Last Train to Retreat (13 page)

L
ena thought of killing Zane to save herself while she still could. She played it out in her mind: wait for him to fall asleep on the lounge coach, crawl from the bedroom, find his neck in the half-light of the city night, and
do
it – with a single cut remove the threat he posed to her freedom. Then she thought of him coming home, calling out to her, fussing around her checking her wound and bringing her food, and she knew it would be like killing Mavis, or Adi, or Ronnie – people who cared. What little hope she had of living at peace with herself would be destroyed.

She had phoned Adi from Zane’s flat apologising for not being at work, saying she’d had an accident. Now she was ready to leave the flat. She put her knife in her jeans pocket, wrapped the medicine and Gatiep’s stuff including his knife in a dishcloth, stuffed it into a shopping bag and closed the door behind her without a backward glance. She rode the lift down, limped to Riverstone Road and took a taxi home. How easy it all seemed! But as she watched silently from the car, the world she had left behind now seemed different. It felt as if she’d been in a faraway place for years, not on the other side of the track for a few days, suspended in time and filled with strange new sensations. It struck her that she was leaving more than an unmade bed, unwashed dishes, and Zane’s slept-in T-shirts. Like a person who could still feel a missing limb she could feel his caring hands, his puzzled eyes watching over her. And he had saved her life on the train though he had waited until the last minute, why she didn’t know. As he pinned Gatiep from behind, she had seen not fury but revulsion in his eyes. She couldn’t understand it. Gatiep was so clearly a bad person. Whatever kind of man Zane was he remained a threat to her and she wasn’t going to be deterred from finding other ways of dealing with the possibility that he’d go to the police.

She stayed at home for another two days before returning to work. Everyone was solicitous and asked questions more out of worry than suspicion. How could they possibly imagine what had happened to her! Mavis fussed over her in her usual caring way and it made Lena want to cry but all she could manage was an awkward silence.

Now, in the cavernous hall at The Centre, Lena was processing the usual queue of people wanting grants. She could see it stretching back into the courtyard. Those in need of the toilet would ask the person behind them to keep their place, or they’d use a hat, a jersey or even a stone to mark their spot. She answered questions she’d heard a million times, explained what documents were still needed, stared into eyes that saw her as their final hope, their saviour – an instrument of the state that could ease their suffering with the stroke of a pen. How strange, she thought, that the irredeemable should be seen as the saviour. She was no different from her preacher father, Elton Valentine.

The process itself of screening applicants was as repetitive as a barrier going up and down at a road toll. To have taken on their emotions in addition to her own would have incapacitated Lena. Her defence was to shut them out, not to be like Mavis, or Adi, or Ronnie who took the plight of the world onto their shoulders.

When Lena’s time came for a break, another SASSA official replaced her. She walked across the courtyard past the queues, past the soup kitchen that fed the needy in winter and was now closed, to the computer room, stepping gingerly on her leg and avoiding eye contact. Today was Mavis’s birthday and as a treat for staff, KFC takeaways had been ordered but the thought of food made her feel sick. As she entered the computer room the green walls seemed to heave, the black-and-white linoleum floor swayed like a footbridge across a gorge, and above her, stark lights spoke of interrogation. She sat down at the nearest computer desk. Ronnie had gone to the birthday lunch. His assistant, Corrie, gave Lena a little wave. No one else was at the computers. School kids would access the internet only later, supposedly at R10 per hour but Ronnie wouldn’t charge them for extra time and the very poor he’d let in for free. ‘It’s their window to the world, the
only
one,’ he’d say. And he’d help the jobless with letters of application and CVs without charging them. But to Lena computers were just machines that made her feel safe because they couldn’t hear or speak.

She took out Gatiep’s mobile, opened it on ‘phone book’ and scrolled through the names and numbers again. Up they came on the small smudged screen: mainly single letters (initials?) like C, C again, E, G, H, J, L, R, S, T, and so on; there was Pa (but no Ma), and Saartjie (girlfriend?). Lena cringed at the thought of any woman choosing to be with Gatiep.

Lena had picked up eleven missed calls from the ‘Pa’ number in the past few days – she kept the phone off virtually all of the time, checking for messages only late at night. The presence of the mobile had been unnerving. She wanted to smash it and bury it in her back garden but the letters intrigued her. She ended up calling the Pa number from a public phone and said in her practised official voice that she was checking dwellings and number of inhabitants for the next government census and that unfortunately it had to be quick because she had hundreds of calls to make. A scratchy voice said, ‘It’s just me, Solomon Baatjies, and Gatiep, my son. But I’m worried, I haven’t seen or heard from him …’ the smoky voice coughed dryly. Lena politely cut the conversation before the man could ask how come she had his number. What dismayed her was that the address was in Retreat, a suburb adjoining Lavender Hill. She had not taken her investigation further, uncertain of her next move in finding the man who was still alive and who knew her face.

•

That night at home Lena checked Gatiep’s ID again. His date of birth told her he was 36. The photo made her flinch, she remembered his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with excitement, his high-pitched voice as he groped her, his knife driving into her thigh, the young man advancing like a boxer without appetite for the next round and holding Gatiep as she drove the knife into him. When would men understand that when a woman said no she meant no? Even powerful male lions backed off from females, why couldn’t humans? She missed Sarai more than ever – the experience of being wanted in an unthreatening way – and regretted that she had resisted the girl. Searching for Sarai had been the reason she was on the train the night she killed Gatiep. Now she had to finish what the men had started.

The south-easterly was still blowing after three days. The Cape Doctor they called it because it cleared the air of pollution. To Lena it was a wind that made the air vibrate and the hair on her neck stand up. It reminded her of men like Gatiep and it seemed to blow away what little remorse she still had, leaving bare rage – like a tree that had lost its leaves leaving only trunk and branches. Twice she’d had to kill, first Cupido then Gatiep, and what surprised and frightened her was how the time from remorse to rage had quickened.

A drainpipe groaned outside, a branch scraped the roof, a window rattled. They sent a shiver through her even though it was almost December.

•

The next morning Lena called Gatiep’s father from her desk at The Centre.

‘Sollie here,’ the smoky voice said.

‘Mr Baatjies, is that right?’

‘That’s me, Miss. Who’s that?’

‘It’s Lena Valentine, calling from The Centre about your pension, Mr Baatjies. I’m with SASSA …’

‘I don’t have a pension …’

‘Oh, aren’t you over sixty, Mr Baatjies? You’re entitled to one, you know, provided of course you meet our other criteria regarding work status and current income, you understand?’ Lena was guessing that if Gatiep was 36 his father had to be at, or close to, pensionable age. She had checked him on the register of government pensioners and he wasn’t there.

‘Well, Miss, your call … it’s like from the angels because my son’s disappeared and I don’t know what I’m going to do now … he’s been so good to me. I turned sixty just recently and have been meaning to get the forms …’ His voice became scratchy and he coughed in dry spasms.

‘Have you been to the police?’

‘I was going to, but … well, you see …’ Baatjies seemed to check himself, ‘Maybe it’s too early to panic, Miss.’

‘Mr Baatjies, why don’t you come in then we can see if you qualify … you know where we are, just ask for me, okay?’

‘Funny, two calls in one week. I’m popular with the girls again!’ A cough interrupted his chuckle. ‘Come to think of it, you sound alike.’

‘Impossible, Mr Baatjies, I’ve never spoken to you and I’ve never met you,’ Lena said sternly. ‘You’re mistaken.’

‘Oh, well, just mentioning it. See you then …’

‘Goodbye, Mr Baatjies, now you come in, you hear.’

•

Lena recognised him before he told her his name. He bore a likeness to Gatiep that shocked her – she was staring at an older version of the man who had attacked her except he looked beaten. His worn-out T-shirt and jeans hung on him as if on a hanger made of bone. She shook his hot, coarse hand, and said quickly, ‘Please sit down, Mr Baatjies.’

‘Thank you, Miss. I thought afterwards, how did you get my cell number?’ He seemed interested not suspicious.

‘Oh, the information’s available,’ she shrugged it off, ‘you see, it helps us to help people.’

He nodded, bowing to the authority of her desk and her position. She held his future in her hands.

‘Tell me about your situation, Mr Baatjies. Then we’ll take it from there.’

‘As I said, Miss, up till now Gatiep’s been looking after me. If he doesn’t come back I’ll need help with that pension. I just hope nothing bad has happened.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously, his skin tight across his bony face – he looked like an ageing bird of prey. Lena was glad that she had people around her. He revolted her.

‘What kind of job did he … I mean does he do?’

‘To tell the truth, I’ve never found out. We don’t talk much. All I know is it’s in the city, in Long Street … some club or parlour. But he gets around. He’s away a lot, sometimes for days.’

Lena stared at Baatjies. How many times had Sarai mentioned Long Street, a part of town that held painful memories for her? But the street wasn’t called ‘long’ for nothing, there were many clubs and parlours, and Sarai had mentioned Cupido, not Gatiep.

‘So why don’t you go to the police?’ Lena tested him.

Baatjies’ fingers were restless as if they needed a cigarette. His eyes avoided hers, shot up to the ceiling causing his head to pull back and reveal his bulbous throat. ‘You see, Miss, I don’t want any trouble for him, he makes good money.’

‘Well, what about his friends? Can’t they tell you anything?’ The second Lena said it she regretted it. The last thing she wanted was for Baatjies to talk to Curly.

Again Baatjies hesitated. ‘He has friends … well, work friends I suppose. I overhear him on his cell sometimes … look, Miss, what has this got to do with my pension, huh?’

‘I’m only trying to help, Mr Baatjies. We’re not just clerks, you know, we also have to be counsellors, and you seem stressed. Where do Gatiep and his friends hang out on weekends?’

‘Well, the disco club in Main Road near Retreat station is his favourite. Then there’s the
shebeen
here in Lavender Hill, on the other side of Prince George Drive … where he plays pool. Rough places, Miss, rough, haven’t been in years myself.’ He rolled his eyes to the ceiling again.

What if Baatjies did go to Gatiep’s friends? What if he talked to Curly, and Curly confessed to having been on the train with Gatiep? The possibilities weighed heavily on Lena. She couldn’t bank on Curly being too frightened to talk. The police would get her eventually. She couldn’t take the chance – she had to find Curly before Baatjies did.

•

At work the information repeated on Lena like a disagreeable
bredie
. For the first time she didn’t mind a job that required little thinking. For the rest of the day she dealt with her applications like an automaton programmed to question and answer humans within recurring, predictable parameters of hope and despair. That night she picked at leftover food in front of a blank TV screen trying to make sense of the bits of information she had gathered.

A thought rose up in her like a water bubble. Gatiep worked at a ‘club’ in Long Street, Baatjies had said. Could the letters C, G, and C in his mobile stand for Cupido, Gatiep, and Curly, all three involved in prostitution and human trafficking, with the Thai girl one of many? That Sarai had been lured and trapped by professionals was clear. Lena had read enough on the internet to know how human trafficking worked. She suddenly felt renewed hope in finding Sarai. What state would she be in? She would have been severely punished. Like magma, fury pushed up again from deep inside Lena. Justice had been done after all in her killing Cupido and Gatiep. Whether it was divine justice or a random happening that had brought the men to her, Lena couldn’t care. The devil himself could have sent them, and that made Curly a dead man walking.

C
urly’s forehead was a narrow strip of sweat. He wiped his eyes to stop them from stinging. ‘How’s this,
my bra
,’ he said to Hannibal, ‘I’m talking to Benni on the floor and there’s this
chicky
sitting at the bar, alone – Tina Turner hair, heavy shades, legs wrapped around the stool, and sucking a straw. I think she wants it and I say to myself, why not? If it isn’t me it’ll be another dude. But I have this urge to piss, you see, so I walk down the passage to the gents and stand there, john thomas out, forehead on the wall, having a
lekka
leak.’

Hannibal’s nails drummed metallically on his Coke can. ‘Hey, Curly, not so loud, the boys mustn’t know.
Niks –
get it?’ He took a sip. They were on the couch in Hannibal’s lounge, Hannibal sitting with back straight, Curly slumped.

Curly’s voice went quiet making him sound nervous. ‘I hear
nothing
… she’s like a cat, slips into the gents. All I hear is this toilet flushing and a man coming out who gets a
groot
skrik
and screams. I look over my shoulder. His rods are dropping again and my piss
sommer
freezes in mid-air. There she is – her knife in her hand and her glasses off because she wants to kill me, I can
see
it in her eyes.
Jissis,
it’s when I realise she’s wearing a fucking wig!’