Roger Smith - Mixed Blood

And the fat cop would shake his head, his fringe wet and dangling, and spit two words through his bleeding lips. “Fuck youse.”

The watchman would shove the gag back in and tape it up. Then he would wipe the blade down and start his work again, inserting the knife into the body of the fat man deep enough to cause agony but not deep enough to cause death.

“I’m going upstairs. For some air,” Burn told the watchman, who merely nodded as he inserted the blade into Barnard’s shoulder. A keening noise rose from somewhere within the cop’s chest, and tears and sweat dripped from his face. His body bulged against the ropes.

Burn headed for the kitchen, where he splashed his face and drank a long draft of water. Was this fat bastard ever going to break? The longer this continued, the more remote the likelihood that he would ever see his son alive again.

Burn stepped out onto the deck and sucked air. Even the smoky breeze, still heavy with the charred smell of the fire, was sweet after the foul atmosphere of the torture chamber that was now his garage. It was hard to believe, looking out at this scene of quiet beauty, that the world went on, untroubled by the universe of pain and corruption that he had somehow stumbled into. Then he looked beyond the city and the ocean, out to where the land was flat, covered in a haze of smog and smoke.

Burn had taken Matt on a helicopter ride before Christmas. The chopper had done the usual tourist things, gone around Table Mountain, along the coast; then it had banked over the Cape Flats on its way to land, and Burn had looked down at the endless sprawl of box houses and ghett apartment blocks dumped on the scrubland like forgotten toys in a sandpit. As he stood on the deck, he had a memory of that sprawl. He knew his son was out there somewhere.

Burn had no idea how long he stood there, the wind cooling the sweat on his body, before he heard the voice calling to him. He looked down to the street and saw a black man in a very well-cut dark suit, designer shades, staring up at him.

“Excuse me,” the man said for maybe the fifth time.

Burn stepped toward the railing of the deck. “Yes. Hi, sorry.”

“I’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind.” The man was holding something toward him.

Burn focused. It was some kind of official ID. He almost wanted to laugh. Not again. Not now.

A voice inside Burn’s head told him to open the street door, to extend his wrists in supplication toward this black cop and ask for the handcuffs. Lead him toward the garage that now doubled as a DIY torture chamber. Beg him to find his boy.

But Burn opened the door and did something with his facial muscles that resembled a smile. “Afternoon. Can I help you?”

The black man, his shaven dome gleaming in the sunlight, offered the ID document for Burn to view. “Special Investigator Zondi. Ministry of Safety and Security.”

Burn nodded, making no move to open the door any wider.

“Can I have your name, please, sir?”

“Hill. John Hill.”

“You’re American?”

“Yes, I am.” Burn made a point of looking at his watch. “I’m in kind of a hurry…”

“My apologies. Do you know anything about a red BMW that was parked next door to your house a few nights ago? Outside the building site?”

Burn shook his head. “No.”

The black cop thought for a moment before he spoke. “Was there maybe another officer here, asking questions?”

Burn was tempted to lie. But what if there was some record of Barnard having been here? He told a version of the truth. “Yeah. There was. A few days back.”

“Is that a fact? This officer, was he by any chance Inspector Barnard?”

Burn made a show of looking uncertain, playing the dumb foreigner. “These South African names kinda confuse me. He was a big guy, pretty heavy.”

“Sounds like him. He asked you about the car?”

“That’s right. Wanted to know if I had seen anybody. Heard anything. I told him what I told you.”

“Do you live here alone, Mr. Hill?”

“Well, at the moment, yes. My wife and son are away.” He was steping back. “If that’s all, I’ve got to get down to Sea Point. To the bank.”

“Just one more thing.”

The man reached into his well-cut jacket pocket and came out with a neatly folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it with his perfectly manicured fingers and held it up to Burn. “Do you know this woman?” He was showing him a printout of Susan’s mug shots, from ten years ago.

Somehow Burn managed a laugh. “Glad to say I don’t. She looks like trouble.”

The black man flashed a row of very white teeth. “Well, thank you, Mr. Hill.”

“Sure. My pleasure.”

Burn closed the door, leaned against it for a second while he tried to convince his heart not to hammer its way out of his chest.

Zondi walked back to his car, pressed the remote, and the lights flashed and the doors clicked open. He removed his jacket and folded it carefully. He slid into the car and reached back, hanging the jacket from a hook in the rear. He shut the door, started the engine, and sat with his eyes closed, the aircon at its maximum.

An American. Coincidence? There were a lot of Americans in Cape Town this time of the year, escaping blizzards and, for all he knew, the War on Terror. The man, Hill, hadn’t shown anything in his eyes when he looked at the mug shots of the American woman. He’d even cracked a joke. So either he was on the level or he was a practiced liar. And his shoes, top-of-the-line Reeboks, were those flecks of blood around the toe caps or mud from watering his garden, maybe?

Zondi led his mind to a place of stillness for a minute, feeling the aircon chilling the sweat on his body. Zondi, to his credit, knew that he was an obsessive. He knew enough Buddhism to understand that his quest for order and control was ultimately useless in the face of the cosmic joke called life.

He opened his eyes. What the hell? Maybe he should succumb to Cape Town’s charms while he killed time until his flight. The wind had died, and the sun was shining on the ocean. Why didn’t he cruise down to Camps Bay, sit at one of those sidewalk cafes, and sip something with an umbrella on top while he watched the girls go by?

Or he could take the used condom and the slug he’d dug out of the wall down to the police lab.

He started the car. The police lab won.

Burn was in the kitchen, drinking a glass of iced water from the fridge. He knew he was delaying the walk down the steps to the garage. He was scared of what he might find.

What if the watchman had taken the opportunity to kill Barnard? That aerial image of the sprawling Cape Flats came to Burn’s mind once more, and he imagined Matt lost out there, in the second day of this nightmare. He felt the boy’s terror. What if the one voice that could tell him where to find his son had been silenced?

Burn put down the glass and walked across to the stairs.

When he emerged in the garage below, he paused, tking in the scene before him. Barnard was motionless, slumped forward, prevented from falling by the ropes that tied him to the chair. His many chins were compressed down onto his bloody chest, and his hair hung over his eyes, wet with sweat and blood. His naked torso was cross-hatched with cuts, some fresh and bleeding freely, others fringed by darker blood already coagulating.

He’s dead, thought Burn. He has to be.

The watchman squatted in front of the fat cop, lighting a cigarette. He didn’t look up at Burn. He inhaled deeply and blew out a plume of smoke toward the ceiling; then he leaned forward and gently, almost delicately, placed the cigarette between Barnard’s lips. For a while it dangled there; then Burn saw the end glow as Barnard inhaled. He was alive.