Getting Lucky
by Etienne Krüger
Copyright © 2006
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FRIDAY, MIDNIGHT
Eliot burrowed deeper into the warm soggy mess. He didn’t stop even when something bit sharply into his left thigh. A bottle perhaps? he wondered briefly, hoping it wasn’t broken. He counted himself lucky that the dustbin was full because it meant he could peer safely through the narrow slit beneath its lid without fear of discovery. Now he was glad he hadn’t given in to his earlier impulse to hide underneath one of the cars in the parking area behind Pizzazz. The same cars that ten, well-dressed Zimbabweans were currently searching under with the same grim determination and thoroughness one would expect of a pack of tipped-off customs officials. But Eliot knew he was not going to get away with a mere fine if they caught him now.
One particularly disagreeable-looking Zimbo detached himself from the hunting group and started moving towards the bin. A dark wave of dread rose in the pit of Eliot’s stomach. His buttocks clenched together tightly and his heart beat loudly in his ears, accelerating wildly when a glinting belt buckle filled his view. It was holding up a pair of cargo shorts that was close enough for Eliot to read the label. Hilton Weiner. The Zimbo reached forward and pushed back the hopper’s lid. Its poorly lubricated rollers protested with a harrowing chalk-on-blackboard screech. Fear grabbed Eliot’s heart in a bouncer’s grip, paralysing his limbs completely. In his mind there was no escape. His life did not flash before his eyes. Instead a single thought occupied him: It isn’t fair! I was just trying to get lucky. Eliot was forced to consider exactly what was going to happen when the Zimbabweans got hold of him. His mind rebelled at the idea and immediately restored his capacity for action. He steeled himself to leap out as soon as the gap was wide enough. Given the fact that he was buried up to his neck in rubbish, a rapid exit, let alone a successful escape, seemed unlikely, but he closed his eyes and waited for the right moment all the same.
‘Jesus, I’m never eating another seafood pizza again,’ said the Zimbo, recoiling in disgust. He looked at the second bin. For a moment he was undecided. As he stood there his resolve waned rapidly. No one with a working sense of smell could possibly be hiding in that, he told himself. He turned on his heel to rejoin the rest of the pack. Eliot opened his eyes. He was still trying to figure out why he hadn’t been discovered when disaster struck for the third time that night.
DING! DONG! DINGALING! Eliot cringed as his watch chimed midnight with, what seemed to him, the acoustic subtlety of a set of clanging church bells. With the Zimbo barely six feet away Eliot couldn’t bear to look. So he shut his eyes tightly again. He wished he were safely back in Port Elizabeth with his parents, instead of hiding here on the hostile streets of Cape Town. After what seemed like forever, he opened his eyes and risked a peek. The Zimbo was gone. Perhaps the alcohol had affected his hearing or maybe it was simply the damping effect of so much material in the bin. Either way Eliot didn’t care. He found himself being absurdly grateful that the Far East hadn’t yet offered piercing polyphonic ring tones on cheap digital watches like the one he was wearing. There was no sign of the rest of the Zimbabweans. When nothing happened for the next five minutes, Eliot started to relax. His butt muscles had been on the verge of cramping, he realised.
The minutes oozed slowly by as a penetrating Cape Town September drizzle fell on the tar outside. Were it not for the effects of adrenaline, the fermenting compost that enveloped him and the fact that he was drunk, Eliot might have been cold. The Zimbabweans had disappeared from view and he wanted nothing more than to get into his bed and close his eyes on a truly catastrophic Friday evening. But Eliot’s instincts would not allow him out of hiding. He pressed a button on his watch, illuminating the display. Ten past. The light spilled onto a triangular slice of pizza that was disconcertingly close to his mouth. Its crusty topping resembled a regurgitated stew. Fighting a gag reflex, he pushed the offending scrap as far away from him as he could. As he waited, his physiology returned slowly to normal. His position became increasingly uncomfortable. Both of his legs were threatening to go into spasm; his head was throbbing; and, in the absence of a numbing panic, the smell was growing steadily worse. Finally, he started having difficulty breathing. That was enough for him. He didn’t care any more – even if they were waiting for him.
The sound of approaching footsteps stopped him as his hand touched the lid. He scanned the parking area nervously, seeing nothing. The steps came closer, their cadence quick and determined, like a girl walking purposefully in the dark. Eliot calmed down when his guess was proved right. She was alone, looking slightly jumpy, but not wanting to show it. He waited for her to pass. As she looked over her shoulder, Eliot realised that she was pretty. Blonde. Tight jeans and hot legs. Normally, by now, Eliot would have completed a full analysis, mentally undressed her and been halfway into a sexual fantasy, but the night’s events had greatly unnerved him. The new stimulus made Eliot temporarily forget his fear and discomfort. He recalled a program he had watched on satellite TV. ‘Every day an estimated 260,000,000 acts of sexual intercourse take place across the planet,’ the faceless documentary voice had pronounced with academic disinterest. Eliot sighed. Surely one more helping wouldn’t upset the universe. It wasn’t like he was asking for a daily ration. An equation that he had seen inscribed on a desktop in his Engineering class sprang to mind – ‘The angle of the dangle is proportional to the heat of the meat, provided the urge stays constant’. But this formula did not apply to him – he would take it hot or cold, or any temperature in between. Eighteen-year-old virgins couldn’t afford to be choosy.
***
Experience had taught Dave that people noticed very little when they were scared and in a hurry – even if their eyes were darting about. It was almost as if their fear narrowed their vision or something. The girl in the tight, low-cut jeans just passing him was no exception. Had she wanted to, she could easily have spotted him – the shadows, in the corner where the bins stood, were not that deep. But she didn’t. Beautiful legs, he thought, as his pulse quickened and a thrill surfed up his spine. He brought the pair of panties in his left hand up to his face, savouring the feeling of the frilly lace on his skin. The other hand was in his pocket, alternately turning over a small blue toy car and his trusty, matchbox-sized stun gun. The suburb of Mowbray was perfectly quiet at this time of night, except for the clip-clop of the girl’s shoes. Despite having heard nothing to suggest the presence of another soul, Dave scanned the area carefully. It had been less than fifteen minutes since he’d taken up station here, waiting for a loner or a straggler to take the shortcut. He found that he was slightly disappointed. Sometimes the waiting and the anticipation were the parts he enjoyed most. Dave rubbed the bruise on his cheekbone. Bitch! His anger rose quickly as he stepped out of the shadows and followed quietly in the girl’s path. He was hoping he’d lost Casper.
***
Eliot almost shouted in surprise when another set of legs appeared in his view without warning. One of the Zimbos must have stayed behind! Eliot thanked his lucky stars that he’d stayed quietly put. More of the figure became visible as the legs put some distance between them and the dustbin. Eliot realised that it wasn’t a Zimbo at all. It was a male, but instead of vellies it was wearing boots. And the broad, squat shoulders didn’t belong to a student, but to a powerful man of thirty years plus. The hairs stood up on Eliot’s neck as he watched the figure steal up behind the girl. As she neared the palm tree in the middle of the parking area, the man circled around it, clearly intending to use the trunk as cover. His manner was confident and calculating as he produced something from his pocket. Eliot’s instincts kicked in – the same ones that had kept him alive in some of Port Elizabeth’s seedier bars (where he and his more adventurous schoolmates could be sure no teacher would dare to go). Fu-uck! he thought as realisation dawned. This could be no other than the Toyman! The same sick fucker who stunned his victims before dragging them off into the bushes. Simultaneously, Eliot’s butt clenched again, his mind froze in fear, and his legs turned to jelly. A shouted warning emerged from his mouth, but it was a cracked wheeze that didn’t carry past the front of the bin.
***
At the same time, Casper floated limply in the shelter of the tree’s canopy. He summoned the last of his energy reserves and flitted down to stand in the girl’s path. Ignoring the stinging rain, he rose to his full towering height, but there was simply no response. She kept walking directly at him. The ghost realised he had only a second left to act. Dave was reaching out, finger on the trigger of the stun gun. The disabling blue flash would be next and then it would be too late to make a difference. Think! Think! he ordered himself. Then he remembered the boy.
***
Eight hundred short milliseconds later the lid of the dustbin clattered to the ground, ripped from its rusty tracks by the force of Eliot’s headlong leap. He flew through the air as if pursued by demons. The sensation of the ghost passing through his torso was easily the worst thing he’d ever experienced. It was both shocking and disgusting. Shocking in that it had instantly galvanised his frozen limbs into action; disgusting because it felt like his body had been invaded by the rancid contents of the bin. Later the closest thing he would be able to compare it to would be standing barefoot on a pile of lukewarm dog shit and feeling it ooze up between his toes, or more accurately in his case – between his organs. Eliot had completely forgotten about the Toyman. It was mere coincidence that he ran in the approximate direction of the girl, scattering scraps of food and pizza boxes in his wake. For a moment the girl stood riveted to the spot, wide-eyed and frantic as she contemplated the slimy monster bearing down on her. Then she started screaming loudly enough to wake the dead. At that moment a piece of mushy dough on the underside of his shoe and the slippery white paint of a parking bay bought Eliot down. As he fell in a confusion of limbs, the girl turned and ran, still screaming, in the direction of Main Road.
Eliot recovered his senses slowly. He sat up and checked his body for structural damage. Finding himself relatively intact he crabbed the remaining two metres to the tree and used it as a support to help him stand. Then, leaning against the rough, wet trunk, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, dislodging some food that had stuck to his face. The feeling that something was wrong was unshakeable. He opened his eyes in alarm and wished he hadn’t. The Toyman had long sideburns, Elvis-style. Eliot looked into his flat, stagnant black eyes and knew he was fucked. He tried to run, but a powerful hand clamped itself around his bicep. A device like an oversized key fob, with two stubby electrodes protruding from its top, rose up slowly in front of his face. There was a buzz as the Toyman tested it. A crackling blue arc writhed from one electrode to the other and the sharp smell of ozone filled the air. The Toyman curled his lip in a mocking sneer.
‘Looks like Casper’s got a little friend. But you guys screwed up,’ he admonished with a grin that revealed a row of slightly crooked teeth. ‘Doesn’t worry me – I’ll take you in place of the girl. I promise you won’t remember a thing tomorrow. That’s how my policy works.’
Eliot tried to beg for mercy, but no words would come.
‘There he is. Catch him!’ There was a great roar as the Zimbos rounded the far corner of the pizza restaurant and sprinted towards them. Eliot used the distraction to rip his arm free. He fled in the same direction the girl had taken. Moments into his flight he skidded to a halt when he became aware that he’d been outflanked. All ten of the Zimbabweans were there, five on each side of the pincer. To his left the sheer walls of the locked building offered no means of escape; to his right, on the far side of the parking area, rose an eight-foot Vibracrete wall that looked impossible to scale. With no other choice he ran at it, barely ahead of his pursuers, leaping upwards with all of his five foot and eleven inches. Somehow he managed to get his fingers over the top. The reinforced concrete slab was only two inches thick and he was just able to hang on. Desperation pulled him up and over before the grasping fingers of the Zimbos could reach him. He fell heavily into the soft earth at the top of the railway embankment and rolled down to the tracks. Then he ran for all he was worth, determined to end this disastrous night in his own bed – even if it was alone.
Six hours earlier...
CHAPTER 1
Anyone for MucDoogles?
Eliot’s light blue 1981 Opel Kadette struggled bravely up the wet, winding and magnificent tree-lined Constantia Nek road. According to Andy a lot of old Cape Town money lived here. Eliot, who had only been in Cape Town for eight months and didn’t know his way around the peninsula very well, was quietly amazed. He couldn’t see any houses because they were all set back from the road, but if the distance between the elaborate entrance gates was anything to go by, they had to be huge.
‘So, Andy bru, why’d you reckon the okes in the East still pay big bucks for rhino horn when they’ve got stuff like Viagra now?’ he asked his navigator.
Andy was from Florida. Not the famous state, but the suburb to the west of Johannesburg – a drab and dusty place squeezed like a brake pad between Krugersdorp and the highway. First year B.Sc. Chemistry at the University. Second attempt. He had been overjoyed to escape from the shadow of the West Rand mine dumps, while his parents were enjoying the peace and quiet of his absence to the extent that they hadn’t even minded much when he’d failed.
Andy was quick to respond. ‘I suppose they scheme it makes their weenies bigger instead of just harder,’ he sniggered. ‘They’re not that bright. I mean, anyone who will pay thousands of dollars for a couple of grams of powdered nose skin …’
‘Fully,’ agreed Eliot. ‘But does it actually work?’
‘Don’t know. Never tried it.’
‘Ever tried pheromones?’ asked Eliot, who’d recently seen an advert on the Internet and had been tempted to try it out.
Andy laughed. ‘Listen china, that stuff is useless. I tested every different type years ago and none of the chicks even noticed me. Now they dig me, but it’s not because of how I smell – it’s because I’ve got what they want.’ Andy underlined his point by letting rip with a series of farts that sounded astonishingly like a flock of alarmed ducks, but had all the warm, cloying oppressiveness and substance that one would expect from a flatulent hippopotamus that had overdosed on Mexican food. With his head half out the window, Eliot rated the best in the series at 78 out of a 100. This was based on his personal scoring system that allocated ten points each for loudness, length, timbre, bouquet, radius of influence, persistence, and general artistic impression (with the first three parameters each receiving an additional weighting of 10 points because of their importance). When they’d finished laughing and it was safe to wind the window up again, Andy continued. ‘What you actually need is this stuff,’ he said producing a vial.
‘What’s that?’ Eliot took his eyes off the road to look.
‘Oxytocin. It’s a hormone. I know a guy doing post-grad work in animal bonding behaviour. They gave this hormone to a whole lot of female rats and one male. The bitches picked that same male out of a crowd six weeks later. They went googoo and chased him down. Makes sense – Oxytocin is one of the brain’s love messengers …’
‘But I want to get laid, not fall in love,’ interrupted Eliot, although he was thinking it might not be so bad to have girls chasing him for a change.
Andy’s voice had grown thick with authority. ‘Let me finish, china. They chased the poor creature down.’ He smiled as he paused for effect. ‘Then they forced him to copulate with them. All of them. Wore him out completely.’
Eliot was silent as he digested the information. ‘So how do you know it’s going to work on chicks, not just rats, bru?’ he asked.
‘Well, it’s actually a human hormone. They just tried it on rats first to see what would happen. Rats are fucking close to people genetically, you know. If it was me running the trial, I’d have gone for human testing from day one.’ Andy chuckled, trying for the mad scientist effect, but failing.
Eliot was intrigued, but he harboured strong reservations about using drugs on girls. ‘But that’s rape, if you use stuff like that,’ he said.
‘No ways, china. It’s not like Rohypnol. That’s a real drug. Basically makes people helpless. Ah, ah. With Oxytocin we’re talking about a hormone. And it’ll only work if the chick is already keen on you. It just helps loosen things up. Like alcohol or a joint. No one’s ever claimed those are rape drugs, have they?’
‘I suppose not,’ agreed Eliot, not entirely persuaded. He knew nothing about rape drugs.
Andy continued his argument. ‘It’s like hypnosis – you can’t hypnotise someone to do something they really don’t want to do.’
‘Fully.’ Eliot knew that was true because a stage hypnotist had once tried (and failed) to put him under. ‘So how do you give it to the chicks?’
‘Easy. Dilute it and apply nasally. With a sprayer. A fine mist of this stuff at night and no one will even see it. You can’t smell it either.’
‘Have you tried it, bru?’ asked Eliot.
‘Of course,’ responded Andy, a bit unconvincingly.
‘So what happened?’ asked Eliot. He’d spotted the hesitation and was wondering how much he should believe.
‘Uh, china, you know, the stuff doesn’t always work perfectly. Problem is that other hormones affect it. It works best when oestrogen levels are high – they prime the brain for the bonding effect. Too much progesterone screws up the process. You basically only have about half the month, because oestrogen peaks just before ovulation and then progesterone takes over for the rest of the time. So you have a fifty-fifty chance.’
‘Fuck, bru, you know lank about this stuff,’ applauded Eliot, genuinely impressed at Andy’s encyclopaedic knowledge on the subject. Hell, fifty-fifty was a lot better than his average success rate up till now.
‘Well, I do study a bit. Not always stuff in the syllabus, but it’s useful stuff to know.’
‘So can I try it then? There’s that party tonight,’ said Eliot.
‘Easy, china, this is the only one I’ve got. I was going to use it myself. Stuff is rare as plutonium. They have to like kill rabbits to get it.’
‘Bru, come on,’ pleaded Eliot.
‘Listen, china. I’m grateful for the lift, but the problem is this stuff is expensive. And my connection is getting nervous. He’s got to be careful his supervisor doesn’t notice that he is using more hormone than he should.’
‘I’ll pay you,’ said Eliot.
‘OK. I suppose I can always get some more next week. But it’s going to cost you seventy-five bucks. That’s exactly what it cost me.’
‘Fuck,’ said Eliot, calculating the cost. ‘That’s ten beers.’
‘Do you want to get lucky or not?’
‘OK. Shot, bru. Take it out my wallet,’ said Eliot. ‘Less the ten bucks you owe me for petrol.’ As Andy did the transaction, Eliot felt a pang at the thought of administering anything, even a harmless hormone, to an unsuspecting girl. He quietened his conscience. Just because you carried a gun didn’t mean you were necessarily going to kill people. It was there just in case.
With a last backfire from the car’s exhaust they reached the circle that marked the top of the climb. The road to Hout Bay was downhill from here and that was just as well – Eliot’s car clearly did not get enough practice just driving to campus every day.
Sheer cliffs, marking the back of Table Mountain, soared to their right. The tops were lost in a bank of dark cloud. On the left of the road the mountain towered nearly as high, but its slopes were more laid back. The lower parts were covered in dense stands of trees. Fynbos, speckled with grey rock strata, took over higher up – all the way to the castellated ridge. [footnote: fynbos – a huge variety of scrubby stuff, many types of which are unique to the Western Cape. Apart from South Africa’s national flower, the Protea, only botanists can really appreciate the rest. The stuff also burns really well.] The road disappeared into a leafy tunnel for a while. When they emerged, they turned right at the Imizamo Yethu squatter camp, squeezed in unlikely fashion between million rand small-holdings and upper class houses. Talk about a steep property value gradient, thought Eliot. On the right rose Suikerbossie Hill, isolated and shaped exactly like an erect nipple. If they’d carried on straight, they would have reached the Chapman’s Peak toll road. Eliot had read all about that. The city had sold the rights to a private contractor after a bathtub-sized boulder from the slopes above had fallen onto a guy’s car, paralysing him, and he’d successfully sued the council for damages. This was a guy who could have won the lottery had he used his luck for good rather than bad. The odds were pretty similar. Eliot glanced at the sky in mock nervousness, looking for the telltale fiery trail of a meteorite heading his way. Would the council close all the roads in the city for fear of rocks falling from the sky? Logic and consistency demanded that they do so without delay.
‘Turn left here,’ said Andy, jerking Eliot out of his daydream. ‘Then right.’
‘Are you sure you know where you’re going,’ asked Eliot nervously as they passed the harbour with its little marina and fishing trawlers. Ahead lay a township, built long ago to house the coloured fishermen and fish factory workers.
‘Don’t worry, china, Bay View is cool. I’ve been here often.’
‘But it’s a township,’ protested Eliot.
‘Don’t be racist, china. We’re in the new South Africa now. Check out the view.’
Bay View lay at the base of the rock-strewn inner face of the peak known as the Sentinel. Twenty or so blocks of council flats, most of which were painted yellow with red roofs, formed its heart. Scattered between the flats were smaller houses ranging from small brick structures to shacks constructed from corrugated iron, wood and even the odd piece of plastic-covered cardboard. The sun took that moment to peer briefly through a gap in the cloud, proving that the view was awesome. Hout Bay harbour’s yachts competed with the splendid cliffs of Chapman’s Peak, even outshining the lighthouse at distant Kommetjie.
‘The okes here are lagging at the whiteys in Hout Bay. They got the prime spot,’ chuckled Andy. ‘Turn right here. Karbonkel Street. We’re going right to the end.’
Eliot calmed down a bit. Andy sounded perfectly at ease.
‘You only need to worry here if you’re a cop or a gangster. This side is Seksie Slette territory and over there you’d better be a Witpyp Naaier if you want to live.’
‘Huh?’ said Eliot.
‘You heard me. It’s the Sexy Sluts if you can’t speak Afrikaans.’
‘What’s a Witpyp?’ asked Eliot.
Andy rolled his eyes. ‘China, don’t you P.E. okes know anything? A white pipe is a Mandrax and dagga mix they smoke in a bottleneck. White Pipe Fuckers. Don’t know where the hell they came up with that. A bit dof if you ask me. But I suppose if you smoke enough pipes …’
A menacing snarl from behind them rattled Eliot’s calm. A black Nissan bakkie with dark, tinted windows scraped past at high speed. Behind it an eight inch free-flow exhaust pipe, jutted out like the muzzle of a cannon. Dropped suspension, noted Eliot, despite his fright. Standing in the back there were two coloured gangsters with shaven heads and shades. They looked cool and threatening at the same time. Both of them waved at Andy.
Andy waved back.
‘Fuck, bru. You know these okes?’ gasped Eliot.
‘For sure, china. Just follow them. They’re going where we’re going.’
Eliot started wondering who would want to make a bakkie (or what the Yanks would call a pickup truck), with its superior ground clearance, sit on the road like a sports car. Low profile tyres were one thing. But low profile bakkies? He temporarily forgot about his fear as he puzzled over the strange logic that prevailed here.
The dirty brown house at the top of the road had as few right angles as a loaf of bread cut at an all-girl table. It was framed by scraggly, knee height-weeds interspersed with patches of grass. A faded brass ‘64’ dangled by one screw from the front door. If the bakkie had come here, as Andy had predicted, it was nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was around the back. There was a bark. A mangy dog, which appeared to be loosely based on the Alsatian breed, eyed them suspiciously from behind the safety of a rusting half-drum that might once have been used as a braai. [footnote: simply calling a braai a barbeque would be equivalent to putting carbonated sparkling wine in the same category as, say, Moët.] The holes in the drum could have been for ventilation, but their size and grouping suggested otherwise. Eliot’s anxiety started to return with interest.
‘Fuck, bru, you’re not going in there, are you?’ said a wide-eyed Eliot.
‘Relax, china, I know everyone here. It’s not as bad as it looks. It’s just a simple crack house. No one comes here to sit in the garden and admire the view, so maintenance is not high on the agenda,’ replied Andy in a reassuring tone.
‘If you say so,’ said Eliot doubtfully. If he’d known this was where they were headed, he’d never have offered Andy a lift.
‘Thanks for the ride, china. I’ll see you at the party later,’ said Andy, getting out of the car.
Eliot had already pulled off before the door was completely closed. The overcast sky spelled further rain. It was probably a case of watching too many movies, but this place gave him the shivers. He floored the Opel, expecting at any moment to feel the impact of a bullet hitting his body. By the time he was safely back on the main road, hunger had superseded his fear and he’d convinced himself that the only reason he was speeding was so he wouldn’t be late for the Super Friday Student Special at MucDoogles. Two burgers and chips for the price of one – but only until six.
***
The driver wore a look of grim determination on his face – he was late and doubted he’d make the round trip in time to pick up a second batch of commuters. That meant not reaching his daily target. As a result his taxi boss was bound to take the deficit out of his already meagre pickings for the week. His foot was flat as he pulled off; yet the taxi accelerated with agonising slowness. Its tired pistons wheezed black smoke over the cars behind as it crossed the intersection into Rondebosch. The engine, which was even more elderly than the battered bodywork and the thrice retreaded set of tyres, strained to move the combined mass of its 25 occupants. Between the driver and two passengers up front, stood a young boy. He was facing backwards and frowning. ‘Tata, why is there a gap in the back row? Is the seat broken?’ he asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.
The driver’s face crumpled in sudden fear. There was no need to look back because he knew what he would see – an empty space in the otherwise jam-packed, 16-seater taxi. No doubt it would be between two huge, quivering mamas. About the width of a slender man. The driver realised why the passengers had been so quiet. He grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him roughly down. ‘Tula, kwedin. Quiet, boy. This is not a matter that concerns you.’ A bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. As he wiped it, he noted with some relief that they were within sight of MucDoogles.
Thirty seconds later the fifty-odd students queuing outside the fast-food outlet were briefly alarmed as the taxi came to the most screeching halt that its worn brake pads were able to muster. The door opened, but, surprisingly, no one got out. The driver risked a glance at the back seat. His guess had been wrong. The gap was there all right, but it was between a fearful mama and an ashen-faced young man. Both were struggling for all they were worth to maintain the space against the crush inside the taxi.
‘It’s all right now,’ he said loudly enough for all of the passengers to hear. ‘It always gets off here. Sorry about the inconvenience.’
The young man did not look convinced. As if expecting an electric shock, he poked tentatively at the emptiness next to him with his forefinger. When he felt nothing, the look of terror on his face subsided slightly. But his relief was premature. Seconds later, the mama to his left, against whom he had been scrumming since he got into the taxi at Pollsmoor prison, exerted herself with the force of a continental plate. There was a violent explosion of breath from his lungs as the gap between the two mamas closed on him with a tectonic thud. As natural order re-established itself inside the taxi, the driver heard several of the passengers fearfully mutter ‘Tokoloshe’. He hoped they wouldn’t associate his taxi with that particular evil spirit.
There was a series of angry hoots from outside as he pulled away again, cutting off three cars in the process. His assistant was ever ready to give them the finger. The driver turned to the boy next to him. ‘They say it’s a spirit. His mother’s inside at Pollsmoor,’ he explained in a low voice. ‘And that he goes to visit her. Always on a Friday – especially when it’s overcast like today. No one is sure which taxi he’ll take. But he always gets off here.’
The boy turned as pale as a white man.
‘Don’t worry, it’s no Tokoloshe. This one is harmless,’ said the driver with more conviction than he felt. ‘They say he was a professor at the university before he died. A very clever man.’
‘Why would someone like that want to travel in a taxi?’ asked the boy.
The driver shrugged. Maybe it was the groovy music they played.
***
Inside the fence of St. Paul’s churchyard, Lazarus settled on his favourite gravestone, being careful not to let the granite penetrate the ethereal skin of his buttocks. Even so, the first touch of the stone made him tingle, a curious mixture of icy cold and pins-and-needles. He hated it when the taxis were so full. Touching the living was unpleasant, even though their company always lifted his spirits and made him almost feel part of the community again. Lazarus rubbed his shoulder. In trying to avoid contact with the passengers, he’d accidentally banged it through the doorframe when he exited. Glass and metal wasn’t as bad as earth and stone, but it still hurt, and the rubbing did nothing to help. He looked across the fence. The time was almost six o’clock and at MucDoogles, where the special was about to come to an end, it was turning into a minor feeding frenzy. Students who hadn’t been served yet were jostling for position, pushing against those who were trying to leave with their food in hand. Lazarus read the four-metre high advertisement on the wall above the burger spot. Feed your Hunger. Know The Taste. Spoken by a three-metre girl with a perfectly airbrushed body and a spotless skin. Lazarus traded the discomfort in his shoulder for the only other sensation he could still experience. He started mentally salivating at the thought of biting through the wholesome, crispy bun and into the succulent, flame-grilled, hundred percent pure beef patty. He wondered how the tangy cheese sensation would combine with the secret, ForYourBudsOnly® sauce and the super-crunchy gherkin. And what about the light sprinkling of sesame seeds on top? His fantasy, as always, was short lived. Gloom descended like the dusk that was fast gathering here in the lee of Table Mountain. What good was a burger to someone who couldn’t pick it up, nor eat it, nor taste anything but cold, chalky pain. He wished for the thousandth time that the tyre could have held onto its tread for a few minutes more. Long enough to get them safely to MucDoogles. Then he would’ve known The Taste rather than just the hunger. He remembered his mother’s smile as she clutched the two MucMegaMeal tickets and peered excitedly from the window of the taxi. They were special tickets – a birthday present from him – to the grand MucDoogles opening. The world is coming to South Africa, he had thought proudly at the time. Now if the talks between Nelson Mandela and the white government would just work out, things will be perfect. That, and if he’d had three tickets. He’d expected her to take his father, but she’d insisted on treating him. The reason for that became clear six months later when she killed her husband by hitting him over the head with a plank. One that had a nail in the end. The courts had been unsympathetic. Use of a weapon against a smaller, unarmed man – even though her tears and remorse would have convinced most that she was unaware of the nail and even though the bruises on her face and body testified to her provocation. She survived the taxi crash, which killed her son, with barely a scratch, only to face ten years in jail for manslaughter. As a result she’d never experienced The Taste either. If anyone had to be sent to jail, thought Lazarus bitterly, it should’ve been the taxi owner who’d probably got his roadworthy certificate by hiring new tyres for the day of the test, then putting back his hand-grooved ones. A common enough practice in the township economy.
A movement caught his eye. A squirrel was running down the trunk of the giant oak tree that stood over him. Weren’t they supposed to be wintering snugly inside their nests, wondered Lazarus? Surrounded by nuts and padding, and hopefully a warm partner. His eyes followed the little creature. It ran past the old church and up another tree, stopping at the same level as the South African flag, which flew across the road on the Rondebosch Police Station’s flagpole. Lazarus wanted to shout at them to release his mother, but he knew his best effort at making a noise wasn’t guaranteed even to scare a nervous butterfly off its perch. So he sighed deeply instead and tried to imagine a tangy cheese sensation on his tongue. After a while he gave up and closed his eyes. Dave wouldn’t arrive for some hours yet.
***
With a last stroke of the Enter button, Dave logged onto Doldrum Insurance’s local area network. He leant back in his office chair and waited for the server to respond.
‘I’m so tired of staying in Rondebosch. It’s so tacky,’ he said, mimicking Marlene’s voice perfectly, yet careful to pitch the volume at a level she wouldn’t hear. These were the words that normally greeted him when he got home. Well, fucking move out then, he mimed bitterly, exaggerating the familiar movement of her head.
The rent on the Rosebank cottage was due and he was eager to see if any new sales had gone through since yesterday. He typed sufferbitch and hit Submit. Using the password (with its inherent privacy) always gave him a small amount of satisfaction. As if sensing his rebelliousness, his wife shouted from the lounge.
‘Some tea, dumpling!’
He hated the names she used on him. The theme music from her favourite soapie, Egoli, started playing and he knew she would be ensconced in the lazy-boy, with her feet up. He also knew from experience that the terms of endearment she habitually used could very quickly turn into a barrage of abusive labels if he did not move quickly enough to do her bidding. In this case the recipe was: boiling water, camomile tea, dunked precisely twelve times (not too fast), and exactly an inch of milk. On a saucer with three low-fat biscuits. Like that was going to help. Diet biscuits weren’t going to soak up the vast number of kilojoules she shovelled into her body every day. It made him sick just thinking about watching her eat.
When he returned to his computer, he was pleasantly surprised to find that the processing on two new policies had been finalised. The commission would be in his current account by Monday. Perfect. That meant he wouldn’t have to steal the cash from Marlene’s handbag. Though she rarely checked or reconciled anything, there was always the risk she’d notice. Like last week when he had stupidly taken her last two hundred rand note to buy some condoms. It didn’t matter to her whether she had proof or not. Dave rubbed his cheekbone thoughtfully. It was still quite tender.
He rarely went to the office these days. The remote computer link was a blessing. His routine was almost perfect. Seeing clients kept him away from the house and Marlene for most of the day. The little paperwork he had, he did from home in the evenings. It meant he had to put up with his wife’s nonsense, but that was better than facing the scorn of his so-called colleagues at work. Stupid fuckers.
He logged onto his favourite Internet site. Voyeurweb.com was a classy offering. The real thing, not like some of the other pathetic web pages with their fake pictures and posed shots. The ones that claimed to be free but weren’t. No, this was a site run by connoisseurs for connoisseurs. And it really was free. He started downloading a series of photos taken on a Greek nude beach. From the less-than-flattering poses, it was clear to him that the subjects had no idea they were being captured on film. He liked that.
‘What are you doing, muffin?’ said Marlene, appearing in the doorway to the study.
Dave’s left hand, ever at the ready, alt-tabbed calmly to his sales spreadsheet in case she came round to his side of the computer monitor.
‘Just doing some numbers, Angel.’
Marlene sniffed. ‘Daddy wants us to come over for lunch tomorrow. And I’ve got a facial I couldn’t fit in earlier this week. At ten. So you’d better get up a bit earlier than usual to make breakfast.’
Couldn’t fit it in, thought Dave. What, between the tea parties, the manicures, the hair, the hot stone massages and the Pilates? He knew how little regard she had for his work, but hid his anger with practised ease. He wondered if there was anything he could do to avoid visiting his in-laws.
‘I’m on duty tonight,’ he said, careful not to make it sound like he was refusing to go.
‘Daddy wants to discuss your performance,’ said Marlene with a note of finality. ‘And you know better than to say no to him. Who knows, maybe you’re in for a promotion.’ She smirked at him. ‘He’s still your boss, you know, even if your office is twenty floors down from his.’
Dave ignored the barb. ‘OK. But I’m going to be really tired.’ He was pushing his luck with this tone of voice, but the thought of spending an interminable Saturday afternoon with her impossible-to-please father and her Buddha-shaped mother was just too much to bear without some form of protest.
Marlene was peeved, he could tell. She launched into a familiar tirade. ‘I can’t understand why you persist in this … this … stupidity!’ She spat out the word. ‘Being a volunteer paramedic in your spare time is just plain dumb. It’s not like you make enough money to support yourself in the first place. And then you go out all night and come back exhausted in the morning. I’m getting sick of you sponging off me and my family. Just because we’ve got money …’ The pitch of her voice increased as she wound herself up. Dave knew he had to be careful.
‘I do it because I care about people. And it’s exciting. Did I tell you about the accident scene we covered on Wednesday night? Taxi crash. Body parts all over the road …’
‘Oh shut up, Dave. I don’t need to hear about such disgusting things,’ said Marlene firmly.
***
‘Kak. That uniquely vulgar South African word that rhymes with ‘fuck’. A no frills, right-to-the-point word, economic in length, it has exactly the same meaning as the word ‘shit’, but with added flexibility. Kak is like turbo charged shit or shit plus, plus. Like ‘fuck’ it can be used as any conceivable part of speech, while its gutteral (sic) origins give it much more flavour than mere shit. Two hard consonants allow for varied delivery depending on whether it is used to express an opinion, as an exclamation, to brutally cut short an argument, or any of its other, myriad uses. So useful is the word that it is sprinkled liberally onto virtually every conversation, whether conducted in English or Afrikaans, like Aromat spice onto lamb chops at a braai. There are a brave few old proper English folk who resist, but probably secretly wish they were allowed to use it …’ read Eliot, looking at the computer screen over the shoulder of his housemate, Humphrey.
Eliot spoke through the last few scraps of his MucDoogles burger. ‘Hey, Humph, this is fucking good shit. And I dig the fully weak pun on ‘gut’. I wish we could get interesting assignments like you BA okes.’ [footnote: BA – Bachelor of the Arts degree. Taken by girls looking for husbands. Taken by guys with no other options.]
‘Well at least you’ll have a job when you graduate,’ replied Humphrey, pleased that someone had spotted his pun and thinking that Eliot was quite well versed in language for an engineer, despite his deplorably vulgar turn of phrase.
‘Fuck. I still think you okes are lucky. I had to sit through a Principles of Engineering lecture this morning on a hangover from the depths of hell. A double period spent on the design of new flush toilet mechanisms. And that was after maths and physics. Old Prof. Moon, our lecturer, just went on and on about how kak the common seal-type mechanism is – you know the type that always leaks and you have to jiggle the handle to stop the flow so the cistern can fill up – well THAT mechanism, as opposed to the old fashioned U-tube which absolutely cannot leak – you know – the handle pulls a piston up the one side and once the water starts flowing over the U-bend, the siphon effect takes over until the cistern is drained … fundamentally sound … design … elegant … gravity … cross-sections … gaussian noise …’
‘Uh huh,’ said Humphrey who had stopped listening, thinking that Eliot was probably lying about not liking his course. But then, engineers saw the world in a very strange fashion.
His thinking wasn’t far off the mark: Eliot’s physics lecture that morning had been on the importance of universal constants in Engineering. Eliot had kept himself amused by noting that Planck’s constant should actually have described the ideal ratio of ingredients in a brandy and Coke. Then there was pi – the ratio between the radius and circumference of a circle. He thought that the square root of pi, called root pie for short, was surely the most fundamental constant, if not an instruction from the universe itself. Eliot had spent the morning dreaming up schemes designed to free him from his entrapment in the virgin state, like a sad, energy-deprived electron languishing in the lowest orbit around an atom.
‘I’m worried about you, bru. Working like this on a Friday evening … You still coming to the party tonight?’
‘Well, if I do this now I won’t have to do it on Sunday night. I’m almost finished,’ replied Humphrey testily.
Eliot decided to leave him to his work. In his room he looked around for his laundry bag. ‘Didn’t the char do the washing today?’ he asked angrily.
‘The clothes are still on the line,’ said Humphrey from across the passage. ‘Beauty started work a bit late this morning. Her mother was sick or something. I said we would take them down.’
‘Fuck, bru. Have you noticed it’s raining?’ said Eliot, cursing Beauty.
‘Damn it!’ said Humphrey. ‘No I didn’t. Sorry. Are they wet?’
Eliot tried unsuccessfully to bite back a sarcastic reply. ‘No, it’s only been raining for the last half hour, bru,’ he said irritably. He opened his cupboard and inventoried the contents. There was exactly one old running T-shirt and two pairs of socks. Okay! And his jeans were fresh. That left a single problem – the pair of jocks he was wearing. As his last and only dry pair, they had already seen two days of active service. Eliot decided to heed his father’s advice. Rule four was very simple: Chicks don’t dig dirty underwear. Since this was to be his lucky night, it would be safer to go without. Problem solved.
CHAPTER 2
Dancing is for girls
Eliot watched with interest as the DJ set up his equipment. Judging by the size of the speakers, the Spring Dance Party was going to rock. He looked round the dance area, which was actually the dining room of Tugwell Hall, one of the student residences on lower campus. A hundred or so students clustered around the makeshift bar. There was probably space for several hundred more, if you packed them in tightly. Eliot watched the girls as they entered, dusted in pearly water droplets from the drizzle that was falling outside. As he watched, he rated them and plotted his strategy, drinking steadily to bolster his courage. Several girls noticed his evaluating stare and glared back before he could look away. Others noticed but kept their eyes on the ground as they walked past.
Humphrey was nearby, trying unsuccessfully to attract the attention of a barman. Eliot’s housemate had gone unnoticed for almost ten minutes and was contemplating jumping onto the table that served as a counter and taking off his shirt. He wished he had a set of tits. That was all that seemed to work with barmen.
‘Smell my finger, dude,’ came an unexpected voice from Eliot’s side, as a forefinger was thrust under his nose. He had been so intent on his survey of the female population that he hadn’t noticed Sam’s approach. Humphrey turned to look. Eliot wrestled with the forearm of the American exchange student, wrinkling his face.
‘You boys get lucky yet?’ asked Sam with a self-satisfied grin and a lascivious wink. He struggled out of Eliot’s grip only to practically ram the same finger up Humphrey’s nose. Humphrey smelt the sweet bouquet of pussy and rolled his eyes as he exchanged a glance with Eliot. Please! Proving to your friends that you got your hand down a girl’s pants was something that schoolboys did, not ’varsity students. He could see that even Eliot was mildly surprised at such regressive behaviour.
‘You male whore, Sam. Get us a beer,’ ordered Eliot, thereby bestowing the greatest praise possible and ensuring at least one free drink. ‘A Castle, OK? And an Amstel for Humphrey.’ Sixty seconds later, Humphrey gratefully accepted his drink from Sam who had organised a round with astonishing speed. How did some guys always seem to get service so easily?
Eliot rapidly drained his existing beer before taking the next one. He glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. The night was still young.
‘Shot, bru.’
‘Thanks. Cheers,’ said Humphrey.
‘Dudes,’ toasted Sam. He was careful to look each of them in the eye, as, by long-standing convention, it would cost him another round of drinks if he slipped up.
Beer gurgled as each boy took a long draw on his can.
‘Eliot, so what’s the story with the black women here?’ asked Sam.
‘What do you mean, bru?’
‘Dude, I had a ride in a black taxi this afternoon and I was sandwiched between two sets of tits that would make Dolly Parton look like she took a triple-A bra.’
Eliot shook his head at Humphrey. Taking a drive in a 16-seater mini-bus, often packed with up to twenty black mamas, not counting the driver and other passengers up front, was living life on the brink of an accident. What Sam had said was true enough, though. Black mamas here had the most incredibly enormous breasts, not to mention hips and thighs staunch enough to kick-start a Boeing.
‘You a big tit man, Sam?’ asked Eliot.
‘Yeah, I dig humungous udders, man,’ replied Sam without a hint of embarrassment.
Humphrey cut in. ‘Did you know that the world’s first breast enlargement operation was performed here in Cape Town? Just about the same time as Christian Barnard did the first heart transplant. At Groote Schuur Hospital.’
‘Really?’ said Sam.
‘Yes. The new government has a special grant for previously disadvantaged woman so they can have the procedure.’
‘What?’ said Sam, beating Eliot to the question.
‘It’s a cultural thing. Black men are traditionally judged in the community by how many cows they have, how many wives, and how big their tits are,’ explained Humphrey, trying very hard to keep a straight face.
‘But like aren’t a lot of people starving here? How can they afford to have cosmetic surgery?’ Sam was reminded of the vast squatter camps he had seen surrounding the airport as he came in to land at Cape Town International a month ago.
‘Like I said, there’s a grant,’ explained Humphrey. ‘And anyway no one is starving in South Africa. Maybe in some other African countries. Zimbabwe definitely, but not here.’
Eliot cut in smoothly. ‘Fully, bru. The operation is normally done by medical students to keep the costs down. In fact the minister of health has just announced an extra compulsory year of community service to the medical degree exactly for that.’ Eliot had decided to join in the fun, but avoided looking at his housemate. If he did, he knew he’d burst out laughing.
‘Your government is crazy!’ said Sam, tapping his head. He drained his beer and made his way towards a distant group of girls, shaking his head.
The DJ powered up and the music started pumping. Eliot held a bleak view on dancing. Convulsing to music made him feel ridiculous. His standard line was that he would rather bang his head against a wall to encourage a genuine epileptic fit than simulate one on the dance floor. The problem with this theory was that, unfortunately, girls seemed to enjoy bouncing around to the music. Eliot would therefore grudgingly join if left with no other option to impress. His dancing, however, was subject to an entrance requirement of at least six beers, which were required to subdue his self-consciousness. He wasn’t at that point yet, so he motioned for Humphrey to follow him outside where they could talk.
‘You BA okes can really speak a load of shit,’ said Eliot, laughing. ‘I think they let you read too much literature.’
Humphrey chose to take the comment as a compliment. One couldn’t expect much better from an engineer. Such a weird bunch. Who else would want to come back for a double helping of maths and science after they finished school?
‘Sam –’ started Eliot. He looked at Humphrey and they both burst out laughing.
‘Americans really define in-bred,’ remarked Humphrey, once they’d regained control of themselves. ‘They’re so naïve about the world. Exporting their culture without ever bothering to learn anything in return.’
Eliot hoped this wasn’t going to turn into a lecture. ‘It’s a pity he left. I was just getting into that story.’
‘Did I tell you about the time that I convinced an American girl that I worked as a tortoise polisher in the Kruger National Park?’ asked Humphrey.
‘Sure, bru,’ said Eliot sarcastically. ‘How fucking dumb do you think I am?’
‘That’s a very good question, Eliot, but I’m not joking about the tortoise thing. Truly.’
‘So what the fuck is a tortoise polisher supposed to do anyway?’ asked Eliot.
‘You know, he’s the person who’s responsible for keeping the tortoises shiny and dust-free so that the tourists can easily spot them,’ explained Humphrey. ‘Otherwise they’re virtually indistinguishable from rocks. You use brown shoe polish to shine them up. Nugget Shoe Shine works best. And it’s completely non-toxic to tortoises.’
Hmmm. Not a bad story, thought Eliot. He was starting to see how the gullible might fall for this kind of bullshit. After all, if you could find people that were prepared to play the National Lottery, anything was possible.
‘Convinced yet?’ asked Humphrey.
‘Maybe a little. So is the job challenging?’ asked Eliot, deciding to see how good Humphrey really was.
Humphrey added more spice. ‘You know it’s quite hard to find tortoises in the wild, especially when they’re dusty. The longer you leave it, the harder it becomes. So we tortoise polishers use a special whistle to attract the tortoises. You lie on your back, and blow. It’s their mating call. As each tortoise arrives, you pick it up and put it on its back so it can’t get away. When you have enough tortoises, you start polishing.’
Eliot started to chuckle. ‘Hey, that’s fucking good.’
‘It’s a very fulfilling job. You work out of doors; the stars are beautifully bright at night; and the tourists tip you if you do your work well,’ said Humphrey, concluding his story.
‘If you seem sure of your facts they fall for it every time,’ Humphrey explained. ‘It’s so easy, except for trying not to laugh. American girls don’t stand a chance.’
Eliot laughed again. ‘That’s swak, bru. You really don’t like the Yanks much, do you, Humph?’
‘I don’t have a problem with the American people themselves, but I hate the way the world seems to think that American things are better than anything else. Between Hollywood and the MucDoogles franchise they seem to have brainwashed everyone. Well nearly everyone. I just think people should wake up. Their burgers taste … uh … atrocious and their movies are predictable and contrived. The problem is they crowd everything else out with their marketing. When last did you see a good South African movie? Like the “The Gods Must be Crazy”.’ Humphrey was horrified that he had almost modified ‘atrocious’ with ‘fucking’. Eliot cast a bad influence over him when it came to language.
Eliot wasn’t listening. He took a sip of his beer and waited until Humphrey’s mouth stopped moving. ‘I wonder if Andy is going to pitch?’