To most of the people in SOWETO he was known as Mister Big. Those closer to him were allowed to refer to him simply as Big or Mister B. He was fifty-three years old. Eighteen months ago he had looked closer to thirty-three. A big man in all aspects of his life. Three hundred pounds of muscle overlaid with a good quantity of sleek fat, a sign of his wealth. His ability to afford meat meals whenever he felt like it. His suits tailored to fit his bulk. Shoes, off the shelf but the very best of quality. The Rolex was real but had not been paid for. The gold chains around his neck had.
His laugh was large and his sexual appetite was as voracious as a lion. He was a man amongst men and had fought his way up from the very bottom. Running with street gangs back in the evil days of apartheid. Fighting the white security forces and opposing black gangs with equal dedication and ferocity. And in a land where violence was an everyday occurrence he had made a name for himself as one of the most violent. He had personally killed more men than he had fingers and toes and, as a result, he was the acknowledged king of the darker side of the southwestern township or SOWETO. Illegal gambling, unlicensed drinking houses and protection all fell under his auspices. Armed robberies, hijacking and crimes outside of the township fell under someone else’s umbrella. Someone whom even Mister Big talked of with a voice lowered in respect. A man that few had ever met or even knew that he existed. Many had met his second in command. A man whom, behind his back, people called The Dog. To his face, however, they called him Sir and bent their knees as in the serfs of old.
But that was eighteen months ago. Now Mister Big’s suits hung on him like a king’s robes on the court fool. Limply draped over his wasting frame. The Rolex looked outsize on a wrist as thin as an old lady’s. Spare flesh drooped from his face in empty folds. Skin, once a glossy black now the color of old car tires. His chest was covered in skin infections, warts and ringworm. Sores in his mouth were so painful as to make eating an almost impossible task.
He had seen doctors. At first only white doctors as was befitting his standing in society. No traditional healing for him. He was a man of the future. A modern man unfettered by superstitions and the old ways.
But, by the time that he had eventually gone to the doctors for help he was in the final stages of the filthy disease. The slimming disease they called it. The curse of Africa. AIDS. At first he had not believed them. It was impossible. He had always chosen healthy looking girls and, to make sure that he was never infected, he almost always showered afterwards. But the white doctors were insistent. And to make matters even worse they could provide him with no definite cure. Two years of life they had given him. As if it were theirs to give.
He had refused their drugs and called in a local traditional healer. A man of great repute. After a long consultation he had told Mister Big that there was only one cure. He had to penetrate a virgin. Preferably a young virgin. The younger the better. Seven or eight being the optimum age. This female child should be kept in Big’s own bedroom and taken every day for at least a week. This would draw the poison from the dying man’s body. He warned Mister Big that the cure did not always work because many times the child would die after two or three penetrations. And this would be even more evident with a man such as Big who was well known and respected for the size of his member. Big had called for his most trusted advisors and told them what he needed.
And now he sat. A dying man in a one point eight million Rand house in Diepsloot Extension. Waiting for a child to fuck.
Garrett woke early and broke his fast with Brian. Eggs. Scrambled. Half a dozen each. With buttered bread. The toaster no longer worked. Burnt out after Brian’s drunken bread-burning. Instant coffee, three heaped spoons, three sugars and three of creamer. In the army they had called it triple-three. A guaranteed heart starter. Cigarettes. Smoked without talking. Companionship. Real. Quiet. Comfortable.
After eating Brian left with a ‘Later.’
Garrett sat for a while. Hands steepled. Thoughtful. Then he went to his room to grab an extra pack of cigarettes and the keys for the Jeep and headed to the orphanage to pick up Petrus. He had decided to interview the headmistress once again and if he was going to interrogate a local then he wanted backup in the form of someone who was more in tune with the culture than he was.
The guard was in his usual place and when Garrett beckoned he grabbed his blanket wrapped assegai and jumped into the Jeep. As they took the short drive to the school Garrett filled him in. Petrus was skeptical.
‘We already spoke to the headmistress. She knows nothing. How could she?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t know were else to turn.’
Petrus shook his head.
‘What?’
‘Not sure that I trust that logic.’
Garrett laughed as he pulled in through the school gates and parked outside what he assumed was the administration building. Petrus was correct. There was little logic involved and much more desperation than there should be.
The school was a mixture of red brick and prefabricated stand-alone classrooms. The admin block, a shoebox shaped bungalow noticeable by the fact that many of the rooms had window-mounted air conditioners. They thrummed away like a thousand beehives, dripping condensate onto the dusty earth as they did so. One of them had a loose fan that hammered rhythmically against the casing. A blacksmith at work. The noise preferable to the appalling heat.
Inside the building was simple. Utilitarian in the extreme. A concrete floor covered in cracked linoleum tiles in varying shades of blue-gray. One bright orange tile randomly placed in the middle of the corridor that ran the length of the building. A color-blind caretaker. Or a frugal one. Buzzing neon lights, only half of them working. A row of cardboard-thin doors. Six on each side of the corridor. One of the doors sported a frosted pane of cracked glass. Garrett figured that would be the reception to the principle’s office. He was correct.
A large Formica covered table dominated the reception area. On top, an old computer, circa nineteen eighty something, a single phone and a manual typewriter. Behind the table sat a comely young girl. Perhaps eighteen. Perhaps older. She had her index finger plugged firmly in her nose. Delving deep. She looked up as they entered but continued to explore her nasal cavity with uninterrupted vigor. Unembarrassed. Unfettered by western ideas of propriety. After a short while she removed her finger and wiped it delicately on the side of the typewriter.
‘Hello, sirs. How can I help you.’ Her smile was wide and white and unaffected. Friendly.
Garrett nodded his hello. ‘We would like to see the headmistress, please.’
The girl pointed at an interleading door and then got back to work on her nose. Forehead crinkled in concentration.
Garrett knocked and walked in followed by Petrus. ‘Good morning, headmistress. My name is Garrett. I hope that you can help us.’
The headmistress was a blade of a woman. She wore her hair natural. Unstraightened, showing streaks of gray and cut close to her head. Large plastic rimmed glasses with massive lenses pushed down on an impressive nose. Badly applied rouge gave her the look of a fever patient, cheeks bright with red spots.
‘I was hoping that you could tell us more about the disappearance of Thandi.’
The headmistress was shaking her head before Garrett had even finished his sentence. ‘I know nothing about that.’
‘Ma’am, any small detail could help. Did any teachers see anything? Has anyone seen the car before?’
‘You are not the police. I know nothing. I am a very busy woman. You must go now. I am sorry.’
‘Please?’
She pulled her diary towards her and began flipping through it, ignoring the men completely. The interview obviously over.
Garrett grimaced ruefully and turned to leave the room but Petrus shook his head.
‘She knows something.’
Garrett snorted. ‘Earlier you said she didn’t.’
‘She knows.’
‘Please, ma’am. If
you know anything. For the sake of the children.’
The headmistress kept her head down. Silent. Petrus tapped Garrett on the shoulder and gestured for him to move aside.
‘Let me speak to her.’
Garrett nodded and walked to the back of the room, next to the door.
Petrus walked around the desk and placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders. Then he leant forward and spoke quietly, his lips touching the older woman’s ear. Garrett could not hear what he was saying but the effect was almost supernatural. Her face crumbled. Tears welled from knowing eyes, cutting channels of brown through a bright red landscape as they oiled down her cheeks. Fear muddied her features. A child’s finger painting done in shades of terror. But she shook her head and Garrett caught her quiet reply.
‘Ungazi. I do not know.’
Petrus whispered again. Urgently. Visible pressure on the woman’s shoulders. His voice audible to Garrett only as a mixture of sibilance and glottal stops. But still she shook her head. And a low sound escaped from her tightly compressed lips. The sound of someone calling for help in a nightmare. A release of air that mixed with fear to make a mindless, meaningless noise.
Abruptly Petrus stood up and walked to the door, beckoning Garrett to follow him into the corridor.
‘She knows,’ said the guard. ‘She knows but she is too afraid to tell me.’
Garrett raised an eyebrow in disbelief. ‘Too afraid? I don’t think that I’ve ever seen a woman so terrified. What did you say to her?’
Petrus looked slightly ashamed. ‘Bad things. But we had to know. Anyway, she is more afraid of the person that did this than she is of me. And I tell, Isosha, that is not something that happens often.’
‘So. We’re back at base. What now.’
Petrus grinned. ‘I think I know who it is.’
‘How?’
‘By not telling she has told me. Well, to be more precise, she has narrowed the field down to a handful of men. Maybe three or four who could terrify her more than me.’
‘That’s good news.’
Petrus shook his head. ‘Eish, not really. These are all bad men. Very bad men. If we irritate any of these men they will surely fuck up our lives.’
‘You scared?’
Petrus stopped walking, drew himself up to his full height and started haughtily at Garrett. ‘I am Zulu.’
‘So, not scared.’
‘Well. Maybe just a little. Zulu means brave, not stupid.’