Poison City (34 page)

But I can’t. Because I know that if I let it out, it would devour me whole. That I wouldn’t be able to come back from it.

I shiver, watch the tail lights of the car ahead of us. They look like glowing red eyes, watching me.

Waiting.

Armitage drops me back at the shopping centre where I left my car. It’s about four in the morning. I’m exhausted. I feel beaten down, defeated.

‘You given any thought about what you want to do next?’ Armitage asks as I open the back door for the dog.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Because those SSA fellas are still going to be after us.’

‘I know.’

‘So—’

‘Christ, Armitage. I
don’t.
Know
. I told you what Stefan told me. You figure it out.’

She stares at me for a second. ‘No need to be a dick about it,’ she says, and pulls out of the parking bay. The back door slams shut with her momentum.

I sigh and unlock the Land Rover. The dog hops in.

‘You OK?’ he asks as I drive out of the parking lot.

‘No.’

‘You . . . I don’t know . . . Wanna talk?’

‘No.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ says the dog, relief plain in his voice.

I head back into town, trying to avoid the streets I know have working CCTV cameras. (Not many.) I get back to the beachfront twenty minutes later and park about a couple of hundred yards from my flat. It’s possible the SSA spooks still have it under observation. Don’t reckon they will, though. They’ve probably just instructed Ranson to detain me if I turn up at Delphic Division. Still. Better safe than sorry.

The streets are empty this time of night. A calmness has stolen over the city. A lie. When the night crawlers have passed out and the early morning joggers haven’t managed to drag themselves smugly out of bed yet. A stray cat crosses my path. Pauses once and glares at the dog before walking calmly on, unafraid. The waves are a soft susurration to my left, their presence calming.

The thought comes to my mind unbidden.
This would actually be a nice world if it wasn’t for us.

I walk up a side street that takes me off the esplanade and into a dirty alleyway running along the back of the beachfront buildings. Fast food wrappers and carrier bags pile up against the sidewalk kerb. I can smell urine, vomit. It’s dark back here.

We pass the service entrance to one of the hotels, a pile of cigarette butts showing where the employees take their breaks. Past another hotel, then across a wider street and I’m behind my building. I use my keys to unlock the reinforced door at the rear. All residents have one so we can bring our garbage down to the metal dumpster outside. Although, judging by the mess on the road, it looks like some of my neighbours just drop their shit out their window and hope for the best.

Up the stairs and I pause before my door. It’s been kicked in, the lock destroyed, then sealed shut with a hastily attached clasp and padlock.

I rip the clasp straight from the wood and push the door open. Light from the hall spills past me into the flat, revealing a scene of devastation. The SSA have been here all right.

I step inside, pushing the door shut behind me. I make sure the blinds are all down before turning on the light and looking around.

‘Fuck me,’ says the dog.

They’ve destroyed everything. Glasses and plates smashed, food and drink in the kitchen emptied and thrown across the floor. The sofa’s been upended and ripped to shreds. Books torn to pieces. My comics in tattered ribbons. Even the DVDs. They’ve snapped every single one.

I head into my room, flick the light switch. Glass crunches underfoot. I look down. My photographs of Cally and Becca, from when we were a family. They’ve all been ripped from the wall and ground beneath heavy boots.

I carefully pick them up, shaking the glass fragments away. I right the bedside table and lay the photographs down, attempting to smooth out the creases. Cally smiles at me. Becca is winking, her hand behind Cally’s head doing rabbit ears.

I stare at it for a while, then blink, look around. I pull the mattress back onto the bed. It’s been shredded, foam and springs jutting through knife gashes.

I lie down and close my eyes. I feel numb. I want to get away. To hide away from life.

I don’t get a chance. My phone rings half an hour later. I pick it up and check the number. I recognize it instantly.

Becca.

I swing my feet onto the floor and answer. ‘Becca?’

Silence. Some heavy, laboured breathing. Something else— something brushing against the phone?

Then a man, shouting in pain, but in the distance. Far away.

‘Becca?’ I say.

The shouting is cut off. The breathing in the phone increases. I can hear the panic.

‘Gideon.’ A whisper. Filled with fear. Anger. ‘Someone’s—’

Sudden noises, like a tussle or a fight. Grunts of pain. Something heavy falling.

Then the phone goes dead.

I’m out the house and running towards the car before I realise I’ve left the dog behind. No time to go back. I pull out into the street, narrowly avoiding crashing into an early morning taxi, and speed off into town.

The number on my cell was Becca’s landline. She was back at home. Back? Had she even left? I told her to get to safety, but did she listen to me? I punch the steering wheel over and over. I should have checked! I should have fucking checked on her!

The trip to her house passes at a frantic crawl. I’m hoping a cop car sees me, tries to pull me over for speeding. Just so I can lead them to the house. To stop . . . to help . . .

I slam on the brakes outside Becca’s house, mount the kerb, slide across her front lawn.

Then I’m out, my sweaty fingers curled around the Glock. I stand at the bottom of the garden, breathing heavily, watching. The house is dark. No sounds except the sleepy chirping of birds starting to wake up. The sky is grey on the horizon.

I move forward. The automatic gates have been forced, lifted from their tracks and shoved aside. I hurry up the driveway, watching the house all the time.

The front door is standing open. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I push it slowly with my foot. It creaks slightly, the noise sounding like a scream to my frayed nerves.

I enter the house. It’s silent. It feels . . . empty. That feeling when you know nobody’s home. A glass door to my right opens into the lounge. There’s been a fight. Pillows strewn everywhere. Glass coffee table smashed. LCD television lying on the floor. I move down the passage, heading towards the kitchen.

I flick the light switch. The fluorescent strip light glints and glares on teracotta tiles covered in blood, pooling from behind the kitchen table. I step inside, gripping the table. Peer over the edge and almost collapse with relief.

It’s not Becca.

A man, slightly overweight, sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling. Her boyfriend? Bullet holes in his forehead and chest. Double-tap. To make sure.

No one else in here. I climb the stairs, check through the first door. A spare room. Next one a study. That only leaves one possibility. I approach slowly, push the door open.

She’s lying on the floor next to the bed, her face turned away from me. I don’t move. I shake my head in denial. No. No, please no.

I take a step. Then another. Skirting the body, moving around to the other side.

I fall to my knees when I see the bullet hole in her forehead. A sound of horror escapes me, a howling moan of rage and pain, of hatred and loneliness.

Her eyes stare at me accusingly.
Look what you brought to my door.

I gather her up, grip her to me. I rock back and forth. My mind has switched off. All that exists is this moment of pain and agony. I’ve lost her. I’ve lost them both. I will her to be alive. I find myself stopping suddenly, holding my breath, staring hard at her chest, convinced I’d felt a movement. Even though I know it’s impossible, my mind keeps saying she’s just sleeping. Watch. She’ll get up. She’ll move. It’ll be all right.

But she doesn’t.

And it isn’t.

It takes a while for the sirens to filter through my grief. I look to the bedroom window, see the blue lights flashing outside.

I blink. Look around. Down at Becca. She looks angry.

You’re always told people look peaceful in death. That was one of the first illusions to shatter when I became a cop. They don’t look peaceful. Most look terrified. Or furious. Or surprised.

Rarely peaceful.

I hear footsteps on the stairs. I don’t look up. Because I know once I do, once I leave this house, I’ve lost her forever.

‘You!’ someone shouts. ‘Hands in the air!’

I finally look up. See a cop standing in the doorway with his gun pointed at me.

I shake my head. Not to say no, just to say this isn’t me. I’m not the killer.

But my mouth isn’t working properly. More police enter the room. More guns trained on me. Lots of screaming. Shouted commands. Then hands on my shoulders, my arms, pulling me away. Throwing me to the floor. Someone’s knee digging into my spine. My arms are yanked behind my back, cuffed tightly.

Then I’m hauled to my feet and dragged down the stairs. Outside now, where the sun has risen, shining on Becca’s flowers. Glinting on the police cars.

An hour later I’m sitting in a dim interview room at Durban Station. The table is wooden, pitted and scarred. Someone has inscribed the words ‘I’m innocent,’ into the surface.

I stare numbly at my hands, waiting while a detective makes himself comfortable in the chair opposite me. He puts a file down, then a polystyrene cup of coffee.

‘How do you want to do this?’ he asks.

I look up. I don’t recognize him. Old. Grey hair and a goatee.

‘Do what?’ I say dully.

‘Well . . . do you want to just give us your reasons?’ He smiles grimly. ‘It’s not as if you can plead not guilty.’

I shake my head in confusion. ‘What?’

‘Why did you kill her?’

I stare at him. ‘I didn’t kill her. I loved her.’

‘But your gun was at the scene.’

‘Of course it was. She called me. She said there was someone in the house. I drove over there with my gun and found her like that.’

‘Your Glock?’

I nod.

‘Yeah. I’m not talking about that gun. I mean your
other
gun.’

He fishes out a crime scene photograph. A Beretta lying on the bedroom carpet.

‘The serial number marks it as your secondary SAPS firearm.’

I drag my eyes away from the photo. ‘That’s not possible. My gun is in my work locker.’

‘No, it’s not.’ He taps the photograph. ‘Your gun is in evidence. Your prints are all over it. It’s been fired recently. And let’s not kid ourselves. The post-mortem will show the bullets are from the same gun.’

I blink. How? How could this be? I have a brief moment of panic where I wonder if I really
did
do it. Maybe everything just got to me. The scenes at the mansion last night. The pressure. It all just got too much and I went on a rampage.

I shake my head. No. I couldn’t. Not Becca. Never her.

‘I need to call my lawyer,’ I say.

The detective frowns with disappointment. ‘You sure you don’t want to just confess?’

‘I didn’t do it.’

He purses his lips and stares at me.

I lean forward, stare at him. ‘I didn’t do it.’

They throw me in a cell identical to the one at Hillcrest Station. I slump on the bench, staring at the wall.

That’s it. Everyone I ever loved is gone. My body is saturated with . . . emptiness. Despair. Numbness.

I’m beaten. There’s nothing I can do anymore. Why even bother trying? The world is rotten. Filled with black pus and evil, and if I ever thought I could do anything to hold back the tide I was deluding myself. I’m nothing more than a kid with a plastic bucket, trying to throw the water back into the ocean. A waste of time. A waste of space.

Maybe God had it right with the flood. Just wipe everyone out and start again. We deserve it.

‘May I extend my condolences?’

My head snaps up. Lilith is standing against the far wall of the cell.

I blink, shake my head, wondering if I’m suffering hallucinations now.

She doesn’t go away. Just stands there watching me, her eyes filled with pity.

When I realise it’s really her, that she’s really standing in the cell with me, I lunge forward and try to wrap my hands around her throat.

I don’t make it. About two feet away I hit some kind of barrier. There’s a flash of pain and I’m suddenly lying against the far wall, my head ringing from where it hit the concrete.

‘I will allow you that one,’ says Lilith, ‘because you’re not thinking clearly. But only the one.’