Poison City (39 page)

She shakes her head sadly. ‘That’s a child’s dream.’

‘Is that what you think? Then why are we doing this? What’s the point of . . . 
us
?’’

‘You don’t know?’ She sounds surprised. ‘We do this to protect the little people. To protect all those who can’t protect themselves.’

‘But that’s impossible! We fail all the time.’

‘But we have to keep
trying
. That’s the whole point. If we don’t, the bad guys win. That’s what our job
is
. Trying to hold back the tide. We’ll never turn it completely. We can’t. We just have to hold it back enough so everyone doesn’t drown.’

She’s right. We can’t cure the world’s ills. But we protect our people as best we can. From the corrupt officials, the dirty cops, the crooks, the orisha who think we’re their playthings, the gods who think we’re stupid meat puppets here for their own amusement.

That’s
what we can do.

I forgot that. Forgot the one belief I told myself I still had after Cally went missing. Belief in justice.

Not the law. The law fails. Every day of my life I see people get away with crime. Killers walk free. Government ministers ignore right and wrong, hand out tenders to friends so they can get huge backhanders, and fuck the poor who are dying of starvation. I see the rich cut corners whenever they feel like it, using money to buy a life not earned. Those who, as soon as their bank balances hit a certain number of zeroes, think the law doesn’t apply to them anymore.

And the shitty thing is, they’re right. It doesn’t. Money buys you everything, the law included.

Money can’t buy you love? Yeah it fuckin’ can. And it can buy you people to hide the body when it all goes to shit.

The law can be bribed. The law can be ignored. The law is not equal.

But
justice
 . . . justice is inside. Justice is what kept me going. The idea that even if the world goes to shit, I can still do what
I
believe is right.

I forgot that.

I can hear the sounds of distant gunfire. Voices raised in anger. And, oddly, singing. It sounds like some group is toy-toying. Probably facing off against a gang of looters. Or facing off against the police. Who knows anymore.

‘The thing is . . . I may have put an RFID chip on the box before I gave it to Lilith.’

Armitage looks at me, eyes wide. ‘What?’ I can hear the sudden hope in her voice. ‘You mean this was some kind of plan? You did this so she would lead us to the Sinwalker?’

I hesitate. How easy to say yes. That I planned everything all along. Problem is, she won’t believe me. Sure, she might believe me
now
, but tomorrow morning? She’ll wake up and realise the truth.

I planted the chip as an insurance policy. Plain and simple. Just in case anything went wrong. In case she double-crossed me.

Not because I didn’t plan on going ahead with it.

Armitage sees the truth in my face. Her eyes go flat and she makes a move to my car. ‘Let’s go then,’ she says brusquely.

The dog saunters past. ‘You’re an idiot, London. You know that?’

‘Well, where were you? You’re supposed to be my guide! You’re supposed to help me. All you do is lick your balls and drink sherry.’

He squints at me before he jumps into the car. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

Armitage climbs into the passenger seat. ‘He’s right, you know. You are a bloody idiot.’

Yeah, that’s becoming very clear.

I drive while Armitage uses my cell phone to track the signal. The location marker is taking us out of Durban, heading inland back towards Hillcrest.

But before we even hit Pinetown the marker switches direction, pointing towards the Pavillion shopping mall.

I take the Spine Road off-ramp and follow it around the perimeter of the huge structure. The road curves up, eventually bringing us up onto the rooftop parking. There are lights everywhere, pubs, sports shops, coffee houses, but all of them barricaded and closed off. Word of the Durban riots has spread.

The place is deserted, except for a group of about ten minibus taxis pulled into a circle at the far side of the parking lot. The drivers stare at us suspiciously. I look around. Not a bad place to ride out the storm.

‘Over there,’ says Armitage, pointing towards the entrance of the mall, a huge, glass tower covered with twinkling fairy lights. I drive slowly forward. I can see the distant fires of Durban beyond the tower, a fiery orange glow that lights up the horizon.

I remember bringing Cally here one Christmas for late night shopping. She wouldn’t even let us go inside. She just wanted to watch the fairy lights. They don’t look like they belong here now. Not tonight.

The warm wind gusts against my face as I get out the car. The breeze constantly changes directions, sneaking up on all sides like a mischievous sprite. Armitage holds the cell phone up as we approach the entrance. She stops and bends down, straightening up with something in her hand. I feel my stomach sink.

It’s the box.

Armitage opens it and holds it in the air. Empty.

Nobody says a thing. We climb back into the car, drive out of the parking lot and head back towards Durban. How the hell are we going to find Lilith now?

The riots are getting worse. There are police on the streets in riot gear, trying to cordon off areas and kettle the rioters into cul-de-sacs and dead ends. But they’re hopelessly outnumbered.

We’re deep inside the city, but I still don’t know where I’m going. We tried to listen to the police radio, to see if there was any kind of epicentre to what’s going down, but there isn’t. The whole city is in meltdown.

Armitage even called in to Dispatch to try and find out where the first incidents occurred. If we could track the first reports, perhaps that would lead us to Lilith.

Again, no luck. There were multiple incidents, all occurring at around half past ten, spread widely across the city.

I see blue lights coming up fast in the rear-view and quickly turn into a side street, braking hard and turning the engine off. A tactical police van screams past, chased seconds later by five civilian cars.

I watch the cars as they go past. On the bright side, at least these riots have embraced the concept of our ‘rainbow nation’. In one car I catch a glimpse of three young blacks, two in suits, one in torn street clothes, an old white woman brandishing what looks like an AK-47, a young Indian kid who can’t be older than twelve, and a skinny white dude wearing his cap sideways. The one thing they all have in common is the look of animalistic rage on their faces. They’re screaming into the night, firing their guns at the retreating police van.

‘Bloody hell,’ says Armitage shakily. ‘Feels like the end of the world.’

‘So what’s your plan, brainiac?’ asks the dog. ‘’Cause, to be honest, I’m kinda getting the feeling you’re winging it.’

I ignore him, turn to Armitage. ‘Call up Eshu. See if he can access the CCTV feeds at Pavilion and find out what kind of car Lilith is driving. Maybe he can track it through the surveillance feeds.’

She takes out her phone and dials. While she’s chatting I get out the car and approach the alley entrance. Smoke billows from a building at the far end of the street. A fire truck arrives, lights and siren blaring, and the first to jump off are private security guards. They form a ring around the truck while the fire fighters get to work. I’m impressed they’re even trying. The whole city seems to be burning. How do they decide what buildings to save?

‘No luck,’ says Armitage behind me. ‘All the systems are down.’

Typical. There
has
to be a way to track Lilith. Who would know how to find her? With all the shinecraft and orisha contacts we have, there has to be something we can do.

A thought occurs to me, but I don’t like it. I examine it from every angle, considering the implications. It could work. But the cost would be high.

We don’t really have a choice, though.

‘Phone Eshu again,’ I say. ‘Find out where Anansi is holing up these days.’

‘Anansi?’ says Armitage, her voice dripping with disgust.

I know the feeling. Nobody in the Division likes Anansi, but he’s way too powerful for us to mess with. So we just watch him. Track his movements, and hope he doesn’t do anything we can’t put a stop to.

Armitage has her phone to her ear, but she’s looking at me. ‘Why him?’

‘Because he’s been courting the soul of Durban.’

And the soul of Durban – or Mother Durban as she likes to be called – knows everything about her city. Like, for instance, where specific people might be hiding out trying to wake up a Sinwalker.

The question is, will she tell us or not?

Armitage has turned away from me to talk to Eshu. I wait impatiently, listening to the sounds of the city. The gunfire, the shouting, the hooting of car horns. What will Mother Durban be feeling right now? Will she be enjoying all this? Will it be damaging her?

Armitage taps me on the shoulder. ‘Eshu says Anansi runs a night club on West Street.’

‘You got the address?’

‘Yeah.’

She frowns.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. The address looks familiar, that’s all.’

We get in the car and drive back towards the beachfront. West Street straddles the line between the tourist side of Durban and the inhabitants’ side, meaning most everything on this side of the line is pretty rundown. Boarded-up buildings, car body shops, liquor stores, pawn shops, loan sharks, and muti doctors who promise all kinds of things, from love spells, to a few extra inches you-know-where, to curses for love rivals.

We pull up outside one of many blank-faced buildings. There are no rioters here. There’s nothing worth stealing. I can still hear the chaos around me. The rapid crack of AK-47 gunfire, the answering muted crack of small arms fire.

‘I
knew
this address was familiar,’ says Armitage.

I turn to her. She’s staring up at the building.

‘This used to be a night club. I came here a few times with a few younger members of the team. This was before your time, like.’

I frown up at the building, trying to imagine Armitage boogying down on the dance floor.

I can’t.

‘It was called The Rift,’ says Armitage, heading towards the door. ‘Quite a nice vibe. Alternate, like. Bloody nice people. Never any trouble.’

She pulls open the metal door. Loud music bursts out, a slow, heavy base. The song is familiar. I think it’s from
Pulp Fiction
, one of the two good Tarantino movies.

The door opens onto an incredibly steep set of stairs. The walls are black, the paint peeling away with age. We climb up to the landing, then through a door into the club itself.

The music is deafening. We’re in a huge dark room. A long bar to our right, the dance floor and stage to our left. The walls are covered with faded paintings of the X-men. Wolverine glowers down at me from above the toilets, his face mottled and peeling.

There are orisha dancing – vampires, werewolves, dark creatures with red eyes, misshapen dwarves covered in bristly hair. A strobe light flickers over them, monochrome shadows making everything look like a stop-motion horror movie.

I approach the bar and nod at the orisha handing out odd-looking drinks. Thick, viscous. No beers and whisky here.

‘Anansi?’ I say.

The bartender gives me a flat stare with bright purple eyes. I pull out my badge and show it to her. ‘Delphic Division. I know you know who we are, so unless you want this place shut down, tell me where he is.’

She jerks her head towards a door to my right. It leads to a narrow corridor where all types of orisha are sitting on the floor, resting and chatting. The music isn’t as loud here, but I can feel the bass thumping through the walls.

All eyes turn to the three of us as we navigate the maze of stretched-out legs.

The dog bares his teeth at them, nodding in greeting as we pass. ‘Hi there. Good to see you. Looking good, girl.’

A second door to the left leads into the pool room. Eight tables, four to each side. Half of them are occupied.

I spot Anansi straight away. Tall, skin so dark it’s the colour of night. He’s clearing up the table against the far wall, effortlessly sinking ball after ball.

We wait, because it’s well known you don’t get between Anansi and his games, no matter what they might be.

He finally sinks the black and the guy he’s playing against starts to cry. He looks like a human to me, no hint of magic about him.

‘Please,’ he says. ‘Again. We can play again.’

‘No,’ says Anansi. ‘You know the rules.’

‘But my sister. I need her back.’

‘Tough. You should have thought of that before you sold her.’

The man’s face twists. He’s tall, built like a gym bunny, beach bum hair pushed back behind his ears. He lunges towards Anansi, hands outstretched.