Last Train to Retreat (20 page)

It wasn’t a question of one style being better than the other – it was how good the fighters were at using them, and tonight Hannibal was being put to the test once more. As Hannibal focused on his opponent, he heard as if from afar voices rising above the murmur of the crowd, ‘Show the
oke
, Hannibal!’, ‘Down with the
Hottie,
Pete!’, ‘
Moer
hom,
Holt!’, ‘
Slaat die laaitie,
General!’ The mere thought of blood being spilt was making them restive, especially with big names like these.

‘Let’s get it on!’ the ref shouted, a start command made famous by ‘Big’ John McCarthy who put MMA on the map. It was the ref’s favourite because he’d been an MMA fighter himself and couldn’t bear life out of the cage. His flab contrasted sharply with the honed bodies of Holt and Hannibal but his whistle held the power to stop a fight.

As Holt closed the gap Hannibal knew what was coming – Holt would try to stick a shoulder in his gut, grab a leg or two, keep his feet pumping and drive through Hannibal until he toppled. It would be the beginning of the end. Holt would land on him and ground and pound him into submission. Hannibal kept his distance, moving deftly like a dancer doing the quick-step. Distance was the key and footwork controlled distance, flat feet meant disaster. Holt followed him around the ring. The crowd knew Hannibal’s style but had no patience for repeated evasive action and were now jeering him.
Tonight is mine not theirs,
Hannibal thought. He wanted to prolong the contest, like cats did with prey, leave unsatisfied a little longer the need for violence that had been building up in him. He feared no man, only the comedown after the violence, the feeling that when the rush was over there seemed to be little meaning to life. There had been times when it was different – when he had God, and Chantal.

From four paces away Hannibal suddenly stepped-ran towards Holt and front-kicked him on the chest, lifting him off his feet. It was classic Andrei Arlovski and it deposited Holt on his back. Hannibal coolly held back knowing that what awaited him on the canvas was an embrace like an Anaconda’s and probable defeat. But the crowd wanted
fighting
, even on the ground, they wanted blood, and their booing became louder. Hannibal shut them out.

The bell went. Holt returned to his stool, the black pelt on his chest looking as if it had been rained on. Only Hannibal’s red kick-boxing shorts shone in the light, his body was dry. He drank nothing from the plastic bottle offered him by his second. The minute’s rest was too long for him. At the start of the second round Holt came for Hannibal again with murder in his eyes, Doberman ears pointy like the Devil’s, neck so thick it made his head appear squat on his torso. Hannibal danced away on the balls of his feet, around the ring, then to the centre, and back to the perimeter again, keeping Holt at bay with well-timed punches and thrust kicks. The crowd was going berserk heckling Hannibal and the cage seemed his only protection from a different kind of assault. The ref was sweating as much as Holt was. Holt almost ran at Hannibal in an effort to close the gap and take him down. Hannibal dipped low and leant forward to counter the charge, splaying his legs out behind him and turning his body into a rigid rod. Holt tried to grab Hannibal’s legs but couldn’t reach that far. With a snarl he aborted his attempt. It was a moment when most fighters would attack but Hannibal danced back. The crowd was now baying for Hannibal’s blood. The bell sounded. With two rounds gone Hannibal was the clear loser on points.

Near the end of the third round it was as if Hannibal had grown tired of his own game. Resolutely Holt stepped forward once again, fully expecting Hannibal to sidestep or retreat. But Hannibal was waiting for him. His body became a blur as it spun around with one leg out like a scythe rising unstoppably until the heel thudded into the side of Holt’s head dropping him like an ox in an abattoir.

It was all over. There was no ten second rule in MMA, not that it would have helped Holt. On Hannibal’s caramel body there was just a gleam of perspiration.

•

Another Sunday, another ride in the back of the Benz, another meeting with the Gnome except this one was starting badly, Hannibal thought, sitting rigidly in his chair.

‘Tuesday’s the deadline, you haven’t got them yet and you’re not gonna get them. Is that right, Hannibal?’ Sasman said coldly.

It was the kind of question-statement Sasman loved posing. It put people in a spot with little room to move, forcing them to accede. Over time it led to submission, to everyone agreeing to everything he said. It was the way of the Gnome.

‘I didn’t say I would,’ Hannibal said, ‘I said I was working on it’. He held the Gnome’s stare. He imagined Sasman on a stool opposite him in the cage and the ref’s words ringing, ‘Let’s get it on!’

‘When Sasman gives a deadline he means it,’ Sasman said, pursing his lips and expanding his chest.

‘I said I’m working on it.’

‘Well, I’m going to Hong Kong for Christmas and New Year …’

‘Yeah, going on business,’ Danny said to Hannibal, ‘to see syndicate in Mong Kok, I arrange everyt’ing …’

‘And the fireworks, Danny, the fireworks, they say Hong Kong’s the best,’ Sasman said.

‘They take Jelome to Macau too, not on ferry but
helicopter,
’ Danny added proudly, ‘Ah, only the best … women on menus jus’ like food. You order Russian, Thai, or Chinese, whatever you want …’

Sasman cut in, ‘Point is, Hannibal, it’s already December. I need this
kak
like a hole in the head, I don’t wanna think about it when I’m there, sudden fucking calls about Philander, about
anything!
’

‘Yeah, Jelome’s right. And what abou’ the girl, Hannibal, my Thai girl, where is she?’ Danny was like a bulldog with slanted eyes. ‘How you know it’s her when you never seen her?’

‘Photos, Danny, photos,’ Hannibal formed a picture with his hands, ‘and we’re still looking, okay? We’re in Sea Point now … it’s big, then Bantry Bay. If she’s not there then maybe she’s run away … for a while. She’ll end up back in a brothel, that’s the way it is with them all.’ Hannibal got up suddenly, put on his bomber jacket.

‘What you wear that hot thing for, anyway, hey?’ Danny wanted to know.

‘It’s a long ride and it gets cool in the Benz, Danny, but most of all I wear it because I like it.’

As Hannibal’s shoes crunched on the courtyard gravel on the way to the car and Terrance, he felt their eyes like hot spots on his back – the Gnome in the doorway with his Dobermans beside him. Hannibal didn’t know the names of the dogs. He couldn’t remember them ever being summoned – Sasman didn’t have to, they were always around him. And maybe Sasman didn’t want anyone to get too friendly with his dogs.

•

Much later at home Hannibal wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner – why wait for Zane at the station, why not wait for him in Court Road? Of course he’d have to wear a cap, glasses and a moustache, and look the other way as Zane walked up the road. Where Zane lived it was quiet, and if he came home late it would be quieter still. Hannibal wished it was winter, when darkness came early. Zane would be on the lookout now that he knew Chantal had seen Hannibal.

There was a far greater problem, Hannibal knew: he had Chantal and Zane on his mind when all the Gnome and Danny wanted was for him to kill the Thai girl, and the man and the woman who’d been on the train.

T
hree hours into their night shift with the light only just fading Philander bounced into the OC office where Bella was sitting. It was one of the things Bella loved about Philander – his vitality in a job and in a world intent on sapping it. He was like an exuberant youngster selling morning newspapers on a street corner, seemingly unaware of his greying hair and furrowed face.

‘Now listen to this, Bella …’

‘What, Quentin?’ He’d been on her mind more than usual. Tomorrow she was going away and she was already missing him.

‘After Curly was identified at the mortuary I asked if I could take his T-shirt and track pants that had been stuffed in a bag. They said I was welcome as there was nothing inside them.’ Philander chuckled. ‘They were wrong. I checked the pockets again at home, and there it was …’ He placed a thin, stringy line about eight centimetres long on the desk, its whiteness contrasting against the dark wood.

‘So,’ Bella said, staring at it, ‘it looks like used dental floss … the expanding kind, all fluffy.’ She shrugged. ‘Or it could be from a pocket lining that’s frayed.’

‘To most people, yes, but it’s actually ghost cotton.’

‘Ghost cotton?’

Philander took it by the ends and stretched it into a thin, straight line. Miraculously the fluffiness disappeared. ‘Fishermen use it to stop bait from flying off during casting, and so that fish don’t take it off the hook too easily … marvellous stuff.’

‘It doesn’t mean he was fishing when he died, Quentin, this piece could be old.’

‘Maybe, but it would have shown more wear after being washed in detergent a few times. This looks like it’s been in the sea. I mean, it’s
made
for the sea so that it
doesn’t
fall apart quickly.’

‘Maybe you’re clutching at straws, or string in this case?’ she smiled, not wanting his hopes dashed. ‘What are you going to do?’ She thought it was a creepy name – ghost cotton. She picked it up and felt its elasticity. Philander wasn’t a man to let go of a clue until he had ‘interrogated’ it fully.

‘I think it calls for a little trip,’ he said sitting down.

Bella thought about her own journey tomorrow. ‘I won’t be here for a while … I’ve got that SAPS course and then straightaway Wayne, Bokkie, Greg and me are off to the Breede River mouth – first holiday in years. But I’m doing duty over Christmas, so I have to be back. Be careful, Quentin, whatever you do.’ She’d be away from the comforting crackle of the radio, away from the Flats, and this man. A feeling of dread swept over Bella – deep and murky so that she couldn’t fathom the reason for it. It brought an edge to her love for Philander, and it turned the drab little office into a refuge, and her promise to herself never to tell him, into a burden.

Bella got up and walked around the desk to where Philander was sitting, his mind on his trip. ‘Quentin, please would you stand up.’ Philander looked up not because of what she said – Bella was his superior – but how she said it. He got up, slightly startled. ‘Quentin, please hold me.’ Philander pulled back instinctively, she was in uniform with multiple pips on her shoulder. Bella went on her toes, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. Philander uttered a long sigh, and surrendered. They didn’t talk. So much had been said between the lines for too long.

She placed her head on his shoulder. ‘We won’t see each other for a while. Quentin, promise me that at the right time you’ll get help, not go it alone.’

‘Still only hunches, Bella, but at least there’s something to work on.’

‘Remember, you’re not Rambo, you’re SAPS,’ she said and held him tighter.

•

From the station Philander drove in a south-westerly direction in an unmarked car and in his civvies, his thoughts alternating between Curly and Bella. It was a day for dark glasses as the sun glared off False Bay onto the road hugging it – the grandness of St James behind him, quaint Kalk Bay now coming into view. Colourful wooden bathing huts lined the small beach on the other side of the railway line. Further out a few surfers were riding the point break near the Brass Bell. Kalk Bay was postcard pretty, peaceful as if crime could not happen there. But Detective Warrant Officer Philander knew better than to be fooled by pretty places and faces. The small harbour came into view. At around one o’clock its brightly painted fishing fleet would return for the daily fish ‘auction’. Philander resolved to be back in time to buy snoek or kabeljou for dinner. His teenage daughters, Trisha and Lucy, had taken over many of Bettie’s duties, including the cooking. Philander cared for them and they cared for him – an unspoken understanding since Bettie’s brutal death as if the girls knew that without them Philander would quietly and slowly waste away.

The wide beach at Fish Hoek was already shimmering in the heat when Philander drove through the town. At Simonstown, Philander thought how strange it was that Gatiep and Curly had been found dead not far from each other but far from Lavender Hill – Gatiep by cleaners on the train at Simonstown, and Curly at Miller’s Point four kilometres south. It was highly likely that they had died elsewhere – the railway line was long and so was the coastline and there were strong currents. Even so … Philander shook his head. One thing at a time, he told himself. He needed to concentrate on Curly, except Bella wouldn’t let him. The wordless intensity with which she had walked into his arms had taken his breath away. Philander lived with a terrible guilt – he had loved Bella even before Bettie died. Keeping it to himself, not breaking up Bella’s family or her heart had given him solace – until the other night. Without a single word, and in a matter of minutes, their passion had sprung as if from a prison, leaving them with its attendant dangers. Bella would return, and then what? All Philander knew, now that he had felt
her
love, was that he could not possibly carry on fighting it.

•

Philander took the turnoff to Miller’s Point where Curly’s body had washed up among the massive boulders protecting the tidal pool. He parked and walked down to the lawn at the edge of the beach. To his left False Bay unfolded in a vast semi-circle finishing opposite him across the water at Cape Hangklip, awesome but depressing to Philander because at its heart lay the Flats. To his right the peninsula jutted into the ocean to a sharp, rocky point like a giant primitive stone weapon. In front of him the natural pool was filling up with the tide, shimmering invitingly. Soon Miller’s Point would be overrun with revellers but today nothing seemed to jar, not even the shrill warning to a couple on the beach from an African Oystercracker protecting its nest, or the excited cries of black-backed gulls hovering over the incoming fishing boats. Another pretty place, Philander mused as he drove back slowly to Main Road, pulling the pieces together in his mind.