Payback - A Cape Town thriller (43 page)

Pylon stopped behind the mobile-scanner van, checked his pistol and chambered a round before he joined the technicians in the van. The two men inside almost invisible in the cigarette smoke. The smoke sending Pylon into a coughing fit so savage he had to back out to clear his lungs.

‘It’s going to kill you,’ he said to the techies.

‘This or something else,’ said the one, butt lighting another Marlboro. ‘Get in outta the rain.’

‘No,’ said Pylon, ‘this is not how I fancy dying.’

‘Suit yourself,’ the techie said, switching on the instrument, the signal loud, a long screech.

‘We had a look over the wall,’ said the second techie, ‘there’s a garage just the other side, ‘n that’s where we’d guess the car is. For a signal this strong.’

‘Nobody around?’

‘Nobody we’ve noticed. A bakkie delivery van standing in the driveway though.’

‘All yours now,’ said the first techie. ‘Should be fun.’

Pylon waited until they’d driven away before he buzzed the gate intercom, wondering what he was going to say if someone answered? No one did. Buzzed three times, then hauled himself over the gate. Dropped down and crouched. No movement at the windows. No shouts that he’d been seen from the street. No one out in the drizzle anyway.

The driveway was cobbled now that had been a tarred strip in Mace’s day. Went right up to the steps at the stoep. Otherwise not much had changed. The garden neater, the lawn trimmed. The house recently painted and in good shape for the market.

He peered in the windows of the Isuzu: the cab a mess of sweet papers, KFC takeaway boxes, polystyrene cups; in the back a surfboard, a wetsuit bundled in a plastic bucket. The canopy door unlocked, but the cab secured, a security light flashing in the dashboard.

Pylon tried the front door of the house, locked, but you had to test the obvious. Made a funnel of his hand against the glass, and listened. Could hear what might have been a radio on somewhere deep in the house.

The thing here, he thought, was where to break in?

The curtains were drawn at the sitting-room windows, the same at the front room that’d been Oumou’s studio, where the men got in. Not one of the windows open even a chink. He walked round the house, through the gate that led to a paved courtyard at the back. The kitchen light on, blinds at the window slatted open enough for him to see the room was empty. A takeaway packet on the counter top. A six-pack of beer unopened and a couple of bottles next to the takeaway remains. A world-band radio.

He broke a back window to get in. Stood in the kitchen listening, the radio playing rap music. He switched it off. The only sound now the tick of a kitchen clock. He waited while the second hand did a full circle. Stepped into the hallway leading to the front door, with each step the floorboards creaking. Stopped at the foot of the staircase. Looked up. Could feel the house paused about him.

Only then noticed the door to the cellar, unlatched, slightly ajar, a bulkhead light on in the stairwell. Pylon started down the steps, calling out, ‘Mace, Mace’ - seeing the body lying in the doorway, a mess of blood on the flagstone floor.

Pylon, in the cellar’s doorway, said, ‘Save me Jesus.’

‘I’d go with that,’ said Mace, ‘at this point.’

‘What a mess.’

‘I’d go with that, too,’ Mace said, ‘bastard tried to shoot me.’

Pylon pointed at the gun lying on the bed beside Mace. ‘And that little toy?’

‘Left for me, under the mattress. It works though.’

‘Jesus Christ Almighty. I mean what? How?’

So Mace told Pylon how he’d been jacked by Mikey and
everything
that’d followed up to the point it seemed Mikey intended to use the revolver so he, Mace, had laid two more shots into Mikey’s chest. And how Mikey got a strange expression like he was going to be sick, and spewed up blood and pink matter. Still on his feet though. Then how he took a step forward, unsteady, waving the gun about, falling down on his hands, coughing up more of the pink matter. Mace said he thought he might have to shoot Mikey again but the guy’s arms gave way and he dropped flat, his legs splaying behind him. Lay twitching on his stomach. ‘Watching him bleed out wasn’t the best time of my life,’ Mace said.

‘Save me Jesus,’ said Pylon again. ‘You don’t realise people have so much blood.’

‘The keys,’ said Mace. ‘Just get me loose.’

Pylon took a step back. ‘I’m supposed to go through his
pockets
, all that blood ‘n shit? Scumbag like this’ll be HIV.’

‘Wash your hands afterwards,’ said Mace. ‘Water’s got that purifying quality.’

Pylon said, ‘Who’re you kidding’ - prodded at Mikey’s pockets with the toe of his shoe until he found the bulge of the keys and eased them out, bloodying his hands nonetheless. ‘Ah shit,’ he said, ‘this’s asking for death’ - and rushed upstairs to wash his hands and the bunch of keys.

Mace shouting after him, ‘You could get me loose first.’

Pylon came back drying his hands on his jeans. ‘I forgot to mention,’ he said, bending to the handcuffs, ‘that I got a kidnap video this morning, through the letter box, at the office. Nice shot of you, against the wall, I’d say. Couldn’t make out what you were saying, though, ‘cos there’s a voice-over, probably by Mikey here, that he’ll swap you for your diamonds.’

‘That right?’ said Mace.

Pylon found the right key, unsnapped the lock. ‘I didn’t tell Oumou. I thought it premature.’

‘Good,’ said Mace, rubbing the pain in his calf. ‘How’s she?’

‘In a bad way. Very cut up. I was you, I’d phone her, like now’ - offering Mace his cellphone.

Mace took it. ‘I thought I would die here. Lie there dying, all shot up by that Mikey is what Sheemina February wanted. Him and me going out together. What the hell’s her case? What’s she think she’s playing at?’

Pylon shrugged. ‘Search me. We could go’n ask her. After you’ve done the ET phone home bit.’ He started up the stairs, paused. ‘Yeah, another thing. Gonz phoned.’

‘To say what?’

‘The case is adjourned.’

‘For how long?’

‘No idea. How long’s a piece of string.’

‘He’s a good man, Gonz.’

Pylon came down a step. ‘Only adjourned, Mace. Postponed. Stuff like that bounces back.’

Sheemina February agreed to meet them at the café in the
Gardens
. She didn’t ask about Mikey Rheeder or even sound surprised to hear from Mace.

‘A hard bitch,’ Mace said to Pylon, ‘that Mikey Rheeder was thinking of setting her up. For a price no doubt. Saw himself getting diamonds and a payout on her. Silly bugger. Probably she knew this. Realised Mikey was on the take, thought here’s a solution.’

Sheemina February was waiting when they walked in, a filter coffee before her, untouched.

Mace and Pylon sat down, ordered the same. Mace put the gun on the table. ‘Didn’t work out as you wanted.’

She shrugged, barely moving her shoulders. ‘You lived up to my expectations: the man who always shoots first. Who I
overestimated
was Mikey.’

Pylon covered the pistol with a serviette, shoved it towards her.

‘You can keep it,’ she said. ‘As a souvenir.’

‘What shit are you playing?’ said Mace.

Sheemina February took a sip of coffee, leaving the outline of her lipstick on the rim of the cup. ‘I’ll tell you, Mr Bishop. Although I am disappointed in you and Mr Buso that you haven’t realised. But maybe it was routine for people like you? Maybe you weren’t bothered. You especially, Mr Bishop. Unable to even recognise me. That’s how much it all meant. Minor stuff. Waste and discard.’ She smiled at them, Mace seeing no humour in her Nordic eyes.

‘That sidekick of yours killed Mo, didn’t he? You were setting him up. Wanted us both dead in the cellar?’

‘Mr Bishop, you asked a question, I’m trying to answer it.’

‘Jesus,’ said Mace, ‘what’s with you?’

Sheemina February pushed away the cup of coffee. ‘Can I talk?’

‘Yeah,’ said Mace. ‘Talk. Amuse us.’

‘Oh, it’ll amuse you,’ said Sheemina February, ‘if you’ve got the imagination.’

Mace was about to come in again, Pylon put a restraining hand on his arm.

‘Thank you, Mr Buso,’ she said. And paused once more, looking from one to the other. ‘This is about a young girl. Eighteen, just matriculated. Idealistic. An activist. Saw the inside of a prison for the first time when she was sixteen. Used to teargas. Used to throwing stones. Even used to the sound of gunfire. And deaths. She’s been to the funerals of her friends, people as young as she is.

‘Imagine this young girl going north, hitching rides in trucks, walking through the bush across borders until she gets to the camps. Membesh, the camp where freedom fighters train. What she wants is to learn to shoot guns, and go back to the war.

‘What happens to her is nobody believes her story. Nobody believes that she has been travelling for a month. Alone. That some nights she slept in ditches, that some nights she was too scared to sleep. A young girl, alone? Impossible. All the way from Cape Town to Lusaka? Forget it. She is called a spy. She is put in a room, tied to a chair, her hands flat on the table. Two young men come in. They ask her questions, the same questions she has been asked before. She gives the same answers as always. They say they do not believe her. That she must tell them the truth. It is the truth, she says. They explain what is going to happen. They show her the mallet. She is crying, through her sobs she tells them she has told the truth. They flip a coin. Best of three, heads wins.’

She looked at Mace, the white of her teeth lightly pressing on the purple of her lips.

‘You won, Mr Bishop. You called heads.’

Twenty years ago the times were paranoid, Mace thought, shit happened. He kept her stare, didn’t say a word.

‘Should I tell you what happened to the young girl afterwards?’ She held up her gloved hand. ‘And I don’t mean this, this disfigurement.’ She lowered her hand. ‘Or is that too shameful for the ears of heroes, what happened to your victims?’ Sheemina February glanced from Mace to Pylon. ‘Yes? No? Yes, let me tell you. The young girl was raped by the leaders. Not once. Not twice. Every day for months. Because you would not believe her.’

Sheemina February got up from the table. Seemed about to add something else but didn’t. Might have had the edge of a smile on her lips but Mace wasn’t sure. She pushed in the chair, walked away. At the door turned back to face them. ‘I wasn’t going to mention this, boys, but perhaps you should know that I know about the diamonds.’

They watched Sheemina February in her long black coat, black gloves, pause outside to put up an umbrella. She didn’t look round, headed off through the Company Gardens, beneath the dripping trees.

When she was out of sight Pylon said, ‘That’s bad. About the diamonds.’

‘No question.’

They stared into the grey morning, drank their weak
Americanos
. Pylon finished his, wiped his hand across the back of his mouth. ‘You believe that story of her’s?’