The Lion Seeker (49 page)

—Did you go round? Labuschagne says to Isaac.

—Didn't go effing nowheres man. This. This kuk-stirrer over here. This . . . He is pointing, his finger shaking. The words plug under his Adam's apple like boiling milk in a corked bottleneck. He has to swallow hard to go on. —This bastard is bladey bullshitting through his arse cos he is just trying to get back from the donnering I gave him. And I'll give him another one if he doesn't shut his lying trap.

Oberholzer turns up his huge paws. Shrugs. —I'm not saying he did nothing hey. I only says what I seen.

—Kuk! Rubbish! Isaac says. Blinking fast. —Last night. Hey last night, you
know
I shook your hand . . . we were talking . . . 

Now Oberholzer lets out a little snigger, that high piglet sound of his. —Ja really, last night we were chatty hey. We were pals and mates and best chinas all a sudden.

And someone snorts, someone barks a laughing note. Heads are shaking. How crazy. They're looking at Isaac and he feels scooping disbelief. —You . . . you a liar! Is all he can shout back. —Bladey liar!

—No, Oberholzer says. We don't shake hands. We don't chat. I seen you going round down there last night. You know you were, Isaac. Why don't you just tell that honest?

—Scuse me, scuse us hey boss.

A new voice from the back. Everyone looks. It's Charlie Steenkamp. Isaac's heart drums; his mouth parches. —Scuse hey sir. I have to say, hey. I have to say I also seen it.

—Seen what? Labuschagne says.

—Seen it how Isaac went that way. Down to go around like. When we was all standing outside having smokes and whatnot, waiting for you.

—You lie, Isaac says. You lie like your bladey breath stinks. Now he is shouting: —It's his china! It's his little china, him and Oberholzer, come on, they best mates. They cooking up a bladey story together here man.

—No seriously hey, Charlie says. I'm only saying what I seen. I was standing to one side. I wasn't even near Magnus.

—Oh stuff you, Charlie, Isaac says. I am ganna kill you. You so dead, you lying bastard.

—Oright, Labuschagne says. Stop with the threatening now.

—But they telling lies on me, boss! What am I supposed to do?

—Why would they tell lies?

—They mates. They big chinas. They cooked up something here against me can't you see? So obvious. To get back for me donnering Magnus.

—Listen Isaac, Labuschagne says. This's serious hey. Did you go down there last night?

—I told you what I did, boss. It was Magnus came up to me, Charlie before, he said we should shake hands, make friends and that.

Charlie laughs, a low cackle: —I diden say that, man! Who in the right mind is ganna say that? Everyone knows you two are like cats and dogs.

The murmuring is all around, the watching faces going hard, serious. He senses the ones closest to him subtly shifting off. As if he's been identified as the carrier of some contagious mutilating virus, some gripping strain of leprosy.

He says, —Magnus comes over to me and shook hands and we were talking. Didn't you all see? Some of you okes musta seen it . . . 

He looks around, finds Miller looking at the floor. No one speaks.

—But that's what happened, he says.

—Well think well on it, Labuschagne says. Maybe you did go down there. To have a piss or something. No one is saying you did nothing else. If you tell a lie about that then we not ganna believe other things. If you went down there, it's fine to say.

—I didn't go anywhere!

—Oright. Uhkay.

—I'm telling you they tryna cook up a story to get me back for what I did to him.

—I don't cook up nuffing but my pap and my boerewors with gravy, Charlie says.

No one laughs.

—Just calm hey, Labuschagne says. Just calm it down hey man. We ganna get the facts here. Now you say these two, Charlie and Magnus, they is both lying.

—I . . . 

—Yes or no.

—Yes.

—Uhkay. Magnus, he say he's seen you go around while I was in here locking up. Charlie says same. Lemme ask. Did anyone here remember seeing how Isaac got to the bar?

—What the hell?

—Shut up a sec. Does anyone remember if he came late?

No one speaks.

—I want to know who walked there with him. Anyone?

—He did, Isaac says.

—Who?

—Magnus!

—Yasis, Magnus says. Now who is the liar?

—Stuff you, Isaac says. I'm ganna smash you ten times harder.

—Come try with your tricks again. I want you to.

—You see! He's tryna get me back.

—Ja, says Magnus. And he hates my guts, this little devil. So he try and tell everyone now how we was such big chommies last night? Please.

Now others start to speak, to shout.

—Hang on, hang on, Labuschagne is saying, calming the air with his long arms out. Facts is facts. These men say they seen Isaac go round. Later he was at the bar. But no one has seen him get there.

—I went there with Oberholzer, Isaac says.

—Nuh, nuh, I'm sorry, says Charlie Steenkamp. Me and Magnus walked to the bar together last night, and Isaac wazzen with us. That I can vouch.

—Ach please! says Isaac. This is getting just stupid.

Labuschagne stares hard at him.

—Don't you know, Oberholzer calls, these Jews, they reckon they got all the brains in the world. They bought them up wholesale.

Some laugh. Labuschagne shouts, Everyone shut up! in Afrikaans, and quiet does fall. —Does anyone remember seeing when Isaac got there, who was he drinking with?

No one speaks.

—Okes, come on, says Isaac. I didn't do nothing!

—Lez just bell the cops already, says Tops. We have to start work don't we boss.

—Hey Isaac, Pienaar calls, singsonging. Ize-ik. Where did you stick the kitty hey?

Someone laughs. —Ja Isaac, just give it back hey.

Heat flames his head, his shoulders. —Stuff you all, okes.

—Wait, wait, Labuschagne says. There's no ladder left. To climb back up he woulda gone off the door here or something. He must have had two hands to climb. He must climb bladey quick. And if he is in a hurry for outside, he doesn't have a satchel or nothing.

—Unless he did and he left it on the roof behind, says Bliksy.

—Ach he coulda stuck it anywhere, says Rustas.

—Ja, maybe, maybe, says Labuschagne. But probably I say not. Prolly he got the kitty in his hands in here. Has to go quickquick . . . looking around . . . 

It's too much: Isaac shouts, —I didn't goddamn do a thing man! Almost sobbing out the last syllable.

There's a silence.

—Then, says Malcolmson, you got nothing to worry about.

Pienaar from the back: —Ja man, just relax.

—
You
relax. Not you being called a thief.

—Shhh. Labuschagne is rubbing his chin. —Wait, wait. Where would I stick it? What is the safest place? . . . 

The silence again, but heavier now, a sense of everyone's locked attention on the boss.

—Lockers, says Kazy.

Again Isaac's control slips, he feels his face twisting as if he's bitten glass. —Ach come off it, he says. We wasting such time here. All this Sherlock Holmes jazz. Just get the cops, man. I don't even care.

—Lockers is easy to check, says Oberholzer.

—You just shut your lying beak, Isaac says to him. You big lump a shit. Ganna sort you after, I guarantee you that.

—What's a matter, Isaac? calls Charlie Steenkamp. Is it you scared?

—Eff you, Isaac says. I show you all my locker right bladey now. Right now.

He steps out. Labuschagne nods, okay. Isaac crosses to the alcove behind the toilets where the steel lockers are set in the wall, pulling his keys out as he does. Something there, a flickering, under his thoughts, some irritant, pricks up at him. He grabs the cool padlock. When he plugs the key in he feels others close in behind, hears Labuschagne telling them move, step back, so he can see proper what's going on. When Isaac turns the key and undoes the lock and takes it from the bracket, Labuschagne says, —If it's ukay with you, lemme open it.

—Absolute fine. Do what you want. It's just an empty bladey locker, Christ.

The steel door swings out.

It is empty but at the bottom are some newspapers in a stack. Isaac looks at them. A few newspapers, were they always there at the bottom like that? He doesn't think so, but he can't remember, maybe, ja, maybe they were. They look old. He never looks down anyway, underneath where the clothes hang. All of this in a flash of thought and feeling that doesn't matter because he has already surged forward. Redly ferocious is the sense of rectitude in his bones now. Show these accusing bustuds how wrong they are, these swine. He bangs on the empty shelves. —See? See? I am not the bladey stuffing liar here. I'm not a thief. I was at the bar. You should check that big ox's locker now.

—Ja, says Oberholzer, behind. Like I could climb through the roof.

—Ha, someone says.

Then it hits Isaac. —No, it's Charlie, he says. Charlie. He's the one. He did the . . . 

Remembering the feel of his jacket lifted away at the bar, Charlie there beside him, and Charlie touching his back. How he had checked his pockets, his keys, Jesus, his
keys
.

Labuschagne has bent to the newspapers.

—Wait, Isaac says. Stop.

—Ooh his newspapers, says Oberholzer, quick and smooth.

Isaac's skin goes cold. —Not mine, he says. You don't. Understand.

Labuschagne is pulling at them. It looks like a neat stack. But as he pulls there is something wrong about the way all the papers move together. He lifts the top few. Pauses. Whistles. Men press forward.

—Oh my bladey Christ, says Malcolmson.

—Would you have a look at that, says Veld.

—Hell. Hell.

They can all see that a round hole has been cut out of all the papers except the top few. The stacked cuts make a space in the middle of the pile that even Isaac in the roar of his numb shock recognizes as ingenious. In the space sits a round tin of Quality Street chocolates. Labuschagne lifts the cut papers away from it with grave care.

—Yasis, that is clever hey.

—Yas, that crafty bugger.

—Hold these, Dave. Labuschagne puts the papers carefully onto the arms of panel beater David Rogers, like a man placing evidence in a court of law.

—That. That isn't mine, Isaac hears his voice saying.

—Shut up, says someone behind him. When Isaac turns an arm snakes his neck, tightens. Faces are in close, bodies. He struggles. They grip his arms. They bang into the lockers and they wrap his legs with their legs and lock him solidly.

From back in the shop he can hear the shouts. —They got him! They got him! It's Isaac!

—That bladey fucken little Jew. I knew it was him all the time.

—He's a vicious little bastard, watch him for knives.

—Fucken hell, I knew you can't trust em.

Isaac tries to yell but the arm strangles his throat and pinches off his voice. Labuschagne is opening the tin then. The cash notes are packed in, unsurprising. —Looks like it's all here.

Labuschagne turns to Isaac, his head shaking. His face is long, hollowness under the eyes. One of his platesize hands swings up with all the fingers stiff to stab into Isaac's chest. —I told you when you first started, remember? I had a feeling about you. I said you ever try anything—what did I say to you?—said I kill you. Man, I kill you. You think I'm a stupud? You think that I am such a stupud?

Different eyes sliding away as he tumbles, a cat in a falling cage. The sharp bone of a forearm is dug in under his Adam's apple, the rest of him lifted. Get him outside. Get him in the yard. And what he thinks of then, strangely, is Mama Kelo with her dog that had once been his, rescued, and the way her eyes puffed in the sockets when she'd stopped, pointed. He squirms and the tough arms clamp tighter. A fish in a braided net. A stick man in vises. Someone punches him in the belly where he is stretched. It burns like spilled flame. Another punch goes into his groin, oddly it doesn't hurt as much at first, just throbs out a slower sickly nausea through his bowels.

The rear door clattering up, morning light on the dirt. Then tumbling under sky. They drive him into the ground and spread his limbs. Boots are standing on his hands and arms, his legs. Some heavy bastard kneeling on one forearm. A voice wants someone to bring a razor.

Someone else: —Wat gaan jy doen?

What are you going to do?

Something warm plops on his cheek. He looks up to see Charlie Steenkamp hawking again; when he spits a second time Isaac moves his face and gets hit across the nostril and the green spit runs over his top lip so that he gets a taste of it, salty and tobacco foul.

—Gaan hom sny?

You going to cut him?

Someone leans down and slaps him, rubs sand in his face. He writhes. Men are coward dogs and he is down now. Some bastard keeps kicking, kicking him, hard in the left side. Chambers.

—Sny hom, ja.

Cut him, yes.

They leave his face alone. He sees someone light a cigarette, sun in his eyes making them all silhouettes. He says, —Hey let me up, okes. I didn't do nothing.

Someone repeats this in singing falsetto. —He didn't do nothing. Fuckun queer.

A kick: bright pain right on the sore rib.

—Fuck you! says Isaac.

—Shut your face, thief.

—Get the cops, says Isaac.

The falsetto: —Get the co-ops.

—Okes, hold his mouth open. I wanna piss right down his throat.

—Someone go take a shit and bring some fresh.

That makes them laugh. The sense of pushing each other to go further, daring.

—Where's that razor?

—Get the cops, Isaac says. I want the cops. Panic makes him bulge upwards off the ground, but their weight has him staked on his back with the sun in his eyes. That kneeling bastard has moved to his thigh and the pressing kneecap starts to kill there.