City of God (46 page)

He changed sides, his body shaking. How could a man do something like that? And to him – he who was incapable of the slightest cruelty, who'd always avoided fights and had never wronged a soul? His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He hoped the acquaintance wouldn't tell anyone, and regretted having told him about the rape. He'd keep it a secret until he'd taken out that lowlife. If he had the money he'd leave town the next day. Each time he remembered the scene, he felt like crying. But he didn't cry, just tensed his muscles. His face tingled. The taste of blood in his mouth. The need to get up, get himself a pistol and cover Tiny in blood.

He was careful not to leave his flip-flops upside down, because if they stayed like that his mother would die. He drank stonecrop and milk for colds, rubbed Vicks Vapo Rub into his chest when he had a cough. His dad liked the singer Marlene, while his mother preferred Emilinha Borba, he watched
Bonanza
on his neighbour's TV, listened to
Jeronimo – Hero of the Backlands
on the radio, played tig, was allowed to join in the older kids' games, was a member of the church youth group, flew kites, played
marbles, pushed trolleys at the street market, listened to ghost stories, and whenever he lost a tooth, he'd throw it onto a rooftop so the tooth fairy would bring him a new one. He drank Calcigenol and Fontoura Biotonic, collected Beetle windscreen-washer nozzles and football cards. His mother bought cheap encyclopaedias from door-to-door salesmen, he enjoyed the adventures of
National Kid
and Roberto Carlos films, and watched
The Life of Christ
on Good Fridays. He played footy on Alfredo's under-thirteens team, went to the pharmacy and the bakery for the neighbours and refused tips, as his father had taught him. He sold river sand to construction sites, and sold bread and ice lollies in the streets to help his mum out at home. He was the best student at primary and secondary school, was always the best-looking wherever he went, and every woman he met was smitten with his blue eyes, curls and black skin. He didn't drink milk after eating mangos because it was bad for you, at his house they were careful not to sleep with their blankets the wrong way around so they wouldn't have nightmares, he put a shoe on the window ledge for Father Christmas, did square dancing during the June festivities, chased balloons, ate Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian sweets, and played the car-spotting game …

He woke early, still aching in places, and went to work without breakfast. When he realised he'd have to pass near the scene of the rape, he turned down an alley.

He worked in silence, which no one found odd because he was like that, nor did they think anything of the bandage on his neck, because he was always turning up with karate injuries.

He wanted to sit there in his conductor's seat forever, wishing that life was just people getting on and off, the bus coming and going, children mucking around, women staring at his face, traffic jams. Every blonde that got on the bus reminded him of his
girlfriend. He never wanted to see her again, because how could he bring himself to face her? What kind of man was he who hadn't saved her from that predator? If he ever saw her again, what would he say to her? He was ashamed, deeply ashamed.

He went to school straight from work. He sat through five classes without taking any notes, didn't go downstairs at break time, and was the last to leave. If he could have slept there, he would have.

He took the bus home. If he'd had the money he'd have left town … He felt disgusted at everything in that place when he got off in Main Square. Feeling withdrawn, he took a convoluted route home so he wouldn't have to see anyone. With each step he tried to dream up a way to leave the
favela
with his family. If he, his sister and his brother all got fired from their jobs, they could pool their severance pay and put a down payment on a house, perhaps even in the Baixada Fluminense region. He'd put it to his family, find a way to leave there forever. His footsteps were firmer now. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He'd been in his job for three years, and his brother and sister about the same. He crossed Middle Street almost at the end, took a back street and, turning into the lane where his house was, noticed a handful of people standing around a body. He ran. It was his grandfather, full of bullet holes.

‘It was Tiny, it was Tiny!' shouted Antunes, his middle brother.

‘But …?'

‘He came looking for you saying he was going to kill you! When he tried to force his way in, dad stabbed him and he did this!' his mother explained.

He clutched his grandfather's body, kissed his face and whispered something in his ear. He shook him slowly thinking he might come back, or that he wasn't dead, then checked his pulse,
got up, looked at his mother leaning against his sister, grunted an incomprehensible monosyllable and went inside.

A group of people from the Assembly of God Church was praying. Wide-eyed, he couldn't decide whether to stay inside or outside. His grandfather's body bleeding at the gate, his younger siblings leaning against the wall. Outside, more and more people arrived, an old woman lit candles around the body and covered it with a white sheet, which quickly became soaked in blood. Grandpa Nel's blood. His grandmother was telling family members that God knew what he was doing. The dog lying near the body, a few plates of half-eaten food on the table, his grandfather's half-drunk mug of water. He paced through the house, the backyard, went back inside, went to the gate. He retraced his steps with his hands on his head. At first his steps were slow, then he quickened his pace, going faster, faster, now running in the tiny space. Someone tried to put their arms around him and was shoved away. He ran back to the body again, his hands and chest clenched, and let out a long cry – rather, a mixture between a cry and a roar. He blacked out.

Bad news travels much faster in
favelas
, and not only does it travel, but it grows: by midday the locals were already talking about the rape, for there is always someone – no one ever knows who – who sees it and spreads the word. Word got around that Tiny had also raped Knockout. In an attempt to get in with Tiny, one guy – who didn't even know Knockout – told Tiny in no uncertain terms that Knockout was going around saying he was going to kill him. Everyone looked up to Tiny's friends, and even more importantly, Tiny didn't give them a hard time, which is why the guy did him this false favour.

When he heard the story, Tiny laughed his quick, shrill little laugh. He'd kill Knockout so that what had happened to
Sparrow wouldn't happen to him. At eight o'clock on the dot, he clapped his hands at Knockout's gate. His mother went to the gate saying her son wasn't at home.

‘Send 'im out here, otherwise I'm comin' in to kill 'im inside!' he shouted, pointing his gun.

When Knockout's grandfather heard the threat, he grabbed the knife on the table and concealed it, then, with his mouth full, hurried to the gate and tried to talk to Tiny, who kept repeating:

‘If he won't come out, I'll kill 'im inside.'

The grandfather considered himself the head of the family and wasn't prepared to let someone wreak havoc in his house for anything in the world. He stepped back and told the gangster to enter. As Tiny walked through the gate, he launched a single jab at his stomach. Tiny's reflex was to protect himself with his arm, and the knife sunk halfway into it. At almost the same instant, Tiny unloaded his 9 mm into the old man's chest.

The nursing assistant assigned to treat Tiny told him that only a doctor could confirm whether he'd get the movement in his left hand back; she said it was a shame he hadn't gone to the doctor immediately, because there was a chance that if he underwent surgery he'd soon get back the movement in his fingers.

Tiny said it was better to live with a disability than run the risk of being arrested in a hospital.

‘Go to a private clinic,' his friends argued.

‘It's all the same shit! I'm not goin'!'

At the wake, the few friends standing around Knockout said he'd be better off leaving the
favela
, as Tiny was dangerous. Knockout said he wouldn't be able to leave that fast. Someone suggested he build a shack as quickly as possible in Salgueiro, where he'd been born, because his plan of trying to get himself fired might take
ages, and Tiny would have time to do more harm. He could go straight to Salgueiro from the funeral, get some planks of wood, buy some zinc roof sheeting and build a shack where he could put his family, then find a way to buy a house. It was decided; he'd take his family to Salgueiro, where they had a few relatives who could put them up until he was able to build a decent shack.

His family accepted the idea of going to Salgueiro. They'd stop off home just to pick up their personal belongings. They were given a lift to Main Square, and tried to keep to the main streets. They avoided the alleys, where no-goods hung around. Knockout was the first to turn into their lane and again he saw a handful of people at his gate. This time there was no body on the ground, but even if there had been, it couldn't be a member of his family, as they were all together. He quickened his step and saw his house pockmarked with bullets of every imaginable calibre, the windows splintered, his dog riddled with holes.

‘Hey, can you lend us your pistol?'

‘What you talkin' ‘bout, kid? Forget it! You're a good guy, nice and friendly … One day that Tiny'll get himself killed or wind up in the slammer. Go spend some time away from the
favela
…'

‘You gonna lend it to me or not?'

‘C'mon pal, you're in with the cops down at headquarters. Go have a word with one of them and they'll round the guy up in no time …'

‘Look, man, he could show up at my place any minute! The guy's a maniac! He's got it in for me … if I leave, he might even come after me! I haven't done a thing and the guy wants to kill me. I've gotta defend myself … If you're not gonna lend it to me, hurry up and say so, 'cos I haven't got time! My family's there and no one knows what to do!'

‘Listen to me, man …'

‘So you're not gonna lend it to me, are ya? Thanks for nothin'. I'm off …' he said.

‘Hold on, hold on … You're fuckin' nuts! I'll lend you this shit so you can defend yourself, but be careful what you get yourself into, OK?'

Knockout handled the .45 with the skill he'd acquired during his time in the Parachute Regiment. He loaded it, put two extra clips in his jacket pocket, and thanked his friend. Images of the rape, his grandfather covered in blood and his house riddled with bullets flashed through his mind as he headed down Middle Street.

His friends realised what was going on when they saw the bulge of the gun.

‘Where're you off to?'

‘I'm gonna kill that bastard!'

‘You can't go alone, man! The guy's a killer! Forget it! This isn't your thing. You're a good-looking guy, you got everythin' goin' for you, don't get mixed up with gangsters, man …'

Knockout didn't listen. When his mother heard he was going looking for trouble, she ran after him and tried to stop him. Knockout was unbudging; he left her and carried on. He walked Middle Street from end to end, went through Block Thirteen, took Miracle Street, crossed Edgar Werneck Avenue, strode down two alleys, and slowed down when he neared the third. He took the gun from his waistband, cocked it and turned into the alley that ran past Building Seven, where Tiny usually hung out. He saw his enemy and three other gangsters, took aim and fired again and again.

Tiny laughed his quick, shrill little laugh, returned fire and took shelter. Two of his men also fired, then followed Tiny, but the third tried to exchange fire out in the open and received a fatal bullet to the forehead.

Knockout walked over to the body and shot it three more times in the chest. He then stood with his left foot on the head, his right on the belly and shouted:

‘This one's the first! Whoever follows that bastard'll come to the same end as this guy!'

Knockout's deed made Tiny freeze for a few seconds. He stopped laughing and wove his way between the buildings. Knockout reloaded his gun, then ran. He caught sight of a gang member behind a post, went after him and ruthlessly blasted his head open. Bicky, Beep-Beep, Tiny, Slick and Israel appeared at the end of a building. Knockout let the bullets fly, walking towards them without dodging the return fire. Fearing their enemy's determination, the gangsters retreated and took cover. Knockout combed The Flats until he gave up the attack.

It was the first time someone had fired at Tiny in the
favela
, killed two of his men and forced him to hide. Things were quiet at The Flats for the rest of the day.

‘Tiny just went past with more than twenty men … all packin' shooters … He asked your assistant how much your den was sellin' a day. He said he was gonna take your den again …' lied Ana, Carrots' wife, to her husband and two of his friends.

Ana lied in keeping with her sixth sense, because she believed that sooner or later Tiny really was going to take her husband's den. She made up the story so he'd get prepared.

‘If he tries to get smart with me, he's gonna get a faceful of lead this time!' said Carrots.

‘Knockout's got them freaked out, hasn't he?' said Ana.

Tiny's gang patrolled the alleys Up Top and fired shots into the air. Furious and in a cold sweat, Tiny shouted that he was the one in charge there. Knockout surprised the gang from a rooftop.

One of his bullets grazed Beep-Beep, he killed another of Tiny's men and then disappeared from the view of the other gangsters who surrounded the building, dumbfounded.

‘You're fucked, playboy! You're gonna die!' shouted Tiny.

Knockout reappeared out of nowhere in front of some of Tiny's men and fired without trying to dodge their bullets, causing his enemies to beat a quick retreat. When they arrived at The Flats they were surprised by Knockout over near Building Seven. Without a word, he fired, hit another of Tiny's men in the head, and again made the rest run for it.