Random Violence (12 page)

19

Whiteboy ran his hand through his hair and considered his options. He was an excellent chess player. Given his other skills, his acquaintances often found this surprising. Incon-gruous. Like a street vendor who could quote Shakespeare, or a footballer who was also a gourmet chef.

He understood why. What he did, what he specialized in, were brash, bold acts of extreme violence. When people saw the results, they found it difficult to believe that there was any intelligence or premeditation behind them. They were wrong—the acts were always the result of meticulous plan-ning. Like chess, which was all about planning and strategy and forward-thinking.

To be safe, Whiteboy believed in keeping at least three moves ahead.

He sat in his home office (a term which always amused him), thinking about his next move. His desk had a laptop computer on its polished surface and a plasma-screen TV was mounted on the wall nearby. Both of these were mere dis-tractions from his work. Distraction always allowed him to focus better.

At present, he was flicking idly between his favorite porn sites, watching some real-time action. The play of flesh on flesh and the lure of hot, inviting orifices amused him. It showed what money could do. He didn’t think for a moment that any of the girls who smiled for the camera while spreading their legs to accommodate outsized cocks actually did it for enjoy-ment. They did it for the cash.

He clicked on another site. Yes, money made the world go round. It smoothed the way forward. In his opinion, you could never have enough of it.

Whiteboy continued to ponder his next move. When his cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts, he experienced a moment of irritation. Then he saw who it was. He took his finger off the mouse and stood up. Even though he checked his office frequently for listening devices and changed phone cards as often as he changed his underwear, he still wouldn’t risk having a sensitive exchange in an enclosed area. Old habits died hard. He heaved himself out of his leather chair and strode out into the garden, where the rushing sound of the fountain cascading onto the marble stones below would shield his conversation from any eavesdroppers.

“Hey,” said his contact.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve spoken to 83 Rivonia Road.”

“Great.” Whiteboy had seen photos of the sprawling mansion situated on grounds that still managed to be spa-cious. A brilliant, unbeatable location. The plush hotels and tinted-glass office blocks of Sandton were five minutes away and development was spreading down Rivonia Road faster than floodwater down a culvert.

He had plans for that location. Big plans. Starting with demolishing the house. Those lovely stone blocks wouldn’t be wasted. He could use them somewhere else. But that area was all about office space right now. People were begging for work premises on Rivonia Road at any price. He had plans for a mixed-use development. Four office parks with a central shopping area and a gym. All surrounded by security so tight and fierce it would make Alcatraz look open-plan.

“Who?”

“The husband.”

“If he’s out of the way it’ll go through sweet?” Whiteboy trusted his contact’s judgment. His information was always accurate and his skills were unique. Since he’d joined Whiteboy a few years back, every operation had been laugh-ably smooth. Like checkmating your dumbfounded oppo-nent in just two moves. Fool’s mate, as it was called.

“Yup. He doesn’t want to sell, but she’ll sign. And she’s not greedy.”

“Any idea when?”

“He told me he works late fairly often. ’Specially near the end of the month.”

“That’d do it.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll wait for your call.” Whiteboy paused. “Any news on our other friends?” He was confident his contact would know what he was talking about. They’d always understood each other well. Back in the army days, they’d worked together a couple of times. And in the last few years they’d become a close team again.

His contact laughed. “I’m keeping them under surveillance. So far they’re still a few steps behind on the wrong track.”

“Keep watching. And stay awake. We can’t afford our plan to fail. The detective’s good, I hear. And the girl’s father was good, too.”

He knew about the girl’s father. His contact did, too. They’d both been told.

“Don’t worry. I won’t get careless.”

Whiteboy looked down into the bowl of the fountain. He could see his reflection. A pale, heavy face and dark phone, dancing in a hundred wavelets.

“You’d better not. I got involved with this operation as a favor to you, remember. And now I’m saving your butt. Again.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want this to be the one that brings us down. I don’t want to have to run yet.”

“Nor do I.” His contact sounded subdued.

“Good. Later, then.”

Whiteboy disconnected and looked down at the splashing water.

“You’ll be my brave boy, won’t you? My brave little man,” said a voice in his head.

He shivered at this, unexpectedly remembering the way the bath had smelled when he was a boy, a faint chemical soapy odor. The way hot water smelled stronger than cold water did and very hot water smelled the worst of all. He still thought he could tell its exact temperature by smell alone. Before his face touched the water in the basin, before his mother’s relentless hand on the back of his infant neck had forced him into the steaming, suffocating depths, where he’d bitten his tongue and held his breath, feeling his face swelling and scalding and searing jets rush up his nose, doing his best not to struggle.

Because struggling made it worse. That was what he always told his victims, when he had a chance to tell them anything at all. Struggling makes it worse. Mommy knows.

He stared at the water, mesmerized by its dancing surfaces, almost unable to tear himself away. Then he realized he was clenching his jaws together so tightly his teeth hurt. For an unthinkable moment, he’d been a child again, carrying his schoolbag up the front steps of that claustrophobic little house where his mother waited.

It was the uncertainty that was the worst. Sometimes she would be sitting in the wing-backed chair in the lounge, with the radio on and sandwiches waiting for him on a plastic plate, the brown bread topped with a thin scraping of Bovril or Anchovette. But other times, she’d be in an angry state. That was what she called it, “an angry state,” although the words didn’t come close to describing the destructive spec-trum of his mother’s uncontrollable fury. And when he walked through the door and saw her chair was empty, and heard the shatter of glass in the kitchen or the thudding of objects in the bedroom, or worse still, the splashing of water in the bathroom as she filled the steaming tub ready for his return, his schoolbag would fall to the ground and he’d be immobilized by terror.

When his mother was in an angry state, she had to take it out on somebody. That was what she always told him. And because there was nobody else, she took it out on him.

When he was about eleven years old, she made one of her infrequent appearances at a parent-teacher meeting. The next day, one of the boys from a class two years above him joined him for part of the walk home along a quiet stretch of road bordering a park. Whiteboy didn’t speak to him. He never spoke to anybody if he could help it. But the boy said hello and greeted him by his universal nickname, which he’d been given on his very first day of school on account of his pale, pasty skin. “Hello, Whiteboy,” he said, and introduced himself as Eddie, in a friendly tone that belied his next words.

“My dad knows your mom,” he said.

Apprehensive, Whiteboy glanced up at the bigger boy but said nothing.

He continued. “She used to work at my dad’s company a long time ago, but he fired her. He told me last night your mom is mad. She was put into an asylum because she went crazy one day and almost killed the lady she worked with.”

Whiteboy turned away and increased his speed, hurrying along as fast as his chunky legs could carry him. But Eddie kept pace with him. He grabbed his shoulder and Whiteboy stifled a scream, because he’d clamped his fingers directly over the blistering welt that his mother had left there two nights ago when she’d pressed a hot iron against his skin and held the instrument there for an endless moment of agony, watching his flesh redden and burn, her teeth gritted and her eyes bulging with rage.

Grinning, Eddie released him. “You worried?”

Whiteboy shook his head, breathing hard.

The older boy looked puzzled at this lack of reaction.

“You should be,” he said. “When the whole school knows about it, you will be. Because I’ll tell everyone. You don’t want that, do you? Nobody will ever speak to you again if they find out your mom’s an insane bitch. You won’t have any friends left.”

Finally, Whiteboy spoke. “Don’t,” he said.

Eddie grinned again, triumphantly.

“I won’t say anything if you go to Carlo’s café now, and buy us two bottles of Coke. One for me, one for my little brother.” >He jerked his thumb at the small tow-haired boy lagging a short distance behind, smiling in exactly the same manner.

“Anything else?” Eddie asked his brother.

“Sweets,” the younger boy replied. “Make him get some sweets.”

Whiteboy looked up at him.

“I’ve got no money.”

Eddie shrugged. “Then steal them. And bring them to my house later.” He turned away and walked back to his brother, shepherding him protectively down the road where they lived.

That afternoon, Whiteboy stole the Cokes and the sweets, but because he was late home his sandwiches were hard and curling at the corners. And his mother was in a mild state and made him suffer for it. The next day, after another consultation with his brother, his tormentor demanded biltong, licorice and chewing gum for two delivered to their front door on his knees. He complied and sprinted home so he wouldn’t be late, arriving sweaty, panting and distressed. Whiteboy knew he couldn’t do this for much longer. For one thing, Carlo was starting to look at him suspiciously when he walked into the shop. For another, he was starting to feel an unfamiliar emotion—a white-hot, overriding compulsion that he’d never experienced before. The best way he could describe it was to think of his mother’s words. “An angry state.” That’s what he was feeling. An angry state. Because he was being blackmailed, because he was getting screwed.

The older boy was too big and strong. He knew he couldn’t overpower him, but, thinking things over, he realized Eddie’s little brother was smaller, and weaker. And Eddie loved his little brother. That was clear.

The following day, Whiteboy discovered that Eddie had soccer practice after school and his younger brother was walking home on his own.

Whiteboy waited for him behind a wall opposite the park, and when the boy appeared he grabbed him by his fine blond hair and pulled him across the road, jamming a wad of toilet paper into his mouth so he couldn’t scream. Behind a stand of bushes, he did his work. He was desperate and terrified and his actions lacked finesse—something that would come later, with practice. But, thanks to his mother, he knew how to inflict pain without leaving an obvious mark.

He kept the boy there for a while, because he didn’t know how long it would take for him to learn his lesson well. After an hour, he stopped. He was getting bored. The little boy had thrown up twice, splattering wads of cheap bog-roll onto the short grass. He was crying and drooling and trembling all over, his skin was sickly gray, and he wouldn’t meet White-boy’s eyes.

“What will you say?” Whiteboy asked again. “Tell me.”

The boy sniffed, and retched again. “I say he’s been unfair to you and he must stop now and pay you back for all the things you stole or I’ll never speak to him again and I’ll tell Dad what he’s done.”

Whiteboy smiled, and another unfamiliar sensation swept over him. A warm, good, powerful one.

“And what do you do if he asks you whether I told you to say that?”

“I say no,” the boy cried, choking on his snot, clawing at the grass with his hands. “I say no. Please don’t hurt me any more. I say no.”

Whiteboy turned away from the fountain, grimacing. He didn’t like it at all. He would have filled it in when he bought the place, except it was useful for camouflaging sound. The damn thing gave him the shivers the rest of the time.