Of Cops & Robbers (10 page)

They’re in a convoy of two cars, a Merc and a Cressida: the
Commander
and Blondie in the Merc, the Fisherman and Rictus Grin in the Cressida. They crossed the border at sunset into Swaziland, hit Mbabane in the dark. Now they’re in a suburb: close to the midnight hour, driving slowly, checking out the houses. What they can see of the houses through the gloom and shrubbery.

Blondie says to the Commander, ‘You know this street?’

Quiet street. Treed. No cars parked against the kerb. Lights on in some of the houses, most of them in darkness.

‘I do,’ says the Commander. ‘Been here once before. On a recce, couple of months back.’ He stops. The Cressida coming up close behind them. It’s hot, still. A thunderstorm earlier’s left the ground steaming in the headlights. ‘That’s it.’ The Commander pointing into the darkness.

‘Which one?’

‘Two houses down. The one with the fancy gate posts.’

‘The tall white jobs?’

‘Those.’

Blondie peers about. ‘Big houses.’

‘They need it, all the terrs they got going through.’ He looks at Blondie. ‘You ready?’

Blondie holds up his Uzi.

‘They’re gonna have AKs.’

‘Let’s go.’

‘Hang on. I’m gonna get closer,’ says the Commander. Switches off the headlights, glides the Merc towards the gates, the Cressida pressed in behind them. Stops. ‘Okay?’

‘What about guards?’

‘Shouldn’t be any.’

‘Shouldn’t?’

‘Mostly they don’t bother.’

‘Mostly?’

‘Mostly.’ The Commander smiles. ‘Nothing to worry about. If they’re not asleep, they’ll be pissed.’

‘Let’s cook.’

The men get out, leave the car running. The Fisherman and Rictus joining them.

Dogs bark. The men wait until the barking stops. Till the only sound is the soft idle of the cars.

The smell is of damp vegetation, frangipani, wet earth. Petrol fumes.

They pull on balaclavas, leather gloves. All of them with Uzis. Pistols stuck in their belts. Rictus’s got a stiletto sheathed up his arm.

The Commander nods. ‘No names, no talking.’

He waits until they’ve all signalled agreement.

They start up the driveway. The house is in darkness, only light on is over the front door. In the driveway’s a small bakkie, skedonk of a vehicle, bashed and dented.

Blondie and the Fisherman sidle round the back, wary of dogs, Blondie ahead, his torch beam sweeping the garden. Not so much a garden as an orchard of fruit trees. Nothing moves. His shoes scrape on the concrete path. He tries the handle on the back door. It’s unlocked. They’re into a scullery, sinks line the wall, stacked with plates, pots, spoons, a heap of potato peelings on a board. A bin of booze bottles.

‘Been a party.’ The Fisherman whispering, flashing his torch over the debris. ‘Could of cleaned up first.’

Blondie ignores him, moves into the kitchen. Pots on the stove, more dirty plates, glasses, mugs, a nightmare mess. Heavy smell of stewed meat. There’s a door to his right, partly open. He pushes it, peers into an empty passageway. Listens. Imagines he can hear the sound of people asleep: the house breathing.

Then a voice. A voice saying, ‘Who’re you?’ A voice
shouting
. Other voices.

Somewhere else in the house.

And the burp of Uzis. Lights coming on at the end of the passageway. The crack of another gun. Men screaming.

Blondie sees figures appearing in the passage. He pulls off a spray: a short burst, eight, ten rounds, the shells pinging against the walls. The figures go down. Cordite catches in his throat.

The Fisherman’s charging past him, firing single shots. At the end of the passage Blondie takes the bedroom to the right. It’s in darkness. He can make out beds, bodies. Someone sitting up. A person standing at the window. Opening the window, trying to get out. He shoots. The figure at the window collapses. Puts shots into the beds. Hears the cries. Fires again.

The Fisherman’s shouting at him. ‘Let’s split, let’s split.’

The two of them crash out of the passageway into the lounge. Blondie sees movement in the corner: a man with an AK, coming up behind a chair. The man covered in blood.

He swivels the Uzi, one-hand firing, watches the man picked up, slide down the wall. The Fisherman laughing.

Ahead of them making for the gates the Commander holding Rictus, Rictus limping, bleeding from the leg.

In the car Rictus’s moaning, the Commander telling him it’s a flesh wound, in the muscle, no blood vessel damage. Cutting away the trouser leg, staunching the bleeding with wads from a first aid kit.

Telling Blondie go first right, second left to the main road. Blondie squealing the tyres on the corners.

The Commander says, ‘Slow down, okay. Take it easy. We don’t need swagger from the traffic cops.’

On the dark road other side of the border post, Blondie driving the Benz, his eyes focused on the road, says to the Commander, ‘You didn’t say there’d be children, women, in the house.’

‘Weren’t supposed to be.’

‘Weren’t supposed to be?’

‘Simple as that, weren’t supposed to be.’

The Commander alongside him in the passenger seat, Rictus lying propped up at the back. The Fisherman behind them in the Cressida.

‘There were.’

‘I didn’t know that. Okay, I didn’t know that.’ The Commander lighting a cigarette. ‘I was told it’s terrs. Some going out for training, some coming back to cause trouble. That’s what I was told.’

‘Kak intel.’

‘We did the job.’

‘Women and children.’

‘We did the job, okay. Leave it. There were terrs in the lounge. We got them.’

‘They got me.’ Rictus from the back. ‘Weren’t supposed to be sleeping in the lounge.’

The Commander swivelling in the seat. ‘Enough. We do these jobs, nobody knows what’s gonna happen on the day. On the day everything can be different.’

Rictus snorts. ‘Fokken was. Big Bantu waiting for us with a gun.’

‘There’s gonna be hell about his,’ says Blondie. ‘Those kids. All over the newspapers.’

‘So what. Kids today, terrs tomorrow.’

‘All over the newspapers.’

‘What, all over the newspapers? Nothing about you. Nothing about me.’

‘Kids. Kids.’

‘Was a raid. A strike on a known centre. Terr units from that centre, come here, kill, bomb Wimpy bars, bomb bus stops, cause major kak. We’re fighting a war, boykie. In case you forgot.’

The Commander crushes out the butt.

‘Their problem, they let women and kids sleep there. They know the risks. Their problem. You wanna blame someone. You blame them. Cowards, hiding behind the women. Using kids as shields. What’s that tell you? Dogs. All out no one’s innocent. We’re fighting dogs.’

Tol Visagie, fresh-faced, pressed khaki shorts, Save the Rhino T-shirt, trail sandals, comes striding across the slate towards Jacob Mkezi and Mellanie eating breakfast on the lodge’s stoep. Mellanie into the muesli and yoghurt; Jacob Mkezi facing a full English.

It’s eight o’clock, the stoep’s empty, the safari guests still out on the morning bush ride. No sign of Vusi Bopape.

‘Sleep well?’ says Tol Visagie. ‘You have a good meal last night?’

‘Where’d you go to?’ says Jacob Mkezi.

‘Lovely meal,’ says Mellanie. ‘Lovely sleep, when Jacob wasn’t snoring. Reminded me why we have different homes.’ She waves a spoon at the river bed, an old buffalo walking across the sands. ‘This is different.’

Tol Visagie pulls up a chair. ‘Better than the city, hey?’

‘In many ways.’

Jacob Mkezi speaks through a mouth of bacon. ‘Where’d you go last night?’

‘Heaven’s sake, Jacob,’ says Mellanie. ‘Give the guy a break.’

‘To check on something,’ says Tol Visagie.

‘Something you’re going to tell us about?’

‘Ja, this morning, something I’m gonna show you.’ He signals a waiter for coffee. ‘When you’re finished, we’re off.’

‘Where to?’

‘Up the road a bit, and off to the side. On the way I’ve got a favour to ask both of you?’

‘Which is?’

Tol Visagie crosses his legs, keeps his gaze fastened on the old buffalo standing now in the warmth of the sun. ‘It’s a bit of a cheek, I suppose. The thing is this, I’m the judge for a local
beauty contest. It’d be better if you were judges too. Make it look more professional, more serious. I’ve asked the organisers and they’d like you do to it.’

‘A beauty contest. Man, Tol, what’s your case?’

Mellanie licks yoghurt from her lips. ‘That’s hectic. What’s the title they’re after?’

‘Miss Landmine Survivor.’

Jacob Mkezi laughs. ‘No. Uh uh. No. You’ve got to be joking.’

‘Excellent,’ says Mellanie. ‘Awesome. I like that. I like that. It’s really, really fantastic. A fantastic opportunity.’ Turning to Jacob Mkezi. ‘This is brilliant, Jacob. This is truly brilliant.’

Tol Visagie stands, takes the mug of coffee from the waiter. ‘The one we’re going to’s not the final, that’s judged in Luanda. This’s just the local one, for the province.’

‘It’s in Angola?’

‘Ja, not a problem, Mr Mkezi. Honestly. People go across the river all the time. All day long, backwards and forwards. I’ve got a permit.’

‘Tol, we’re talking about a border.’

‘Just a detail. A line on a map. What happens on the ground’s different.’ He smiles at them. ‘See you at the Landie in twenty minutes? That okay?’ And he’s gone.

Jacob Mkezi says, ‘I’m not doing this. Are you out of your mind?’

‘You will do this, Jacob,’ says Mellanie. ‘This is perfect. Just the sort of publicity you need.’

An hour later they’re across the river at a low-water drift into Angola. Couple of clicks down a dirt road to a small town, posters for the Miss Landmine Survivor contest stuck on the buildings: Everyone has the right to be beautiful. Not a building in the town that isn’t bullet-pocked.

‘There’re seven contestants,’ says Tol Visagie, ‘from Cuando Cubango province. Some of them stepped on mines when they were children being chased by soldiers raiding their villages. Some of them stepped on mines in the fields. Couple of days ago
I heard a woman trod on a toe-popper near her village. Took her leg off below the knee, whap. Second time in two months I’ve heard that sort of story. You go anywhere along the Strip, there’s thousands of them, mines, still lying in the sand, waiting. Bouncing Bettys. Jumping Jacks. Toe-poppers. Sprinklers. Weird names like that. You’ve got to wonder who decides what to call them, hey? Some advertising agency somewhere?’

Tol Visagie stops the Land Rover at a church. Men in suits, women in dresses are gathered in the shade. ‘The girls’ll be inside,’ he says. ‘This’s a helluva thing for them. Like a leg-up, without being funny. The two you pick go to Luanda for the final. The winner there gets a custom-made prosthesis, Norwegian technology.’

‘Thanks,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘All I need is to be choosing someone with the best war wound.’

‘It’s a beauty contest, Jacob,’ says Mellanie. ‘It’s nothing to do with the girl’s wound. You look at her face, you look at her tits, you look at her figure. You like pretty girls, don’t you? So here’s your moment, Mr Mkezi.’

The crowd surges around the car, singing, welcoming ‘Doctor Tol’.

‘They like you,’ says Mellanie.

‘I do some medical work when I’m here,’ says Tol Visagie, cracking open the car door.

‘You’re a vet.’

‘Studying to be a doctor. What I know is better than anything else they get.’

The three slide out of the Land Rover into the morning heat that’s heavy and blinding. Mellanie letting out a whoosh, like she’s been hit. Jacob Mkezi raising his arm to squint against the sun.

They’re mobbed by the crowd, people shaking their hands talking at them in Portuguese. Tol Visagie responding, passing on people’s greetings to Jacob Mkezi and Mellanie, the
townswomen
taking their hands, leading them into the church, singing.

It’s as hot inside, the air stale.

Up at the holy end, seven lovelies in gowns sit on a bench, two steps above the crowd. A makeshift catwalk balanced on plastic beer crates extends into the hall.

The sight of the girls causes Jacob Mkezi to whistle. They’re beauties, slim, groomed, not one of them older than thirty. Not one of them with two legs. Not one of them looks like the heat’s troubling.

‘What’d I tell you?’ says Mellanie. ‘Pretty girls are pretty girls.’ To Tol Visagie she says, ‘Where’d they get the gowns?’

‘Sponsored,’ he says. ‘Part of the deal with the organisers. The girls get to model in them and bathing costumes.’

‘Oh nice,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

A large man in a corduroy jacket, sweating, mopping his face, does the opening, a prayer included. Tol Visagie and Jacob Mkezi and Mellanie getting plenty of name mention in both. Tol Visagie supplying a whispered translation. Then the man sits. A young man in a pink shirt, low-cut jeans, springs up, punches a boom box into life:
2001: A Space Odyssey,
the girls peeling off the bench, stomping across the hall on sticks and wooden crutches, their half-legs swinging. A girl on two metal crutches with no legs at all.

‘Oh, Lord,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

‘Oh, Lord nothing,’ says Mellanie. ‘They’re having a scene. Look at those ladies go.’ Mellanie standing to applaud.

The crowd in the hall loving it, clapping, whistling, some women ululating.

After a couple of turns the girls parade one by one, smiling at the judges. Mid-walk they stop, stand still, lovely and young. At a quick glance you couldn’t tell they were missing a foot, half a leg.

The MC turns down the music, runs through their names, tells the audience it’s swimming-costume time. Which gets men whistling. The girls crowd behind screens to change.

Mellanie says to Jacob Mkezi, ‘This’s so amazing. The best contest I’ve been to. Pity I can’t tweet it.’ She takes cellphone
photographs anyhow. ‘I need you with the girls, maybe afterwards. We can Facebook this.’ Mellanie turning to photograph the audience.

Pink Shirt flips tracks, brings up 50 Cent’s ‘So Amazing’ on the boom box.

The girls hobble out in a line: the first one’s got both legs blown off at the knees, her stumps tapering. She’s hanging between the aluminium crutches, balancing there no problem, the biggest smile across her face.

‘She’s got a good bod,’ says Mellanie, ‘down to the knees.’ Glances at Jacob Mkezi. He’s riveted. The other girls are following. Mr Pink Shirt calling out their names. ‘They’ve all got good bods.’

The young women stand shoulder to shoulder on the catwalk looking down at the audience. They’re wearing black full-length costumes. Their bodies glisten in the heat, voluptuous: thighs, mounds, the belly curves, breasts, the soft lines of their shoulders. Slowly they turn, hop back to the bench. Jacob Mkezi has his eyes fastened on their bums.

Especially the long-legged girl with the short dreads, her left leg gone at the foot. She’s an eye for him too, he thinks.

Now they do the catwalk one by one: the short-dreads girl last. She’s got a roughly carved blackwood stick to lean on, is hesitant, vulnerable with each step.

Mellanie leans across to Jacob Mkezi. ‘Look at her skin. Don’t you just want to touch it? I know women spending thousands to have their skin look like that. It never works.’

Jacob Mkezi’s got his hands crossed over his lap. She lifts his hand to hold it, brushes against his crotch. Grins at him. ‘You enjoying this, sweets?’ Putting pressure into the palm of her hand.

‘Stop,’ Jacob Mkezi, hisses in her ear. ‘Don’t.’

Mellanie draws her hand away, slowly, caressing. ‘We could’ve done with this last night, big boy.’

‘I said, don’t.’

She straightens, smiling. ‘Kinky, sweets, kinky. I love it.’

The costume parade ends, Pink Shirt punches up Nat and Natalie doing ‘Unforgettable’. The audience clap, whistle, yell as the girls disappear behind the screens to change.

Tol Visagie shouts against the noise, ‘Over to you, Mr Mkezi. All yours.’

Mellanie singing in his ear about the thought of him doing things to her. She glances at his crotch. ‘Ah, it’s gone. Just in time.’

Jacob Mkezi stands, turns to face the people, raises his arms for quiet. All you can hear are Nat and Natalie. The man in the pink shirt turns them low. Jacob Mkezi waits for the girls to come out, take their places on the bench. He asks for a standing ovation for them. Tol Visagie translating.

Then he does smarm: oh what beautiful women.

Then he does history: oh what a dreadful war.

Then he does inspiration: oh what courage.

Then he does humble: oh what an honour.

Then he chooses: Miss No Legs. Miss No Foot.

Going up to touch both of them. Mellanie moving in with her camera for the shots: Jacob, arm around Miss No Legs. Jacob, arm around Miss No Foot, his hand close to her breast. Jacob with arms around them both. Jacob among the bevy.

There’s laughter and tears, the audience squeezing through the church door into the day’s heat, Jacob Mkezi supporting Miss No Foot.

Leaning against their Land Rover is Vusi Bopape.

‘Excellent choice, Mr Mkezi,’ he says, coming away from the SUV, dapper in khaki chinos, a white cotton shirt worn loose, sandals. ‘My favourites too.’ Vusi Bopape, raising the hand of Miss No Foot to his lips. Turning to Mellanie, introducing himself.

‘Ms Munnik, I like your work.’