Kill Baxter (22 page)

‘I’ll try. But you know humans are supposed to stay out of Hidden affairs.’

Hoxie pulls back his hair and shows us his other ear. The top has been shorn off, leaving an ugly mess of scar tissue. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ve experienced humans “staying out of our affairs” first-hand.’

Light brown, dark brown, beige, cream. We drive through the uninspired palette of the empty scrubland. I try to call Kyle and Esmé a couple of times, on a spare phone that I had to beg Ronin to let me borrow, but neither of them picks up. With each stupid, stuttering voicemail message I leave, my mood darkens a little more.

I’m in good company. Hoxie pointed out Squirrelskull’s location on a map, but it hasn’t improved Ronin’s state of mind at all. He chain-smokes his way down the highway, swearing to himself and pounding relentlessly on the steering wheel.

‘You OK?’ I say.

‘Sure, sure,’ he replies. ‘Hand me a stick of gum.’

I pass him the packet and he takes the cigarette out of his mouth long enough to stuff in a few sticks.

‘You look different,’ he says, his voice muffled through his gum and cigarette.

‘Yeah. Must admit I never thought I’d be doing push-ups on my knuckles,’ I say, looking down at the scars on the back of my hands from training with the Boer.

‘Wait until they make you do knuckle push-ups on broken glass,’ he replies.

‘Can’t wait,’ I say. I look at his craggy, hardened face trying to smoke and chew the pain away and I can’t help but think about the fresh-faced young guy I saw. ‘Ronin, listen, I’m sorry.’

‘Why, what did you do?’

‘I mean about the Border … what happened to you.’

He’s silent.

‘I mean, it was—’

‘Shut the fuck up, sparky,’ Ronin says viciously, spitting smoke and gum from his mouth. He brakes hard and I’m thrown forward against my seat belt. ‘It’s part of the initiation, OK? It’s part of the fucking burden of magic. You get to see parts of your master’s life, stuff that you should never have access to. It doesn’t mean you get to play amateur fucking psychologist.’ He retrieves his cigarette from the dashboard and shoves it back into his mouth.

‘I was just—’

‘You were just sticking your nose into my business,’ Ronin says. ‘I don’t need some teenager trying to explain to me why wiping out entire villages was actually OK and that I just need to forgive myself and sing “Kumbaya” and go frolicking through meadows.’

‘Well, it is in the past,’ I say.

‘No.’ Ronin raps on his temple with his knuckles. ‘It’s in here and it’s not going anywhere. I drink to keep it away and now I’ve stopped doing that, so the last fucking thing I need is a little punk like you going all Dr Phil on me.’

‘Fine,’ I say, sitting back in my seat and crossing my arms sulkily. ‘I hope you and your post-traumatic stress disorder are happy together.’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ Ronin grunts.

‘Right back at you,’ I reply.

All in all, I think my first day as a magician’s apprentice has gone pretty much as expected.

We pull off the highway and follow a series of bad dirt roads until we land up in front of a hotel called The Zulu Regent. It’s a monstrosity of a building, an ancient Gothic mansion complete with gargoyles and peeling paint. Basically it screams ‘murder dungeon’ to anyone with any kind of common sense. Ronin obviously likes it.

‘We’re not seriously staying here, are we?’ I ask.

‘Relax,’ he says. ‘We’re safer here than we’d be camping outside. The guy who runs this place is an agent.’

A muscular black man in a faded pair of jeans and a white T-shirt walks down the steps and pulls Ronin into a bear hug. The sangoma beads on his forearms rattle as he shakes the bounty hunter from side to side.

‘OK, OK,’ Ronin growls.

‘Oh come on, Ronin,’ the guy says in a deep, pleasant voice. ‘How many years has it been?’

‘Only five or six.’

‘Five or six?’ He laughs as he puts Ronin back down. ‘It was sometime in the nineties.’

‘Yeah, well, time flies.’

‘I’m sorry, but I refuse to accept that as an excuse. Never mind, it’s good to see you anyway.’

‘Good to see you too, old man,’ Ronin says. This is my apprentice, Baxter. Baxter, Sandile.’

Sandile raises an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t think anyone would EVER be stupid enough to become Ronin’s apprentice.’

‘You underestimate the stupidity of the kids of today,’ Ronin replies.

Sandile laughs a huge, booming laugh and crushes my hand in a vice grip. ‘Good to meet you, Baxter. My condolences on your apprenticeship.’

‘Thanks.’ I put on a grieving face. ‘I’m dealing with it as best I can.’

‘Fuck you both,’ Ronin says and strides up the stairs to the hotel.

The interior is as Gothic as the outside. The massive entrance hall is all dark wood, antique armour and velvet drapes.

‘Not bad for a gay Zulu guy from Mthata, eh?’ Sandile says.

‘Huh. How did you get the dough for all this? Last time I looked, MK pay cheques weren’t exactly blowing anyone’s mind.’

Sandile’s face crumples. ‘Well, the divorce. Michael always had money …’

Ronin puts his hand on the big man’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, I heard about that from Pat.’

Sandile forces a smile on to his face. ‘No matter. It’s in the past. Get you a Scotch, old man?’

A flash of indescribable pain passes across Ronin’s face. ‘I, um, don’t drink any more,’ he mumbles.

‘I must have misheard. It almost sounded like you said you don’t drink any more.’

‘That’s what I said,’ Ronin replies hoarsely.

Sandile shakes his head. ‘The world has turned upside down. Basson dead, MK6 operatives getting picked off all over the place and Jackie Ronin turns down a Scotch.’ He shrugs. ‘Well come and sit anyway. I’ll make you a virgin cocktail.’

‘Just shoot me now,’ Ronin says morosely as we follow Sandile into a voluminous room housing a shiny mahogany bar and several dusty blackjack, roulette and poker tables that look like they were last used in the eighties.

‘Welcome to the casino capital of South Africa,’ Sandile says ruefully as he pours himself a massive tumbler of Scotch.

‘Business not going well?’ Ronin accepts a lemonade with a look of disgust.

‘Understatement,’ Sandile says, offering me a tumbler. I take it gratefully. ‘Michael was right. I am a useless hotelier. So here I sit in this huge decaying house, all alone and waiting to be the next one to have my teeth pulled by the Muti Man.’

‘Is it really bad?’ I say. ‘I mean the agents getting targeted?’

Sandile shrugs. ‘Kramer got taken out on his farm two weeks ago. All his teeth,
zzzzip
, gone.’

‘Damn,’ Ronin says. ‘They got a crazy motherfucker like Kramer?’

‘Yeah,’ Sandile says. ‘And Goldberg, Mthewa and Jacobs. They’re taking out the big guns and the Blood Kraal aren’t doing anything about it.’

‘They gave the Legion control of Hexpoort,’ Ronin says. ‘After the attack.’

Sandile gives him a startled look. ‘They attacked the Poort? What kind of lunatic would attack the Witch at home?’

‘My apprentice here says the Muti Man is a Tengu.’

‘A Crow shaman? I thought most of them were rounded up in the ’82 purge? They were the Legion’s public enemy number one.’

‘Apparently not. And this one is pissed.’

Sandile grabs the bottle of Scotch and takes a swig from it. ‘Well fuck me. This just goes from bad to worse.’

Ronin eyes the bottle like he’s a vampire looking at a vial of blood. ‘Bottom line is that we’re at war whether it’s official or not. Any unusual activity around this area?’

‘A coven of Semish in caves about twenty Ks away. But they don’t look for shit unless something pisses them off. I’ve capped one or two of them for hunting humans and now they stick to cattle.’

‘Well it’s probably not a bad idea to be prepared. Like you said, things are turned on their head. You still have your collection?’

Sandile chuckles. ‘Oh, a man does not get rid of a collection like mine.’

‘Anything you’d be willing to sell the boy? He needs a weapon. The pig-iron I’ve lent him doesn’t suit him.’

‘I’m offended. You may as well ask me to sell him an organ.’

‘OK.’ Ronin turns his glass in his hand and stares at the lemonade. ‘Just asking.’

Sandile looks at me. ‘But I hear our boy here is a Dreamwalker.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ I say.

‘The first Dreamwalker at Hexpoort in fifty years? News like that travels.’ He taps his fingers on the glossy mahogany of the bar. ‘So … what exactly can you do? How extensive are those Dreamwalking skills?’

‘Stop beating around the bush. If you want something from him, just ask.’

Sandile sighs. ‘It’s my ex-husband, Michael. He won’t answer my calls. He won’t let me see our son. I just want to find out what they’re up to.’

‘You want me to spy on your ex for you?’

‘Not spy exactly. Just make sure they’re OK,’ he says. ‘He’s threatened to take our son overseas if he catches me surveilling him.’

‘So you want me to surveil him.’

‘Do it and you can have anything from my collection you want.’

I look at Ronin. He shrugs. ‘Let’s just say I would do unspeakable things for something from his collection.’

‘You’d do unspeakable things for a cigarette,’ I say. ‘But OK. I’m in. Have you got anything of his? I think it’ll be easier that way.’

Sandile holds up a hand and disappears into the entrance hall. I hear his heavy footsteps going up the stairs. He appears a few minutes later holding up a denim shirt.

‘Haven’t washed it,’ he says. ‘Sentimental fool that I am.’

‘This’ll work.’ I take the shirt and sit down on the floor in the middle of the room. As I weave the beads between my fingers, the cloth of the shirt throbs with something, a vibe, an essence, a unique marker that I follow back to its source.

I see a tall man in a blazer and jeans reading a small boy a bedtime story. The image shifts and I’m exposed to the man’s dreams. Great swathes of ambition run through him, images of yachts, parties, a childhood obsession with old cars. And meeting Sandile. A single word of immense significance to the two of them throbs in my head.

I open my eyes. ‘He still dreams about you,’ I say.

Sandile stares at me. ‘How can I tell this is real?’

‘Does the word “Lotus” mean anything to you?’

‘My God,’ he says, clenching and unclenching a huge fist.

Ronin puts a hand on his arm. ‘Steady there, old man.’

Sandile hangs his head, but when he lifts it he’s smiling. ‘I’m OK. This is a positive thing, right? Maybe I can still get him back?’

‘I really don’t know,’ I say.

He shakes his head. ‘So stupid. Love, right?’

I nod. So damn stupid.

Sandile downs his Scotch and then puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘But let’s talk about something a little less ambiguous. Let’s talk about weapons.’

‘Now you’re speaking my language,’ Ronin says.

We follow Sandile into a large sitting room. He taps numbers into a panel underneath a painting of a man in uniform stroking a greyhound, and a whole wall slides away to reveal a large steel display room filled with racks.

‘Projectile weapons, bladed weapons, impact weapons,’ Sandile says, brushing his fingers along a row of guns. ‘You can pick one of each.’

Ronin shakes his head in wonder. ‘I’ll spy on anyone you want for as long as you want for one of these beauties.’

I look from rack to rack. There are so many different kinds that I don’t know where to start.

‘Any tips?’ I ask Ronin.

‘Logically, there are all kinds of things you should factor in: reach, range, magazine capacity, susceptibility to jamming. But the best advice I can give you is just pick the items that feel right.’

‘Let’s give him some space,’ Sandile says, stepping back out of the room. Ronin reluctantly follows, and I’m left alone with the instruments of death.

I’ve always liked the concept of weapons better than the reality. In movies and games they seem so cool. Up close you can’t help but become aware of their terrible lethal capacity. These are tools with no other purpose than that of ending life, and there’s something terrifying about that.

I browse the long racks and decide to be systematic about it. Impact weapons first. There are iron-shod sticks, baseball bats, canes, batons, staffs, maces. There are nunchaku and tonfa and some kind of weird gnarled stick weighted with lead.