The Disappeared (20 page)

Josh
grabbed his pistol with both hands and pointed it in the direction of the
noise. Blood spurted from a wound on the old man’s head where Duke had clipped
him. He towered over him. Waved his pistol at the two women. Then back at the
old man. ‘Get me that money now. Or I shoot every last fucking one of you!’ The
butt of his pistol was dripping in blood. The old man’s head was lowered. A
dazed expression on his face. Duke was holding a large bank bag in front of the
old man’s head. He pushed him violently towards the nearest of the three tills.
‘Fucking c’mon, man.’

The old
woman was screaming hysterically.

The old man
raised his hand in the air, speaking feverish Chinese to her.

‘Shut the
fuck up! Both of you.’

Blood
spurted from his head.

‘Duke,
relax dude!’

The old
woman was tearing at her face.

‘Fuck you,
man. You don’t tell me to relax.’

The old man
was opening the till with shaking hands.

‘I’ll fucking
blow all of you away.’

The old
woman wailed.

The old man
shoved money into a jittery bag.

Blood
spurted from his wound.

‘Shut the
fuck up! Shut the fuck up!’

He was
shouting at her in frenzied Chinese.

‘Shut the
fuck up!’

Blood splashed
onto the bank notes.

Wait a
minute.

The old
woman reached for her husband.

‘Shut your
fucking mouth, goddammit.’

Wait a
minute!

‘Stay where
you are, bitch. Don’t you move.’

The old man
was shouting something over and over and over.

Where was
she?

The money
was red and sticky with blood.

The bag was
smeared with blood.

‘Will both
of you shut the fuck up.’

Where was
the girl?

The old
woman screamed.

Too late.

Too late...

Duke looked
up and saw the teenage girl with the large Remington shotgun in her hands.

For a split
second the entire universe revolved around a moment inside a mini-market in
Brixton. Johannesburg. There was complete silence.

The girl
pulled the trigger.

An
explosion louder than anything Joshua had ever known cracked the silence wide
open. The old man’s right chest disintegrated in a shower of red gore. His face
registered instant dumb surprise. Without a sound he plopped down onto the
floor. And never moved again. Duke recovered quickly. He pointed the gun. And
pulled the trigger. The pistol roared. The girl screamed. A red streak shot
threw her pitch-black hair. And she went down.

Something
was falling apart.

No.

Something
was being torn apart.

The old
woman was charging at Duke. And screaming. Like a banshee. It was a sound Josh
hoped he would never hear again. The old hag’s face was a metaphor of pure
hate. Her eyes were sunken caverns of endless black. And she charged at Duke.
He pointed the pistol at her and fired twice. Without hesitation.

The first
shot slammed her backwards as if she were a bag of old potatoes. The second
shot caught her mid-air and made her dead body twirl like some mad drunken
flapping bat. Her lifeless body crashed to the floor, sliding to a stop against
a Dettol display. Her limbs jutted out at all angles. There was murder in her
dead eyes. A wide streak of blood marked the track of her body along the dirty
floor.

Nothing.

Dead
silence.

 And the
smell of gunpowder. And scorched blood.

Eternity
hung in the air.

‘Are you
insane.’ It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. And it took Josh a while
before he realised the words were his. He slowly turned to Duke who was still
staring at the crumpled bloody mess at the foot of the cosmetics aisle. ‘Duke.’
Josh was struggling to get the words out.

‘Did you
see her eyes,’ Duke said. He pointed dumbly at the corpse.

‘Duke.’
Josh heard a hoarse voice from a thousand miles away. It couldn’t be his. ‘Duke.
You just ... you just killed a whole ... fucking family.’ Josh felt like
throwing up. The smell of death and burnt flesh was overwhelming. And
underneath. Something else. Something that clung to the belly of the gunpowder
stink. The stench of shit. He retched violently but gulped down enough air to
keep himself from vomiting.

Duke took a
few lumbering steps towards the pathetic pile of bones and broken flesh. ‘Did
you see her eyes, man?’ In a moment of comic insanity it appeared as if Duke
was addressing the corpse. ‘She was g-g-gonna kill me.’ At that moment Josh
knew – despite all the big talk; despite all the brass-balling; despite all the
years of bullshit – Josh knew ... this hadn’t only been Duke’s first armed
robbery. It had been his first kill.

And then
they heard it.

The click.

In a split
second they looked at each other. And both knew. This time she wouldn’t miss.

 The
teenage girl stood with the bloodied shotgun in her hand. She stood where she
had fallen a few moments ago. Her face was ashen with pain and loss of blood.
Her left shoulder was a scarlet mess where Duke’s bullet had grazed her. She
was the most beautiful thing Joshua had ever seen in his whole life.

She pulled
the trigger.

Duke’s head
exploded right before Josh’s eyes. He saw every frame as if it were a segment
of high-speed camera footage:

The lead
shot pecked at Duke’s skin. And then slowly started lifting little patches.

(This was way
before Duke’s face registered terror or even surprise. Only a small shadow in
his iris had managed to react at this stage. That was all Duke would ever
manage.)

The pecks widened
to become dozens of holes punched into the soft tissue of his face. Around the
eyes and lips the soft flesh gave away immediately and for a thousandth of a
second, Duke was a lipless thing with a crawling morphing skin and huge holes
for eyes.

For another
hundredth of a second, Duke was still alive; a rapidly imploding creature that
was viewing its death in the suspended, slow-motion time of the dying)

This lasted
for only a fraction of a second before the lead shot ate through the brain
matter and tore through the back of Duke’s skull. The rapidly diffusing shot
tore through the rest of Duke’s skull and plastered a bloody radius with the
final remains of Duke George Antill’s face.

Because of
her wounded shoulder the girl had been holding the shotgun away from her body. The
resulting recoil had flipped her over and she was now lying motionless amongst several
dozen cans of Heinz soup. Josh stood frozen as one of the soup cans rolled
lazily across the blood-splattered floor. It rolled past the sprawling body of
the old man. It rolled past the headless thing that had been Duke. It left a
neat little double track of blood on the floor. It rolled and rolled and then
with a little plop it collided with the tip of Joshua’s boot. And came to a
stop. Josh stared in horror at the bloody can.

And then he
ran. Blindly. Blindly! He smashed into the heavy steel trellis gate. As if
wrestling with an intruder in the dark, Josh fought the heavy gate. He kicked
and punched and shoved and yanked. And then he managed to extricate himself and
he was free. He ran into the street. Into the rain. Without thinking he ran
towards the old white VW Passat. He threw open the driver door and –

‘Shit!’

Duke still
had the keys. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ He slammed the door shut. He had to make a
decision. And quick. Escape on foot. Or take the car. As the rain soaked into
his skin he made his decision. He scanned the street and sprinted towards the mini-market.
He would get the keys.

It was the
wrong decision. But Joshua had no way of knowing this.

He gingerly
pushed his way past the trellis gate. The smell inside the store was oppressive
and rank. Swallowing hard, Joshua walked towards the corpse of Duke Antill. The
body was lying on its back. For some strange reason he could not explain, he
was tip-toeing, trying to be as quiet as possible. He leaned over the dead body
of his partner-in-crime and tried not to look at the bloody stump that was his
neck. But he couldn’t help himself. The explosion had left the lower part of
Duke’s skull at the back intact. It towered like a broken wall over the gory
black hole of his neck. Although mesmerised by this grisly view, Joshua stuck
shaking hands into Duke’s pockets. The warmth of Duke’s body was revolting and
terrifying. Then – against the left wall of Duke’s remaining skull – embedded
in something brown and mushy that must have been brain matter Joshua saw Duke’s
cheap imitation diamond stud. He retched violently. If he didn’t find those
keys right now he was gonna lose it and –

Joshua felt
the cold steel of a gun barrel against the flesh of his neck. ‘Don’t move or I
shoot your fucking head off, you piece of shit.’

It was the
armed response. The teenage girl had managed to press the panic button before
she went down.

Joshua Paul
Kingsley had just turned fifteen. And his life was over.

Lindiwe and
Minki stood before the house of Miss Lily Smit.

Silence.

Lindi had
taken the little girl on a deliberately slow and circuitous route to the house
of
gogo’s
best friend in order to distract her and calm her down. They
had wound their way through quiet and deserted streets. They had walked through
empty neighbourhoods. They had taken a slow walk down Bishop’s main street with
all its

(empty)

business
premises. And then they had walked past old McIntyre’s

(empty)

garage. Making
an extra detour to ensure they wouldn’t have to walk past her own

(empty)

House. Lindiwe
had taken Minki through the ‘downtown’ area of Bishop. All the time the words
of Inspector Coetzee had reverberated through her mind. Now as the sun did its
early morning route through the thick cloud cover, she saw the truth of it.
Everywhere she looked. Everywhere she went. The ugly truth was undeniable.
Something terrible and inexplicable had happened to the little town that she
had come to call home.

Despite her
growing fear, Lindi had babbled and prattled on like a teenager to divert Minki’s
attention from the stark emptiness around them. She had spoken of school. Of
the new Orlando Bloom movie. Of little Pieter Theron who had come to visit
Minki a few weeks ago. Anything. And nothing. And although Minki had calmed
down, she was nonetheless morose and taciturn. Her hand was clammy and limp in
Lindiwe’s. And she never once looked at the older girl, staring down at the
pavement the entire trip. Until they had arrived at the house of Miss Lily
Smit.

The two girls
stood before the house with its tiny but immaculate garden. Lindi’s heart
thudded in her chest. She knew what she came here to do. And yet she just
couldn’t go inside. Because she knew what she would find. Lindi looked down at
Minki. The child was staring with rapt attention – maybe even awe – at the old
Victorian house. And there was something else wrinkling the edge of her face. Fear?

‘Listen
pumpkin, I want you to stay here, okay? I just want to see if ... uh, Miss Lily
is up yet. Can you do that for me?’

Minki gripped
Lindiwe’s arm with both hands. The fear was now palpable on her face. ‘Lindi,
please don’t go, please.’

Lindiwe
crouched down and laid her hands on the little frightened girl’s shoulders. ‘Listen
here, angel, there is nothing to be afraid of, you hear me?’ Despite her best
efforts Lindiwe’s own words sounded hollow in her ears. ‘Do you want to come
with me?’ Minki vehemently shook her head. Lindiwe nodded slowly, smiling with
encouragement. ‘Okay.’ She trailed a finger along Minki’s cheek. ‘Okay. Well,
then I want you to wait right here for me. Can you do that for me?’ Minki stared
uncertainly at the house then back at Lindiwe. ‘I’m not going to be long, you
hear. I just want to have a little look.’ There was a moment while the two
girls stared at each other. Then Minki nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Good girl.
You’re very brave, you hear me? Very brave. Your daddy would be proud of you.’
Minki nodded once more. Lindi stood up. And looked at the house. She gently
disentangled herself from the little girl’s grip and opened the white-washed
wooden gate. With slow measured steps she walked along the terracotta tiles
interspersed with clumps of dark Mondo grass. She stepped onto the polished red
stoep
and used the stylised brass knocker to tap on the white door. She
listened then repeated it. There was nothing. Before trying the door to see if
it was unlocked, Lindi walked over to the nearest window and peeked in.

That was when
Minki started screaming. It was long and sharp and pierced the very heart of
the awesome silence. Lindi whirled around and ran up to her – her heart pulsing
madly –and gripper her with both hands. ‘Minki! Minki! What’s wrong? What’s
going on?’

‘She’s gone!
She’s gone, Lindi,’ Minki said. Thick sobs clouded her words. ‘She’s gone,
Lindi. They’re all gone.’ Lindiwe enfolded the girl in her arms. ‘Everyone’s
gone, Lindi.’

Red light.

At the end of
a long corridor.

Red light.

Coming closer.

Oh my God
the red light.

And closer – 

Sergeant
Willem Jansen was in a bad mood. Well, he was rarely ever in a good mood. And
when he was ... it was relative to say the least. But this morning Jansen was
in a particularly bad mood. A foul mood indeed. It wasn’t that Coetzee had
woken him up when he had meant to sleep off a particularly corrosive hangover.
It wasn’t even the hangover itself. Or that he was now expected to sacrifice
his only off-day for the ‘decent’ people of Bishop.

Disappeared.
What the hell?

Even on a good
day Jansen found it difficult to get enthusiastic about the snooty sons (and
daughters) of bitches that made up the Bishop population. In fact, most of the
time he found it hard to hide his hatred for the people he was supposed ‘to
serve and protect’.
Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all.
That was the only motto he
needed to inspire his work ethic.

No. It wasn’t
any of these things that endowed Sergeant Jansen with a particularly black mood.
Sure, that specific morning they all contributed to his unique and withering
brand of apocalyptic misery; his impartial hatred for all humanity. But on that
specific September morning, there was another deeper more disturbing reason for
his foul mood.

Red light.

Jansen closed
his front door after Coetzee left and remained for a moment standing in the
entrance hall with its stained and tattered feet-worn beige carpet. His head
thudded and a dark unpleasant taste crowded his mouth. He could smell himself.
Sweat and Rum. And the sourness of old semen floating up from his stained underpants.
He walked into his crowded living room. Two long worn and knobbly couches stood
at right angles to each other. A single-seater of the same shit-brown was
propped into a corner. An old TV with a DVD player on top stood on a plastic
beer case. Next to this was a bookcase with hundreds of DVD discs and empty
cracked cases lying in disarray. In front of the TV was a cheap coffee table
crowned with a huge ashtray overflowing with cigarette stubs and ash. Various
empty beer bottles, crumpled packs of cigarettes and discarded packets of chips
littered the surface of the table and the surrounding area. Jansen plonked down
on the old brown couch with its myriad cigarette burns and sat back, rubbing
his eyes. He leaned forward and inspected three empty packets of cigarettes
before locating a lost smoke. On the coffee table with its ring stains, a large
number of spilled matches surrounded a crushed box. He picked up one and with
some difficulty managed to strike up a flame. He lit his cigarette and sat with
his head in his hands, staring down at his long dirty toenails and the
food-stained carpet. His black mood was growing in intensity.

Red light.

He had been
dreaming. A terrible dark dream. It seemed so real. So very real. The intense
red light ... at the end of the long corridor. He was walking. No. He was being
pulled towards it. He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t escape. The red light
was coming for him. The red light was going to get him.

Jansen took a
deep drag from the cigarette and tried to forget. It was just a dream. A
nightmare. He sighed deeply and looked at the squalor surrounding him. He hated
this room. He hated this house. And he detested this little dollhouse-town with
its little pleasant HOW-THE-FUCK-ARE-YOU people. He could feel the darkness
growing inside himself. The dark loathing. The rancid restlessness that defined
his emotional landscape. Jansen inserted dirty fingers into his jockeys and
scratched his sweaty scrotum. He took the last drag from the cigarette and in annoyance
flicked the cigarette against the wall.

He hated the
house. Always had. Even as a child. Growing up within its bleak walls. Images
from his youth floated before his mind’s eye. Growing up as the poor kid of Bishop
– an island of poverty in a sea of wealth and prosperity. The charity case of
the town.
Fuck ‘em all!
Every last one of them. He saw his mother. The
old hag. The loveless old bitch who had never made a secret of the lowly place her
son occupied on her list of priorities. Cats first. Then Jesus. The house. The
garden. And somewhere down at the bottom ... her son. She had shown more love
and affection to the strays that she collected than she had ever displayed towards
her one and only child. Bitch! But he had his revenge. Oh yes he did.

For the first
time that morning Jansen’s mood picked up as he remembered Snooty. A ginger
tabby cat ... and the love of his mother’s life. He smiled as he remembered slowly
strangling the life out of the little fat bastard. The way its feline eyes
popped out of its little bastard head. He had shown her all right. She had
mourned for more than a month over her ‘lost’ tabby. Posting a hundred LOST
posters all over Bishop. But she had never suspected a thing. Jansen’s lips
curled into a twisted grin as he delighted in the memory. And then of course, his
mother had done him the greatest favour of all. Dying in her sleep – of God
knows what – on that wonderful liberating morning. Jansen knew what the people
of Bishop thought. He knew what they said. He knew what they whispered. And
yes. If he could have played a role in her death – without anybody knowing that
is – hell yeah, he would have. Damn right. And it would have been the single
most pleasurable act of his life. Jansen chuckled to himself.

If only.

In death she
had given him more than she had ever done in life. Bitch!

About his
father Jansen knew nothing. Except for the scathing and vitriolic outbursts of
his mother, of course. The running – and unchallenged – commentary about a man
who was the embodiment of everything useless, vile and impotent. A deserter. An
alcoholic. The high priest of Satan, according to his mother. And much worse.
Cat abuser. Jansen knew only one thing for sure. His absent father had been a
policeman. So then, whether by the unyielding hand of fate, or in an effort to
offend his mother, he had followed in the absent man’s footsteps. And had
become a policeman himself. It had been a fairly easy decision. The work
appeared to demand little in the way of intellectual or any other kind of
exertion. In addition it did bestow a surprising amount of respect and
authority. It had been a wholly new experience for the boy who had known only derision
and pity for most of his life. Respect and authority were fine things. Oh yes.
But the aspect of the job that most attracted Jansen was the licence to inflict
violence and pain. When making arrests or interrogating suspects Jansen allowed
his deepest, darkest urges to surface and reign supreme. He used just a little
more force than was necessary; inflicted just a little more pain than was
required. It was undeniably the part of the job that brought him the most
satisfaction by far. He had been reprimanded more than once. But he had been
careful to exercise just enough restraint to keep himself on the right side of
the law. Barely. Just enough.

Jansen sighed
and stood up laboriously. He kicked at least two empty beer cans on his way to
the TV. He stood before its black screen. And looked around surreptitiously. Of
course there was no-one around. But one could never be too safe. He had
hurriedly switched the TV off when he saw Coetzee at the door. If the old man
discovered his little dirty secret he would not only fire his arse. Oh no.
Coetzee was all God-and-Country. If he knew ... he would sure as hell have arrested
him too. Jansen smirked. Well then it was just as well that he didn’t know. He
switched on the TV.

The DVD player
was still running. It had been looping every since he had passed out the
previous night

The image on
the screen was hazy. Grainy. The angle was from above. CCTV footage. It showed
what appeared to be an urban sidewalk. Cracked concrete slabs. A kerb painted
in alternating yellow and white. Litter. A big yellow B painted on the tarmac
identified it as a bus stop. The date and time flashed in white letters at the
bottom. It was just after nine o’ clock.PM. A lone woman stood at the bus stop.
Seconds pass. Three youths appear. They stand next to her. They’re engaged in
what appears to be an animated conversation. Pushing and shoving and laughing. Seconds
pass. The woman is obviously feeling uncomfortable. Scared. She shifts sideways.
Seconds pass. As if by a pre-arranged signal, the youths stop their frenetic
games. They stare at her. She is obviously aware of their attention but
pretends not to notice. They stare at her. Seconds pass. One of the youths
approaches her. He talks to her. She is terrified. Shoulders hunched. She
clings to her handbag with both hands. Seconds pass. The other two youths now
also approach her. Like sharks they circle. The first youth runs his hand
through her hair. She recoils. She looks around in bewilderment. Maybe she’s
looking for help. One of the other youths slaps her on the behind. She whirls
around. She is terrified. She tries to get away. But one of the youths grabs
her handbag. She is stumbling around. The first youth grabs her from behind and
shoves his hand down her blouse. She screams. The youth with the handbag rifles
through it and finding nothing throws it down. Now he and the remaining one
approach her.

Jansen felt an
erection rise in his tattered Jockeys. His penis head, flecked with white
cheese, poked through the pee-hole.

On the CCTV
footage, the three youths pull the woman down onto the sidewalk. The first
youth stands while his comrades hold the wildly flaying woman down. He undoes
his fly.

One of the
youths holding the woman down pulls her skirt over her waist. He tears off her
panties while she struggles furiously.