the police in the
cruiser spotted him twice they'd stop and ask where he was headed. Basic
procedure.
That
he was an ex-detective pursuing a lead in his own personal homicide
investigation would not get him out of trouble with the uniforms if they nabbed
him. The thought of explaining to the police that investigating the murder was
more than an intellectual challenge, that it was a desire to restore order and
help the dead on their way, almost made him smile. Surely they'd understand?
And all of this coupled with an arrogance that he himself acknowledged. Since
this particular murder of this particular boy had found him, he was certain that he could put it right.
Emmanuel
walked quickly towards Browns Road. One circuit and he'd be gone. It was too
hazardous otherwise. He turned left and glimpsed a familiar figure also moving
fast. Dim light from the streetlamps bounced off the high sheen of Giriraj's
bald head. Interesting, Giriraj back at the Point so soon after the beating
this morning.
The
strongman followed a rat run through the back lanes of the harbour. Emmanuel
trailed behind in the shadows. This lead was too good to ignore. The Indian
curved into a blunt lane and disappeared behind a shoulder-high wooden gate. A
solitary streetlamp shone a pool of light onto the uneven ground.
Emmanuel
took up post outside the gate and waited. The night was heavy with the
industrial scent of spilled fuel and engine oil blowing in from the harbour.
'You
got it? Let me see.' A woman's voice, sharp enough to shred paper, drifted over
the fence. A match struck against the side of a box.
'I
want more,' the woman demanded. 'A big chunk more or I'll tell the police you
and your charm friends was the ones who cut the boy. You hear?'
Giriraj
growled. Emmanuel rested a hand against the gate, ready to push into the black
nook if the trouble escalated.
'Don't
growl at me, charra.'
Emmanuel
held back. The rough voice grated against his eardrums. He'd heard it before;
it belonged to the prostitute in the purple dress who'd talked to the senior
detective at the crime scene. The one who didn't do it with charras. There
was the sound of a hard, open-handed slap.
'You
like a Doberman my pa used to have,' the woman said. 'It was an ugly thing.
Everyone was scared of him except me. He used to lick my hands and face. That's
what you are, charra. A puppy dog.'
The
mix of contempt and excitement in the prostitute's voice told Emmanuel exactly
how the altercation would end.
'How
dare you . . .' The female voice pitched higher, the breath now small, hard
gasps. 'You should have your hands cut off for even touching me ...'
Where
was there for a European street crawler to go in her fantasy? If she lay down
with a white man she was a whore. The law put a premium on her skin. In
Giriraj's dark hands she was a precious white object defiled; a luminous pearl
cast before swine.
The
groans got louder and Emmanuel walked away. His heart thundered and his breath
burned in his chest. Eight months had passed with nothing but the memory of
smooth brown limbs wrapped around his body and his name whispered in the night.
Davida.
Her touch was grafted to his skin in equal parts pleasure and fear. The shy
brown mouse with eyes the colour of rain clouds. Last he'd seen of her she was
flying across the veldt in a white nightdress; running to find shelter from
evil men. Was she building a new life for herself in some distant corner of
South Africa, safe from the violence of her past? Some nights, in the stilled
hush of the darkness, he dared to imagine her in the doorway of a
stone-and-thatch house, looking up at distant hills, thinking of him.
On
the count of twenty Emmanuel headed back. Some of the heat had dissipated,
enough so he could walk straight. He arrived back at the gate for the finale.
'Good
boy . . .' The woman was either giving a stellar performance or was actually
having an orgasm. Emmanuel guessed the latter. The sound of their breathing
died down
cruiser spotted him twice they'd stop and ask where he was headed. Basic
procedure.
That
he was an ex-detective pursuing a lead in his own personal homicide
investigation would not get him out of trouble with the uniforms if they nabbed
him. The thought of explaining to the police that investigating the murder was
more than an intellectual challenge, that it was a desire to restore order and
help the dead on their way, almost made him smile. Surely they'd understand?
And all of this coupled with an arrogance that he himself acknowledged. Since
this particular murder of this particular boy had found him, he was certain that he could put it right.
Emmanuel
walked quickly towards Browns Road. One circuit and he'd be gone. It was too
hazardous otherwise. He turned left and glimpsed a familiar figure also moving
fast. Dim light from the streetlamps bounced off the high sheen of Giriraj's
bald head. Interesting, Giriraj back at the Point so soon after the beating
this morning.
The
strongman followed a rat run through the back lanes of the harbour. Emmanuel
trailed behind in the shadows. This lead was too good to ignore. The Indian
curved into a blunt lane and disappeared behind a shoulder-high wooden gate. A
solitary streetlamp shone a pool of light onto the uneven ground.
Emmanuel
took up post outside the gate and waited. The night was heavy with the
industrial scent of spilled fuel and engine oil blowing in from the harbour.
'You
got it? Let me see.' A woman's voice, sharp enough to shred paper, drifted over
the fence. A match struck against the side of a box.
'I
want more,' the woman demanded. 'A big chunk more or I'll tell the police you
and your charm friends was the ones who cut the boy. You hear?'
Giriraj
growled. Emmanuel rested a hand against the gate, ready to push into the black
nook if the trouble escalated.
'Don't
growl at me, charra.'
Emmanuel
held back. The rough voice grated against his eardrums. He'd heard it before;
it belonged to the prostitute in the purple dress who'd talked to the senior
detective at the crime scene. The one who didn't do it with charras. There
was the sound of a hard, open-handed slap.
'You
like a Doberman my pa used to have,' the woman said. 'It was an ugly thing.
Everyone was scared of him except me. He used to lick my hands and face. That's
what you are, charra. A puppy dog.'
The
mix of contempt and excitement in the prostitute's voice told Emmanuel exactly
how the altercation would end.
'How
dare you . . .' The female voice pitched higher, the breath now small, hard
gasps. 'You should have your hands cut off for even touching me ...'
Where
was there for a European street crawler to go in her fantasy? If she lay down
with a white man she was a whore. The law put a premium on her skin. In
Giriraj's dark hands she was a precious white object defiled; a luminous pearl
cast before swine.
The
groans got louder and Emmanuel walked away. His heart thundered and his breath
burned in his chest. Eight months had passed with nothing but the memory of
smooth brown limbs wrapped around his body and his name whispered in the night.
Davida.
Her touch was grafted to his skin in equal parts pleasure and fear. The shy
brown mouse with eyes the colour of rain clouds. Last he'd seen of her she was
flying across the veldt in a white nightdress; running to find shelter from
evil men. Was she building a new life for herself in some distant corner of
South Africa, safe from the violence of her past? Some nights, in the stilled
hush of the darkness, he dared to imagine her in the doorway of a
stone-and-thatch house, looking up at distant hills, thinking of him.
On
the count of twenty Emmanuel headed back. Some of the heat had dissipated,
enough so he could walk straight. He arrived back at the gate for the finale.
'Good
boy . . .' The woman was either giving a stellar performance or was actually
having an orgasm. Emmanuel guessed the latter. The sound of their breathing
died down
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