In the Midst of Wolves Page 9

  They laughed, then she asked, ‘When’s the last time you spoke to Josh?’

  ‘I was about to send him an email. You?’

  ‘He called me earlier this week but the connection was terrible. Could barely hear him.’ Lizzie added softly, ‘I miss you, Nicky. The old you. The happy, full-of-nonsense you.’

  He took a sip of whisky. ‘So do I.’

  ‘Do you pray, Nick?’

  ‘Every damn day.’

  ‘You liar. I’m telling Mummy.’

  He guffawed.

  ‘I need to go now, Nick. Got to prepare for tomorrow’s class. Please look after yourself.’

  ‘I always do, sis. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too. Never forget that.’

  He sighed when they had said their goodbyes. He quickly pushed that little bit of joy aside. He didn’t deserve to feel happy. Not after what he had done to Megan.

  20

  Creed saw the red of the setting sun disappear, gradually replaced by the blackness of the night sky. He sat on the same couch from where he had spoken to his sister an hour or so earlier, except this time he had his father’s old guitar resting on his thigh. He strummed a few chords and played some melodies, no particular song but rather a medley of a few different tunes. The chorus of Robin Thicke’s ‘Lost Without U’ was followed by a few bars of Don McLean’s ‘Vincent’. He mumbled along to the lyrics, but didn’t finish playing the tune. Far too depressing, he realised. Not a wise choice when he had liquor and his gun within arms’ reach. He needed something more up-tempo.

  The first tune that landed in his head was Jimi Hendrix’s ‘All Along the Watchtower’ but the acoustic guitar lacked the power the song deserved. So he played the next song that came to him, his namesake’s, ‘Weathered’ by Creed.

  He had only strummed a few bars before that voice crept into his mind, the same voice he battled against every single fucking day. That evening, though, the harsh whisper was louder and more convincing. ‘You deserve to die, Nick,’ it said. ‘Get that gun and put it in your mouth. It’s what you deserve. You deserve to be punished. You deserve to die. Eat that fucking bullet, Nick. Eat it. Eat it like your coward father ate it.’

  His hands snapped away from his guitar as if the instrument was on fire. His first instinct was to fling it against the wall but he resisted the urge. This was his father’s guitar, the only other instrument besides a sniper’s rifle that his father, Ukufa Okunsundu, knew how to use. That had been his nickname during his time with Umkhonto weSizwe: Ukufa Okunsundu, meaning ‘brown death’.

  His father had claimed that it was Oliver Tambo himself who’d given him the name. Before Tambo became president of the ANC, he was responsible for organising the active military units of the ANC and the activities of their military arm, Umkhonto weSizwe.

  Gabriel Creed had told his son that Tambo wanted to create a myth around him to inspire South Africans and to terrify the apartheid government, just as they had done by calling Nelson Mandela ‘The Black Pimpernel’. And it had worked.

  Creed rested Gabriel Creed’s guitar against the wall and backed away from it. He paced up and down, panicked. His heartbeat was all over the place, beating for five seconds as if he’d been sprinting, then slowing to a resting rate for the next five seconds. He was light-headed. Sweat soaked his hair, and his hands shook so he clenched them into tight fists.

  His head pulsed with white noise; the monotone drone of a swarm of angry wasps in his brain, frantically searching for a way out of his cranium. ‘They need a hole, Nick,’ the voice said. ‘They need to escape, to be free. Put a bullet in your head and the noise will stop. You won’t feel a thing. There’ll be no more pain. Nothing but peace. Do it, Nick. Do it.’

  He slapped himself hard across the cheek. He needed to shut that voice up, to stop thinking. Creed rushed over to his hi-fi stereo and pressed ‘play’. As the raspy voice of the rapper Tupac screamed at him, as the solid bass slammed out of his speakers, Creed turned to Tripod, who had just limped in. Hunching over so he was eye to eye with his three-legged dog, he rapped along to the song ‘Only God Can Judge Me’.

  The small mongrel wagged his tail in response and licked Creed’s nose. The music reminded Creed of his teenage years; he expected to hear his mother’s voice imploring him to turn that rubbish softer.

  After ruffling the dog’s head, Creed pulled his laptop from its bag and powered it up. He had three unread emails. One was to inform him that he’d won the UK Lottery and must immediately claim his £76-million winnings from a Mr Peter.

  ‘Woohoo, Tripod,’ he exclaimed. ‘My lucky day!’

  He deleted the scam email. The next was from Douglas Redman, his mentor at the FBI. Nick decided not to read this email just yet. He knew what it would contain. ‘How are you doing, Nicholas? Why don’t you write more often? Rosie and I miss you. Look after yourself and please don’t do anything stupid.’ Nick decided he would respond to Red in a day or two. He flagged the email to be read later.

  The last email was from Joshua.

  To: n.creed@gmail.com

  From: joshua.creed@unit8.com

  Subject: Why does my brother not reply to my emails?

  Hey Bro, I swear that if you don’t respond to this fucking email, I’m getting on the first plane out of here to come home and thrash you like a red-haired stepchild. Why are you being so damn quiet?

  Anyway, how does your new place look? You were supposed to send me pics, but I guess they got lost in the mail, right? If Lizzie decorated the place for you anything like the way her room used to look, then I’m guessing it’s full of rainbows and unicorns. Probably suits you. LOL. Give her a hug and kiss for me when you see her.

  As for me, all I can say is ‘Jesus Christ, it’s hot here’. Why these Afghan people fight so hard over this sandbox, I have no idea. The company has assigned me to a team looking after some bigwig oil sheiks here in Kabul. Boring as sin … and as hot as hell. It’s boiling. I swear, my sweat is turning to steam right before my eyes. I shit you not. I’ll give my left testicle to be assigned to the Caribbean. Why can’t the Americans start a damn war there? There must be oil under those white beaches and blue waters. Instead, I’m in this giant litter tray.

  Rumour has it though that there could be a private assignment coming through from the States regarding a special contract for us in Africa somewhere. Hope so. Time for Africa to see the return of Ukufa Okunsundu, the best sniper in the world. But enough about me. How are you doing Bro? Cut out this silent BS and talk to me.

  Love Josh

  Nick smiled as he began to type his response.

  To: joshua.creed@unit8.com

  From: n.creed@gmail.com

  Subject: Re: Why does my brother not reply to emails?

  You’re 33 years old and you still whine like a little bitch!

  I’m good bro. Lizzie is too. I just got off the phone with her a few minutes ago. Hey, remember the day Lizzie brought Peter home for the first time? He came in all cocky and smug, until he went to the toilet and Lizzie went to help Ma in the kitchen. And you thought it would be funny if we tensioned him up a bit. I think you’d just bought that new Colt M1911, and I had my service side-arm. We laid them on the table and when he came back, we gave him that ‘You hurt our sister and we hurt you’ speech. I don’t know which I found funnier, his face, or Lizzie’s. (Or maybe Ma’s face when she smacked us with the wooden spoon for scaring the guy and making him run out). But hey, Peter proved to have bigger balls than we thought because he came back.

  And I’m not avoiding you Josh. I just have a lot on my plate right now. A lot on my mind. I don’t know what I’m doing here to be honest. I’m feeling absolutely lost. Lost and tired. But enough about that shit …

  And who is the best sniper in the world? If I remember correctly, you couldn’t hit the floor even if you fell on it. I’m tired of your trash talking. Come home and you and I will go to the range. And I’ll show you who the real top gun is. But on a serious note, don’
t you dare be a fucking hero. Keep your head down and come home safe. You owe me a beer, and don’t you think I will forget it.

  Love

  Nick

  Creed clicked ‘send’ and leaned back in his chair. His house was in complete darkness by then, apart from the soft glow of his computer screen. Church bells and bass blasted from his stereo speakers as Tupac began to sing ‘Hail Mary’. Creed rapped along about not being a killer, unless he was pushed. And about revenge being the sweetest joy, apart from getting laid.

  He turned to Tripod. ‘Well, shall we find out if that’s true?’

  Again, the dog tried to lick his face. He turned back to his laptop and typed ‘escorts Johannesburg’ into Google. He clicked on the first result he saw, a website listing Adult Entertainment. Scrolling through the list of escorts operating in his area, he found an attractive option living in the West Rand. Candy. Twenty-something with a naughty smile. He called her up and arranged a time for her to arrive.

  As he was giving her his address, his eyes flitted to the window and the quiet street outside, silent and empty apart from a car that was parked a few houses away. He rested his chin on his clenched fists, trying to decide whether he should have a joint before or after taking a shower.

  21

  Wednesday, 12 June

  A few of them still called him Father. At first, it grated Detective Luke Meyer like fingernails on a blackboard. Then it angered him when they persisted, despite his requests for them to stop. He had no idea how the information had been leaked to the SAPS members, but he wasn’t happy.

  That was a past life. He wasn’t that man any more. That man was dead.

  They called him Father because he had once been a Catholic priest.

  Detective Meyer awoke that morning at 05:30, the same time he’d woken every morning for the last fourteen years. After brushing his teeth in his small bathroom, he returned to his bedroom, wiping his mouth with a green hand towel.

  The room was large, but the lack of furniture made it appear even more spacious. A small desk was wedged in the far corner, overlooking the window and a small park. On the other side of the island of green, a new shopping mall was being built. A large yellow crane slept like a brachiosaurus, waiting to be awoken for work.

  On the desk, papers and files were neatly stacked on either side of a desktop computer. Cupboards had been built into the wall on the far side where he kept his clothes, mostly suits. His were cheap yet functional, nothing like Major Grey’s suits. That wasn’t only because the Carducci, Boss, Versace or Armani suits were out of his price range; he just couldn’t bring himself to spend such sums of money on clothing. He could look just as presentable as the major at a fraction of the price.

  The only other item in the room was his bed – a queen size. For as long as he could remember, from childhood to the seminary and into the priesthood, Meyer had only slept on a single bed. But temptation came calling via a flier from a local bed-and-mattress company advertising fifty per cent off the retail price for all queen-size beds. It took him a while to get over the guilt of buying himself something so lavish.

  To be honest, he still felt a little guilty most nights. The white walls of his bedroom were bare, save a simple, wooden cross nailed above his headboard-less bed. Pulling on the duvet, he tightly tucked each corner beneath the mattress. Then, taking the white rosary from his side table, he knelt and began to pray. He may no longer have been a priest, but he was still Catholic.

  It took him fifteen minutes to complete all five decades of the rosary. Standing, he wiped his bare knees of imaginary dust with a finger-flick before heading to the lounge. This too was sparsely furnished, with most items purchased second-hand. A plain, brown lounge suite occupied most of the room, facing the old television on a simple stand bought from a Game store in Johannesburg for a few hundred rand. Behind the lounge suite was a modest dining table with four wooden chairs. Meyer turned the television on, flicking through the channels to eNCA.

  A handsome black man was reporting from a dry, open patch of land. ‘Violence again threatens here at the Legodu Mine just outside Rustenburg. Workers are demanding a fourteen-per-cent wage increase whereas mine bosses at AfriSource are unwilling to budge from their offer of eight per cent. Last night, a security guard here at the shaft was allegedly severely beaten by mine workers, who also attempted to necklace him. The security guard was saved from this assault by police, who’ve increased their patrols in the area. No arrests have been made. Today, we’ve seen the miners return to this open piece of land, which has become the chosen spot for the strikers to assemble, carrying traditional weapons like assegais and knobkieries. The general secretary of the Mine Workers’ Solidarity Union, Vusi Oliphant, has assured us that his members won’t turn violent. However, based on what I …’

  Meyer turned away from the television. Always bad news. Always more horror. It just never stopped. He went into the kitchen and slid two slices of bread into his toaster before making a cup of rooibos tea. He buttered both slices and carried them back to the lounge, to eat at the dining table. He had taken a single bite when his phone rang from the bedroom. He hurried to answer it.

  ‘Hello, Meyer.’

  ‘Father, Tom here. Tom Mdlalose.’

  Meyer took a second to search his memory for a Tom Mdlalose. ‘Hi, Tom. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ Detective Tom Mdlalose said. ‘Too long, hey. Maybe we should meet for a beer?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ Meyer responded, knowing it would never happen. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, I have something here that you might be interested in. A body, actually.’

  Meyer strolled back into the lounge and took a sip of his tea. ‘A body?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m at the mortuary. Something weird’s happened. I’d like your opinion on the matter.’

  Meyer sighed, but not loud enough that his former colleague would hear. Tom wasn’t really a friend, but they were on a friendly basis. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Tom. Major Grey decides which cases we look into and we already have a case. I don’t …’

  ‘You still live in Fairlands?’ Tom interrupted.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Look, Father. I’m at Charlotte Maxeke Hospital in Parklands, not too far from you. All I’m asking is that you pull in here for a minute and take a look. Tell me your thoughts, you know.’ A pause. ‘For old times’ sake.’

  For old times’ sake?

  They had no ‘old times’. Meyer had worked with Mdlalose for only a few months. That had been two or three years back, when they were both stationed in Cape Town. But that was it. Still, Meyer struggled to turn down a request for help from a fellow police officer.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll get dressed and come through shortly.’

  ‘Good,’ Mdlalose responded. ‘Great. Thank you, Father.’

  Meyer stepped into the shower. This would probably be a waste of time. He was confident that he knew the real reason Tom wanted him to come over – and it wasn’t because of something strange on a corpse at the morgue. After showering, he dressed in a simple grey suit, pale-blue shirt and navy tie before hooking his hip holster, stuffed with his Heckler & Koch USP, onto his belt.

  22

  With each passing minute in traffic, Meyer regretted agreeing to see this ‘weird’ body at the morgue. But just as he had made his mind up to call Mdlalose and cancel, the frozen river of cars thawed and began to flow once more. Less than ten minutes later, he had parked and trekked through the early-morning halls of the hospital.

  Formerly known as Johannesburg General Hospital, Charlotte Maxeke Johannesburg Academic Hospital had over 1 800 beds, and, most of the time, all were occupied by the ill and injured. Meyer was thankful that he knew a short cut to the morgue, bypassing the main reception filled with the sick and concerned loved ones.

  The hospital’s lesser-known west entrance was used by ambulance and mortuary services to drop off the DOAs or corpses at the morgue �
�� no doubt to avoid traumatising the walk-in patients and hospital visitors by parading the recently deceased through the front door.

  After making his way past a skeleton-thin security guard and descending two flights of stairs, Meyer made his way through the basement passage until he came to grey double doors. He pushed open the swing doors and entered the cold, sterile room.

  He had expected to find only Tom Mdlalose waiting for him, perhaps the mortician too. Instead, the morgue was buzzing with activity. In the far corner of the long room, in front of a row of stainless-steel shelves, three plain-clothed policemen were having words with Tom Mdlalose. Behind them, cold corpses lay on tables covered with white sheets, stacked like consumer goods in a supermarket. Meyer recognised one of the policemen as being part of the Occult-Related Crimes Unit.

  They had not yet noticed him, so he stood in silence, waiting. There was movement to his left: a tall, dark-skinned man in a colourful African shirt and chinos stood against the far wall. He was exceptionally thin, yet his neck, arms and shoulders showed a sinewy strength.

  The man nodded a greeting and Meyer walked over with his hand outstretched. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Detective Meyer.’

  ‘Mgwazeni Buthelezi,’ the tall man responded in a voice deeper than the Kimberley Hole.

  ‘Are you the mortician?’

  He smiled. ‘Not at all. My apologies; I’ve never been too fond of titles. I’m Professor Buthelezi. I advise the Occult Unit on cases that they believe may have a traditional aspect to them.’

  ‘Traditional aspects?’

  ‘Muti murders, Detective. Or suspected muti-related crimes.’

  ‘I see. Is that why you’re here now? A muti murder?’

  ‘Not quite.’ He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose with a branch-like finger. ‘There was a break-in here last night, and one of the unidentified bodies was dismembered.’