Refuge (36 page)

She stopped laughing and wiped her eyes. Then she laughed again, sardonically. ‘Mandla? My boss? No, Richard, Mandla is just the bully boy. He does not scare me. He is stupid and slow and mean, but he is nothing. My boss is like the devil; he knows everything and he sees everything. My boss is a Russian devil. I think you know who he is.’

‘Stefan Svritsky.’ It was not a question but a dawning understanding.

‘Yes, your friend Svritsky,’ Abayomi said, angry now. ‘If you want to know, he paid for me to come to South Africa. He owns many girls and many women. They work in his brothels, on the streets, to pay him back. He asks for all his money back, three times over. Three times over we must pay him. We work for years just to pay him back. And it never ends. It will never end. Because I am
educated
’ – she spat the word out – ‘he put me in his business, Touch of Africa.’

Richard frowned, and Ifasen clucked his tongue in distress, holding his hands up to quieten his wife. But Abayomi continued, her voice faltering and the tears flowing freely: ‘Yes, he owns that too. And he always tells me … you want to know? If he doesn’t like my work any more, he will move me. To one of the other places in Sea Point. There I will give everything. Not just massage. There I will be given to many with dirty fingers and—’

‘Stop!’ Ifasen said, waving his arms now. ‘Stop this now. Not in my house. I will not have it any more.’

Richard’s head throbbed. He had hardly heard Abayomi. His mind was spinning with thoughts, flashes of conversations, events. Each time he had moved away, he realised, she had drawn him back in. Suggestions, contacts, promises of more. She had played him all along, in cahoots with her boss, setting him up to send his humiliation tearing through the trial like a missile. She was Svritsky’s willing weapon, his conspirator in his success. And he was simply a forgotten victim, irrelevant, save for what his demise could achieve for them. He saw it clearly now.

‘You … you fucking whore!’ He launched himself at her, first hitting Ifasen with his shoulder, sending him twirling ludicrously like a ballerina, clutching at the furniture to stop from falling down. ‘You set me up from the beginning … you and your charms … you …’ He lifted his fist, his arm shaking, waiting to strike. But her face was already broken, drawn and set in defeat, ready for the violence to fall. She was watching him with the same eyes that had teased him, her lips that had kissed him with such affection, her cheek that had rubbed gently against his. His held breath started to seep out in a low hiss as he began to lower his fist.

Before he could step back, something hard and heavy struck him on the chest below his outstretched arm, a solid blow that hurt deep in his lungs. He spun around in surprise, his hand clutching his burning side. Ifasen stood a little distance away, his face wild with fury, raising a wooden pedestal high over his head. Richard watched as the pedestal wavered again in the air. A small chip of veneer had come off one foot, exposing the cheap wood beneath the stain.

Ifasen was roaring at him, emitting a guttural howl. The noise was deafening, drumming on Richard’s ears. The moment seemed suspended in time, Ifasen howling, banshee-like, Abayomi screaming, and him standing still in the middle, watching them. He did not hear the crack of the door on its hinges or the thumping sound of footsteps coming up behind him. He did not see the raised gun behind his shoulder. All he felt was a hot wind, a painful blast of air in his ears. As the room fell still, he heard nothing but the dull pounding of blood in his brain.

The apartment filled with the acrid smell of cordite. The air seemed hazy in front of him. Abayomi’s mouth was open and he could see the pinkness of her tongue, but still he heard nothing. He could not understand how she was yelling without making any sound. Ifasen dropped the pedestal. It fell from his grasp as if he had never held it firmly, slipping loosely to the side. It hit the floor and splintered along the length of its top. Ifasen staggered backwards. His arms collapsed, hanging from his narrow shoulders. There was a look of bewilderment on his face. He appeared to stare straight through Richard, until his head flopped backwards. His body crumpled inwardly, imploding into itself. He tumbled down, his head smacking the floor squarely.

An arm grabbed Richard’s shoulder and propelled him to one side. Faintly, through the thudding of his own bloodstream, Richard picked up the sound of Abayomi wailing.

A man in a leather jacket advanced, his body poised and his firearm held out in front of him. He pointed it at the prostrate man’s chest, until he was standing over Ifasen’s form. Satisfied, he shoved the gun into his holster, kneeling down and placing his fingers against Ifasen’s neck. The man twisted his head around towards Richard and winked – a clear wink, deliberate, slow and conspiratorial.

‘Lucky for you I showed up, hey?’ the man said, pulling at his moustache. Richard’s ears still stung from the blast of the shot, and the voice sounded muffled and far away. ‘The little Nigel would’ve taken your head off with that thing …’ The man paused, then continued in a formal tone that was incongruous with the situation: ‘Inspector Jeneker. SAPS.’

The pedestal lay smashed on the floor, its legs broken and crooked. It looked inconsequential and delicate, like an injured animal with gangly legs. A red stain was blooming across Ifasen’s chest.

Abayomi was holding on to the door frame, sobbing. Her knees buckled and she slid down to the floor, her legs splayed out. Her cries tore into Richard, stabbing at him like short knives slicing into his skin, poking holes into him. He wanted her to stop, but did not know what he could say. He stood gaping at Ifasen’s unmoving body.

Abayomi spoke first, her voice trembling. ‘You were a test,’ she cried. ‘He told me you were special. A special friend. I had to prove that I could stay at the studio. To take the best care of you. That’s all. I don’t know why. I don’t know why. I don’t know why.’ The phrase became a mantra, whispered hoarsely through her tears. Her hand tried to reach out to her slain husband, but instead her fingers feathered the air, as if she were trying to will his body towards her. She stopped and looked up at Richard through bloodshot eyes. ‘And look what you have done.’

Richard needed to get out of the room. He made his way towards the door, holding his mouth to stop from vomiting, and fled. Through the open door into the passageway and down the stairwell, two steps at a time, his ankles jarring with each footfall. His shoulder scraped along the walls, tearing at the flakes of paint. The wind caught him as he ran out of the foyer doors, slapping his face with cold air. He half-closed his eyes and sprinted across the road towards his car.

A dark figure was waiting for him, leaning against a black Mercedes parked in front of Richard’s own SLK. The man stood upright as he approached.

‘Where you going? You think you are going somewhere?’ Mandla cut an imposing figure in the half-light, standing with his shoulders hunched against the driving wind. Richard hesitated, his car keys in his hand, his thumb playing across the top of the remote control.

The back door of the Mercedes opened. Svritsky emerged from the car, a cellphone to his ear. He was wearing a thick woollen top and tracksuit pants. He snapped the cellphone shut. ‘Ah, Richard, the man that makes this whole thing work. You cannot just leave. We need you a little longer, yes?’

Richard was tired of ranting, tired of his undirected, impotent fury. He wanted to cry and be held, to climb into a bed and sleep for a long time. He realised painfully how he missed Amanda.

‘Ah, Richard, my friend,’ Svritsky gloated. ‘You are an easy man. We know all the time that that man is the witness.’ Mandla snorted, gesturing dismissively towards the building. ‘You think you are clever, but it takes us no time to find out. No time. We know it all along. We just had to keep him quiet. He does what he is told and there is no problem. But just in case things go wrong, I hook you up for massage, yes? For – how you call it? – insurance. And you, you also do as you are told. It is just so … predictable.’

Richard scowled back at him.

‘She is good; it’s true. But you mustn’t be nasty, Richard. She never knew what was going on. She never knew what this is all about. No, no, no.’ Svritsky paused, taking out a cigarette and cupping his hand to light it. After a few attempts, the end flared as he drew in heavily.

‘But then that stupid husband of hers … he goes and gets himself arrested.’ Svritsky looked up at the apartment block – somewhere inside the policeman was busy arranging the crime scene. ‘And not even our good friend Jeneker can control him in prison. We think he might do deal, yes? So we decide to use our new weapon: you. The big lawyer, the clever lawyer with a hard-on. And he comes for free as well. It was a good deal, my friend.’

Svritsky chuckled, not a light expression of humour, but a dark, foreboding gurgle. ‘Good deal. Perfect. If you get him out, we take care of him. If you couldn’t get him out, it’s no problem … you see, we can still use you fucking his bitch as a reason to stop the trial. It doesn’t matter which way, she is going to save me and destroy her husband, without any idea. No idea. Women, eh! Can’t trust them, my friend, you just can’t trust women.’

Richard was stammering, still reeling. ‘How could you do this … to me? How could you do that to her?’

‘No, no, no, don’t you try and preach to me, my friend. What do you know about her? I am the one who finds her in Lagos, a snivelling girl, married to that useless man. She had no one, no one. Her mother … she is dead. And her father … well, we don’t talk about him, no.’ Svritsky pulled in a mouthful of smoke from the cigarette and let it escape like steam from his nose and mouth, billowing out into the night air.

‘What? What happened to her father?’ Richard almost screamed it out, desperate to know, but not to hear.

Svritsky looked at him queryingly; ‘Ah, you do not know.’

Richard looked away, realising his vulnerability. Svritsky was right: what did he really know about Abayomi? That he should hear the details from his nemesis saddened him. He shook his head.

The Russian smirked, pleased with the revelation. ‘Ah, you know … he makes trouble in Nigeria, her father. I know, I am there making business in military hardware. Someone told the militia men about her father.’

Svritsky paused, holding eye contact with Richard in a steady gaze. ‘She tells me, when she is fifteen they pull him out from the supper table, food still on his plate. They make her watch while they slit his throat and cut his guts out. Like a goat.’ Svritsky watched Richard shake his head and run his hands through his unwashed hair. ‘They say he was good man. But also a troublemaker. There is no room in this world for good men.’

Mandla said something guttural and dark in Zulu. Svritsky ignored him. ‘But I am the one who saved her, my friend. That husband … he was no good. A weak man. I help them to come here to a better life. With hope. And jobs. So don’t you be mister big lawyer with me, yes?’

Svritsky sent another stream of smoke out, whipped away into a haze by the wind. ‘Once you see this happen to your own, to your flesh and blood, survival it becomes everything, my friend.’ Richard saw a glimpse of something personal, a flicker of emotion he had not seen before in the Russian. ‘Anything is possible. There is nothing that you cannot do,’ he added.

A shopping packet glided past and hooked on Mandla’s leg. He kicked it off as if it were some dangerous animal. Svritsky paused until the commotion had died down: ‘But you know what, my friend? You have made my day, my good friend,’ he said. ‘You have made this a good day for me.’

‘What do you mean, Stefan?’ Richard could hardly bear to listen to any more, but he knew he needed to hear the whole story before he could start to sift through the scattered pieces and find his part in it.

Svritsky grunted and looked away.

‘What the fuck do you mean, Stefan?’

‘Okay, okay, relax, I tell you. The witness, he is lying up there with a bullet in his heart. And I did not touch him. No, it is a police officer saving
you
. The witness’s big lawyer. My old lawyer. My old lawyer who is fucking the wife of this witness. It’s good plan, yes?’ He let the cigarette drop from his mouth, a few sparks flashing in the wind as it hit the tar. The burning ember rolled along the roadway and disappeared under Richard’s car.

‘So you don’t go anywhere yet, okay, Richard? My good friend, this is where you are taking your bow.’ The Russian started clapping his hands together, a slow, deliberate smacking sound that whistled away on the wind.

R
ICHARD UNLOCKED THE
door of the small office. The lettering on the frosted pane of the door still looked skew to him – ‘Calloway & Associates’ – but the glue had set firm and he could not do it over again. It gave him a small thrill to see his name written up in strong black letters. Sometimes he opened the legal diary to the list of attorneys, just for the satisfaction of seeing his professional details sandwiched between two larger associations in the list. The office was sparsely furnished. Half a dozen thin files lay on the desk, the sum total of his practice since leaving the firm. He had heard that, after he had left, the firm had finally appointed a new partner, giving the newcomer massive equity. But Quantal Investments had decided to go with one of the big national firms, wooed by their depth of experience and luxurious lunches. Selwyn Mullins had announced his retirement from practice.

Nadine had considered joining Richard, but frankly he was relieved when she announced that she, too, was ready for a break. Richard still kept in touch with David Keefer, who had spent a miserable two weeks separated from Charmaine, shacked up with the stripper, before returning like a distraught puppy.

The media reported that the case against Svritsky had been stayed. Bernberg had made an uncharacteristically charitable request for the application for the stay of prosecution to be heard
in camera
. Magistrate Abrahams had listened to the application and then ordered that the file and record of proceedings be sealed. The only portion of her judgment that was released to the media stated that the court was satisfied that ‘the inherent rights of the accused had been infringed and the continued prosecution of the accused would be unjust in the circumstances’. No reasons were given to the public. The television news had shown Svritsky growling at the cameras, threatening to sue the State for harassment. ‘They had no case against me. They do this to me all the time. Why? Because I come from Russia,’ he announced hotly. ‘Because I am foreign. But I am just an honest man trying to make an honest living in this country.’