Refuge (28 page)

But he realised now, in the claustrophobic tension of the room, that a smaller cell did not mean that he would be alone. Ifasen thought of banging on the door to ask to be moved again, but he knew that this would be useless. There were no mattresses on the floor and there would not have been enough space for them all to lie down. Perhaps this is just a holding cell, Ifasen thought, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

They sat in silence, waiting for something to happen. The bench rocked again as the man shifted his weight. As if on some unspoken cue, each of them carefully placed their smouldering cigarette butts on the cement floor and ground them flat with their heels. Ifasen’s eyes flicked to the smudged ash and back to his own feet. One of them muttered something under his breath to the others. Their feet scraped on the concrete floor as they rose. Ifasen felt one of them take hold of his arm, gripping him tightly.

‘We can do this thing the easy way … or the hard way,’ the bald man said in his ear, his breath stale with cigarette smoke. ‘You can choose.’

His tone was soft and Ifasen did not initially understand. He looked up at him and saw the grim determination in the man’s jaw. Then he understood. As he tried to stand, the other two stepped in front of him and took hold of him, one grabbing his free arm and the other pushing against his neck, choking him. The bald man hit him, just once, but with all his force and with a clenched fist, smashing his bony knuckles into Ifasen’s nose and cheek. The cartilage at the end of his nose crushed sideways and the small capillaries inside his nostrils tore open. Initially, there was no pain, just the surprising force of the man’s fist on his face. Then a searing pain filled his head with a blinding light. Blood dribbled from his nose and splattered on the concrete in front of him. He wanted to retch.

‘Like I said,
meneer
, we can do this the easy way, or the painful way. Your choice,
meneer
. Your choice.’ The voice confused Ifasen further. It was almost paternal, its gentle persuasion belying the violence of the blow that had been struck.

He knew that to resist would be futile. It would probably only result in further harm. He was not sure why, but it still seemed imperative that he put up a struggle. The thought of acquiescing filled him with a greater horror. Even as his rational thoughts told him not to, he kicked out, striking the man holding his throat on the shin. The man cried out and released his grip. Ifasen tried to pull free from the other men, but the bald man growled and pulled his arms tighter. The man he had kicked pushed Ifasen’s head back, exposing his chest. Then he brought his knee up, fast and hard. With his arms pinned back, there was no way that Ifasen could cushion the blow. The full force slammed into his ribcage. His chest contracted and stayed absolutely tight. He tried to suck in a breath, but it was like attempting to inflate a wooden barrel. His mouth twisted wide open as he tried to draw air into his lungs. Blood and spittle dripped from his lips in long elastic strands.

The men tipped his body forward, pushing his face up against the wall. As his chest thudded onto the rough wood of the bench, his eyes filled with tears. For a moment everything seemed to be quiet and still, as if he had lost consciousness. All he could hear was the thumping of blood rushing through his ears. But then he felt the busy hands ripping his trousers down to his knees with jerks. His underpants tore away from his body.

‘Please, no,’ he tried to say, but the words were just a splutter. He tried to tense his buttocks, but strong hands had gripped hold of his cheeks and pulled them apart, tearing his anus painfully. Something warm and wet dripped down his crack. He realised the men were taking turns to spit on him. Then something else, rigid and warm, first just prodding against his skin and then plunging into him, tearing dryly at the side walls of his rectum.

The violation was overwhelming. Ifasen arched his back in anguish as much as in pain. When the man pulled back, the pain somehow increased until he slammed into him again, tearing the delicate skin and releasing a flow of blood. Ifasen squirmed, but they held him fast. His rapist’s arm hooked around his neck as the man pushed into him, harder, again and again, each thrust becoming slicker with blood and mucus. Then he let go briefly as he pushed one last time, holding his erection deep inside Ifasen’s body and groaning loudly.

He leant his weight on Ifasen’s shaking buttocks, his arms gripping the bench in front. Ifasen focused his eyes on the greenish-blue tattoos on the man’s arm, utterly dislocated from the moment. He followed the snaking pattern of the outline along the forearm, squinting at the hair follicles where they met the dye. Would the hair change colour after a while, he wondered. It seemed logical that if the skin pigment changed, the hair would take on the new colour. Was there a scientific argument to be made? He imagined the man, sitting back, while a prison inmate punched the minute holes in his skin, injecting small amounts of toxic dye into the underlying flesh.

Then the arm with the tattoos disappeared from his field of vision and Ifasen felt the weight of the man ease off him. The cooler feel of another body then pressed down on him, and the smell of sweat and unwashed skin enveloped him. Ifasen wrinkled his nose in disgust but lay still. The man’s arms were almost hairless, but his knuckles and the sides of his fingers were rough with warts. He penetrated Ifasen with ease, pushing in the slick left behind. He muttered obscenities as he rocked back and forth. Ifasen’s mind receded further and further into a grey blankness. He saw the wooden board of the bench, the dirty wall of the cell, the man’s muscles in his arm flexing and relaxing. But nothing made an impression any more. It felt as if his head was filled with hot dishwater that slopped across in waves from one side to the other. It prevented him from formulating a clear thought, dulling his mind.

After a short while the man tensed and held still, the veins on his arm pulsing. Then he, too, lay down on Ifasen’s back; he could feel the man’s bony chest pushing onto his scapula. The man panted in his ear and something dribbled down the side of Ifasen’s leg. Then he ran his hand across Ifasen’s head and ruffled his hair. The suggestion of affection was appalling. Ifasen awoke from his trance and tried to smack the hand away. But his arms were heavy. His muscles refused to do as they were bidden and hung like dead animals at his side. Frustrated, he groaned, but his body remained inert.

The second man said something contemptuous and stood up. A base smell filled the room, making Ifasen embarrassed. But still he lay motionless. He tried not to think of the man’s gesture and concentrated on the small indentations on the wood in front of him. Someone had started to write their name, scratching into the wood with a ballpoint pen. The name stopped after three letters; they must have been called away then – released or taken back to the communal cells. He imagined the different prisoners who would have moved through this small room. Had they all gone through this? Was it a necessary part, he wondered. Perhaps this was what this room was meant for; perhaps these men worked here. This was their job.

The third man was hovering between Ifasen’s splayed legs. He could feel the man’s body heat and the brush of the hair on his legs, but nothing closer. One of the other men said something in Afrikaans, harsh and grating. The man answered him, half-laughing, but somehow apologetic. Ifasen wondered if he could stand up now. But then he felt the man push against him, his penis half-flaccid as it slid over his anus and onto the small of his back. The man muttered something to himself and pulled Ifasen’s cheeks apart further. A flash of pain made him clench.

‘
Nee fok, jou fokken fairie
.’ The bald man’s voice shouted again in Afrikaans; his voice was not soft any more.

The man on top of Ifasen answered like a child, his voice imploring. He moved his weight across Ifasen’s legs and buttocks, aimless. Then he lifted off him. The cold dribble down the side of Ifasen’s leg had increased, but he did nothing to stem the stream. He was not sure if the man had finished. He still seemed to hover close by, and any movement on his part might attract further unwanted attention. If he stayed perfectly still, they might forget his existence. He could stay like this for ever, never moving, just waiting and feeling the absence of their thrusting weight on his back.

His wet buttocks felt cold now. The pain returned suddenly, a thudding bruise that started in his back and ran right through him, as if he had been impaled on something thick and rough. His nausea also returned and he started to retch, involuntarily, scared of what the movements of his body might provoke.

‘Put your fucking pants back on.’ The bald man lit up a cigarette as he spoke, drawing deeply and sucking the flame of the match into the tobacco. ‘How can I enjoy my smoke looking at your fucked-up
poes
staring me in the face?’

One of the other men laughed, also lighting up a cigarette. The third man was sitting apart from them, scratching at a spot on his trousers. The other two did not look at Ifasen, relishing their cigarettes. Ifasen rocked back onto his knees. The floor was speckled with blobs of blood, semen and excrement.

‘We call it a slow puncture.’ The bald man was not looking at Ifasen, staring as if in a daydream towards the light from the window. ‘Welcome to South Africa, my friend.’

R
ICHARD SAT OUTSIDE
in the manicured garden watching the sun move towards the ridge of the mountain. The canvas deckchair creaked as he leant back to watch the smooth granite face glowing orange in the fading light. The shadows in the crevices took on a purple hue. The distant red light, flashing on the top of the cellphone tower, was the only reminder of human encroachment. This period of soft transition was his favourite time of day, although he seldom made it home early enough to enjoy it. But today he struggled to shake off his stress. The air was still and warm from the heat of the day and his eczema had reappeared, burning behind his knees and in the crease of his elbow. He was grateful for the ice-cold beer in his hand, the condensation spilling over his fingers. His day at the office had been exhausting. Svritsky had badgered him, first demanding to speak to him on the telephone and then arriving without an appointment. The police were threatening to close down the Russian’s club if he continued selling alcohol after midnight. Richard had told him during the first telephone call that the club had to comply with the terms of its liquor licence.

‘The licence says I can sell until two in the morning, I’m telling you,’ Svritsky had retorted.

‘Then they can’t do anything, Stefan. Don’t worry.’ Richard tried to sound confident, but in truth he knew nothing about liquor law and did not want to get into a debate with the police about the legality of the situation. Unfortunately, this did not appease the Russian, who arrived unannounced a few hours later, brandishing a copy of the licence.

‘Look at this,’ he shouted, throwing the creased document onto Richard’s overflowing desk. ‘Look what these fuckers do.’

Richard studied the licence. It clearly stipulated that all trade in alcohol to the public was to cease at midnight.

‘I apply for licence until two … and look what shit they give me.’

Richard was nonplussed, but any attempt at rational debate with Svritsky was hopeless. The Russian was outraged and refused to understand the weakness of his arguments. Richard tried to impress upon him the delicacy of his situation, given the upcoming trial and the suggestions of witness interference. Svritsky shouted him down, insisting that a gross injustice was being committed. Then he snapped up the document and stormed out of the office. It would have been useless to try to argue and Richard let him leave.

Svritsky’s tirades left Richard fatigued and depressed. The Russian showed disdain for every aspect of the law that placed restrictions on his uninhibited, and usually illegal, trade. As his lawyer, Richard’s task was not to advise his client on the meaning or ambit of these restrictions, but to find a way to escape them, to use his years of legal training to undermine the institution of which he formed part. He was also troubled by his client’s incessant and vulgar comments about women. Although he would normally have been oblivious to this crassness, he felt increasingly unnerved by the fact that it had been Svritsky who had originally introduced him to Abayomi. The Russian had not raised the issue again, nor inquired whether Richard had taken him up on his suggestion, but the knowledge that Svritsky had on at least one occasion enjoyed her hands on his podgy body filled Richard with revulsion. He realised that it was hardly appropriate to feel jealous, but the thought of even a moment of intimacy between Abayomi and his client left him tormented.

He gulped down a mouthful of beer, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his work shirt. His body felt bruised and his head throbbed with a dull ache. His intense exhaustion was strange, he thought. Perhaps it was the juxtaposition with the merriment of the day before, the baby-naming ceremony and what had followed thereafter.

Unlike their previous times together, Abayomi had sat on the edge of the bed and watched him undress. She had spoken with a familiarity that put him entirely at ease. And she had seemed less strained. She explained her connection to the young parents at the baby-naming, how the different cultures crossed over in the ceremony, each adding another dimension. He had wanted to get dressed again, to take her out and spend the night just listening to her. But her hand had wandered almost absent-mindedly while she talked, travelling across his chest. She delved into his underpants and played with him until he thought he would burst. All thought of food disappeared and they had fallen silent.

When they were both naked, she pulled him forward and kissed him, for the first time directly on the lips, leaving a delicate wetness as she hugged him. Their bodies pressed together for a long while before she leant back, patting the massage table as an indication that they should begin. He had lain on his back while she smeared oil between her thighs and the cheeks of her backside. His heart raced with desire as he watched her, no longer shy or embarrassed in her company. Then she had climbed on top of him, facing him with her full breasts just centimetres away from his face, pushing backwards until he slid comfortably up between her cheeks. She rocked back, letting her full weight sink down onto his hips and clenching him tightly. She murmured to him, her breath hot and quick. Could they be lovers without penetration, he wondered through his mounting lust. His mind emptied of all thoughts. He let his consciousness conflate to the immediate stimuli: the feel of her body on his, the sight of her braids flicking against her smooth shoulders, the growing scent of sex. Ecstasy was not in the climax, he realised. That was just a craved point that signalled the death of the moment. Ecstasy was in the glowing build-up, the emptying of his mind. There was a shared separateness in the pleasure and the blissful striving to make it last a little longer. He had groaned, immediately feeling the pang of regret at the conclusion as she eased her position to the side. They had lain side by side on the narrow table, holding on to each other to stop one another from slipping off the table top, gently touching their bodies and talking.