Last Train to Retreat Page 6

Magnus’s bulbous blue eyes had studied him. ‘I can see you still have a lot to learn. It’s like this, Zane, if you say something often and creatively enough people will soon believe that’s what they’ve been wanting all along.’

  ‘You mean it’s like we know what they want before they even know it? That’s cool!’ Zane had walked away in wonderment. It was why men like Magnus lived in Bishop’s Court and had holiday homes in Hermanus. Only afterwards, in his freezing, added-on room in Lavender Hill, had Zane reflected that it sounded a bit like the old White Government telling Coloureds what was best for them without them ever having a say in it.

  Zane walked past the statue of Jan Hofmeyr in Church Square and wondered what Onze Jan would have said. But then Hofmeyr had no idea how bad things would become in his country and that one day there would be a place called the Flats where any hope offered had to be grasped with both hands. Even if it turned out that salaries were paid by Spin Street.

  To Zane, complete freedom came only through financial freedom and his job was the ticket to it. He just had to box clever, as Appleby would say.

  •

  Zane hurried down Parliament Street to catch the 8.05 pm train bound for Simonstown via the southern suburbs, the last one for the night. The special late trains that ran during the FIFA World Cup were a thing of the past. He suddenly remembered that the Golden Acre Centre was already closed – he’d have to walk around it, not through it as he usually did, to get to the main station. He hadn’t factored in the extra few minutes. With plenty of breath still in him he took the detour along Darling and Adderley Streets at a running pace.

  At 8.04 pm Zane burst into the near empty station hall and through a squeaking turnstile. Trains routinely ran late but tonight he couldn’t bank on it.

  The train was still there, at platform 5 – eight carriages of steel trapped on tracks, hemmed in by a driver cab at either end, the bright lighting failing to create any sense of welcome. Zane entered the nearest coach thankful for his season ticket. Inside there was one passenger, a girl in a black sweater and skinny jeans, hunched over a newspaper. Zane couldn’t see her face – only her hair cut in a bob with a fringe that reminded him of a brown horse’s tail clipped neatly across.

  The coach’s seats ran along the sides creating an open centre for standing passengers during rush hour. The interior was drab – no advertising, no brightly-coloured route maps, only a few stickers indicating changeovers. Graffiti everywhere made it more depressing – on the walls, the doors, even the seats. Gnarled baobabs had more shape and grace, Zane thought. It was as though he had entered a place crammed with signatures from the Flats – a petition as it were about the raw deal they’d been given. How well he understood those who rode the trains in anger!

  Only twenty-four minutes, nine stops, and he’d step off at Wynberg station. Then a short walk to his flat, a can of pilchards on toast with salad, a shower, and a goodnight call to Bernadette. He sat down at the other end from the girl and closed his eyes, his mind once more brimming with stats and charts, his stomach noisily empty.

  Nine

  It was somewhere between Observatory and Mowbray that the two men entered Zane’s coach. They came through the inter-leading door – the man in front tall and sinewy, his step springy as though only the balls of his sneakered feet were touching the floor, his companion behind him lower and slower as if he realised his thick body could topple over in the moving train. Leader and follower, Zane thought – jeans, sweatshirts with hoods down, one baseball cap sideways, the other backwards. Zane sat up.

  ‘Bru, check daai klonkie chicky, she’s nice, huh?’ The leader stared at the girl.

  ‘Aweh, jy, hoesit?’ the other greeted her.

  The girl said nothing, lowered her head more. The men did not sit down and their unwelcome presence filled the coach.

  ‘Oulike kind,’ reiterated the first one, clearly liking what he was seeing.

  ‘Dikbek sê ek, of stirvy, of plein mompies.’ Rugby-neck was pronouncing the girl either surly or stuck-up, or simply retarded. He treated Zane as if he didn’t exist or was of no consequence. Zane could feel his heart thudding. They sat down opposite the girl. ‘Awe, Gatiep, steek ‘n ent!’ The big man stuck a cigarette in his mouth and waited for his friend to light it in spite of the no-smoking sign. He inhaled deeply then blew the smoke in her direction. It hung like a vapour trail between them. Clack, clack, clack, the train’s wheels never missed a beat.

  To stop his legs from shaking Zane pressed down on his knees with his palms. He imagined water from his shower running over his dry mouth and throat – soon he’d be home. He glanced at the girl. She sat as if made from stone. The big man flicked his cigarette in Zane’s direction and leaned back. The carriage light accentuated his wiry hair, narrow forehead and coarse face. The leader kept staring at the girl as though he was willing her to lift her eyes. Every now and then his open mouth would shut and he’d swallow and his big Adam’s apple would slide up and down. Like a vulture about to throw up, Zane thought. The man had a permanently hungry look about him.

  The cigarette landed near Zane, its burning tip blackening the floor. Zane got up and snuffed it out with the heel of his shoe.

  ‘Hey, Curly, someone’s stomping on your stompie!’ Gatiep said. ‘Ha, ha, get it, bru?’

  ‘Get it … from the floor? Nooit!’

  ‘Don’t be a mamparra, man.’

  The cigarette had been a baited hook. Now they were pulling Zane in like a hapless snoek. A familiar feeling ran through him: the possibility of physical violence that made him cross a street, walk out of a club, or cut off a conversation, just to avoid it. At this moment he had no choice – he was trapped in this cage feeling nauseous.

  The train slowed down, stopped. He recognised Rondebosch – he knew the stations well enough not to have to check the boards. He half-rose with the intention of getting off and sat down again, ashamed that he was allowing old fears to spook him. The doors closed, the train moved, gathered speed.

  Stung by Gatiep’s mockery, Curly turned his sullen gaze on Zane. Zane concentrated on the lights of houses flashing by, thinking – be like the girl, ignore the men, don’t give them a reason to become violent, soon the train would reach Wynberg. He hated facing the unknown and the unpredictable. It unnerved him. Not like the dojo where he knew his adversaries, where the concept of empty hands – no weapons of any kind – was at the heart of their art, with eye-gauging, biting, groin kicks, and head butts forbidden.

  The doors opened at Newlands station. Zane stayed in his seat, taking in fresh air. Two passengers walked along the deserted platform heading for home. The train shuddered as it took off again.

  Gatiep shot a sly look at Curly. ‘So, you not gonna do nothing, hey? Lemme show you.’ He got up and sat down next to the girl. ‘Hierie oulike kind gaat ek nou chise!’ his voice rose above the rumble of the train. Zane went as rigid as the plastic of his seat. They were drawing him into their game – first the cigarette, now chatting up the girl. How far would they go? Being in a suburban train made no difference to men like these. Zane looked the office type – navy trousers, blue long-sleeved shirt with white stripes and white collar, black shoes – the type they hated. They’d get him to react then kill him for the fun of it. He thought of grabbing the girl at the next stop and running out with her. Christ, where were they – Claremont, Harfield Road? In minutes a familiar trip had become a journey to hell. There would be no ‘jumpers’ on board this late – guards who jumped on and off trains during the day doing random security checks. There would be only a guard at the rear, and the driver in front. But they were sealed off and there was no emergency cord in the carriages. The rear guard would come out only at station stops – to open the doors for passengers and make sure all was clear before closing the doors again. And it was unlikely that an inspector would be checking tickets on the last train to Simonstown. Zane regretted that he hadn’t called out to the rear guard at the previous stop.

  Gatiep put h
is hand on the girl’s knee and whispered in her ear. She tried to get up but he pushed her down and slid his hand over her breast. ‘Ja, bru, small as I thought, but oh, so lekka!’ His mouth went slack. Curly smiled, ‘Small tiet, tight poes – they go togetha like Gatsby and Vienna!’ The girl freed up an arm, slapped Gatiep across the eye and nose with a force that belied her slender body. Gatiep flinched, his Adam’s apple rippled. She broke loose and strode towards Zane, her eyes reaching out to him. But all Zane saw was mindless violence coming his way. Not once had she cried out for help. He let her silence lull him and stayed in his seat. She sat down across the aisle from him, hunched up as if hoping the men would now leave her alone.

  Curly lit another cigarette and advanced slowly on the girl, holding the red tip out like a weapon, his flat face creased into a goofy grin. Gatiep pulled out a flick-knife, ready to cut off any attempt at escape by Zane and the girl. It made Zane get up – more through his conditioned reflexes than his mulling, mulish mind. He positioned himself between Curly and the girl while keeping Gatiep in sight. The carriage floor shuddered beneath his feet and into his body. Was it him shaking? Sensei Simon’s words came to him, ‘There’s no first strike in karate,’ and he heard Hannibal say mockingly, ‘I’ll make a man of you yet.’ He locked eyes with Curly; all movement started in the eyes. He could feel the train slowing down again. Let the man go for me so I can find out who I am! It barrelled up inside him like a prayer for deliverance.

  It wasn’t Curly’s fist but the cigarette that came – flicked into Zane’s face making him pull his head back sharply. Curly’s knuckles followed, thudding into Zane’s mouth turning it crimson. Zane fell against the inter-leading door, salt stinging his broken lips. For the first time the girl cried out. Through teary eyes he saw Gatiep going for her, free hand rubbing his bulging crotch. Was he on tik? The doors opened but there was no escape – Curly came in fast, his grin now a scowl. From two paces away Zane’s body blurred as he spun around and caught Curly below the breast bone with a back kick. The man wrapped himself around Zane’s heel, losing air like a popped balloon. Gatiep held the knife to the girl’s neck while he groped between her legs with this other hand. ‘God, hierie pompding moet ek hê!’ he slobbered to God of his intention to have her. Curly was still bent-over when Zane delivered an elbow strike to his temple flooring him.

  As Zane went for Gatiep the girl screamed – a howl of pain and rage. Gatiep had knifed her in the thigh above the knee. Zane grabbed Gatiep from behind and pinned his arms by his side. Seemingly from nowhere a knife appeared in the girl’s hands, her thumb flicked open the blade and without a sound she plunged it into Gatiep’s chest. Zane felt sudden pain as it nicked his arm, he let go of Gatiep, the rumbling of the train a roar in his brain.

  When Zane re-focused it was on the girl – slim, boyish, hair cut squarely across her forehead, eyes like embers hinting at the fury that had driven her. Curly rolled onto one knee, face contorting at the sight of Gatiep’s body. The girl eyed him coldly still clutching her knife. Zane was about to shout ‘no, no more!’ when she reached out for the handrail, face ashen. He sat her down, blood streaming from her leg. Curly stared at them. ‘We’ll get you, I know your faces,’ he said and stumbled through the door to the next coach.

  Gently Zane removed the knife from her hand. ‘Here, press on the wound … you have to stop the bleeding.’ His calm voice surprised him. He glanced at the blood on his arm. How much of it was Gatiep’s?

  She ignored him, went down on her knees next to Gatiep and feverishly patted his body, taking his mobile phone, wallet, some note paper, and a comb. She threw away the comb and stuffed everything else into her jeans pockets but did not touch the knife still in his hand. ‘For Christ’s sake, what are you doing?’ Zane asked.

  She managed to give him a wan look before her legs buckled and he had to catch her again. He heard the changing sound of the wheels as the train slowed down. He had to get her to hospital but if he made her run she could bleed to death. He half-draped her over his shoulder, ripped off his belt and tied it around her thigh above the gash in her jeans. Was the next station Wynberg? He suddenly realised it didn’t matter. He was on a train with two thugs – one dead, the other God knew where – and a girl who had not thought twice about plunging a knife into one of them, a man he, Zane Hendricks, had held for her to kill.

  Ten

  Hannibal was making love to Lulu for the third time when his mobile phone rang. It was only 8.30 pm. He should have switched the fucking thing off. He could let it ring itself off but its invasiveness was affecting his erection. Or he could smash it against the wall.

  Lulu raised her hips frantically from the pillow Hannibal had placed underneath her. ‘No, no! Don’t stop!’ she implored, her hair all over her face so that she could have been anybody. It suited him – he hated eye-contact during love-making. Best of all was doing it from behind so that there was no face at all – just a pompding. Altogether Hannibal preferred fucking of the no-name kind, like unbranded products in a supermarket – good quality but no emotional attachment, and priced right. It helped to ease the pain and humiliation of having lost Chantal years ago.

  Hannibal grabbed his mobile. ‘Ja-ja, wiesit!’ Then he recognised the voice. ‘Curly, hoesit, what’s up?’

  ‘It’s Gatiep. Jissis, I think my bra’s dead!’

  Hannibal disengaged from Lulu, not that there was much left to disengage. ‘Curly, listen, calm down. Tell me again slowly … hold it, just a minute.’ He turned to Lulu. ‘Vamoose, kind, I got business.’ Lulu took one look at his vanquished penis – stuck on his muscular body now like an afterthought – and gave up too. She grabbed her clothes and went to the lounge to get dressed.

  Curly took a deep breath. ‘It was on the train, Hanno … I’m still on it, next stop Retreat then I’m outta here, man!’ Only those who’d been with Hannibal from the beginning called him Hanno; no one else dared.

  ‘Speak up, my bra, all that noise! You’re alone? Good. Tell me quick then get yourself here.’ With his mobile pressed to his ear Hannibal paced the room, Lulu’s scratch marks visible down his flanks and back, his deep chest still glistening from the exertion. ‘You left him there? How do you know he’s dead? Vrot again, both of you, I suppose?’ Hannibal never took a drop of alcohol himself. Cage fighting didn’t allow it, nor did being leader of the Evangelicals.

  ‘Two Black Labels only, Hanno, I swear, after work. Nah, Gatiep started it … got kak jags over the girl on the train,’ Curly said.

  ‘Too much poes at the parlour, if you ask me,’ Hannibal said. As manager of the city massage joint, Gatiep had ensured a free flow of feminine favours coming his way. ‘So you left him, huh?’ Hannibal’s voice was dangerously calm.

  ‘Ek sê, I know a dead body when I see one.’

  ‘Curly, Evangelicals are like American Marines, they bring home their wounded and their dead – always.’

  ‘If I’d tried I wouldn’t have got home myself … I tell you, this muggie of a girl had Rottweiler in her, I swear, and this guy … like son of Bruce Lee. The only people in the coach, and Gatiep had to pick on them. Fuck-it …’

  Hannibal cut him short, ‘Minute, my bra! Gatiep’s ID and his cell could lead the kêrels straight to us. Nuh, and then what? I’ll have to get you out of the dwang again? It’s all I seem to do – getting the police to leave us alone. A doos and a moegoe, that’s you – now get your slap gat here!’

  ‘Ek’s afbiene, Hanno, the taxi’s too much.’

  ‘Well then, run!’

  To get from Retreat station to Hannibal’s house Curly would have to go along Concert Boulevard (what a larney fucking name for a road through Lavender Hill), cross the railway line, go past Wyehill and Allenby Roads, cross Prince George Drive (another larney fucking name) – almost three kilometres. It suited Hannibal. He could use the time to think. He pulled a T-shirt and jeans over his solid, caramel body. Was there a connection between the stabbings of Cupido and Gatiep? It seemed too muc
h of a coincidence, both of them working for Hannibal on the Boss’s business – the massage joint in Long Street and more recently the brothels near the new stadium in Green Point. The night Cupido died in Boundary Road the Thai girl had also disappeared and with her, profits that the Boss and Hannibal had banked on for the World Cup and afterwards. Now she was on the loose. What if she went to the police? Hannibal couldn’t rely on fear about her illegal status stopping her. His men had to find her. And now this thing with Gatiep! He thought of competitors who might want to muscle in on him. The murders could have been planned. Cupido would have been an easy target walking the streets around the stadium, but the killing on the train so many months afterwards? What’s more, according to Curly the girl and the man had already been on the train, sitting separately, when Gatiep and Curly boarded. Of course, it could simply have been fate – guys wanting fun on their way home, picking on the wrong people and finding death instead. But what kind of people were these?

  Random or planned, Hannibal wanted revenge. He had no idea who had murdered Cupido or where the Thai girl was, but he could get descriptions of the train killers from Curly and check if they had disembarked. There had been loss of business as well as pride and someone had to pay. Hannibal had to watch it, the gattas would investigate and for a change they might do a good job. He hated cops, despised them as unworthy adversaries – talking big to communities and the media, and strutting the streets of the Cape’s badlands like sheriffs yet lacking the courage to reclaim them. The police had taken to military titles, again – majors and colonels and generals instead of superintendents and directors and commissioners. Alles kak! He, Hannibal, was the only real general. They were fat, unfit and crooked. Take away the uniforms, pips and guns and not one of them would last a round with him in the cage. The cage separated the men from the boys. Hannibal hated weakness. It was the problem with people like Curly and many others before him, people whom Hannibal had favoured only to find they had no balls. And then there were those who had done him wrong.