Shuffled off the mortal bloody coil. Muerto . Fucking get used to it.”
When he doesn’t look at her and stays closemouthed he hears her breath—a hiss of frustration—and waits for the torrent of rage, his shoulder muscles tensing, his hand gripping the mouse. But the door slides open and shuts with a muffled kiss and he’s alone.
Exley nudges the spacebar again, setting free all that is left of Sunny, her little proxy dancing and twirling on the twin screens of his glasses.
Chapter 11
A gale attacks the Cape Flats as Vernon drives deep into Paradise Park, steering the Civic through the mustard-colored dust. He’s really fucken freaking out now, gripping the wheel of the car. The past overwhelms him and voices scream in his head and his nerves are stretched tight as garrottes, ripping into him from the inside. The way he lost it with Boogie was a signal that bad shit was coming down.
Vernon doesn’t regret killing the little fucker, but he doesn’t like to lose control. Ever.
The wind smashes the cramped houses and ghetto blocks, getting the roofs of the shacks banging like a steel band. Pedestrians stagger, leaning into the blast, clothes billowing as they battle their way to buses and taxis.
A bottle of brandy lies wrapped in plastic on the seat at Vernon’s side. Not for him. He needs stronger medicine.
He catches the stink of the landfill as he parks outside a box house that backs onto the dump. The house stands alone, beside a mound of rubble that’s all that remains of its Siamese twin. The landfill looms behind, the wind sending trash into the air in a toxic rain.
Vernon grabs the bottle and fights the car door open, takes sand in both eyes, blinded like he’s been maced. Blinking away tears, he walks over a scrap of dead grass to a scuffed door and bangs, hearing the inevitable mutter of cricket on TV from inside.
The door cracks an inch and an eye wet as an egg peers out. Opens wider, revealing a small, flabby man in his sixties, with a bald head and skin the color of piss. He sighs out brandy breath and steps back.
“Detective,” the once-upon-a-time doctor says.
“Doc,” the ex-cop replies.
Vernon closes the door, nostrils already rebelling at the stench. He’s used to squalor, but this place is something else. Looks as if the dump behind has flowed in through the back door and flooded the house. An unswept floor covered by a filthy carpet. A couch and two chairs, smeared with dirt. Empty bottles, junk-food wrappers, newspapers and unwashed dishes litter every surface. Where other people have three flying ducks on the wall, Doc has a stitching of high-caliber bullet holes. One window is taped up, wind whistling through the cracks in the glass. Evidence of the gang war Doc found himself in the middle of a while back.
Rising over the filth is a TV the size of a billboard. Doc’s eyes are glued to the screen: men in cricket whites against a lush green outfield, Table Mountain in the background.
Vernon holds out the bag, plastic shaping itself to the bottle inside.
“Here. Brought you something.”
Doc grabs at it with a hand so palsied it looks like he’s busy with an invisible cocktail shaker. He doesn’t worry with taking the bottle out of the bag, just unscrews the cap and hits the brandy hard. The old abortionist lowers the bottle, closes his eyes and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
A doctor once, a broken alkie now, locked away for years in Pollsmoor Prison after too many of his patients died. Earns his living dealing in guns, sewing up gangbangers, and chopping body parts supplied to him by cops from the police morgue, selling the bits off to the darkies for witchcraft. Selling bits of information, also, to cops and gangsters alike.
When the booze has worked its magic, Doc coughs, wipes slime from his lips and stares up at Vernon. “What you want, Detective?”
“Can’t sleep, Doc. Going up the flipping wall. I need a
When he doesn’t look at her and stays closemouthed he hears her breath—a hiss of frustration—and waits for the torrent of rage, his shoulder muscles tensing, his hand gripping the mouse. But the door slides open and shuts with a muffled kiss and he’s alone.
Exley nudges the spacebar again, setting free all that is left of Sunny, her little proxy dancing and twirling on the twin screens of his glasses.
Chapter 11
A gale attacks the Cape Flats as Vernon drives deep into Paradise Park, steering the Civic through the mustard-colored dust. He’s really fucken freaking out now, gripping the wheel of the car. The past overwhelms him and voices scream in his head and his nerves are stretched tight as garrottes, ripping into him from the inside. The way he lost it with Boogie was a signal that bad shit was coming down.
Vernon doesn’t regret killing the little fucker, but he doesn’t like to lose control. Ever.
The wind smashes the cramped houses and ghetto blocks, getting the roofs of the shacks banging like a steel band. Pedestrians stagger, leaning into the blast, clothes billowing as they battle their way to buses and taxis.
A bottle of brandy lies wrapped in plastic on the seat at Vernon’s side. Not for him. He needs stronger medicine.
He catches the stink of the landfill as he parks outside a box house that backs onto the dump. The house stands alone, beside a mound of rubble that’s all that remains of its Siamese twin. The landfill looms behind, the wind sending trash into the air in a toxic rain.
Vernon grabs the bottle and fights the car door open, takes sand in both eyes, blinded like he’s been maced. Blinking away tears, he walks over a scrap of dead grass to a scuffed door and bangs, hearing the inevitable mutter of cricket on TV from inside.
The door cracks an inch and an eye wet as an egg peers out. Opens wider, revealing a small, flabby man in his sixties, with a bald head and skin the color of piss. He sighs out brandy breath and steps back.
“Detective,” the once-upon-a-time doctor says.
“Doc,” the ex-cop replies.
Vernon closes the door, nostrils already rebelling at the stench. He’s used to squalor, but this place is something else. Looks as if the dump behind has flowed in through the back door and flooded the house. An unswept floor covered by a filthy carpet. A couch and two chairs, smeared with dirt. Empty bottles, junk-food wrappers, newspapers and unwashed dishes litter every surface. Where other people have three flying ducks on the wall, Doc has a stitching of high-caliber bullet holes. One window is taped up, wind whistling through the cracks in the glass. Evidence of the gang war Doc found himself in the middle of a while back.
Rising over the filth is a TV the size of a billboard. Doc’s eyes are glued to the screen: men in cricket whites against a lush green outfield, Table Mountain in the background.
Vernon holds out the bag, plastic shaping itself to the bottle inside.
“Here. Brought you something.”
Doc grabs at it with a hand so palsied it looks like he’s busy with an invisible cocktail shaker. He doesn’t worry with taking the bottle out of the bag, just unscrews the cap and hits the brandy hard. The old abortionist lowers the bottle, closes his eyes and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
A doctor once, a broken alkie now, locked away for years in Pollsmoor Prison after too many of his patients died. Earns his living dealing in guns, sewing up gangbangers, and chopping body parts supplied to him by cops from the police morgue, selling the bits off to the darkies for witchcraft. Selling bits of information, also, to cops and gangsters alike.
When the booze has worked its magic, Doc coughs, wipes slime from his lips and stares up at Vernon. “What you want, Detective?”
“Can’t sleep, Doc. Going up the flipping wall. I need a
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