Zoo City (31 page)

   Reflected light catches on the brass-plated name-badge, like an unspoken accusation. These are all the things he doesn't say in the silence: that I'm risking everything – his asylum status, his family's chance of a future here. The Mongoose says it instead, his beady little eyes glaring up at me from Benoît's lap. Those eyes say "useless backstabbing junkie slag".

   I pull over a few blocks away, out of sight. It's unnaturally quiet. The birds will only start up in an hour or so. And in the meantime, dream city is dreaming.

   "Give me ten minutes," Benoît says. I pass him the bag of Lagos fried chicken, and he gets out of the car and strolls down towards the security hut, chewing on a piece of chicken. It's more disguise than bribe. Who would suspect a man with chicken, particularly one in a Sentinel uniform and a name-badge?

   Headlights swoop over him and then past, not even slowing – it's not unusual for people to be walking at 3 am. It's like there are two different species inhabiting Johannesburg. Cars and pedestrians.

   It's forty-two minutes before the official 4 am shift change, but a man can be persuaded to go off duty early. It takes a little longer than anticipated. Not because the guard is diligent, but because he wants to shoot the breeze a little, share some greasy chicken before he heads on home. It takes all my willpower to stay in the car. Finally, he parts company with Benoît and starts walking up the road away from me, towards the main road. If he thinks there is a chance of a taxi at this time of the morning, he is a man who believes in miracles. We have twenty-eight minutes left until the actual shift change arrives and figures something is up.

   The Mongoose scampers down the road towards the car. I open the door and he scrambles in, making urgent squeaking noises.

   "Yes, I know, I saw him leave." I put the car in gear and drive down to the security hut to pick up Benoît, cursing under my breath when I see the cameras. Too late now.

   The gate leading to Huron's house proves less of a problem. Benoît has been thoroughly trained in all the ways nasty burglars vanquish home-security measures, including, in this case, simply levering the gate right off

the rails with a tyre iron.

   I stash the car a few blocks away, to throw off armed response when they click that all is not as it should be, and we slip up the side of the garden, sticking to the cover of the trees. The house is lit up for a party, all the lights blazing. Sloth squeezes my arms with his claws.

   We follow the noise up towards the garage, passing the Daimler parked to one side. The double doors gape open. Light spills into the drive, illuminating James bent over the Mercedes, fussing around in the boot, which is lined with heavy plastic.

   Benoît motions for me to stay back. He slides up behind James, and as he startles and begins to turn, Benoît slams the boot lid down on him. James yells. Benoît slams it down again, then once more, then swoops down to grab James's legs, heaves him into the boot and slams it shut. The banging and shouting starts up almost immediately. "Get the keys," Benoît says. I have not seen this side of him before.

   I run for the front of the car and pull the keys out of the ignition. My hands are shaking as I jam the key into the lock on the boot and turn it. The noise from inside becomes more aggressive. I step back and nearly trip over an extension cord. It runs to a surgical saw, the kind you'd use for amputations, laid out beside the car, along with three different hacksaws, an axe, a pair of pliers, neatly laid out, ready for use. There is a kist freezer at the back of the garage, its lid propped open.

   "Who is this Odi Huron?" Benoît says. The Mongoose is frozen, one paw raised, sniffing the air, whiskers trembling.

   "I don't think I know." I feel sick. I think of Vuyo's gun lying under my bed.

   "Won't he suffocate?" I glance back at the Mercedes.

   "Do you care?" Benoît says, drawing his baton from its holster. "The house?"

   "If they're still alive." I shake myself. "We should go round the side."

   We slip round the side of the house through the shrubbery. The scent of yesterday-today-and-tomorrow is sickeningly sweet. My heart plays out a frenetic drum'n'bass beat. My hands are numb and tingling. First thing to go in fight or flight: fine motor co-ordination. Way to go, evolution.

   There are voices coming from the patio, but when we clear the shrubs, only Carmen is lying on a lounger in the dark with her sunglasses on, facing the pool. The fountain is on, water spluttering through the maiden's vase. A pallid underwater light shines up through the skin of leaves on the surface, highlighting every striation, casting dancing reflections over the tiles.

   Carmen is talking to the radio and half-heartedly flopping one hand around as if conducting a haphazard choir.

   "It's not like they even serve ice cream at the movies," she says, her face inscrutable behind the shades.

   Her sunshine-yellow satin robe is drenched in blood like bad tie-dye. There is a shivering bundle wrapped in a towel under her lounger.

   There is a flick knife and an empty martini glass on the table next to her.

   "Kittens and mittens and teeth and teeth and teeth," she sing-songs.

   She sees us, sits up on her elbows and says brightly, "Oh. Are you here about the collection?" She takes off her sunglasses. If eyes are the windows to the soul, these are looking onto Chernobyl. "Because it's all about fur this season."

   The glass doors leading into the house open and the Maltese emerges carrying two martini glasses, his little Dog at his heels. The Dog snarls and the Maltese pulls a face. "Ah," he says. "I'm afraid I didn't know you were here. Otherwise I would have made extra."

   "What happened to the no-interference policy?" I ask. Benoît is tense beside me, muscles bunched for action. I put a hand on his arm.

   "That's only for the victims," says the Maltese, as he sets down the glasses and sits down beside Carmen, stroking her leg. "It's like bottled water: best from a pure source."

   "What is wrong with her?" Benoît says, barely restraining himself. He is holding the baton so tight that the strain is making his arm shake.

   "She did it to herself, mkwerekwere. She's on a very potent dissociative drug."

   "Midazolam?"

   "Mixed with a bit of ketamine and the house special – to keep her awake. We've been playing. Show them, Carmen."

   "Again?" she whines.

   "Again, baby." He caresses the side of her belly through the robe. "I think you missed a spot over here."

   She sighs sulkily, picks up the flick knife from the table and simply jabs it into her side. She pulls it out again and looks down at the bloodied tip of the knife with interest, but no indication of feeling. The blood starts to well up.

   "Not so terrible, hey?" the Maltese says.

   "Good evening Pasadena," she agrees.

   "What about here?" he circles the skin above her kneecap.

   "Enough," Benoît says.

   "We're only getting started. Have you met Carmen's Bunny?" He reaches underneath the lounger and hauls up the trembling Rabbit by its ears. It closes its eyes in terror, nose twitching frantically. "We all thought Carmen was going to be the next Slinger, our animalled breakthrough artist. Better than erotic dancing. Although it turns out Slinger wasn't really Slinger himself, if you know what I mean. This is your fault, you know. Odi and Carmen were so happy together until you got her all riled up with your crazy accusations. As if he would have risked tainting little Song. It was bad enough that idiot Jabulani was fucking her."

   "Where are Song and Sbu?" I say.

   "Sailing away, sailing away, sailing away," Carmen

   sings.

   He ignores the question. "Did you like the present I left you? It's a very distinctive knife, you know. Leaves very distinctive wounds."

   "Were you going to implicate me in the fire at Mayfields too?"

   "You should be ashamed." He grins. "Three teenagers died in that fire. After you stabbed them to death, you sick psycho."

   "I only counted two," I keep my voice carefully level.

   "Don't worry, they'll find the other one when they eventually get inside. Burned to a crisp. Unidentifiable."

   "But they're not Song and S'bu, are they?"

   "Don't they wish! Couple of unlucky street kids who match the general physical description. Collateral damage, can't be helped. We picked them up this afternoon. Made them feel special for a couple of hours. Let them play Xbox, fed them McDonald's, doused them in petrol. Same kind as in the half-empty container under your sink. Did you find that already? Or just the knife?"

   "No one's going to believe this."

   "Won't they? A psychotic junkie zoo bitch who killed her brother? Who was so celebrity-obsessed she pretended to be from a bigshot music magazine so she could get close to the twins? Whose fingerprints were all over poor Mrs Luditsky's apartment, who took her little china cat home with her as some kind of trophy? Are you kidding me? Better start working on your soundbites. The media are going to love you."

   My head is spinning. I lean on the table, trying to fight back the wave of nausea.

   "In fact, what are you even doing here?" Mark swirls his martini. Takes a sip. "Shouldn't you be on the run?"

   "Where are they?" Benoît says.

   "The real twins? Oh they're downstairs, sweetie, getting ready. They might have started already."

   At the prompt "start", Carmen replaces her sunglasses and punches the knife into the flesh above her knee with cool reserve. It sticks there, trembling slightly as the muscle moves to accommodate her leaning back to take a sip of her martini.

   Benoît can't stand it any more. He moves to pluck the knife out, but the Maltese is faster. He yanks it away and this time Carmen does flinch.

   "You want to play too?" he says, tapping the flat of the blade against his cheek. "I have to tell you, this is my favourite game."

   "Where downstairs? In the house?" I say, because there are more important things to worry about right now than Carmen, than being set up for quadruple homicide.

   "I should really be getting down there. They need me."

   "To cut someone up?"

   "Oh sweetie, I'm just the magic battery to make the ritual even more potent. Or didn't you notice that your shavi is brighter whenever I'm around?"

   "The invisible demon."

   "Team effort," he agrees. "Amira's obfuscation is painfully obvious without me. Although we like to do the carving together. But we're wasting time. There are children to be sacrificed, getaways to make. Come on, kwerekwere," the Maltese says, brandishing the knife. "You look like you've seen a dogfight or two."

   Mark lunges for Benoît at the same time as the snarling Mutt goes for the Mongoose. Yipping hysterically, the Dog rolls the Mongoose onto his back, biting at his belly, his face. Blood smears across its muzzle. The Mongoose writhes and kicks, teeth bared in pain, but he doesn't make a sound.

   Another knife appears in Mark's left hand from a hidden sheath and, as Benoît smashes him across the ribcage with his baton, Mark manages to slice at his face, the blade glancing off his jaw and up his cheek.

"Carmen," I shake her. "Is there a gun in the house?"

   But she shakes her head violently from side to side like she's having a seizure. "No-no-no-no-no-no."

   I let go, and she pulls up her knees, clutching her Rabbit to her chest like a kid with a stuffed animal, and takes a sip from her drink, glaring at me as if I'm intending to take it away.

   Sloth is making agitated little squeaks.

   "I'm working on it!" I snap.

   The Mongoose pulls up his back legs and kicks the Dog, contorting like a koeksister to scramble on top of it. They tumble over each other, but the Mongoose has the advantage. He's used to killing snakes and this is just a ratty little Dog. He has the Mutt pinned by the throat and squealing.

   The humans are more evenly matched. Benoît and Mark are circling each other warily. Benoît jabs the baton into Mark's sternum with all his weight, keeping him out of reach. Mark staggers back, as if winded, but it's a ploy. As Benoît moves towards him, he ducks under the baton, stabs him in the side, and darts out of reach again. And then I smash one of the lacy ironwork chairs over the back of his skull.

   It does less damage than I'd hoped. I was hoping for out cold, but instead he stumbles, drops one of his knives to clutch at the back of his head and turns on me, furious.

   "You little cunt. I'll come back to you." But when he turns back, it's straight into the baton that slams into the side of his head hard enough to knock him off his feet.

   Carmen gives a little shriek of delight. "I can feel it coming in the air. Tonight," she says, matter-of-factly.

   Mark starts to get up and Benoît hits him across the back of his knees. He collapses across the end of the lounger. I spring forward, push my knee into his back and yell at Benoît. He breaks out cable ties, standard issue with Sentinel rather than handcuffs, and we work together to bind the Maltese's wrists and ankles and then cable-tie both to the heavy ironwork table. The Dog snarls and snaps at my fingers, but Benoît pins it down with the baton on its neck and I close a cable tie over its muzzle and chain it by the collar to one of the chairs.

   "The water," Carmen sings, pointing at the pool. "Water, water. And not enough to drink."

   A shadow swells up from the bottom of the pool, eclipsing the wan rays of the pool light. Something sickly white and huge with scales explodes from beneath the surface, snaps its jaws shut on Benoît and slides back into the water before he can draw breath to yell. Like a fucking dinosaur. I'm still blinking from the icy shock of water that burst up with it – and Benoît is gone, like he never was, the choppy waves the only sign that something happened.

   "Pop goes the weasel!" Carmen says, clapping her hands in delight.

I don't think about it. I jump in after him. The water is cold enough to knock the breath out of me. I hear the Mongoose scream and splash in after me. But Mongooses can't dive. I fight my way through a dense skin of slimy rotting leaves, Sloth clutching my neck in terror. I hope he knows how to hold his breath. I dive into the pallid gloom lit up by the underwater light. There's a hole at the bottom of the deep end, a tunnel wide enough to steer a truck through. I swim into it, following the curve down into pitch darkness, like swimming into the heart of the Undertow. The pressure in my ear gear-shifts from a dull ache to a screaming drill bit in my head, but then the tunnel curves up again, like the U-bend of a sink, into water that's brutally cold and black. I can hear distorted music through the water and a slapping sound. Lungs burning, I kick up to the surface and break through into the cool air of an underwater cavern.