Kill Baxter (27 page)

There’s a thick, noxious-smelling yellow mist hanging over the docks. Korean sailors are lounging on the deck of a blue trawler, smoking and flicking between pornos and soccer on a small portable TV. A mangy dog sniffs at my shoe and I shake my leg to get rid of it. It growls menacingly and I put my hand on Legba’s handle. Go ahead, dog, make my day. It bares its teeth at me and then slinks away.

We meet a group of immaculately dressed men and women at the end of a pier. They emerge from the mist like phantoms and stand looking warily at us. The MK6 contingent consists of Tone, Ronin, me, and two female sangomas in severe black suits and white beads.

Tone leans on his cane and surveys the group in front of us.

‘Drop them,’ he says like he expects to be obeyed.

The group dissolves to reveal two Slugmothers and several Skinsects.

‘Well, agent,’ says one of the Slugmothers, a huge specimen even bigger than Meptu. Her fat toothless mouth is working like a baby chewing puréed vegetables. ‘What can you tell us about our errant sibling?’ Her eyes are grey and speckled and she sways back and forth as she speaks.

‘Slugmother Tangris, we have proof that Slugmother Meptu is producing pharmaceuticals in order to finance a Hidden rebellion with the Muti Man at its head.’

‘Well, I speak for the rest of the cartels when I say we have no interest in rebellion,’ Tangris replies. ‘Who can judge where the axe will fall next, and they are bad for business. This Muti Man must be stopped and Meptu must be brought back into the fold.’ The way she says it makes me think that she doesn’t mean a quiet talking-to.

‘Then we are on the same page,’ Tone says. ‘Do you have any intelligence on the Muti Man? Or any engagements that Meptu may have?’

‘We only have a name. Lefkin. It has shown up in reports from several quarters. Media, fashion, advertising. Nobody knows who he is, only that he has his hands under the skirts of several of our media competitors. He has favoured Meptu from the beginning. And we know where he will be.’ Tangris flashes a disgusting smile.

‘Then I’d encourage you to share that information,’ Tone says.

‘Have you ever been to Cape Town Fashion Week, agent?’ Tangris asks. ‘It really is an essential cultural experience.’

Ronin and I go back to his apartment to wait while the Blood Kraal figure out a plan. Ronin slumps down on to his couch and quickly falls into a restless sleep. He twitches and shudders, shaking his head and mumbling ‘no, no, no’ several times. The wolf is still hunting him.

I sit down in one of the musty armchairs and browse social media on the borrowed phone. The mundanity of it all is comforting – selfies, cat photos and petitions about animal trafficking – and I scroll through with a sense of nostalgia.

Then Esmé posts a picture from a trendy market just down the road. A picture with Troy in it. No. No, Baxter. No. Again: no.

Yes, yes I do.

I slip out of the apartment and weave my way past the drug dealers and crack dens that surround Ronin’s office to the part of Woodstock that has been gentrified. My new weapons are pressed comfortably against my body under my new jacket. OK, maybe I won’t kill him. I’ll start with a friendly kneecapping and then take it from there.

I duck into the industrial building that houses the market and walk past cheeses, breads, preserves, their varieties written up on chalkboards. This produce is moist, tender, juicy, succulent, dreamy; that one has been kneaded, rolled, massaged. I swear there’s salami that has been cuddled and given acupuncture and cognitive behavioural therapy, and chocolate that has been licked by kittens who have achieved enlightenment.

Through the crowd I catch a glimpse of Esmé walking with a guy with a beard. A beard! He looks about nineteen and is wearing a lumberjack jacket, and has a skateboard under his arm.

‘Fuck,’ I say.

I can feel my hands twitching and my body straining towards them. My new tough and muscled body. I reach into my coat and feel the reassuring pressure of Legba’s handle.

Baxter.

I turn around.

‘Rafe?’

My brother is standing in his orange onesie, an island of calm among the bustle of the market.

Stop.

I curl my face into a snarl. Fuck that. I went through hell to find Esmé. Sure, it may have been my fault to begin with, but not everybody would have done that. I don’t deserve to be dumped like this … I don’t

Baxter, chill the hell out.

I’m shaking now. Shaking with fury. I swear I’m going to kill everyone here. Shoot and hack and bludgeon every one of these pasty motherfuckers.

Rafe is in front of me and staring at me with the knowing eye.

CALM. THE. FUCK. DOWN.

I feel the rage slip away from me. He grabs my arm and leads me away from the market. There’s a fire escape on the side of the building and he pulls me on to it. We go three flights up and then sit with our legs hanging over the edge.

She doesn’t owe you anything, Bax.

For the first time since we were kids, I cry in front of my brother. Hot tears splash down my face. Rafe puts an arm around my shoulder.

‘How’d you even find me?’ I say between sobs

I’m the best damn Dreamwalker in the world, that’s how.

‘I was so angry.’ The words spill out of my mouth. ‘I wanted to kill that guy.’

It’s this thing in the air. It’s driving people crazy.

‘The egregore,’ I say, and flex my hands to try and relieve some of the tension in my body.

It’s getting stronger. Your friends aren’t going to be able to destroy it. The closer you get to the source, the worse the effects will be.

‘So what do we do?’

You have to find your True Will. Knowing yourself, who you really are, will protect you from it.

‘More Dreamwalking? There’s a lot going on at the moment. I’m not sure I can—’

You’ll have death going on unless you listen to me.

I sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll find my True Self. But you’ve got to promise me something too.’

What?

‘You’ll get out of your head and start giving Mom and Dad a little of what they need.’

He stares at me and then nods.

We sit in silence for ages, two brothers, both of us assholes, watching people wearing vintage clothes overcharging for hummus.

As it turns out, I have no time for Dreamwalking. I get back to the apartment and find Ronin on the phone.

‘Uh-uh,’ he says into his huge brick of a cell phone. He says he prefers it to the one he lent me because it makes a better improvised weapon. ‘Roger that.’ He shoves the phone back into his trench-coat pocket and looks at me. ‘While you were on your stroll, we got confirmation from the Blood Kraal. Operation Fashion Victim is a go. We meet at an MK safe house in the city in fifteen minutes.’

‘That’s a big ten-four,’ I say. ‘Any idea what it’ll entail?’

He shrugs. ‘But it sounds like they’re not fucking around. They’re pulling a lot of people into this.’

‘How you feeling?’ I ask. ‘And I’m not trying to play amateur psychologist, I promise.’

He rubs at his nose and considers me for a second. ‘Still got the jitters,’ he concedes. ‘But I guess I’m feeling a bit better. I think I’ve got this thing beat.’

‘That’s really great,’ I say.

He awkwardly puts his hands in his pockets and scuffs at the floor with his boot. ‘How you doing with the whole noble and pure thing?’

I shrug. ‘OK, I guess. I was going to maim Esmé’s new boyfriend but I was persuaded not to.’

‘Yay, progress for both of us,’ Ronin says.

‘Yeah.’

‘So shall we go take out our frustrations on some real bad guys?’

‘Yeah, let’s.’

We drive through town in silence. The atmosphere has intensified, a steady hum of static that brings feelings of hate and rage floating to the surface. I find my mind drifting to thoughts of casual violence; vivid daydreams of drawing my gun and unloading into pedestrians as we drive, or of grabbing the wheel out of Ronin’s hands and sending the car ploughing into a group of joggers. From the white-knuckled way that Ronin grips the wheel, he’s fighting off similar thoughts.

The MK6 safe house is a laundry in the CBD called Cheerful Suds. The lady behind the counter is in curlers but she has white sangoma beads around her arms. She jerks her head to a door and then returns to reading the tabloids.

The same two sangomas in suits who were guarding Katinka are loitering in the back room.

‘Hey, fellas,’ Ronin says. ‘Nice covert look you’ve got going on there. What’s weird about two guys in black suits and sunglasses standing around in the back of a laundry, right?’

They give us several seconds of stony-faced disapproval before opening the front of an industrial washer-dryer to reveal a doorway into a high-tech command centre.

The Witch is in front of a bank of screens pointing out locations to Tone with a small beaded stylus. Katinka is sitting on a couch cleaning a handgun, and Nom is squatting down on the floor having a whispered conversation with a Christmas beetle.

‘Nom, Tinks!’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Bax!’ Nom gets up and trots across to me with the beetle on his finger. ‘The Witch found out about my fashion blog. Turns out it’s a good cover for this operation.’ He nods to the beetle. ‘This is X’ssrtthh. He has some pretty interesting ideas about geopolitics.’

‘Uh, hey,’ I say, nodding self-consciously to the beetle.

Katinka looks up from the disassembled Glock in her hand and gives me a smile. ‘Thankfully I managed to convince them that I’m much more useful as an undercover agent than sitting in a safe house waiting for Naebril to find me. Those two dimwits were really starting to get on my nerves.’

The Witch turns in her chair to face us. ‘Welcome to Operation Fashion Victim.’

‘You giving us anything more than the catchy name?’ Ronin sits down on the couch next to Katinka.

‘The Dwarven Legion has assembled an assault team at a nearby location,’ the Witch says. ‘Our role is intelligence gathering: to find Meptu and the Muti Man and determine the nature and location of the object they’re using to focus the egregore.’

‘And how do we do that?’ Ronin asks.

‘Passes for Cape Town Fashion Week.’ Tone holds up a handful of ID cards attached to red lanyards. ‘Baxter and Ronin will be undercover as reporters. Katinka and Nom will go in as fashion bloggers. The Witch and I will coordinate from a mobile unit nearby.’

‘Uh, small problem.’ Ronin puts his hand up like a schoolkid asking a question. ‘Meptu knows Baxter and me; it’ll spook her if she sees us.’

‘Spooking her is the point,’ the Witch says. ‘It’ll force her to warn the Muti Man. We find him, we find the object, we destroy the egregore.’

‘How do we know he’s even here?’ Katinka asks through a mouthful of gum. She snaps the pieces of the Glock together easily, and pulls back the slide with a menacing click.

‘The cartels believe that Meptu has been planning for this event.’ The Witch plants her palms on the desk and leans forward. ‘Whatever she intends to achieve by running drugs for the Muti Man and the Bone Kraal, it culminates today. The Muti Man has to be there.’ She looks around. ‘Any other questions?’