at the cop, saying nothing. The cop was getting impatient. “What, haven’t you got fucken ears? I said get your fucken ass down here. Now.”
Benny Mongrel let go of Bessie’s chain, took the knife from his pocket, and slid it under a cement bag. Better not to have it on him in case the boer searched him. Gut instinct told him not to take the old dog down there with him.
“Stay, Bessie,” he told her softly. She whined as he disappeared down the stairs but did as he ordered.
Benny Mongrel stepped out of the unfinished house and approached the fat cop. It was instinctive for him to hunch slightly as he walked, like a tire deflating, and he fixed a submissive look on his face. He deliberately didn’t look the cop in the eye.
“Evening, boss.”
“This car, when did you first see it?” The cop pointed to the red BMW.
“This morning, my boss.”
“Never saw these guys arrive?”
“No, my boss.”
“You fucken lying to me?”
“No, my boss.”
The fat cop was scanning Benny Mongrel professionally, taking in the scarred face and the tattoos. “When did you get out?”
“Pollsmoor?”
“Yes, my boss.”
“You a fucken 28?”
“No more, my boss.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m clean, my boss.”
“My ass is clean. You see anything last night? This car?”
“No, my boss.”
“You fucken lying to me?”
“No, my boss.”
The cop hit him with an open hand, right across the face. It was like being struck by a speeding taxi. Benny Mongrel had to put a hand to the wall of the house to stop himself from falling.
The cop raised his hand again. “You better not fucken lie!”
It was then that Bessie, normally the most pathetically docile of creatures, dragged herself from the house. She threw herself at the fat cop, baring her teeth at him, growling.
The cop was wearing heavy boots, and he took his massive leg back and kicked her in the ribs. Benny Mongrel could hear the air explode from her lungs as she spun in the air, her teeth clacking as she hit the ground. Bessie lay there panting. The cop had a pistol in his hand, pointed straight at Bessie, his trigger finger tightening. Bessie lifted her head and showed him her teeth.
Benny Mongrel grabbed her chain, dragging her away from the fat cop. “Please, my boss, no. Please.”
The cop was panting like a midnight donkey, still pointing the gun at Bessie. He looked up at Benny Mongrel. “Now tell me the fucken truth. You see the guys who came in that car?”
“No, my boss. I was sleeping.”
The cop stared at Benny Mongrel for what felt like forever before he lowered the gun and holstered it. “Fucken useless piece of shit.”
Suddenly, he seemed to have grown bored with the interrogation. He threw Benny Mongrel a last contemptuous look and then turned toward the street.
Benny Mongrel knelt down beside Bessie. She was gasping for air, trying to get up, her claws scratching at the cement, her crippled hips sagging under her weight.
He stroked her and crooned softly. “Easy, Bessie. Easy, old thing. Easy now.”
Burn took a beer from the fridge. Mrs. Dollie, the middle-aged domestic worker, was chatting in the kitchen with Matt. Mrs. Dollie had come with the house. At first Burn had wanted to get rid of her, not wanting a stranger in their lives. But Susan had felt sorry for the woman, and they decided to keep her on.
She was short and skinny with olive skin and gray hair that escaped in tendrils from beneath her Muslim headscarf. She looked frail but was not. Burn had seen her effortlessly moving furniture as she vacuumed. She spoke rapid-fire English with the local accent that had Jack and Susan esiually asking her to repeat herself. Which she did, with a great show of patience, as if, shame, it wasn’t these foreigners’ fault they were so slow, was it?
Matt loved her and seemed to have no problem understanding her. He watched as she dusted the leaves of the potted plants in the kitchen.
“Now look it here, Matty,
Benny Mongrel let go of Bessie’s chain, took the knife from his pocket, and slid it under a cement bag. Better not to have it on him in case the boer searched him. Gut instinct told him not to take the old dog down there with him.
“Stay, Bessie,” he told her softly. She whined as he disappeared down the stairs but did as he ordered.
Benny Mongrel stepped out of the unfinished house and approached the fat cop. It was instinctive for him to hunch slightly as he walked, like a tire deflating, and he fixed a submissive look on his face. He deliberately didn’t look the cop in the eye.
“Evening, boss.”
“This car, when did you first see it?” The cop pointed to the red BMW.
“This morning, my boss.”
“Never saw these guys arrive?”
“No, my boss.”
“You fucken lying to me?”
“No, my boss.”
The fat cop was scanning Benny Mongrel professionally, taking in the scarred face and the tattoos. “When did you get out?”
“Pollsmoor?”
“Yes, my boss.”
“You a fucken 28?”
“No more, my boss.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m clean, my boss.”
“My ass is clean. You see anything last night? This car?”
“No, my boss.”
“You fucken lying to me?”
“No, my boss.”
The cop hit him with an open hand, right across the face. It was like being struck by a speeding taxi. Benny Mongrel had to put a hand to the wall of the house to stop himself from falling.
The cop raised his hand again. “You better not fucken lie!”
It was then that Bessie, normally the most pathetically docile of creatures, dragged herself from the house. She threw herself at the fat cop, baring her teeth at him, growling.
The cop was wearing heavy boots, and he took his massive leg back and kicked her in the ribs. Benny Mongrel could hear the air explode from her lungs as she spun in the air, her teeth clacking as she hit the ground. Bessie lay there panting. The cop had a pistol in his hand, pointed straight at Bessie, his trigger finger tightening. Bessie lifted her head and showed him her teeth.
Benny Mongrel grabbed her chain, dragging her away from the fat cop. “Please, my boss, no. Please.”
The cop was panting like a midnight donkey, still pointing the gun at Bessie. He looked up at Benny Mongrel. “Now tell me the fucken truth. You see the guys who came in that car?”
“No, my boss. I was sleeping.”
The cop stared at Benny Mongrel for what felt like forever before he lowered the gun and holstered it. “Fucken useless piece of shit.”
Suddenly, he seemed to have grown bored with the interrogation. He threw Benny Mongrel a last contemptuous look and then turned toward the street.
Benny Mongrel knelt down beside Bessie. She was gasping for air, trying to get up, her claws scratching at the cement, her crippled hips sagging under her weight.
He stroked her and crooned softly. “Easy, Bessie. Easy, old thing. Easy now.”
Burn took a beer from the fridge. Mrs. Dollie, the middle-aged domestic worker, was chatting in the kitchen with Matt. Mrs. Dollie had come with the house. At first Burn had wanted to get rid of her, not wanting a stranger in their lives. But Susan had felt sorry for the woman, and they decided to keep her on.
She was short and skinny with olive skin and gray hair that escaped in tendrils from beneath her Muslim headscarf. She looked frail but was not. Burn had seen her effortlessly moving furniture as she vacuumed. She spoke rapid-fire English with the local accent that had Jack and Susan esiually asking her to repeat herself. Which she did, with a great show of patience, as if, shame, it wasn’t these foreigners’ fault they were so slow, was it?
Matt loved her and seemed to have no problem understanding her. He watched as she dusted the leaves of the potted plants in the kitchen.
“Now look it here, Matty,
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