Poison City (24 page)

‘When are you going to take me to a place like this?’ asks Jaeger.

‘Sorry. Way out of my price range.’

We head outside. It’s about three in the afternoon. Grimes said we should be inside the market before it closes for the day, which happens at five. Just time to grab a quick bite to eat before we try to track down this lore-keeper.

I’m really not looking forward to it.

Chapter 12

The Warwick Junction market is a little piece of chaos nestled in the heart of the city. A taste of the entire African continent squashed into a cramped, claustrophobic location in the centre of the city’s main transport hub.

The market is made up of about eight thousand traders separated into nine distinct markets, all of this squeezed up against two major freeways, a railway station, five bus terminals, and nineteen taxi ranks. Half a million commuters use the roads, walkways, and pedestrian bridges that crisscross the area every day.

The market itself is a hundred years old, started when Indian merchants set up camp here after their time as indentured labourers was up.

Then apartheid reared its ugly head in the forties, and the area became the hub for the African workers heading into the city. Street traders were prohibited anywhere near the city centre, but trade persisted despite the harassment of the blackjacks – the apartheid police. The place just couldn’t be shut down. It had a life of its own. No matter how many times the blackjacks tried to clear the stallholders out, they were back a few days later. It was a losing battle and they eventually just gave up.

When the apartheid policies began to loosen in the eighties, the trade at Warwick Junction exploded, but the infrastructure was laughable for the amount of people it catered to, and from the nineties onward, the area was earmarked for expansion and upgrade.

The fact that this hasn’t been completed yet is all thanks to a government initiative called the Urban Renewal Scheme, a little scam that is used to line the pockets of cronies by way of corrupt tenders and major kickbacks.

Armitage and I stroll through the taxi ranks on the periphery of the market, jostling with workers fighting for space in the hundreds of white minibus taxis covered with advertisements for soap powders and cell-phone operators.

We’re flowing against the tide, heading for the stairs to the pedestrian bridge that crosses the freeway. The hubbub and shouting of commuters assaults my ears as we hurry up the steps, trying to get inside the market before the gates close.

Before the 2010 World Cup came along there used to be one fatal accident here every week. But when the government realized this didn’t look very good to visiting tourists, they built a viaduct and pedestrian bridges across the freeways, meaning people didn’t have to play chicken with 120 km an hour traffic anymore.

We hurry over the bridge and down the wide steps into the market proper. My senses are going into overload. The bright colours of the stalls, the smell of meat grilling over stolen metal supermarket carts, the thumping bass of a hundred different sound systems, the stench of sweat.

We head through the Bead Market, rainbows made up of little plastic balls strung up on twine, bracelets and necklaces laid out on display for all to see. Bright clothing hangs on racks, the last shoppers of the day browsing for bargains.

We cut through a stall into the Impepho and Lime Market, trestle tables displaying balls of red and white lime the size of my head. The area is filled with sweet and savoury smoke battling each other for dominance. Incense used to communicate with ancestral spirits.

Next, we pass into the Bovine Head Market. A huge area covered with a gently curved corrugated roof: frozen cow heads rest on the tables outside the shelter, defrosting in the still-sweltering sun. Aisles of wooden benches are covered with mielies, sweet potatoes, and onions. The heavy
thunk
of cleavers chopping through meat into wood.

Steam clouds the air. The smell of meat, raw and cooked, clings to the back of the throat. Plastic trays holding neatly sliced lamb and beef, salt, pepper and tabasco sauce laid out for those wanting a snack before heading home.

Outside the Bovine Head Market are stalls of fresh produce covered with beach umbrellas. Potatoes, onions, mushrooms, herbs.

We head through the narrow aisle and take the stairs up to the Music Bridge – a wide pedestrian flyover lined with stalls selling CDs and cassettes, mp3 players, rasta hats, and counterfeit designer caps. There’s no point even trying to talk here. Each stall blasts out a different type of music: gospel, pop, kwaito, maskanda.

We take yet another bridge to finally arrive at our destination, our senses battered and bruised.

The Muti Market sprawls across an incomplete motorway overpass, the construction abandoned due to some idiot making mistakes in the planning. When the builders realized their error they just upped and left, leaving behind a concrete cliff that literally drops away onto the road below.

It didn’t take long for the traders to move in. Houses and shops sprouted up overnight. It was prime real estate. Easy access to the market and taxi ranks, but high off the ground so there was no danger of flooding in spring.

I stop walking and look around, just . . . enjoying the quietness.

The difference is intense. The echo of silence rings in my ears. From the blaring music to this sudden quiet calmness, where the Izintanga – the healers – brew up their medicines in small covered kiosks, where shoppers browse for traditional medicines – herbs, tree barks, roots and spices.

All we have to do now is wait. I lean on the railing, staring at the market down below while Armitage wanders off to browse the stalls. There’s a barber booth right below me, a huge poster showing cartoons of the available hairstyles, most of which look like they’re from the seventies and eighties.

Armitage re-joins me some time later, handing me a can of orange Fanta and leaning over the railing at my side. She squints at me, the afternoon sun hitting her square in the face.

‘So,’ she says. ‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’

I look at her in surprise. ‘What? Nothing – why?’

‘Come on, love. I’ve known you for years now. You’re acting . . . off. Like before. You know. All that with your daughter.’ She stops talking, frowns and looks away. ‘There’s something in your eyes,’ she finally says. ‘Something different.’

‘You’re imagining it.’

‘Am I?’ She stares at me, and when I don’t answer, I see a brief flash of hurt. She shrugs and looks away. ‘Suit yourself. Never let it be said I pry into another’s business.’

I hesitate. Then sigh. ‘The guy we’re looking for. The one who killed the sin-eaters. He . . . He was there. That night. In the mountains. He’s involved.’

She knows instantly what I’m talking about. ‘That night’ has defined every waking moment of my life since it happened. ‘So . . . are you saying this case is connected to the murdered kids?’

I wince at her words, turn away to look over the market. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Except for the fact that the same guy is involved.’

I take a deep breath, tighten my grip on the railing till my knuckles go white. ‘I want him, Armitage. I want him for what he did.’

‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll do everything I can to help.’

She holds a fist out to me. I stare at it in confusion, then realise she’s waiting for me to fist bump. I can’t help it. I burst out laughing.

‘What, are we in high school?’

She smiles, the sun reflecting in her eyes. ‘Don’t leave me hanging, London. I taught you better than that.’

I shake my head but hold out my fist. She bumps hers against mine.

‘In it till the end, pet,’ she says, which I can’t help feeling might be an unfortunate turn of phrase.

The healers have started to pack away their wares, storing them inside their kiosks and locking down the shutters. The setting sun is level with the bridge opposite us, limning the concrete in bright orange light, shadows stretching out towards us across the half-completed flyover.

A guy in a green shirt approaches us. He’s one of the Urban Management Zone security guards who watch over the market at night.

‘Hi, guys,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to leave now. We’re closing up.’

Armitage flashes her ID. ‘We’ll come find you when we need to get out. Official business.’

He nods and turns away, chatting to one of the healers as they head towards the stairs. I finish my drink as the market slowly empties of life. The sun sets and huge spotlights burst to life around the perimeter of the ten-feet-high fence, creating sharp contrasts of white light and midnight shadows.

‘How long do you reckon we’ll have to wait?’ asks Armitage.

I shrug. Who knows with the fae. Nobody can predict anything about the capricious bastards.

We could be in for a long night.

When the fae do finally arrive, it happens almost without me noticing it. A silence has fallen over the market, a quiet peacefulness that floats through the warm evening air. A light breeze carries the remnants of cooking food. A dog barks in the distance.

The lights dim slightly, as if a cloud has passed in front of the moon. And then the fae are slipping from shadows and from behind stalls and kiosks, stepping into the summer night as if they were always there.

Now, get all those Hollywood ideas of the fae out of your mind. They’re not like that. No bright colours or glittering wings. No pixie dust and pan flutes. The fae are a race of being as dissimilar to each other as we are.

I see ten-feet-tall giants with huge bellies and dirty overalls, like they’ve just finished a day’s work down a mine. I see knee-high gnomes with bark-coloured skin and black eyes, their heavily lined faces breaking into laughter and chatter as they spot friends. I see dryads, their skin a muted olive colour, lithe, tall. Their faces are alien, eyes too wide apart, mouths too thin. They move around the stalls in a slow and steady manner, their steps so light it’s like they’re floating in the air.

All the fae wear earth-toned clothing and it’s lived in. Worn out. Creased and dirty. The fae are a living race and they work every day just like we do. Don’t ask me doing what. That’s something the Division has wanted to know for years now.

The air is filled with the sounds of different languages. The sibilant hiss of visiting selkies, their bodies wet, their teeth sharp and black. The guttural growl of dwarves, who sound like they’re angry every time they speak. The high-pitched clicking of an insect-man, huge compound eyes inscrutable, black tongue darting out to taste the air.

As always, I’m immediately uncomfortable in their presence, a general uneasiness that a seemingly harmless word or gesture could get me locked away in a faerie mound for the next hundred years. They’re so fickle, you never know what might upset them.

Some of the fae take up positions next to the kiosks, opening up their own shops for business. But their wares are different to what had been on sale earlier in the day. I glance at a table covered in jars. Handwritten labels hang from little pieces of twine:
The Tears of an Abandoned Wyvern. The last breath of murdered playwrights (18th cent.) The despair of a lost battle. The soul of a betrayed lover (Suicide.)

Another table holds all kinds of dead mythological (at least to us) animals, such as basilisk feet, for a particular soup the fae enjoy. (The feet are added to bark taken from the World Tree that grows deep beneath London’s streets.)

One shelf holds only unicorn horns, their pearlescent sheen dulled in death. The fae grind down the horns and use them as a particularly virulent poison. As far as I know, trading in unicorn horns is highly illegal seeing as the species is on the endangered list. We can’t do anything about it now, though. If we cause a scene we’re likely to get thrown out, at best, or more likely attacked. I make a mental note to send someone down here tomorrow night. Just to check if the horns are real or fake.

We ask around and eventually find our way to a kiosk right at the edge of the overpass, where the concrete drop-off is linked to the newer pedestrian bridge.

Two imposing fae block our way. They’re tall, thin, their skin rough and cracked like bark. They look like trees given human shape.

‘Uh . . . hi. We’re looking for . . . uh . . . Gran?’ I feel stupid saying it but I can’t for the life of me remember her full name and title.

‘Who would ask?’ says the treeman on the left, his voice deep and booming, like an English actor overacting in a Shakespeare play.

‘Delphic Division. We just want to ask her a few questions.’

‘Many would ask. Few are satisfied with the lore-keeper’s answers,’ says the treeman on the right.

‘Maybe so,’ says Armitage. ‘But we need to have a word.’

‘Then you must answer five riddles,’ says the first treeman. ‘Three are false, two are true, but of the five only one will speak to the heart, and that is the one you must answer.’

I blink. Do I have a piece of paper handy? Somewhere I can write the riddle down so I can try and figure it out? I turn to Armitage to ask if she has anything, see the slight smile tugging at her lip, the amused glint in her eye.

I frown, turn back, and the treemen suddenly break into laughter.