Max Annas - The Wall

“It’s the whites’ fault.”

“But who are the whites?”

“The whites… are the whites!”

“And now everyone’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“Who’s dead?”

“Bezuidenhout.”

“The Warrant Officer?”

“Yes.”

“He’s white.”

“Dead.” Who else?”

“Baker. Constable Baker.”

“Dead?” Dead.”

“Who killed her?”

“The whites.”

“But Bezuidenhout is also white.”

“Yes.”

“And who killed him?”

“The dog handler.”

“Inspector Dlomo?”

“Yes.”

“And where is he?”

“Dead.”

“And who killed him?”

“The whites.”

“Police,” Nozipho said. “It’s the police.” She pointed down the wall at a group of people.

“Shit!” Thembinkosi said. “We need to disappear in the other direction.”

“They’ve already seen us.”

A young woman in uniform waved at them. “Over here.”

They slowly turned toward the officer behind whom the others were gathered.

“Okay. Better than being shot to pieces in the wardrobe,” Thembinkosi said.

“We weren’t shot to pieces.”

“We almost were.”

“Now we’ll just do what we’d planned all along.”

“Didn’t you get a phone call?” the officer asked once they reached her.

In a cul de sac that ended at the wall, several garbage collectors were standing around, their large truck parked a short distance behind them. As well as a mail carrier, a heavyset woman in a green smock, two boys in overalls, and a couple of people in civilian clothing. The stench of rotting garbage stood over the scene like a tent.

“Must’ve missed it,” Thembinkosi said. “Why?”

“This entire area back there is under lockdown. We’re searching for a tsotsi,” she said. “A dangerous tsotsi.”

“We heard the shooting.” Nozipho.

“Wild.” Thembinkosi.

“Yes, everyone’s heard about it.” The officer.

“Did you win?” Thembinkosi.

“Don’t they always?” Nozipho tugged at her dress and tried to smile at the officer. She was hiding the tear in the fabric with her purse.

“I think so.” The officer. “But I haven’t heard anything. You’ll need to wait here for a while, until I get further orders.”

“You pig!” the white man shrieked as he punched him.

Moses tried to protect himself. But the guy was kneeling on one of his arms, so he only had one available to fend off the blows. An open hand now slapped him across the face. That hurt.

He’s not heavy or all that strong , Moses thought. But he had taken Moses by surprise and overcome him. Just go slack , he told himself, just for a second .

The other man noticed the relaxation and interpreted it as capitulation. He started to grin, and slapped him once more, hard. Moses then tightened his muscles and jerked his knee up between the white man’s legs, who instantaneously shriveled up like a spider. Bullseye , Moses thought. He pushed the guy off and tried to stand up. But the other man had clenched his fingers around his t-shirt. He still wouldn’t let go, even when the fabric began to tear.

Moses made a fist and punched the man in the head. The blow seemed to have an effect. The man rolled a little further to the side. The t-shirt continued to rip. Moses pried the man’s fingers apart and stood up. A knockout. The other man wasn’t moving anymore. Moses caught sight of a cigarette packet in his shirt pocket, and he pulled it out.

As he was about to dash off, he recalled the pistol. There was no way he was going to get shot in the back like his double. Leaned down, rolled the white man on his other side, patted him down. The gun was stuck into the back of his pants.

He pulled his arm back to throw it over the wall, but then he paused. If they found it with his fingerprints on it, things could take a horrible turn. That … he thought… would be worse than all the nightmare things that had already happened today . He stuffed the thing into his own pants. He then looked at the cigarettes in his other hand and thought: One drag, just one drag .

He kicked the white man in the side. Then once more.

The four garbage workers were standing in a group, talking. The mail carrier was hanging around close to them. Maybe they had just been chatting. The rest were gathered in a separate, silent group. They were studying the newcomers. The officer was standing off by herself, her head cocked to the side as if she wanted to talk into the mic dangling off her collar.

Nozipho walked up to the trash workers. Thembinkosi could tell how uncomfortable she felt in her torn dress. It had some stains by this point, too. She was still pressing the purse against her side to cover the tear.

“Hi,” she said.

The garbage workers still seemed a little watchful, distrustful. They saw an attractive woman from a class to which they could never belong, not the grime on her dress.

“Hi,” she repeated. “What’s actually going on here?” All four of them started talking at once.

“…tsotsi… shameless… break-in… young guy… rape jewelry and cash… whole army…” Etcetera.

The workers shared what they knew. And it was evident that they respected the boy. They all knew someone who made a living from not-quite-legal activities. And they had all heard the shootout. The boy was dead, and he had died a hero’s death. The newspapers would publish something about him tomorrow. Thembinkosi hoped he’d never be in the newspaper. What a nightmare!

Nozipho came right back. “Funny,” she said.

“Yes, what a coincidence.”

“Which coincidence?”

“That with the boy,” Thembinkosi’s voice grew very quiet. “I saw him running. Had to happen at some point—competition that would be on the move the same time we were. And in such a large gated community like this one!”

“Nonsense.” Nozipho’s voice was barely audible. She pressed close against Thembinkosi.

“What do you mean, nonsense?”

“Didn’t you hear? The jewelry? That was us.”

“Us?”

“Us. They were hunting the boy because of us.”

“And the rape?”

“No idea. But they’ll soon see that he doesn’t have the jewelry. Then they’ll wonder where it could be. We have to get out.”

“Of course, we have to get out.”

“Thembi, not just whenever. Now!”

Moses extracted the matchbook and then a cigarette from the packet. One drag. Chesterfield wasn’t his favorite, but that didn’t matter. The one drag would help. He looked down at the white man who hadn’t moved. He felt like kicking him in the face.

Cigarette between his lips. Tear off a match. Slowly scrape it across the stripe. Watch the flame ignite. Hold up to the cigarette. Inhale. Into his lungs.

Whoa!

Hold his breath. Another second, then another. Savor it. He loved the initial feeling of dizziness that descended when you hadn’t lit up in a while.

The flame had reached his fingers. Moses began to cough and dropped the match. One more cough. He had to keep going. He also dropped the cigarette, stepped on it, and set off.

He still had a long way to go.

He started to run. Gained speed and felt a need to take one last look at the crazy white man. Not that there was any way he could be following him. Stopped. Turned back.

The white man actually was struggling to climb over a wall, sluggishly but determinedly.

And where he had dropped the match and the cigarette, the dry lawn had started to smolder. Moses saw the smoke and the disconcerting flicker of a small flame.