James McCure - The Steam Pig

“She was a bitch, a whoring filthy bitch who thought she had a right to get out of this sodding country and leave us.”

“You and your mum?”

“Yes. Oh, she’d be okay anywhere with her bloody music and junk. That’s all she cared about.”

“But it seems you were helping her, sonny. Were you her ponce?”

Lenny laughed.

“I was her ponce all right. Knew Jackson wanted a dolly for the township job and lined her up. I never said who she was, mind.”

“But how did you find her in the first place?”

“She found me, man. Contacted me through an old schoolmate-”

Lenny paused.

“Durban High?” Kramer asked softly.

“Never you bloody mind. Anyway, she said she wanted my help to get a passport.”

“A forged one?”

“Natch-only I didn’t tell her that was out of my class.”

“And that’s why she did it? Not just for the money?”

“Ja, lay there on her back thinking of Merrie stuffing England.”

Whatever the Race Board said, Lenny didn’t talk like a Coloured, or think like one, either.

“The contact lenses were for the passport then?”

“Some bull I slung her to keep her happy. Make it more authentic.”

“Why kill her though? Jackson must have been pretty pleased with the set-up. And with you.”

“I’ll say.”

Then Lenny stiffened.

“The bastard’s just taken something out of his pocket,” he whispered.

“Boss!” Zondi said urgently.

“No, man, not now. I want to hear-”

“But boss…”

“He hasn’t started walking yet,” Lenny said, keeping his voice very low. “It went wrong you see. I got a big kick out of what those creepy council freaks did to her for their ten Rand and then, when it was all over, I checked in at Barnato Street one night when we had them, and said no-go on the passport. Hell, that bloody backfired, all right. She did her nut-weeping and yelling and saying she’d go straight round and tell you buggers all about it and take us all inside with her. I started to make promises, I promised a passport for Sunday night-then I fixed up with the spoke. I had to do something. Christ, I had to!”

“But I thought this was all Jackson’s idea? A bonus for the contracts was having her knocked off?”

“Huh! That’s a joke. Who said this?”

“Trenshaw.”

“No, man, that was Jackson trying to keep them happy. Got the bloody shock of his life when he saw it in the paper that she had died. He planned to have her around for years to pressure them. And then when he saw the article, he really went mad. He sussed it was something to do with me, me being the contact, and sent his boys down to Durban. They gave me the business but I saved it up for the end. I told him she was my sister.”

“But he’d have known that already from the papers he showed the councillors.”

“Passports I can’t fix-those things I can. They had Le Roux on them.”

“So Jackson didn’t see you doing your own sister?”

“He said he couldn’t, but he wasn’t sure. He told me to stick around, sent me to this place. I had to or it would have been suspicious. Something must have happened for him to twig.”

“I told you: we got Trenshaw-and the others.”

But Lenny was not really listening any longer. He was taking aim through the window “

Lenny, is Jackson the big shot in all this?” Kramer asked softly.

There was an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

“Then who is the bloody Steam Pig?”

Too late-Lenny’s finger was already tightening in the steady squeeze he had been taught as a cadet on Durban High’s rifle range.

Any second…

So Kramer let go of the plastic knob which allowed the side of the toaster to drop and make contact with the stainless steel sink unit.

The spark was unexpectedly small. But the effect of the 220-volt charge on Lenny was as anticipated; he gasped mightily, his body arched back, and his fingers-thank God-stiffened out nice and straight. For an instant longer the current passed down the flex to the toaster perched on its little insulated feet, through the crude connection improvised on the hinged side flap, out along the draining-board, and up through the highly conductive wet trouser seat. Then the kitchen’s fuse blew in a box over near the dining-hall door.

Kramer heard the pop and abandoned caution as he scrambled to catch Lenny before he could topple into a pile of dishes. He just made it.

A moment later Zondi was at his side. Together they gently lowered Lenny’s upper half sideways so that his head dipped beneath the washing-up water and his curious little sounds became innocuous bubbling.

That done, they looked out of the window.

It was rather shocking to see Jackson carrying on out there in the yard as if nothing had happened. He had his back turned and was stooping to examine the tsotsi. But they would get to see his face soon enough.

Kramer and Zondi spun and started for the outside door, going up on their toes ready to sprint round and make the most of an attack from the rear.

Then it happened. Lenny died. And his own body current was discharged totally, blowing his mind and causing a sinew-snapping spasm that put a bullet into Mrs Beeton.

The shot did not echo but everyone seemed to listen to it for a very long time.

At least that was how it seemed until the door to the dining-room crashed open. Ensign Roberts, who had the advantage of having the light coming from behind him, took one glance at the slumped form on the sink. The fight was spectacular.

But Jackson did not stay to watch.

Kramer’s right elbow hurt like hell, worse than his groin. He flinched.

“So you think this is bad?” Strydom murmured, removing another fragment of spectacle lens.

Kramer made no reply. He had said nothing about his injuries except to use them as an excuse to get him into the hospital without attracting undue attention. It was just that the District Surgeon always made a point of cheering up his patients by comparing their sufferings favourably with those of others.

“Christ, you should take a look at Ensign Roberts in D Ward,” he said. “He’s got a right eye like a squashed guava.”

“Stupid bastard.”

“ Ach no, Lieutenant, that’s not the attitude. He was trying to help. He thought-”

“We’ll never bloody get Jackson now.”

“The Colonel seems to think different.”

“He would. Him and Van Niekerk dancing round at HQ, organising their ruddy roadblocks and slapping each other’s bum. They haven’t a hope.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t know what he looks like.”

“What about his car?”

“Moosa chucked a brick through the back window-he’ll have it changed anyway.”

“Who?”

“Just a churra we know.”

“Pity it wasn’t the windscreen. But that’s coolies for you-no guts.”

“Uhuh.”

“Anyhow, you should have no worries. You got the brother-and a few others besides, I hear.”

“Oh yes?”

“No, I’m not trying to get anything out of you. The Colonel said it was hush-hush but he was very pleased.”

“Big deal. He won’t have a scrap of evidence when that little lot he’s questioning see their lawyers and lose their memories.”

“Look, what more can you do?”

“Get the bastards behind it.”

“Oh, so there’s not just Jackson?”

The sister in charge of the casualty department came over and cleared her throat in A minor.

“Excuse me, Doctor,” she said, “but there’s a boy outside who wants to see this patient.”

“Zondi?” Kramer asked.

“He says he’s from the CID.”

“Fine, send him in, Sister. I’m almost finished.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”