Cobra (31 page)

‘You don’t know Oom Stoffel,’ said the student.

Red Beret walked right up to Nadia.

Tyrone knew why. She was moving like a sleepwalker, it looked as if there was something wrong with her.

‘What is the next letter?’ Hoodie asked over the phone.

Red Beret was next to Nadia. He said something to her, aggressively.

She looked at him in a daze.

‘What is the next letter?’ Hoodie sounded threatening.

Tyrone could not remember where he had been. ‘Wait,’ he said.

C. He had given the C last.

‘K,’ he said.

Red Beret gripped Nadia’s arm.

She was startled, pulled away and looked around her, confusion on her face.

Tyrone knew he could no longer just stand there.

‘The number three.’ And he began to walk towards Nadia. Hoodie was going to see him, but he had no choice. ‘There’s one more letter. I will give it to you when Nadia is safe.’

He was close enough to hear Red Beret say to Nadia, ‘Are you drunk?’

He reached them. ‘Leave her alone,’ said Tyrone. ‘She’s my sister. She’s sick.’

Nadia looked at him. That’s when he knew for sure they had drugged his sister. That was when his fear and anxiety gave way to fury.

‘
Boetie
,’ she said with a crooked smile.

‘
Sussie
.’ He felt like crying.

‘She looks drunk to me,’ said Red Beret.

Tyrone put his arm around Nadia. ‘Come,’ he said.‘We must hurry.’ He pulled her along, they needed to get away. He knew Hoodie’s eyes were on them now, the train was already at the platform, they would have to run for it. But Nadia didn’t look like she could.

‘Hey, I’m talking to you,’ said Red Beret, and pulled his baton out of a ring on his wide black belt.

He wanted to tell the man to ‘Fuck off’, but he didn’t.

‘What is the last letter?’ asked Hoodie over the phone.

They were around the corner, out of sight.

‘R.’ said Tyrone and cut the connection. Then he reached his arm around Nadia’s back, took a firm grip of her shoulder, and pushed her carefully forwards so they could begin running.

Red Beret was next to them, the baton threatening. ‘Stop,’ he said.

And right in front of Tyrone stood the gunman from this morning, the guy from the Waterfront, the coloured one with the baseball cap and the eyes that made you shiver. He blocked the way to the station entrance. He had the same silenced pistol in his hand, and it was pointed straight at Tyrone’s forehead.

Weird, was the word that stuck in his mind at that moment. How did he get here?

He ducked, instinctively jerking Nadia to get her out of danger. But she stumbled and a knee gave, weakened by drugs and the heavy bag of textbooks and stationery and who knew what. She fell, pulling him down with her.

The pistol’s aim followed them. There was a shot, a muffl ed,almost apologetic noise, and his sister’s body twitched as she fell back onto him.

Griessel and the young man walked down the stairs.

‘Oom Stoffel is a
drol
,’ said the student. ‘Difficult arsehole. He’ll never unlock for you. Unless you have ten documents saying you have permission from Nadia, her grandma, and the state president.’

‘We shall see,’ said Griessel.

‘You can always threaten to shoot him too,’ the student urged him on with relish.

Tyrone grabbed Nadia in his arms and screamed, all the fear, all the tension, all the despair released in a single, raging bellow.

People turned to look.

The gunman stood patiently, the pistol stretched out in front of him, waiting for Tyrone to keep still so that he had a clean shot.

Red Beret, hidden behind Tyrone and Nadia, stepped around them, his baton raised. He moved surprisingly fast for the somewhat plump body. He shouted a reprimanding ‘
Hhayi
!’ The shooter’s response was smooth and skilful. He aimed the pistol at the guard. He fired, just a fraction of a second before the baton hit his right wrist. Tyrone felt the blood spray over his face, saw Red Beret sink down, and the pistol clatter on the brick paving. The gunman swore, bent down to the ground, trying to pick up the pistol with his left hand; his right hand hung limply.

Tyrone kicked him with so much desperate violence that he lost his balance, because of the growing weight of Nadia in his arms. He knew that it was their only chance of survival. He hit the man against the side of his face, across his jawbone and cheekbone and temple, with the full length of the bridge of his foot. He felt the pain in his foot, and it gave him a moment of satisfaction. The gunman dropped like an ox.

Tyrone wanted to pick Nadia up and run.

The pistol lay right there in front of him.

He steadied his sister with his left arm, bent and picked up the firearm, quickly shoved it into the deep pocket of his trousers, then swept Nadia up, cradling her in his arms. He saw the blood on her left breast. ‘
Sussie
.’ It was a whisper, a sob. He had to get her to a hospital. The train was no longer an option. He ran to the right, to the eastern exit of Bellstar Junction, staggering under Nadia’s now-unconscious weight.

He saw the delivery van in Charl Malan Street, a white Kia. Two brothers unpacking cartons at the back. Ossie’s Halaal Meats on the side. He staggered up to them and cried out, ‘My sister, please, she’s been shot, I have to get her to a hospital.’

He knew his voice was high and shrill, he felt the wet blood spatter on the left side of his contorted face, Nadia’s blood glistening on his hand.

The two men stopped what they were doing and stared at Tyrone, mouths open.

He ran up to them.

‘Please, my brother,’ he begged. ‘She’s all I have.’

The older one reacted first. ‘Get in,’ he said. He looked at his colleague, and pointed at the boxes on the pavement. ‘Look after the goods,
nè
.’

Oom Stoffel, the caretaker, was a sour old man, somewhere in his sixties. His flat was opposite, in Block One. He opened the door, without a word, didn’t even look at them. Just pointed at the sign on the wall.
Caretaker. Hours: 09:00 to 12:00. 13:00 to 15:00.
He made a big show of looking at his watch. Then he began closing the door again.

Griessel put a foot between the door and the frame. ‘SAPS,’ he said. ‘And if you do that again, you’re in trouble.’

Now Oom Stoffel looked at him under heavy raised brows. ‘SAPS?’

‘That’s right. I am Benny Griessel . . .’ He took out his wallet and identity card.

‘He’s from the Hawks, Oom,’ said the student helpfully.

‘The what?’

‘The Directorate of Priority Crimes Investigation,’ said Griessel, and displayed his card. ‘Will you please come and unlock number twenty-one. It’s a crime scene now.’

Oom Stoffel took his reading glasses from his breast pocket, put them on and studied the identity card.

‘He’s
mos
genuine from the Hawks, Oom,’ said the student.

‘Where are your papers?’ the caretaker asked Griessel.

‘Here.’ He waved the identity card.

‘No, where is your warrant?’

‘Are you certain you want to be difficult,
meneer
?’

‘I know the law,’ he said stubbornly.

‘Then you should be acquainted with Articles Twenty-Five to Twenty-Seven of the Criminal Procedure Act.’

‘All I know is, you can’t just go in there.’

‘Now listen to me,
meneer
. . .’

‘He’s got a gun,’ said Johan, the student.

‘Shut up,’ said Griessel. He looked at Oom Stoffel again. ‘If you want to sleep in your own bed tonight, you had better listen. Article Twenty-Five, Three B says I may enter the premises if I believe the obtaining of a warrant will subvert the purpose of it. Article Twenty-Seven says I can lawfully search any person or any premises, I can use such force as may be reasonably necessary to overcome any resistance against such search or against entry of the premises, including the breaking of any door or window of such premises, provided that I first audibly demand admission to the premises and notify the purpose for which I seek to enter such premises. I’m telling you now, in the presence of a civilian witness, the legal resident of number twenty-one is the victim of an alleged crime. Unlock it, or I will lock you up, and break down that door.’

‘He’s not joking, Oom Stoffel,’ said the student, enjoying every moment.

Tyrone held Nadia tightly.

‘Gangstas?’ asked the guy at the steering wheel.

‘Something like that,’ said Tyrone, his eyes on Nadia’s face.

‘To Tygerberg?’

‘No, uncle. There’s a private hospital just on the other side here, near the police.’

‘Louis Leipoldt. It’s a Mediclinic. Those people are expensive.’

‘I know, uncle. But she’s my sister.’

‘OK.’

And just before they turned off in Broadway, Tyrone remembered Bobby. He dug his cellphone out of his pocket, and phoned Hassan Ikar.

38

Tyrone knew the Mediclinic people would phone the cops. It was the law, if a gunshot wound came in. That’s why he was anxious about how long it was taking.

They had put Nadia on a stretcher in Emergency. He also told them someone had drugged her, they ought to know.

An administrative aunty approached and asked, ‘What drugs?’

He said he didn’t know.

‘What drugs does she use, sir?’ In white Afrikaans, adamant and strict.

It made him angry. ‘She doesn’t
use
drugs. They forced her to take them. She’s studying to be a doctor, she’s not some
hierjy
. Get her to the doctors now, please.’

‘Calm down, sir. First we need the details of her medical aid,’ said the admin aunty.

He pulled out his wallet, took out three thousand rand in cash, and gave it to her. ‘There is no medical aid, aunty. This should cover it for today. If you need more, let me know, but please, get her in there to the doctors.’

Her heart softened a bit and she said to the nurses, ‘Take her in.’ She turned back to Tyrone. ‘It’s a gunshot wound, we have to notify the
polieste
.’This time speaking naturally,
Kaaps.

‘Tell them, aunty, she has nothing to hide. She’s pure class.’

‘Your girlfriend?’

‘No, aunty. She’s my sister. I’m rubbish, but she isn’t.’

‘
Nee, wat
, a man who looks after his sister like that, he’s also pure class.’

‘Thanks, aunty.’

‘Where did they shoot her?’

He hesitated.

‘I have to ask, because the police will want to know.’

‘Down by the station, aunty.’

‘Bellville?’

‘Yes, aunty.’

She shook her head in horror. ‘Gangstas . . .’ She looked at him. ‘
Ai
, do you know how you look, with all that blood all over you?’

‘No, aunty.’

‘Here’s her bag, you’ll have to keep it with you, or let us book it in for safekeeping. Come, let’s get you cleaned up, then you will give me all her details for admission.’

He told her he had to go to the toilet first. He wanted to move the pistol from his trouser pocket to the backpack he had bought from Hassan Ikar. Then he came back and sat with the admin aunty to give her the admission details. And also so he could know when she phoned the cops.

Oom Stoffel muttered, all the way down the stairs of Block One, across the car park, and up the stairs of Block Two. Under his breath, but Griessel picked up a phrase here and there. ‘Can’t recite the numbers of the laws, but I know my rights . . .’ was more or less the drift.

He knew people like the caretaker, wielding a little bit of power that they obstinately abused, after a lifetime of being victimised in the same way. There was only one way to deal with them: give them a dose of their own medicine. Then they crumbled.

Griessel let the man go ahead while he fetched his homicide case from the boot of the BMW. The student trotted enthusiastically after him.

They rejoined Oom Stoffel at Nadia’s door, where he was searching through a big bunch of keys for the right one. He found it, unlocked, stood back, and waved his arm theatrically.

‘There you go,’ he said.

Griessel took a pair of gloves out of his case. ‘Please wait for me here.’

‘I have things to do,’ said the caretaker.

‘Like what?’ asked the student.

‘You’ve got no business here,’ said Oom Stoffel.