Kill Baxter (2 page)

The truth is that I do need to reform, but pornography has never been a problem for me. I’m a businessman and porn just happened to be the product that I traded in. The habit I really need to kick is manipulation. The problem is that I’ve decided to care but my personality seems thoroughly unsuited to it.

I itch like a junkie to manipulate people. My puppetmaster’s fingers tingle for the strings. Oh Lord, just one more hit of that sweet, sweet strategy.

But I now have a conscience and there’s no use denying it, and it won’t let me return to my old manipulative ways. It’s not easy. Trying to reform in everyday life is like trying to lose weight by working in a doughnut shop.

The thing that keeps me going is that Esmé now thinks I’m ‘noble’, which may also have something to do with the fact that I detached a mind-controlling arachnid parasite from her brain stem, but still, I’m determined to hang on to her good graces.

It’s hard. My hero Niccolò Machiavelli would laugh at me: ‘For a man who strives after goodness in all his acts is sure to come to ruin, since there are so many men who are not good,’ he said. Amen, Niccolò, but I’m willing to bet he didn’t have a touchy-feely little Boer mystic metrosexual on his shoulder that had something to say about everything.

‘Baxter,’ Harold prompts. I’ve been trying, really trying, to play this self-help game, but today I’ve had enough. ‘I used to deal porn,’ I say irritably. ‘Very profitably. But then I was press-ganged into caring by the slave-driver in my chest and harried into submission by the little metrosexual on my shoulder. Then I dragged a giant Octopus into another dimension and killed it so that it wouldn’t destroy the world.’

‘Yes!’ Harold says. ‘Yes, yes, yes! Which of us isn’t attacked every day by the giant Octopus of porn wanting to drag us into another dimension?’ There are murmurs of agreement from the group. ‘The world may not appreciate you, Baxter, but we do. It’s your three-month anniversary. You have earned the honour of wearing this. Let’s give Baxter three cheers!’ He hands me a yellow plastic key ring with PORNOGRAPHY ANONYMOUS emblazoned across it while the others applaud and cheer.

‘Wow, thanks,’ I say, shoving the key ring into my pocket.

I zone out for the rest of the meeting, periodically regaining consciousness to half-heartedly clap as someone recounts their weird little porn story.

Finally we say the PA serenity prayer to end the session. ‘God grant me the strength to use safe search, the serenity to know that deleting your browser history doesn’t make it OK, and the wisdom to understand that nobody reads
Playboy
for the articles any more, et cetera, et cetera. Kumbaya!’

The meeting ends and I shove my hands into the pockets of my black hoodie and slouch in the direction of the exit.

‘Baxter?’ Harold calls and shambles towards me. I push my hair out of my face, adjust my glasses and resist the urge to run.

‘Glad I caught you!’ Harold says. ‘A few of us from PA stay afterwards for another group. I thought it might be beneficial for you if you joined.’

‘Is this some kind of Pornography Fight Club?’ I ask. ‘Because I’m really not interested.’

‘Ha ha. No, no,’ Harold says with a light, jovial punch to my shoulder.

‘Will it count towards my rehab?’

Harold considers this for a second. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I could sign off on it counting towards your mandatory rehabilitation hours.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Fine. Count me in.’ Porn rehab is like a Band-Aid; it’s best just to rip it off all at once.

Harold breaks into a huge grin and pats my shoulder. I try not to think about where those hands have been. ‘You’ll like this, Baxter. I’m certain.’

‘I really doubt it,’ I say.

Harold guides me back to the circle of scuffed plastic chairs and I slide back into one with a feeling of resignation and despair hanging over me like a cloud. This was not how I imagined my life would turn out.

One of the PA members – Tom, I think – has stayed behind too. I’ve had to sit through his stories about the type of porn he’s into, so I pretend he doesn’t exist.

Gradually new people begin to trickle into the community centre. Harold greets everybody with a handshake or hug and ticks names off a list. The circle of chairs fills up.

‘Right, I think that’s everybody,’ he says. ‘I want to welcome you all, and also extend a warm welcome to someone new. Baxter Zevcenko is a young man from another group who I’m certain will fit right in here. Although he does not exactly meet the criteria, I feel that his experience of loss is close to our own. Let’s give Baxter a warm ritual welcome.’

The group begin to click their fingers above their heads and stamp their feet in a weird, syncopated rhythm. Cultists, definitely cultists.

‘Welcome to the Inner Sanctum, Baxter,’ Harold says proudly. ‘Although we don’t have an official name, we call ourselves The Fallen. We’re mostly professionals: media personalities, businessmen, doctors and lawyers. The common thread that joins us is that we have fallen from grace, so offended society that we’re for ever more forced to live on the periphery, to be the butts of a thousand jokes, the targets of a million whispered comments. Group, would you like to introduce yourselves and say why you’re here?’

‘Tom Weston,’ says the guy that stayed behind from PA. ‘Former radio DJ. Sexist remarks on late-night radio.’

‘Darryl Melkin,’ says a black guy in skinny jeans and thick glasses. ‘Geek-chic poster boy and best-selling popular science author. Plagiarism and fabricating quotes. Oh, and Malcolm Gladwell is not even a real scientist and can go fuck himself with a rusty nail.’

‘Darryl.’ Harold’s tone is fatherly. ‘You know what we said about that. Let’s keep all the bottled-up hate for expression time.’

‘Well done to Malcolm Gladwell. He should be commended for his strong narratives that are accessible to the general public. I’m happy for his success,’ Darryl says through gritted teeth.

‘That’s better,’ Harold replies with a smile.

‘Sissy van der Spuy,’ says a tall blonde as she dabs at her lipstick. ‘I tweeted a racist joke. But I’m not racist, I know lots of black people.’

‘Of course you do, Sissy,’ Harold says, patting her on the shoulder.

Round the group they go. People who have disgraced and humiliated themselves and been shunned by society.

‘You see,’ Harold says, spreading his arms wide. ‘We’re all the same. The Internet turned its harsh, cruel, outraged eye upon us. The world hates us now, Baxter. But at least we’re all in it together. Listening to your stories, I realised that in a way you’re just like us. You too have lost your position in the world.’

I am in no way like these people. I am in NO WAY LIKE THESE PEOPLE.

‘We do creative therapy mostly,’ Harold says. ‘Responding creatively to a traumatic situation has tremendous potential to heal.’

‘I made these.’ Sissy proudly shows me a pair of earrings.

‘I don’t know if papier mâché earrings in the colours of the old South African flag are inherently therapeutic for someone accused of racism,’ I say.

Darryl raises a finger. ‘That’s where you’re mistaken. It doesn’t matter if it’s wrong or inappropriate. It’s expressive; it’s like flushing poison from your system.’ He holds up a beautifully rendered picture of Malcolm Gladwell with his hair alight and his eyes bleeding.

‘Right,’ I say.

‘I understand that this will be your last session before you leave for your new school. I urge you to channel your frustration into some kind of project. Perhaps throwing yourself into your studies will help?’ Harold says.

‘OK,’ I say, tired and wanting to get as far away from this group as possible. ‘I’ll try.’

Ronin is slumped in the driver’s seat of the Cortina, picking his fingernails with a knife. ‘God, what took you so long? You cured yet? I could wait while you knock one out in the bushes.’

‘Thanks, but I’m OK,’ I say with a sarcastic smile. ‘Besides, nobody is apparently ever cured of addiction. Only in remission.’

The bounty hunter has become a closer friend than I could ever have anticipated. Thanks largely to the fact that he helped me rescue Esmé. He’s the only one that I can really talk to about all the strange creeping, crawling, screeching, roaring things that cling to Cape Town’s underbelly. Plus he always has drugs and alcohol.

‘Well, rather you than me,’ he says. ‘Sitting around in groups with a bunch of slack-jawed morons would drive me insane.’

‘I thought acid, booze and monsters already drove you insane.’

He purses his lips and nods. ‘True. Speaking of.’ He takes a sip from his hip flask. ‘I’ve got a little therapeutic announcement of my own. This is my last drink. Ever.’

‘Da-dum tish,’ I say. ‘Good one.’

He gives me his serial-killer look that he usually reserves for scaring small children. ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’

‘You’re giving up drinking?’ I say, raising my eyebrows. ‘That’s like anyone else saying they’re giving up breathing.’

‘Yeah, I’ve been thinking that maybe I should try and change my life too. Being back with Sue has made me think about stuff. Deep stuff, you know?’

‘You’re talking to the definitive example of how love fucked someone up,’ I say. ‘So yeah, I get it. But what prompted this little lifestyle change?’

He shrugs. ‘Sue’s off on a smuggling trip and I want to be clean by the time she gets back.’

‘Why? She drinks the same amount as you, probably more.’

‘I left her at the altar because I was running away from stuff, you know, running away from myself and shit.’ He looks at me. ‘Go ahead, make a snarky comment. I fucking dare you.’

I hold up my hands. ‘Wasn’t going to.’

‘I even bought a book.’ He closes his knife, reaches into his trench coat and pulls out a bright yellow paperback with a grinning idiot on the cover giving a thumbs-up sign:
The New You: Tips For a Happier, Healthier Lifestyle.

‘You’re serious?’

‘Serious as ball cancer, sparky,’ he says.

‘Well, good luck to both of us.’ I grab the hip flask from Ronin and take a swig. ‘We’re both going to need it.’ I hold up the hip flask. ‘You might want to get rid of this then.’ He grabs it out of my hand and shoves it back into his coat. ‘I’m going to keep it right here with me. It’ll remind me to resist the temptation.’ He taps his temple. ‘Reverse psychology, sparky.’

‘Right,’ I say. I lean back in the passenger seat as Ronin starts the car. ‘So where we going today anyway?’

‘School shopping for you. Gun shopping for me,’ he says.

School shopping because I’ve been forced to accept Tone’s offer and enrol in Hexpoort, a magical training facility in the middle of nowhere. It sucks, but it’s my only real option, my preference for not being stabbed and sexually assaulted precluding any involvement in the South African penal system. That and the fact that I honestly have no other prospects for the future. While other kids my age were off interning in law firms and media houses, I was gaining valuable work experience catching elementals and fighting things that go bump in the night.

‘So what’s Hexpoort like anyway?’ I ask as we drive. I tried googling it but I got one ominous website before my laptop went nuts with malware warnings and the browser shut down.

‘Oh,’ Ronin says, and I catch the involuntary grimace on his face. ‘Fine, just fine.’

‘Right.’ A cold drop of fear slides down my throat and settles in my belly. If it makes Ronin grimace, then it must be bad. Really bad.

We weave through the traffic, as usual Ronin using the rules of the road as more of a rough guideline than an absolute fact.

‘Jesus, slow down,’ I say, gripping the dashboard. ‘Do you always have to go so fast?’ I’ll be pissed if I survived the apocalypse only to be killed by Ronin’s bad driving.

‘Yes,’ he grunts and speeds up a little.

‘Such a child,’ I mutter as we hurtle through a red light.

‘So where are we gonna be buying these books and guns?’ I ask.

‘Hidden Designation Zone Four.’ Ronin cuts in front of a taxi and responds to the blaring of a horn with the middle finger.

‘Catchy name,’ I say.

‘That’s official. Mostly it’s just called the Freak Quarter.’

The Cortina slides into the chaos of Wynberg station. Fruit vendors and guys selling bric-a-brac compete with taxi drivers in a war of who can shout the loudest. A guy with a pit bull on a leash is arguing with a skinny security guard, and two huge Nigerian bodybuilders are flexing for ladies getting their hair braided in a sidewalk hair salon.

We pull into a side road in front of an old factory with a large picture of a boot on it that says ‘Osmans Shoe Manufacture’. Ronin leans on the hooter and a guy selling fruit in front of the building waves his hand irritably and limps over to a large tarpaulin covering the entrance. With a flourish he pulls it aside and Ronin eases the car through, stopping briefly to deposit a couple of coins into the fruit seller’s open palm. He gives us a gold-fronted smile and ushers us in like we’re royalty.

Inside, the factory is huge, and empty except for dozens of cars parked around the entrance. Ronin pulls in next to a silver Jeep and we get out.

We walk over to a red diamond painted on the bare floor. Ronin spits on the ground, cuts his thumb with his knife and chants a few sentences in Xhosa. I pick out something about ‘blood’ and ‘fence’. He grabs me by the sleeve and yanks me through a murky translucent barrier that I didn’t even know was there. It feels like walking through a wall of sewer water and I instinctively hold my breath. The world shimmers and sparkles like when you stand up too quickly. The dancing sparkles in my vision start to solidify and the empty building becomes an undulating ocean of colour, sound and smell.