. They both knew he’d soon be making a plan, the shit that he was.

  He told them he had hardly slept on the bus and was going to his room for a nap. Halfway up the stairs he turned back, wanting to confirm the time of the funeral. Two paces from the half open sitting room door he stopped in his tracks. Trudy’s voice was strident.

  “Of course he’ll never amount to anything,” she was saying. “You don’t need to tell me that, as if it’s my fault. He’s always had the weakness in him and this bipolar thing isn’t going to be the only problem facing him. Sarah says it’s likely we’ll have to put him in an institution by the time he’s thirty. God, what a mess we’re in! If Bruce…”

  “Shut up about Bruce, for Christ’s sake!” Claude snarled. “We’ve been over this a thousand times. We both hated Bruce and we know he would have destroyed us. Concentrate on what we’re going to do about that freak of a son of yours.”

  At 2PM Trudy knocked on his door. They were leaving at 2:30; the service was at 3.

  “I’m just going to take a shower,” he called out. “Don’t wait for me; I’ll see you at the church.”

  He lay there and heard them leave at 2:30. He couldn’t handle the thought of showering and dressing up in a dark suit and having to face all those people.

  At 4 he got up and went to the bathroom and splashed water in his face. He could barely recognise the ghastly reflection in the mirror.

  In the kitchen he popped pills and drank some milk. Then he drove, without haste, to Plumstead cemetery. He’d missed the church service; maybe he’d catch the tail end of the burial. It was of no consequence if he didn’t.

  It was a mild afternoon with a light southeasterly breeze blowing. Boring, nondescript, Saturday afternoon weather. Mourners were already leaving, so he was too late. He saw Claude’s status symbol pulling away. A group was gathered around a hunched black shape in a wheelchair – Opha
bia’s mother, Ben’s widow.

  He wandered between the graves towards some figures in the distance. Row upon row of tombstones bearing inane inscriptions. Sentimental drivel. Lies and hypocrisy. And all the wreaths that were dotted about: dismal symbols of primitive belief, they were already discoloured and wilted, infected with the decay permeating from the ground below.

  There were four gravediggers and one onlooker: the last mourner. As Matt drew near he recognised the dark, handsome features of Ophabia’s brother.

  Larry had been watching the hole slowly filling up. Now he turned at Matt’s approach and his body went tense.

  “You!” he hissed. “You! You killed her. You killed my father, too.”

  His fists smashed into Matt’s pudgy face, sending him reeling sideways. Yes, into the open grave he fell, less than a metre deep by now. And the enraged assailant threw himself in too, and began to strangle his victim, the cause of so much misery.

  Astonished, the gravediggers had stopped shovelling. Astonishment soon turned to annoyance. They wanted to get finished and make their way home, where they intended to immediately go about getting drunk. It was urgent that they forget about corpses. Get drunk, smash the furniture, thrash a child or two, and fuck the woman, if they were still capable.

  With aggressive vigour they resumed their work and began to cover the struggling bodies in the grave. Soon realising he was being buried alive, Larry desisted, removed his hands from the fatted bullock’s neck, and clambered from death’s cold trench. It was like a fucking miracle, you know. Up from the grave he arose, and all that crap. Hey, and not one Lazarus but two. They staggered away from the scene, oblivious of each other, coughing and spitting, blinded by the sandy loam. It had been as effective as a bucket of water on a dogfight.

  Meanwhile, at the bottom of the hole, under the deep blanket of earth, Ophabia lay in the complete and utter black stillness of her airless box. On her lips she still wore the skilful mortician’s smile of serenity, as if she was listening to a distant but magical melody.

  14

  “It is quite clear,” said the sangoma, “that the spirit of your father will not rest until your father’s murder has been avenged.”

  It was in Godknows Tshabalala’s back room, the one where he practiced traditional medicine. They were squatting on low bankies either side of the fire burning on the earth floor in the middle of the room. Both were squinting into the thick acrid smoke. It plumed up from the coals where the doctor had just thrown some handfuls of dried and powdered goeters. Matt was battling to make out the shape of his father’s spirit, but the doctor, with all his years of experience, could see it plainly, as if he was wearing night vision goggles.

  “Your father’s spirit demands an eye for an eye, plus interest.”

  The healer was wearing tartan underpants under a skirt of cat and dog tails. About his naked shoulders was thrown a kaross. His cellphone was in a sheep’s bladder moon bag slung at his right hip.

  “That’s pretty vague,” said Matt. He was surprised at himself. Sitting there pretending a spirit was hidden in the stinking smoke, like a genie. “Doesn’t the spirit have some clear instructions for me?”

  “The murderers must be brought to book,” said Tshabalala. He peered into the smoke and then shook his head. “The spirit is not prepared to elaborate. But it is your duty to obey, or you will never find peace.”

  He turned to a clay pot, reached in and brought out a handful of old chicken bones. These he threw on the floor with a practiced backhand sweep. For several minutes he appeared to study them closely, then he gathered them up and returned them to the pot.

  “The bones warn of danger,” he said, looking at Matt through the thinning haze. “Beware of the high places, of which there are three.”

  Ah fuck, thought Matt, this is a load of mumbo-jumbo horseshit.

  “Anything else?” he asked, with a hint of sarcasm. This was a waste of time. He had hoped to be pointed in some new direction, which would lead him out of the mess he was in. Instead he was being fed this half-baked witchdoctor kak.

  “That is all,” said the sangoma. There was silence between them. Then he spoke again. “Except for the muti.”

  “Oh?” Matt felt a surge of hope. Maybe the crafty bugger did have a plan up his sleeve.

  “Yes.” The doctor got to his feet and went to a shelf and took down a 2-litre plastic Coke bottle. It was filled with a murky liquid, yellowish-green in colour like bile. Matt had risen to his feet. Tshabalala rummaged in his moon bag and produced a lady’s hand mirror.

  “Come to the light,” the healer instructed.

  They moved to the shack door. Out in the yard the intern was slaughtering a chicken. He was dressed in an old orange overall with CCC stencilled on the back. With his left hand he held the struggling, squawking fowl in place on the tree trunk chopping block. The axe was raised and came down with swift accuracy. The chicken’s head shot to one side and landed in the dust. The doctor’s apprentice tossed the bird’s body to the ground. With blood spurting from severed arteries it flapped its wings and tried to flee. It ran in a tight circle, then crashed into the chopping block and lay still. The would-be witchdoctor picked it up by the feet and began to drain the remaining blood into an enamel dish.

  Tshabalala spoke sternly to the young man, admonishing him for having wasted so much blood. He used words like isidenge, inja and fokken mampara.

  In a corner of the yard a tethered goat had been looking on with interest. The surprise in its eyes had turned to alarm and then terror. It began to bleat for help, for pity, for mercy, for divine intervention. Some hope.

  “Here,” Tshabalala said to Matt. “Take this and examine your reflection. Tell me what you see.”

  What was the guy trying to prove? Reluctantly, even resentfully, Matt took the mirror and tried to get his face to fill the small oval.

  “Well?”

  “Well what? It’s me.”

  “Yes,” said Godknows Tshabalala. “But try to look objectively, as if it isn’t you. What kind of man do you see?”

  Matt scowled at the glass for a long time. Gradually the person he was looking at began to change. And Christ, what an ugly bastard he was, too. The football head, the flat forehead, the close-set, bloodshot eyes set amidst bags, lines and wrinkles. The rugby scar across the right cheekbone. Above the double chin the mouth was loose and flabby and twisted in an unfriendly sneer. There was something mean and cruel about this mouth. And the eyes looked furtive and suspicious. He lowered the mirror and looked coldly at Tshabalala. What was the charlatan up to?

  “I see an unhealthy, nasty piece of work,” he said. “What do you see, Dr Tshabalala?”

  “I see a young man being destroyed, physically and mentally,” replied the doctor. “I see a victim of a decadent family and a corrupt society. I see disaster if you do not break free.”

  “Break free? Just like that?”

  “No, not just like that,” said the sangoma. “First you must change your medication. No more Western chemicals. Throw it all away. Only take this.” He held up the Coke bottle containing the green sludge. “Two tablespoons in a glass of water twice a day. Then, when you are strong, you must avenge your father’s death. Finally, when it is accomplished, you must turn your back and walk away from all this shit.”

  15

  Back at Graham House, Rhodes University, Grahamstown, Eastern Cape, South Africa. Room 7, to be precise.

  Matt was shocked to see the pistol lying on Ed October’s desk. Ed saw him staring, picked up the gun, cocked it and took aim.

  “George Dubya,” he drawled. “It gives me great pleasure to put one more bullet through that tiny little brain of yours.” And he pulled the trigger.

  There was a half-arsed bang like rigid plastic snapping. It was accompanied by the sound of a BB pellet hitting a sheet of paper.

  Across the room several A5-size pictures of well-known ogres were stuck to the wall. Some of them had been assassinated so many times
it was difficult to discern the likeness.

  “It’s one of my puerile pastimes,” explained Ed. “As a distraction and a challenge it gives me a cathartic sense of satisfaction.”

  “I see you don’t like the pope,” said Matt.

  “Yes,” said Ed. “Some of the teachings of the Catholic church make me puke with dismay; especially on abortion and contraception. And Benedict seems even more obscurantist than the previous old goat, if that’s possible. Do you know what this senile baboon told the South Americans recently? He said the indigenous people of the Americas had been silently longing for the Europeans to come and convert them to Christianity. Holy shit!” And so saying, he blasted another hole in his Holiness’s image.

  Alone in his own room Matt took a piece of foolscap, tore it through and stuck the two halves side by side on the wall. He sat at his desk for a long time staring at the two pieces of blank paper. Then he went to his suitcase, unlocked it, and took out his 9mm Glock.

  At the desk he ejected the clip and racked the slide mechanism and pulled the trigger a few times. He’d never had occasion to fire it, except twenty or thirty times in the basement firing range at City Guns, where Bruce had bought it for him. Was there any significance in the fact that it was his father who had bought him the gun?

  He looked at the two bastards on the wall. Slowly he raised the firearm and took aim at the one on the left. His right index finger tightened on the trigger, gradually applying more force, pulling the piece of metal towards him, micron by micron. But his hands and arms were beginning to tremble. The gun was shaking; he was sweating; he could hear derisive laughter. Desperately he pulled the trigger. Fuck it! He could only have missed.