said to herself as she sat down on the bed. “I wish they would all fucken die.”
Burn washed the blood from his hands at the kitchen sink. As he wiped his hands he stood and listened intently. Nothing. No shouts, no sirens, no concerned neighbor ringing the buzzer. He walked past the bodies toward the bedrooms, closing the passage door behind him. Burn found Susan and Matt in the main bedroom, huddled on the bed. Susan cradled their son.
Matt looked at him over Susan’s shoulder. “Daddy …”
“Daddy’s here, Matty.” Burn sat down on the bed. “Everything’s fine.” He reached out a hand and touched Matt’s hair. He knew he couldn’t avoid looking at his wife’s eyes any longer. “You okay?”
Susan stared at him. “What do you think?”
Burn reached a hand toward her face. She pulled back. “Don’t.”
He dropped the hand. She looked at him with haunted eyes. “So what happens now?”
“I clean up. Get rid of the … them.”
“Just like that? And what, we just forget this happened? Go to the beach in the morning?” Her eyes were locked to his.
“I did what I had to do,” he said.
“That’s your mantra, isn’t it, Jack? And you’re sticking to it.” She was still staring at him, hating him.
He stood. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? That we’re not at home? That you brought us to a place where animals like that …” She stopped, shaking her head, her eyes pinning him. “Or are you sorry that you’ve become one of them?”
He dragged his eyes away, unable to offer her any words. He had cleaning up to do. As he reached the door she spoke.
“Jack.” There was something urgent in her voice. A different kind of fear.
He turned to her. She was watching a pool of blood spreading from between her legs onto the white duvet. “Jesus, Jack, I’m losing her …”
Benny Mongrel, squatting on his haunches, took Rizla papers and a bag of Dinglers cherry tobacco from his uniform pocket and rolled a cigarette, his fingers deft and practiced. His eyes hadn’t moved from the American’s house since the two men had crossed the deck and disappeared inside. He’d seen nothing more. All he’d heard was the single gunshot.
Bessie had reared up at the sound of the shot and started to whine softly. Benny Mongrel had put a hand on her head to calm her. “Shhhhhh, Bessie. Still.”
The old dog had keened once more, then collapsed onto the concrete with a sigh and lay there with one eye open.
Benny Mongrel had sat and watched, waiting. Waiting to see the gangsters come out of the house and drive off into the night in that red BMW. But there was no sign of the men. Or the American and his family.
The guy who had called him sir .
Benny Mongrel had been called many things. He had been called bastard, bushman, rubbish, and, for many years, Prisoner 1989657. White men in suits had called him a menace to society. Brown men bleeding from his knife had called him brother as they begged for mercy. He had none to show them. Cape Flats gutter curses had been spat at him since he was ripped from the womb of a woman he never knew. But nobody had ever called him sir .
Not until the American.
Benny Mongrel and Bessie were walking the front of the site one evening, the old dog dragging her back legs, when the little white kid had come running up to them. He only had eyes for Bessie and reached out to pet her. Benny Mongrel wasn’t sure how Bessie would react and he pulled back on her chain, but she wagged her tail and stood there docile as you please, the kid stroking her matted fur.
Then the white man came over. He’d been unlocking the street door to the neighboring house, a high-walled fortress like all the others in the street, when the kid scooted over.
“Hey, Matt. Take it easy.”
The guy spoke like the people on those TV shows the other prisoners had watched in Pollsmoor Prison. American. He looked a bit like somebody from those shows too, biggish with a clean face and some gray
Burn washed the blood from his hands at the kitchen sink. As he wiped his hands he stood and listened intently. Nothing. No shouts, no sirens, no concerned neighbor ringing the buzzer. He walked past the bodies toward the bedrooms, closing the passage door behind him. Burn found Susan and Matt in the main bedroom, huddled on the bed. Susan cradled their son.
Matt looked at him over Susan’s shoulder. “Daddy …”
“Daddy’s here, Matty.” Burn sat down on the bed. “Everything’s fine.” He reached out a hand and touched Matt’s hair. He knew he couldn’t avoid looking at his wife’s eyes any longer. “You okay?”
Susan stared at him. “What do you think?”
Burn reached a hand toward her face. She pulled back. “Don’t.”
He dropped the hand. She looked at him with haunted eyes. “So what happens now?”
“I clean up. Get rid of the … them.”
“Just like that? And what, we just forget this happened? Go to the beach in the morning?” Her eyes were locked to his.
“I did what I had to do,” he said.
“That’s your mantra, isn’t it, Jack? And you’re sticking to it.” She was still staring at him, hating him.
He stood. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? That we’re not at home? That you brought us to a place where animals like that …” She stopped, shaking her head, her eyes pinning him. “Or are you sorry that you’ve become one of them?”
He dragged his eyes away, unable to offer her any words. He had cleaning up to do. As he reached the door she spoke.
“Jack.” There was something urgent in her voice. A different kind of fear.
He turned to her. She was watching a pool of blood spreading from between her legs onto the white duvet. “Jesus, Jack, I’m losing her …”
Benny Mongrel, squatting on his haunches, took Rizla papers and a bag of Dinglers cherry tobacco from his uniform pocket and rolled a cigarette, his fingers deft and practiced. His eyes hadn’t moved from the American’s house since the two men had crossed the deck and disappeared inside. He’d seen nothing more. All he’d heard was the single gunshot.
Bessie had reared up at the sound of the shot and started to whine softly. Benny Mongrel had put a hand on her head to calm her. “Shhhhhh, Bessie. Still.”
The old dog had keened once more, then collapsed onto the concrete with a sigh and lay there with one eye open.
Benny Mongrel had sat and watched, waiting. Waiting to see the gangsters come out of the house and drive off into the night in that red BMW. But there was no sign of the men. Or the American and his family.
The guy who had called him sir .
Benny Mongrel had been called many things. He had been called bastard, bushman, rubbish, and, for many years, Prisoner 1989657. White men in suits had called him a menace to society. Brown men bleeding from his knife had called him brother as they begged for mercy. He had none to show them. Cape Flats gutter curses had been spat at him since he was ripped from the womb of a woman he never knew. But nobody had ever called him sir .
Not until the American.
Benny Mongrel and Bessie were walking the front of the site one evening, the old dog dragging her back legs, when the little white kid had come running up to them. He only had eyes for Bessie and reached out to pet her. Benny Mongrel wasn’t sure how Bessie would react and he pulled back on her chain, but she wagged her tail and stood there docile as you please, the kid stroking her matted fur.
Then the white man came over. He’d been unlocking the street door to the neighboring house, a high-walled fortress like all the others in the street, when the kid scooted over.
“Hey, Matt. Take it easy.”
The guy spoke like the people on those TV shows the other prisoners had watched in Pollsmoor Prison. American. He looked a bit like somebody from those shows too, biggish with a clean face and some gray
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