Ingrid Winterbach - It Might Get Loud

Oh, go take a flying fuck, he wants to tell the guy, but if he were to do so, Josias might chuck Iggy out onto the street. Chances are good, now that Karl has seen for himself how screwed-up Iggy’s head is. So he has to swallow his irritation and explain apologetically that it’s circumstances beyond his control, that he himself is on tenterhooks to get away from here (sure), but that he can’t do a thing until his car’s been fixed (the man needn’t know the real reason). His plan is to leave very early the next morning. He appreciates everything Josias is doing for Iggy (of the suspicion that Josias just might be the prime suspect, the iniquitous Headman of whom Iggy wrote, he can’t entirely rid himself). He’s coming as soon as he can. If only they could put up with Iggy for another day or so.

The man delivers a parting exhortation, but that’s tough shit. Goodbye and thank you, says Karl firmly, till tomorrow.

Just after three he sets out, looking for the cemetery. So it’s obviously not Josias who’s wanting to meet him here. And it’s unlikely to be the Joachim-guy with further information regarding the Sheddim or the bottomless abyss. He would so much rather now have gone for a walk on the low koppie with Elzette. Perhaps she could have won him over to an appreciation of nature in a way that Juliana never could. (Too impatient with his shortcomings and obstinacies.) He would so much rather be in any situation other than the one he actually is in. Most of all he’d like to be sitting at ease with Hendrik in his flat with a beer, listening to Accept’s new album, Blood of the Nations . Or to the kick-ass fantastic new Armored Saint album, La Raza . Without a care (other than the usual) in the world. In the knowledge — the certainty — that Iggy is okay somewhere, wherever he may in fact be.

He drives up and down in the town, searching for the cemetery. Wide, quiet streets. He finds it at last, and when he’s almost reached the main entrance, a number suddenly pops up in his head. Not a good number. A really shit number, to be precise. He has no idea what triggered it. He must turn back now ; he can’t meet the person. Tough luck if he misses out on important information. It’s useless trying to resist the number. Reasoning won’t do the trick. If things carry on like this, he’s not taking any bets on his departure tomorrow.

As he slowly drives away from the main entrance, he sees someone gesticulating wildly in his rear-view mirror. A man coming running with flailing arms. Karl stops. He winds down his window all the way. The man (young) leans in at the window (mistake), he’s wearing dark glasses and a black leather jacket (in this heat), and he’s enveloped in a miasma of beer, cigarette smoke and onions (not a pleasant combination; Karl recoils from it). Get out, says the man in a low voice, and presses the cold muzzle of a gun against Karl’s neck. Karl sits indecisively for a moment. Holy fuck, what now? Accelerate and try to get away? But the man has already opened the car door, grabbed Karl by the arm and is trying to half-drag him from the car, the weapon still against his neck. Guy must be an old hand, everything’s happening so fast. The guy grabs the car keys, jabs the muzzle of the gun into Karl’s back, and shoves him in the direction of the main entrance. He was a fool to let himself be caught like this.

A short distance into the cemetery, behind a big bitch of a stone angel, two other guys are waiting. Nobody else here as far as Karl can see. The first guy pushes him with the gun, so violently that he sprawls with his back against the cold body of the angel. Words of Led Zeppelin flash through his mind: ‘If my wings should fail me, Lord,/Please meet me with another pair.’ Did you bring the stuff? he asks. What stuff? asks Karl. Don’t play dumb, man, says Leather Jacket. Listen, says Karl, you’ve got the wrong person. We’ve got a misunderstanding here. You’re not looking for me. I came here because I thought you had information regarding Ignatius — my brother, Ignatius. Who the fuck is Ignatius? asks one of the other men (a fat guy with a little Cupid’s bow of a mouth). Ignatius is my brother, says Karl, he lives in Cape Town. I’m on my way there. Stop spinning us shit, says Leather Jacket, where’s the goods? Karl wants to laugh and he wants to cry. It’s fucking terrible and it’s ludicrous. He’s not scared. But his heart is beating in his mouth, and he has a prickling sensation in his lower gut. Is there no end to the obstacles? The three guys look like a third-rate local band: dark glasses and leather jackets and designer fuzz and a fuck-load of attitude. And all three are lily-white and Cupie-Lips is wearing the ugliest pair of sneakers ever made and a ridiculous little white straw hat — what’s his case? The first guy prods him violently in the ribs with the gun. Come on, he says, hand it over, the goods. I’ve got nothing, says Karl. You’re lying big-time, says Dark Glasses. Leather Jacket lowers his gun and takes out his cell phone. The moment he raises it to his ear and looks the other way, Karl takes to his heels and clears out.

He hears shots. He half-stumbles but keeps making tracks, out of the main entrance, across the street, over a low garden wall, and belly-flops in a flower bed. Orange and red cannas. Maroon leaves, dark red and green veins against the light. There were always snails in cannas, he remembers.

It’s dead still. He lies listening for footsteps, cars. Apparently nobody’s following him. He’s lying with his cheek pressed to the chilly clods of the dug-over flower bed. His leg feels warm. Only then does he notice that he’s bleeding. Incredulously he realises he’s been shot. The cunt has potted him!

*

He must have blacked out for a few moments, because all of a sudden he’s once again aware of the clods under his cheek, and the flamboyant cannas, and a sensation as if someone’s hammering a nail into his leg, that’s how painful it is, and he must have shed a few tears, because he tastes moisture on his upper lip (salty) and minutes later the startled face of a woman bends over him and she says: Ag shame, my boy, now who’s gone and hurt you like that?

The old couple help him into the house, give him strong tea with plenty of sugar, and the man takes him to hospital. Fortunately only a flesh wound, though deep, and a few stitches and a tetanus shot, and his pants a goner. He must buy a new pair of jeans (normally he avoids Mr Price like the plague), have a new key cut for his car (which thank God for small mercies was left just like that). What was he thinking — that everything’s hunky-dory in this bloody town? And the words of Led Zeppelin keep milling over in his mind: ‘Jesus, gonna make up my dyin’ bed/ Meet me, Jesus, meet me in the middle of the air.’

He sends Hendrik a text message:

Some prick potted me in the cemetery. Flesh wound. This trip’s no picnic.

*

During the day Ignatius Hofmeyr no longer ventures out. He stays in his room. He lies on his bed in the semi-dusk. The coolness is merciful and he is safe here. Out there the light is too glaring and the honking of the geese (depraved souls that know they will not inherit the kingdom), the taunting sounds of the birds in the trees (the souls of the damned), the foul grunting of the swine (souls lapsed into disgrace) still threaten to demoralise him. He prefers to stay in his room because it is crucial that his attention not be distracted by torment and slander. He must not allow himself to be provoked. Especially not by the Headman. While awaiting the transformation, he must not be derailed by those who for so long — for months — have tried to bring about his downfall. And even though the conspiracy against him is coming to a head in these days, he must not allow himself to be put off his stride by that knowledge. God is on his side and God will help him to vanquish his enemies. This is the end of his long, drawn-out and indescribable agony.