Last Train to Retreat (14 page)

Hannibal sat unmoved. ‘You already told me this, Curly – last night. You got a bad habit of disturbing me and Lulu. Listen, I always work things out, I know what to do, trust me.’ They could hear the men talking and laughing outside in the yard around the
braai.
The aroma of grilled pork ribs and chicken wafted into the house. Hannibal tested him: ‘So when you turn around she goes for you, you duck and she slashes your arm, right? You whip out your knife and
she
gets a
skrik
and runs away.’

Curly nodded, as proud as a ten-year old of his bandaged upper arm. He pressed a finger on it to make sure it still hurt.

‘And you go after her?’

Curly grinned. ‘Half my age she seems, and by this stage the
geitjie’s
running like a frightened rabbit.’

‘And as fast, I suppose. So you lose her in Main Road, right?’ The only alert thing about Curly was his hair bristling like a hard-wire sponge, Curly who’d been with him from the beginning, Hannibal thought. Gatiep was as devious as a hyena, Curly as simple as a rhino.

Curly gave Hannibal one of his dumb, devoted looks.

‘Well, well,’ Hannibal smiled thinly, ‘an Evangelical saved by a flushing toilet! In the old days we would have said it was God. There’s only one thing,
my bra,
Gatiep stabbed her leg, right? So either her wound wasn’t so bad or it got better fucking quickly for her to run like that, huh?’

The words cut into Curly, seemed to deflate his thick body so that he slumped further down on the couch.

‘Hey, Hannibal,’ Tweemond shouted from the yard, ‘the boys are
lekka
hungry!’ The trouble with Tweemond, which meant ‘two-mouthed’, was that he never told anything as it was. As if to make up for it, Pattat added, ‘He means, Boss, that Reagan, Goppie, and Delron are already
vreting. Giembas
, greedy pigs they are!’

‘Hanno, they asked me about Gatiep again,’ Curly whispered. ‘Everyone knows we were c
homs
. They’re going to ask today. We gotta say
something.
’

‘I’ve thought about it, okay, I always think about things. I’m going to tell them Gatiep’s gone away on business for a while … to Durban. For me and Sasman,
sussing
out opportunities, ha, ha, get it?’

‘Serious?’

‘Serious. That’s what we’ll say, okay? And not a word to Gatiep’s
toppie
, Sollie, is that clear? Listen, I’ve got to go, we’ll finish this later. Curly, you know what I think? I think you’re
paaping
…’

‘Me scared? Come on, what of?’ Curly said indignantly. ‘I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me for nearly ten years, haven’t I? I’ve killed, haven’t I?’

‘
Ek sê, my bra
, just checking …’ Hannibal’s eyes were dead and unblinking. ‘By
soeking
trouble on the train you and Gatiep started other things … like one thing leads to another, you understand, like dominoes?’

Guilt with a hint of panic drifted into Curly’s eyes. Hannibal suddenly got up and punched the air viciously. ‘She either came looking for you, Curly, or she happened to be there. If it’s the first, you’re a target – why, I have no idea. If it’s the second, it means she must be from around here. Either way she’s revealed herself … better than you seeing
nothing
for
two
weeks at Wynberg station, eh, Curly?’ His fingers formed a zero. ‘When a route is blocked to the fox it finds another … I’ll get them.’

•

Two days later Hannibal called Curly. ‘
Aweh, jy, hoesit!
Listen, why don’t we go fishing in the morning?’

‘What! Tomorrow’s Wednesday, Hanno, haven’t we got things to do at the
tik
house?’

‘A lot of aggro we’ve had, too much I say … and it’s gonna be a
lekka
day.’

Hannibal could hear Curly thinking. They used to fish off the beaches of False Bay, from Gordon’s Bay in the east to Cape Point in the south, especially when there was a yellowtail or snoek run. Hannibal added, ‘It’s not your casting arm that’s hurt, Curly … just put an extra bandage around it. What are we waiting for,
my bra
, I’m the boss, let’s
klap
the fish!’

‘You mean just you and me?’ Curly sounded relieved and pleased. He’d been giving everyone dark looks since the Sunday
braai
at Hannibal’s as if the world was coming to an end.

‘
Ja, bra
, keep it to yourself … the others might get jealous.’ Hannibal laughed. ‘I’ll pick you up at sparrows, at five, okay? I’ll get cold chicken, cream crackers and cheese, and
koeksisters
, and I’ll bring the brandy and Coke. All you need is your tackle …’

‘I’ll bring a flask of coffee to start with!’ Curly’s troubles seemed to melt away like
spookasem
leaving behind only the sweet thought of a whole day with Hannibal. ‘Where we going, Boss?

‘To Rooikrans, Curly … I just feel for the fish tomorrow. I’ll bring
braai
stuff. Jesus, a Roman or yellowtail would be good on the fire, or a couple of Hottentots, huh? Ha, ha, Hottentots eating Hottentots! Get it, Curly?’

•

Hannibal packed his Honda Civic 1.8 VXi – pre-owned, not second-hand, crystal black pearl, not just black. It had cool six-inch, five-spoke alloy wheels, twin exhausts, tinted windows all round, and a spoiler in the shape of angel wings. To this day the people of Lavender Hill waved at him in his car, remembering the good he did for the community when he first took on the gangs in the name of the Lord. As Hannibal packed he made a mental note to do some more good in the next few weeks, perhaps pay the two Warrant Officers, Kuscus and Fritz, a little bonus – keep everyone on his side, build up credit while Rottweiler woman and Bruce Lee man were on the loose and the Gnome’s deadline loomed. But first things first, he told himself – doing things the wrong way round could trip you up.

Hannibal fetched Curly at five from his house where he lived alone. Above the brooding bulk of the Hottentots Holland Mountains on the Stellenbosch side of the Flats the early light was beginning to fracture the night. It was still half-an-hour to sunrise and they wore sweat-tops with hoods, cheap tracksuit pants, and Nikes. Having blown away the clouds the wind had subsided, leaving a promise of T-shirts and baggies later in the day. The streets of Lavender Hill looked almost peaceful as they made their way west, turned left into Main Road and headed south towards Muizenberg. Curly was a person whose energy irritatingly spiked in the early morning causing him to talk a lot.

‘This is
jits
, awesome!’ he enthused, leaning back, cap sideways, arm hanging
slap
from the window feeling the air.

‘
Ja,
a shitty day away from the Flats, fishing,’ Hannibal grinned, ‘while others have to graft.’ He listened with half an ear while Curly jumped from one subject to another like a horny bullfrog.

They were now on the False Bay coastal road that would take them to Fish Hoek, Simon’s Town, Miller’s Point, and finally Cape Point. Curly had gone quiet. Suddenly he said, ‘
Ek sê
,
my bra
, don’t you think of the days when we were warriors – of God, not Sasman?’ His words hung awkwardly in the car like bats in a stale cave.

‘God has no guns and no money, Curly. Didn’t we get this straight long ago, huh?’ Hannibal opened his window and sucked in fresh Atlantic air.

‘I know, but I mean, we
felt
so good then! Remember the Mongrels, Jester Kids, Ghetto Kids, Americans, and the Laughing Boys killing each other and everybody who got in the way – over the
shebeens,
drugs, and taxi routes? The schools had to close, the army trucks came in – Lotus River it was, and Parkwood Estate, Grassy Park, Ottery, Hanover Park, all over the Flats. And you, you were so otherwise, starting the Evangelicals, getting us guns and knives and T-shirts with “divine justice” and “righteous violence” on them, and warning the gangs. We had to kill twice, remember, only twice? Glasoog and Pac Man, the main
manne
– shit, how bad they were. We cut off their heads and stuck them on the doors of their houses to look like big hairy knockers! Ha, ha! Locks for knockers! We cleared Lavender Hill in a day, the police looked the other way, the
dominees
said
fokol,
the people loved us, and even the papers noticed us – “gruesome justice” they called it. Hey, those were the days!’

Hannibal had changed the pale, meek Christian God he had been brought up with for the masculine, muscular God of the American evangelist writer, John Eldredge. He had used Eldredge’s book,
Wild at Heart,
as his bible, read from it to his members and to anybody who would listen. His favourite part was where Eldredge quotes Isaiah 63 which describes God wearing blood-stained clothes, spattered as though He has been treading a wine press, and Eldredge going on to say, ‘Talk about Braveheart. This is one fierce, wild, and passionate guy. I have never heard anyone in Church talk like that, either. But this is the God of heaven and earth.’

As if he could read Hannibal’s thoughts, Curly said, ‘Remember how you told us God was a warrior, like William Wallace the braveheart, and Maximus the gladiator – wild and free, a man of action, ready to fight, not turn the other cheek?’

‘Those days are over, Curly, okay? You can’t fight and win without bullets and money.’

‘
Ja, bra
, we got those now, and the drugs and the girls, but not the thing that made us different, the God thing. Everybody loved us
and we liked ourselves
, Hanno. Remember our sign at the entrances to Lavender Hill: “No criminals allowed, by order, The Evangelicals”? It was like an order from God Himself. ‘

‘You’re running scared,
paaping
again,
bra.
’ Hannibal accelerated through the quiet streets, slowing down at the last minute for bends.

‘I’m just saying all that’s left are those angel wings on your car and our tattoos – we’re God warriors only on the outside, Hanno.’

‘
Kryp in jou moer, man!
What’s with you, Curly? You’re in my ears like a mosquito! Are you gonna fuckin’-well fish or philosophise? You’re thinking of how you nearly got killed on the train then in the gents, not so? Thinking of death, that’s why you’re talking about God?’

But like mist rolling over Table Mountain Curly’s words were enveloping Hannibal. It brought back the time when he had left school and couldn’t find a job, a prisoner at home dependent on his heist-driving father, who worked in a paint factory, and on his mother, a home-carer, for his food and a place to sleep. He might as well have crawled back into his mother’s womb his jobless existence had been so dull. But he had found
something
he excelled at: Mixed Martial Arts fighting in wire cages, a step up from schoolyard fighting – bigger crowds, recognition, and a little money. At school he could never relate to the compassionate, humble, forgiving God of the New Testament. That God was too tame for the Flats. He was for people accepting of their fate, not for fighters. People Against Gangsterism And Drugs – known as PAGAD – and its militant wing, G-Force, weren’t an option for Hannibal. He had no stomach for an organisation wanting to transform the country into an Islamic theocracy based on the Iranian revolution of 1979 and planting bombs in public places. But like PAGAD, Hannibal rejected community police forums as toothless and ineffectual. That’s when he discovered the Braveheart God of John Eldredge. He had also read about a Mexican gang called La Familia whose leader, Nazario Moreno, aka El Más Loco (the Craziest One), saw himself as an Old Testament warrior on a mission from God to protect his patch, using the severed heads of enemies as calling cards. The fact that La Familia became involved in drug trafficking was final vindication to Hannibal. He had found his God and his mentors.

They drove in silence through the narrow streets of Simonstown. Houses climbing the hill on their right were now bathed in the early light. Below them the massive sandstone breakwater stopped the ocean swell from reaching a couple of warships. Oh, yes, it had been too good to be true – the God of Eldredge and El Más Loco turning out to be not so hot after all. A Grassy Park gang leader had waited for Hannibal outside a
shebeen
, shot him in the chest, and driven away. For three days it was touch and go. Then they came for him again in the early hours of the morning, killing the guard at the hospital entrance and a nurse inside, going to the wrong ward and shooting a patient out of rage, fleeing as the cops arrived. From that time on Hannibal never slept in one place for too long. He had survived, but they had killed his God. What made him think that God, whether from the New or the Old Testament, had ever been to the Flats? Why should He have bothered, even after the brown people got dumped onto its wastes? The Flats could never have been in God’s mind as a promised land to
anybody.
Only the apartheid government saw it like that. Hannibal had realised with a shock that the Evangelicals were no more than God’s branded cattle in a dusty kraal, carrying His mark in the form of tattoos – all for nothing. If God couldn’t save Jesus how could He save Hannibal? The rest was history as they say. The Gnome had come along and Hannibal forged a new, unholy alliance. And when Hannibal declared to his men that God was dead, how could he realise it would kill his relationship with Chantal? The one thing that had exonerated him in her eyes was destroyed the second he shook Sasman’s hand. And of all people it had been her brother who had poisoned her against him – Zane, who desperately needed an excuse to leave the Evangelicals because he couldn’t pass Hannibal’s man-test.

At the gate to the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve Hannibal paid the entrance fee for himself and for Curly. Hannibal cracked a small smile as he drove through. How would Curly ever know that fearless Hannibal thought about death too sometimes? His smile was fixed as the fishermen’s huts came into view on the slopes of Judas Peak rising steeply from the sea.

•

On this week day, at this hour, Hannibal’s vehicle was the only one in the Rooikrans car park not far from the Point. They had packed the minimum for the steep, stony descent to the ledges down below: three-piece rods held together with elastic bands, rucksacks containing the rest – fishing gear, drink and food, mobile phones and wallets. The only other thing Hannibal carried was a long gaff with a bamboo handle.