Lauren Beukes - Zoo City

The glass doors leading into the house open and the Maltese emerges carrying two martini glasses, his little Dog at his heels. The Dog snarls and the Maltese pulls a face. "Ah," he says. "I'm afraid I didn't know you were here. Otherwise I would have made extra."

"What happened to the no-interference policy?" I ask. Benoît is tense beside me, muscles bunched for action. I put a hand on his arm.

"That's only for the victims," says the Maltese, as he sets down the glasses and sits down beside Carmen, stroking her leg. "It's like bottled water: best from a pure source."

"What is wrong with her?" Benoît says, barely restraining himself. He is holding the baton so tight that the strain is making his arm shake.

"She did it to herself, mkwerekwere . She's on a very potent dissociative drug."

"Midazolam?"

"Mixed with a bit of ketamine and the house special – to keep her awake. We've been playing. Show them, Carmen."

"Again?" she whines.

"Again, baby." He caresses the side of her belly through the robe. "I think you missed a spot over here."

She sighs sulkily, picks up the flick knife from the table and simply jabs it into her side. She pulls it out again and looks down at the bloodied tip of the knife with interest, but no indication of feeling. The blood starts to well up.

"Not so terrible, hey?" the Maltese says.

"Good evening Pasadena," she agrees.

"What about here?" he circles the skin above her kneecap.

"Enough," Benoît says.

"We're only getting started. Have you met Carmen's Bunny?" He reaches underneath the lounger and hauls up the trembling Rabbit by its ears. It closes its eyes in terror, nose twitching frantically. "We all thought Carmen was going to be the next Slinger, our animalled breakthrough artist. Better than erotic dancing. Although it turns out Slinger wasn't really Slinger himself, if you know what I mean. This is your fault, you know. Odi and Carmen were so happy together until you got her all riled up with your crazy accusations. As if he would have risked tainting little Song. It was bad enough that idiot Jabulani was fucking her."

"Where are Song and Sbu?" I say.

"Sailing away, sailing away, sailing away," Carmen

sings.

He ignores the question. "Did you like the present I left you? It's a very distinctive knife, you know. Leaves very distinctive wounds."

"Were you going to implicate me in the fire at Mayfields too?"

"You should be ashamed." He grins. "Three teenagers died in that fire. After you stabbed them to death, you sick psycho."

"I only counted two," I keep my voice carefully level.

"Don't worry, they'll find the other one when they eventually get inside. Burned to a crisp. Unidentifiable."

"But they're not Song and S'bu, are they?"

"Don't they wish! Couple of unlucky street kids who match the general physical description. Collateral damage, can't be helped. We picked them up this afternoon. Made them feel special for a couple of hours. Let them play Xbox, fed them McDonald's, doused them in petrol. Same kind as in the half-empty container under your sink. Did you find that already? Or just the knife?"

"No one's going to believe this."

"Won't they? A psychotic junkie zoo bitch who killed her brother? Who was so celebrity-obsessed she pretended to be from a bigshot music magazine so she could get close to the twins? Whose fingerprints were all over poor Mrs Luditsky's apartment, who took her little china cat home with her as some kind of trophy? Are you kidding me? Better start working on your soundbites. The media are going to love you."

My head is spinning. I lean on the table, trying to fight back the wave of nausea.

"In fact, what are you even doing here?" Mark swirls his martini. Takes a sip. "Shouldn't you be on the run?"

"Where are they?" Benoît says.

"The real twins? Oh they're downstairs, sweetie, getting ready. They might have started already."

At the prompt "start", Carmen replaces her sunglasses and punches the knife into the flesh above her knee with cool reserve. It sticks there, trembling slightly as the muscle moves to accommodate her leaning back to take a sip of her martini.

Benoît can't stand it any more. He moves to pluck the knife out, but the Maltese is faster. He yanks it away and this time Carmen does flinch.

"You want to play too?" he says, tapping the flat of the blade against his cheek. "I have to tell you, this is my favourite game."

"Where downstairs? In the house?" I say, because there are more important things to worry about right now than Carmen, than being set up for quadruple homicide.

"I should really be getting down there. They need me."

"To cut someone up?"

"Oh sweetie, I'm just the magic battery to make the ritual even more potent. Or didn't you notice that your shavi is brighter whenever I'm around?"

"The invisible demon."

"Team effort," he agrees. "Amira's obfuscation is painfully obvious without me. Although we like to do the carving together. But we're wasting time. There are children to be sacrificed, getaways to make. Come on, kwerekwere ," the Maltese says, brandishing the knife. "You look like you've seen a dogfight or two."

Mark lunges for Benoît at the same time as the snarling Mutt goes for the Mongoose. Yipping hysterically, the Dog rolls the Mongoose onto his back, biting at his belly, his face. Blood smears across its muzzle. The Mongoose writhes and kicks, teeth bared in pain, but he doesn't make a sound.

Another knife appears in Mark's left hand from a hidden sheath and, as Benoît smashes him across the ribcage with his baton, Mark manages to slice at his face, the blade glancing off his jaw and up his cheek.

"Carmen," I shake her. "Is there a gun in the house?"

But she shakes her head violently from side to side like she's having a seizure. "No-no-no-no-no-no."

I let go, and she pulls up her knees, clutching her Rabbit to her chest like a kid with a stuffed animal, and takes a sip from her drink, glaring at me as if I'm intending to take it away.

Sloth is making agitated little squeaks.

"I'm working on it!" I snap.

The Mongoose pulls up his back legs and kicks the Dog, contorting like a koeksister to scramble on top of it. They tumble over each other, but the Mongoose has the advantage. He's used to killing snakes and this is just a ratty little Dog. He has the Mutt pinned by the throat and squealing.

The humans are more evenly matched. Benoît and Mark are circling each other warily. Benoît jabs the baton into Mark's sternum with all his weight, keeping him out of reach. Mark staggers back, as if winded, but it's a ploy. As Benoît moves towards him, he ducks under the baton, stabs him in the side, and darts out of reach again. And then I smash one of the lacy ironwork chairs over the back of his skull.

It does less damage than I'd hoped. I was hoping for out cold, but instead he stumbles, drops one of his knives to clutch at the back of his head and turns on me, furious.

"You little cunt. I'll come back to you." But when he turns back, it's straight into the baton that slams into the side of his head hard enough to knock him off his feet.

Carmen gives a little shriek of delight. "I can feel it coming in the air. Tonight," she says, matter-of-factly.

Mark starts to get up and Benoît hits him across the back of his knees. He collapses across the end of the lounger. I spring forward, push my knee into his back and yell at Benoît. He breaks out cable ties, standard issue with Sentinel rather than handcuffs, and we work together to bind the Maltese's wrists and ankles and then cable-tie both to the heavy ironwork table. The Dog snarls and snaps at my fingers, but Benoît pins it down with the baton on its neck and I close a cable tie over its muzzle and chain it by the collar to one of the chairs.