shot.”
“It’s that wind. It unhinges a man.”
“Ja, must be the wind.”
“You wait here.” Doc leaves, taking the brandy with him.
Vernon hasn’t crashed in two days and exhaustion sucks his bones deep into one of Doc’s greasy armchairs, making him oblivious to the stink of the dump incoming on the draft through the bullet-starred window.
Vernon tries to keep his eyes on the cricket, but they find the filthy carpet and the bloodstain shaped like Africa. His blood. And he’s spinning back to that day, a year ago, when bystanders looked on while he was shot, nobody doing nothing to stop his life pumping out into the gutter while the gunmen disappeared onto the Flats.
Vernon, still chewing his lunch of KFC and fries, was ambushed as he walked to his cop car parked outside a Paradise Park strip mall, gunmen firing at him from the rear of a Benz that was later found abandoned near the airport. Vernon didn’t see the hitmen, but he knew who they worked for: a gang that was pissed off buying protection from him. Said he was getting greedy. Fucken pay up, he said.
Then the ambush.
Vernon felt the bullets like body blows, taking two more in the left leg that dropped him to the gutter behind his car and probably saved his life. He looked up at the people around him: a mother dragging her big-eyed kid away, three old ladies clucking like hens, a couple of street sluts laughing tik laughs. Knew none of them would lift a finger to help this plainclothes cop who wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity.
He dragged himself along the gutter, reached up and grabbed the handle of the car door, locking his fingers on the metal, pulling himself to his knees, felt blood running hot and sticky under his clothes. He opened the door and hauled himself into the driver’s seat.
He cranked the car. Fucker coughed like a dog. Cranked it again and this time the engine took. His left leg was useless, shoe filled with blood, so he didn’t worry with the clutch, just jammed the lever into first, gearbox stripping cogs, and hit the accelerator, taking the rear bumper off a Toyota as he lurched out of the parking bay and drove foot-flat here to Doc’s, hand on the horn to scatter the taxis and the street trash, the world fading and curling up at the edges like an old photograph.
When Vernon reached Doc’s house he hit the curb and passed out, slumped over the steering wheel, his bloody chest sounding the horn.
That got the old boozer away from his TV, and somehow Doc dragged Vernon—in seizure by then—into the house.
Vernon drifted back to consciousness lying on the carpet, as Doc ripped away his shirt, entry wounds like ripe raspberries on his barrel chest, the drunk lurching off to fetch his bag on the kitchen table—an old leather satchel filled with the tools of Doc’s one-time trade. Doc stilled his fingers long enough to find a bandage, brown with age, and hold it against the most severe wound, Vernon’s life leaking out round the edges.
Vernon heard the scream of the ambulance and the medics came in and set up an IV line and worked at stabilizing him. Blood loss smacked Vernon back into blackness as white men in cricket togs celebrated the loss of a wicket on the big screen in the background.
He woke in hospital two days later, on a respirator, tubes draining fluid from his one collapsed lung and a catheter draining piss from his dick. He’d survived. His leg was fucked, though, and his superiors used it as an opportunity to offer him a disability pension. Made it clear that if he resisted there would be an investigation that wouldn’t go well for him. So Vernon took the golden handshake and limped off into his future as a rent-a-cop.
Doc’s back in the room now, carrying a hypodermic and a little bottle of thick, clear liquid. The anesthetic he used on the women he aborted. He draws the liquid into the syringe, his eyes back on the TV, watches a red ball sail out of the ground, into the crowd, the commentator yelling
“It’s that wind. It unhinges a man.”
“Ja, must be the wind.”
“You wait here.” Doc leaves, taking the brandy with him.
Vernon hasn’t crashed in two days and exhaustion sucks his bones deep into one of Doc’s greasy armchairs, making him oblivious to the stink of the dump incoming on the draft through the bullet-starred window.
Vernon tries to keep his eyes on the cricket, but they find the filthy carpet and the bloodstain shaped like Africa. His blood. And he’s spinning back to that day, a year ago, when bystanders looked on while he was shot, nobody doing nothing to stop his life pumping out into the gutter while the gunmen disappeared onto the Flats.
Vernon, still chewing his lunch of KFC and fries, was ambushed as he walked to his cop car parked outside a Paradise Park strip mall, gunmen firing at him from the rear of a Benz that was later found abandoned near the airport. Vernon didn’t see the hitmen, but he knew who they worked for: a gang that was pissed off buying protection from him. Said he was getting greedy. Fucken pay up, he said.
Then the ambush.
Vernon felt the bullets like body blows, taking two more in the left leg that dropped him to the gutter behind his car and probably saved his life. He looked up at the people around him: a mother dragging her big-eyed kid away, three old ladies clucking like hens, a couple of street sluts laughing tik laughs. Knew none of them would lift a finger to help this plainclothes cop who wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity.
He dragged himself along the gutter, reached up and grabbed the handle of the car door, locking his fingers on the metal, pulling himself to his knees, felt blood running hot and sticky under his clothes. He opened the door and hauled himself into the driver’s seat.
He cranked the car. Fucker coughed like a dog. Cranked it again and this time the engine took. His left leg was useless, shoe filled with blood, so he didn’t worry with the clutch, just jammed the lever into first, gearbox stripping cogs, and hit the accelerator, taking the rear bumper off a Toyota as he lurched out of the parking bay and drove foot-flat here to Doc’s, hand on the horn to scatter the taxis and the street trash, the world fading and curling up at the edges like an old photograph.
When Vernon reached Doc’s house he hit the curb and passed out, slumped over the steering wheel, his bloody chest sounding the horn.
That got the old boozer away from his TV, and somehow Doc dragged Vernon—in seizure by then—into the house.
Vernon drifted back to consciousness lying on the carpet, as Doc ripped away his shirt, entry wounds like ripe raspberries on his barrel chest, the drunk lurching off to fetch his bag on the kitchen table—an old leather satchel filled with the tools of Doc’s one-time trade. Doc stilled his fingers long enough to find a bandage, brown with age, and hold it against the most severe wound, Vernon’s life leaking out round the edges.
Vernon heard the scream of the ambulance and the medics came in and set up an IV line and worked at stabilizing him. Blood loss smacked Vernon back into blackness as white men in cricket togs celebrated the loss of a wicket on the big screen in the background.
He woke in hospital two days later, on a respirator, tubes draining fluid from his one collapsed lung and a catheter draining piss from his dick. He’d survived. His leg was fucked, though, and his superiors used it as an opportunity to offer him a disability pension. Made it clear that if he resisted there would be an investigation that wouldn’t go well for him. So Vernon took the golden handshake and limped off into his future as a rent-a-cop.
Doc’s back in the room now, carrying a hypodermic and a little bottle of thick, clear liquid. The anesthetic he used on the women he aborted. He draws the liquid into the syringe, his eyes back on the TV, watches a red ball sail out of the ground, into the crowd, the commentator yelling
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