Apocalypse Now Now (28 page)

‘Look at it, Baxter,’ Basson says.

I try to stop myself but I can’t. I look at the picture. It shows a man’s body, in bloody overalls. His face is mutilated beyond recognition except for the eye that is carved into his forehead.

‘Henry Mqulo,’ Basson says. ‘Henry was a caretaker at an old military facility on Table Mountain. Did Ronin do this?’

‘No. No, that’s not right. That was one of the mutants,’ I croak.

He slides another photograph across the table. The body in this one is wearing a Victorian bodice and the head is dark-haired and pretty, with an eye carved into the forehead. ‘Casey Icon, owner of the Flesh Palace,’ Basson says. ‘You went into the club, into her office, and killed her. Why her Baxter?’

‘She’s not … it’s because … dammit, it’s because she’s the Queen of the Anansi,’ I say.

‘And these Anansi are …?’

‘Zombie-creating spiders,’ I say. ‘The Queen tried to kill us but Ronin killed her first.’

‘Ah, Ronin again,’ Basson says, snapping his fingers. ‘He always seems to pop up when you’re having difficulty taking responsibility for your actions.’

I tug at my handcuffs. ‘Let me the hell out of here. I want to go home. There is a supernatural underworld. This is a secret experimental lab that creates monsters.’

Basson shakes his head. ‘No, Baxter. We’re at Stikland Medical Facility. In a ward for the criminally insane.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘This is bullshit.’

‘Zombies, mutants; I hope you can hear how ridiculous this all sounds. You’ve been led down a very dark path.’

‘Why?’ I say. ‘Why would I make all this up?’

Basson raises his eyebrows and spreads his hands as if offering a variety of options. ‘A feeling of inferiority perhaps. The specifics of your delusions are ultimately unimportant. They’ve all clearly been concocted on the spot.’

He points to a small pile of magazines on the floor next to him. ‘I noticed you looking at them when you first came to my office and I made an effort to read through them. Imagine my surprise when I could piece together your story verbatim. An article in
a film magazine about ‘creature porn’, which gave detail to your supernatural fantasies; significantly it also mentions the Flesh Palace, which was to be the scene of your next crime. Next, there is a martial arts article that mentions Crows, then an article about South African history …’ He holds two magazines up in front of me. ‘I hope you see where I’m going with this.’

‘I didn’t make Ronin up,’ I say fiercely.

‘Tell me about your bounty hunter,’ he says. ‘What does he look like?’

‘Red hair, beard,’ I say.

‘And is there anything from my office that you remember fitting that description?’ he says.

‘The painting on your wall,’ I say. ‘The sea captain.’

He nods. ‘The painting on my wall. It actually belonged to my parents. A bit kitsch I always felt.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No, this is all wrong. I hired him to help me find Esmé.’

‘Ah, Esmé,’ he says. ‘Another one of your fantasies. Describe her to me.’

‘She’s medium height with dark hair. She has a little ski-jump nose,’ I say.

He reaches into his pocket as I speak and pulls out his wallet. ‘My daughter Anne,’ he says, opening his wallet to show me a photo inside, ‘I have a picture of her on my desk.’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Believe me, I don’t want to show you this,’ he says. ‘The idea of a serial killer creating this kind of delusion about my daughter is, quite frankly, terrifying. But, Baxter, I’m asking you, pleading with you, to look.

I look. In his wallet is a picture of Esmé.

I’ve lost track of time. I sit and watch Nigel rip strands of hair from his head and chew them. There are not many follicles left to feed his habit. I absently wonder what he’ll start eating when all the hair is gone. Toenails? Skin? Whole appendages?

‘See,’ Nigel says.

My mind feels fuzzy. Is that a tumour pressing against my brain? ‘The thing about madness is that you don’t know it’s happened,’ Ronin said. Which is ironic considering Ronin doesn’t exist. Split personalities ENTER STAGE LEFT.

MetroBax:
I’m confused.

BizBax:
Now there’s a surprise. Let me clear this up for you. The fact that the two of us are talking seems to give credence to the idea that we are, as a whole, insane.

MetroBax:
How can you be like this? We’ve killed people.

BizBax:
It was going to happen at some stage.

MetroBax:
You knew?

BizBax:
No. But c’mon. The violent video games, the family issues, the antisocial behaviour. Textbook psychopath. I just wish I could remember it, even just a few mental snapshots. If we’re going to be put away for murder at least we should enjoy it.

MetroBax:
You’re sick.

BizBax:
Duh. ‘CRIMINAL PSYCHIATRIC FACILITY’. They didn’t put us in here for the food and entertainment.

We’ve been playing word association games. I’ve been trying not to say things that sound psychokiller-ish. It’s been hard.

‘Holiday,’ Basson says.

‘Friends,’ I say. He nods and jots something down.

‘Let’s explore that theme for a while. Your parents say your lack of friendships has always worried them.’

‘You’ve spoken to my parents?’

‘They’re not in good shape, Baxter. I think your mother in particular feels that she should have picked up on something.’

‘Pity the “How to know if someone is a psycho” is only the
Cosmo
quiz next month,’ I say.

‘You don’t feel remorse that you’ve hurt them?’

Oh, I feel. I feel like I’m teetering over a deep, endless pit. I have no sense of myself. Whatever I thought I was is being slowly eaten away by the growing certainty that I am what they say I am. There is no supernatural underworld. I am the monster.

Basson thinks I should make a video diary. Something that will help me take responsibility for what I’ve done. What I’ve done. Which is killed people. I feel bile rise in my throat. I always thought I was a bad person. But not
this
bad.

I feel like I need to do this, to get rid of this stupid facade, this mask, this myth. I am not Baxter Zevcenko, mastermind. I’m Baxter Zevcenko, serial killer.

Basson positions a small handycam on a tripod and fiddles with it for a few seconds. I compose myself. If I’m going to speak about what’s happened, I have to have clarity. That, unfortunately, is in short supply at the moment. All I have is an overabundance of fuzz. I need to focus on the sessions we’ve had and try to drag sense and reason from them.

Basson finishes fumbling with the camcorder and gives me the thumbs up. I stare at the little black-and-silver cyclops eye. Here I go.

‘There are questions that run through your head when you find out you’re a serial killer. “Am I more evil than Ted Bundy?” is one. “I wonder whether I’ll be on the Crime & Investigation Network?” is another. But on the whole, it’s the who, what, when and why of it that really takes up the mental bandwidth. So, here goes:

‘My name is Baxter Zevcenko. I am sixteen years old. I go to Westridge High School in Cape Town and I have no friends. I’ve killed people. Lots of people. Brutally.

‘People are saying that I’m satanic but this is not true. I have seen things. I saw the great Mantis God of Africa fighting a creature from the primordial depths. For billions of years they fought until the Mantis threw the writhing, many-armed creature from the heavenly sky into the deepest pit –’

‘Baxter,’ my psychiatrist interrupts, ‘I thought we’d agreed that these delusions were counterproductive to your healing?’

I take a breath, force the images from my mind and continue. ‘But none of that matters. There is no Mantis and there is no dark, primordial creature. There is no weapons chemist, no bounty hunter and no girlfriend to rescue. There is just me and I am sick. In the end we’re all just victims of our own perceptions, sparky. I hope you can see that.’

‘Good,’ he says as he turns off the camera. ‘Very good.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Baxter, why did you say “sparky”?’

‘That was what Ronin called me,’ I say softly.

‘So, you’ve realised something about Ronin?’ he says. I nod. ‘And what have you realised?’

I look back up at him with tears in my eyes. ‘That he’s me.’

I wake up with someone’s hand over my mouth. At first I think that it’s Nigel, hairless and ravenous and coming for my eyeballs. But it’s not. It’s Ronin.

He puts a finger to his lips and then lifts the hand from my mouth. ‘Ready to blow this joint?’ he says. There’s an awkward silence. I’m not sure what to say to a full-blown hallucination.

‘What’s up with you?’ Ronin says.

‘It’s just …’ I say. ‘It’s just that you’re not real.’

He takes a little time to process this. His facial expression undulates like the surface of a tidal pool. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he says eventually.

‘You’re a hallucination,’ I say. ‘A surrogate created to express the parts of myself I couldn’t.’

Ronin’s mouth twists in a smile. Stutters of laughter begin to throb in his throat. He clamps his hand across his mouth to stop himself from making a noise. Having a part of myself laughing at me is a little unsettling. He looks so real, full-on flesh and blood, not at all the product of a diseased mind. Well, except for the shaggy red eyebrows – those are a little over the top.

‘Have you been taking anything? Any drugs, medication?’ Ronin asks.

‘Just my meds,’ I say defensively.

‘They’re probably messing with your head. Are you finding it difficult to think clearly?’

The grey fuzz in my brain shifts and lurches. ‘No,’ I say.

‘Listen,’ Ronin says, ‘Mirth used some of the same shit on the Border.’

‘Dr Basson is helping me,’ I say.

‘Dr Basson?’ he says. ‘Describe him.’

‘Tall, spindly, grey ponytail,’ I say uncertainly.

Ronin slaps the side of my head. ‘That’s Mirth, moron.’

‘Basson is Mirth?’ I say.

The delusion sighs. ‘I don’t have time for this now, I need to find Pat. When I find her, I’m going to try and come back for you. You better be ready to leave.’ He stands up and sidles over to the door. ‘Sometimes the truth is stranger than delusion, sparky.’

MetroBax:
Ronin is convincing but he lacks a certain something, which makes me want to go with Basson.

BizBax:
This is not
X Factor
, asshole. We’re talking about a fundamental break with reality. Either we’re fighting a crazed weapons chemist, or we’re a psychopathic murderer and this very conversation is indicative of a deep-seated chemical flaw in the brain.

MetroBax:
Occam’s razor. Right? Isn’t that what Kyle always talks about? The simplest solution is usually the best.

BizBax:
Good thinking, but there are two fundamental problems with that line of logic. 1. Kyle may not exist. 2. Which, in this scenario, is the simplest solution?

‘See?’ Nigel whispers from his bed.

‘Go back to sleep, Nigel,’ I whisper. ‘I was just having a nightmare.’