meat grinder

by Hamish Pillay

Dr aft 2

2 November 2009

Copyright Hamish Pillay © 2009

All rights reserved.

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 “We are asking people to understand that slavery still exists today; in fact,
according to a recent New York Times article, if you count the number of women
and children in bonded labor, domestic slavery or sexual slavery today, there are

more slaves in the world than at any other time in history.”

- Charlotte Bunch

-Founding Director and Senior Scholar,

at the Center for Women's Global Leadership,

Rutgers University

“It seems that the streets are our age's new churches. The redemption the sex
worshippers seek is momentarily found in some whore's mouth, that wafer biscuit
they crave in a crack pipe. The forgetting, the mission, the escape, the union with
what seems like an Almighty is found in a hooker's heartless hands.”
Melinda Ferguson

Smacked

2005

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Chapter 1

Sameer Parker, a former senior police intelligence operative now the new face of the Organised
Crime Bureau. At the age of 44, he was considered too old to be a field operative and too qualified
to be a handler. Add to the fact that there was the very real possibility that his last job as a truck
driver would have killed him. After 12 months as the head of the new weapon to fight organised
crime in South Africa, he found himself staring at the remains of a former gangster turned mushy,
bloody punching bag.

The body was positioned on a park bench overlooking a children's play area. Seated upright, the
leftover face looked towards the playground of the park. It was still early morning when a security
guard patrolling the area had found him. There were no messages, signs or warnings of doom. The
driver's licence found in his wallet and tattoos on his body had confirmed his identity as well as
affiliation. The wallet had a wad of pink R50 notes.

The second body in two months found in a public area. The dismembered remains of another
former gangster had been found wrapped in newspaper and string and left outside the Home Affairs
office in Central Johannesburg. The face had always been left unrecognisable. Smashed in with
something hard, until the skull looked like a crimson stained sponge on the shoulders of the victim
or in the former's case, dismembered.

Sameer knew the outfit well enough. He couldn’t care less if he had to be honest with himself. But
the problem with finding dead criminals in very public places were the questions that were destined
to pop up. The speculative fear, the need to know that there was a plan. How things would be
handled. As the South African head of Organised Crime Prevention and Investigation he would
have to know the answers.

The mangled face and broken body belonged Brian “Skeletor” Muller. A 27 year old enforcer for a
lowly street captain, Mervyn Green, who had been found a month earlier cut up into six neat pieces
and wrapped in newspaper and string. Skeletor got his name on account of his sunken dark eyes and
boney build. If a thin layer of skin was wrapped over a human skeleton, you would have had some
idea of what Brian looked like. Despite his size he was known as a fearsome enforcer on the
streets. Brutal and merciless.

And today the State Mortuary guys were trying to lift the corpse of this one time foot soldier and
enforcer. The two men were deciding when to do the necessary. No one liked to think about it, but
when a body had been in a certain position for a few hours, it tended to stay that way, all stiff and
immobile and although the limbs could be straightened out, in some cases it was necessary to break

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them. As in,literally break the bones like pieces of chalk in order to get the body onto a gurney so
that it could be transported.

“Let's come back to him just now.” one of the men in the black coat said to his partner. Sameer,
watching them, chipped in.

“Breek die blerrie bene. Ons willie he mense moet hier deur kom en hierie monster so vind ne?”

Break the damn legs. We don't want people coming through and finding the monster like this.

The men looked at him. They looked at each other.

“Ek gaan die bobbejaan vind.”

I'll get the big spanner

Sameer didn't really care about what happened to criminals. He didn't have Brian's file but he could
safely guess the things he had been charged with, suspected of and the charges that had actually
stuck. Mervyn Green was a notorious small time hood who had graduated from selling drugs to
trading in the one commodity worth more and always in supply. Prostitution was an easy racket.
You feed their egos, then you feed their egos with drugs and when they needed it most you
increased the price. Desperate people do desperate things to settle their cravings. Desperation was
opportunity. Mervyn Green was notorious for enticing the young and nubile with drugs, rocks,
powder, served up like they were rock stars until his intended was desperate enough.. He made
more money from them working the streets, sucking cock or being fucked every which way the
imagination would allow, than he did collecting their pretty trinkets they offered in return for one
last hit. When they were out of the shiny shinies, there was always the alluring glitter of a soul and
body. Everything had its price, everything could be bought and sold for a moment of bliss, even if it
was temporary.

After you had your fill, had her every which way your imagination allowed, you put her out to
work. She would earn money for you and a few hours of the sickly sweet sensation of unadulterated
ambivalence. Utopia could be packaged and sold. People greedily put out their hands and opened
mouths to fill that hole in their soul, the greedy need. It was all the same. Everything in this world
had a price, willingly or unwillingly, what could be sold, could be bought and that which could be
bought could be sold.

Humans.

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Chapter 2

Patricia Gumede sat at the back of the truck with 30 other men, women and children, desperate to
find a place to live. Being alive was not enough to be called living. They were existing blind in a
country threatening the very little they did have and that which they aspired to. She missed
Zimbabwe. She missed Zimbabwe of old. Where she lived was no longer Zimbabwe. It was no
longer the Zimbabwe she had loved all of her life. It was miserable. The people of Zimbabwe were
not confrontational. They swallowed. They quietly got on with trying to live while it was robbed
from them daily by highway men in suits who appeared on posters and on TV. But there was only
so much you could hope for before you starved to death. Hope was not an empty belly. Hope was
not waking to a fright in the middle of the night wondering if they were here at your door, or which
neighbour it was that was screaming. No one cared about Zimbabwe. No one cared about
Zimbabweans. They no longer existed.

She had paid the man US $1000 to take her to South Africa, to help her cross the border without the
proper papers. Raymond. He was a transporter. He brought in goods from South Africa. Things like
bread and milk and eggs and sugar and washing powder and toothpaste and bars of green soap
wrapped in crinkly cellophane. He brought tins of food and small cans of deodorant. He took people
across the border back into South Africa to find work. Lots of the boys had gone with him where he
found them work at the mines in South Africa. Some of the girls started leaving Zimbabwe too.
Even the small towns emptied out like a glass jar of loose change. It was a sign of the collective
desperation. Patricia had to leave. There was nothing left for her, living in a two bedroom house
with her mother, grandfather and three younger brothers on the outskirts of Mutare. People from
Harare and Bulawayo complained about how tough things were in the city, a small town like
Mutare was on its death bed. She had to leave. There was nothing for her to look forward to.

She had spoken to Raymond a few times when he had come to drop off goods for the Indian
shopkeepers. He told her about how the whites in South Africa were lazy. How much they relied on
the blacks to do their work, like cook and clean and look after their children. But worse were the
blacks in South Africa. They refused to work since Mandela walked free. The white madams were
lazier than the ones in Zimbabwe. They paid well and because they didn't like working at night or
weekends they always wanted their maids to live in so Patricia would have a place to stay, she
would be able to save money and be able to send some back home. He would even bring it to her
family if she wanted him to.

Patricia borrowed and worked to scrape together $1000 for the trip to South Africa. The only

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currency people in Zimbawe actually traded with was US Dollars. The Zimbabwean Dollar was
worth less than the ink on the paper on which it was printed. People paid, received and did their
business in US Dollars.

Raymond told her how he had to pay officials on the Zimbabwe side and South African side of Beit
Bridge and that is why it cost that much. The trip would take about three days because they couldn't
use the usual routes. Transporters, as they referred to themselves, had their own special routes he
told Patricia. But by the weekend she would be in her own room, with a job earning R5000 a month
with food and a free room. She would even have her own TV. Patricia was only 18 years old. Her
parents were worried about her. They warned her about boyfriends, especially South African types.
They reluctantly let her go.

The truck had stopped very few times since leaving. The back was hot and Patricia shared some of
her water and bread with some of the people at the back of the truck. Some people were dehydrated
and weak. Patricia tried to think about what her new job looked like, what her boss would be like
and how much they would pay her. R5000 for doing housework? She did housework at home but
she could never imagine getting paid R5000 for that. She would save almost all of her money. The
first thing she would do is pay everyone the money she owed them. Then she would save more and
send back a bag of cash. Her family would be so happy and proud of her for being brave enough to
go to South Africa all on her own. The thought made her smile in spite of her surroundings. It was
temporary. Soon she would be in South Africa. It excited her, gave her butterflies thinking of the
prospect. The truck surfed over the bumps in the road with the passengers sometimes leaving the
floor of the truck bed and hitting the canvas on top. Sometimes you anticipated the bumping
motion. Other times you found yourself falling on top of another passenger and apologising to a
complete stranger for falling over them or waking them up from their journey slumber.

The truck stopped two days later. Patricia woke up to hear shouting. She opened her eyes and
looked out. It was just after sunset. Male voices shouting. Loud aggressive voices. Barking
commands.

“Hey. Hey you. Move. I don't have the whole day.”

A round bellied man in a dirty waistcoat stood at the end of the truck shouting at everyone inside.

Patricia stood up slowly and uncertainly. She picked up her bag and packets and pulled her jersey
closed as she walked apprehensively towards the rear of the truck, hunched over, holding the canvas
roof for support. There were more men, tents and tin shacks arranged next to each other. There was
another truck, empty, guarded by men with rifle guns. Black men in rows staring at her and others

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as they got off the truck. She kneeled down near the edge and felt and arm grip her coarsely under
her arms and pulled her off. She dropped her packets and small bag and she put her hands to break
her fall.

“Hey, moer, stand up, I don't have the whole fokkin day.”

A coloured man with bleached orange hair shouted at her. She felt her inside pound heavily. Fear
inspired adrenaline pumping. It wasn't just her heart. She felt everything beating and pounding
inside her. Her insides turned and twisted. She felt her arms and legs grow shaky as she was lifted
and shunted into a line of women, her bags taken from her and thrown into a pile. A group of boys,
were going through the bags, looking for valuables. Patricia looked at the line of young women and
children. A mother held her daughter, face into her thighs, the daughter gripped her small arms
around her mother's legs, crying.

There were several bonfires around the camp. Patricia looked around. There were no roads, only a
flat piece of land surrounded by bush. She didn't know where she was. She wanted to ask Raymond
but she couldn't see him. Maybe he had been hijacked. Maybe he was wounded. Maybe these
criminals only wanted to rob them.

She saw the old people directed by men with rifles directed towards the truck. There was another
truck. The men stood and watched as three men, the orange haired one, and two black men, very
big, both carrying guns, wearing vests and cargo pants came up the line of women. Patricia watched
them. Then she saw one of the big men grab the little girl from her mother and throw her to the
ground. The mother tried to intervene but the orange haired man hit her in the stomach with a balled
up fist. She dropped to her knees before falling flat to the ground. He used his boot to turn her over
as she writhed on the ground. He placed his boot over her throat.

“I'll take her. Tie her up.”

The mother was dragged away, away from her daughter who was screaming. The little girl taken
away screaming. Still calling out for her mother. They took them to separate shacks. The orange
haired man walked down the line again. The women all looked down, avoiding eye contact. No one
wanted to be noticed. He stopped at Patricia.

“How old are you?”

Patricia didn't answer.

“Hey,” he used the nose of his gun to lift Patrcia's chin so her eyes met his.

“I'm talking to you. How old are you?”

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Patricia could smell him. Sweat. Dirt. Tobacco. His breath infected her, found its way into her
memory and stained it. A sour decaying breath. She could feel it. She looked at him. His eyes
bloodshot.

“20” the words shuddered out of her. Her heart pounded loudly. She hoped her answer would satisfy
him. And it did. He thought about what was under those layers of clothes. The inexperience. She
looked like a virgin. She posed like a virgin. Frightened, holding onto her precious virginity, staring
at the ground. The thought of tasting a virgin, of her apprehension, of her reluctance, the fear of his
power excited him. He licked his lips as we scanned the curves and bumps on her body.

“I'll take her too.”

Patricia froze as two men approached her. They grabbed her and she began screaming as she
realised this was more than a robbery. She felt uncontrollable fear. She tried kicking and screaming
but it was futile. The men ignored her pleas. The faces of the people that were on the truck turned
down, away from her. The men, each pulled at one of her arms. Her arms tried to pull away, her
back dragged on the ground, she heard the shack door open and she was flung in. She landed
roughly on the dirt floor of the shack.

“Don't move from here.” A burly man said to her.

Patricia sat in the corner praying. She clutched her knees under her. She closed her eyes and prayed.
The light in the shack was dim. She could make out a bed and some boxes. It was one of those steel
beds with a biscuit mattress, a single bed. The floor was flattened dirt, hard and cold

Forty five minutes later the orange-haired man entered his shack. His weekly ritual, rehearsed so
many times on countless women, would be performed one more time tonight as the sun began to
sink. He liked virgins. There was something exciting and enticing about them. Something that
appealed to him that made his legs shake, that clouded his mind with the anticipation of having
them. He looked at Patricia. The fear in her eyes. He felt himself growing hard as he approached
her. She knew what he wanted. She needed to feel. She needed to be broken. Subdued. He wanted
to see her bleed.

He walked to her in the corner. He walked slowly, trying to look as threatening as possible. He
stopped in front of her, Patricia, waited, anxiously. She was pulling herself into a small ball in the
corner of the sparsely furnished shack. He grabbed her from behind her head, lifting her to her feet
and threw her onto the bed. A swift motion, fluid, and honed through practice. Patricia felt the
springs pierce through the mattress. They pinched her. She turned around and her face met his fist.
Just above the nose, between her eyes. She felt her body slump back. Her head bounce off the

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mattress. She felt his rough coarse hands over her body as he ripped at her clothes greedily and tear
her underwear off.

He raped her several times over the night. The first few times he took his time, savouring every
moment, every new discovery, every grimace she made, every flinch. She stopped moving after the
first time she felt him force himself into her. Subsequently, he would just forcefully enter her and
within moments he would groan as he climaxed inside her. The tearing she felt between her legs.
She stopped moving. And she didn't move when two other men came in and took turns. She prayed
silently. She prayed for escape, for it all to not be real.

She could feel the cooling blood on her thighs when they were done.

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Chapter 3

Mr. Y, a product of too many James Bond movies and villain fantasies, celebrated his acquittal with
a massive party at his downtown Johannesburg brothel, a former hotel, long abandoned and usurped
by a new breed of entrepreneur. A prior raid several months ago had resulted in Yusuf Abdullah
Aboobaker, a West African drug dealer, pimp and gangster being charged with various charges
ranging from illegal weapons, illicit narcotics and running a prostitution ring. An anonymous tip off
made the police to react without obtaining the necessary warrants and this resulted Mr. Y's acquittal.
The judge's begrudging acknowledgment of Mr. Y's defence counsel's claims of improper and
illegal conduct, making all evidence obtained, inadmissable. The prosecution hands on head
conceded and the rest was nothing more than cause to fall shameless into a bottle of cheap wine and
knock off beer.

Mr. Y operated one of Johannesburg's biggest bottom of the scale prostitution and drug rings. He
was no threat to the Russian, Pakistani, Somali, and Chinese operations or any other group of like-
minded business people. He catered for the low end of the market, the ones with money to spare but
not enough to get into the special clubs. He catered for the guys who just needed half an hour with a
fleshy, sweaty hole. Some of his clients were white collar execs who were too embarrassed to be
seen cheating on their wives with the flesh of another woman or boy or young girl for that matter.
Mr. Y did not discriminate, as long as you could pay. And he provided a soiled mattress with
woman restrained or not, with foreplay a client dependant, optional nicety. He charged by the hour
and that is all that mattered to him.

And tonight, the Orchard Mansions, formerly a middle of the range hotel turned block of flats
turned chunk of hedonism and hell would host a celebration that would make the Romans envious.

Mr. Y surveyed the treats on offer. He personally didn't like fucking Africans. It was expected and
there was no sense of achievement when you fucked your own kind. There was something that
excited him about screwing something from across the way, like a white woman, your flesh on hers,
it was mouth wateringly exciting. He liked white women, blonde haired and blue eyed, something
about watching them trying to swallow your cock was more satisfying than when you blew a load
over her face. He had video recorded it once or twice but the necessity of needing to be camera
person and star of your own video production proved awkward. He saw a young girl trying to look
invisible. He had her once before. She was tall, lithe, shy, completely hooked on the brown stuff.
Desperate and boney now. He made her find some other place to inject. No one wanted to pay for a
whore with track marks up and down her arms. Small breasted, dark hair, she had a chipped tooth

10
from when a big Ghanaian guy got rough with her. She refused to do anal.

He looked at her on the small dance floor, lurking in the shadows. He felt his growing excitement.
He nodded towards her. She looked down. Then away, and finally walked towards him. Mr. Y
turned and headed to his room. There were no new girls. He would get some new girls. Soon. He
was bored of the old ones. Their desperation was cute in the beginning, doing what they were told,
negotiating with their well trained values and morality as they tried to tame the hunger. Eventually
the hunger won and they would be bending and twisting on command for a little hit.

He went into his bedroom, removed his suit jacket and bright yellow tie and unbuttoned his shirt.
He admired himself in the mirror. There was a knock at the door.

He opened the door and met his prize.

“Come in girl.”

She kept her eyes down, a brief smile as she entered the room. She had been in here several times
before. Been fucked. Fucked him. Did as she was told. She didn't mind Mr. Y. He wasn't too rough.
She walked over to the bed and began undressing. Mr. Y. came up behind her, put his arms around
her waist and under the thin cotton top.

“You missed me girl? You missed my loving?”

She felt him, erect, pressing up against her, his hands up her top pinching, squeezing and pressing.
She moaned. Not because she was enjoying it. That was what he expected.

“I have a surprise for you.”

He turned her around, his hands on her shoulders pushing her down to her knees. He began to
unzip.

“You want to see how much I missed you girl? Huh? You like to see it? Show me how much you
missed me.”

He closed his eyes as he felt her hands reach in through the zip, her felt her warm fingers wrap
around him and pull. His head rocked back. He closed his eyes and placed his hand on his waist. He
was enjoying the moment.

His cellphone rang. She stopped.

“Don't stop. don't stop. Carry on. Ignore it.”

The phone stopped ringing. And then it rang again.

He pulled out of her mouth, a plopping sound as he hurried to the table on the side of the room

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where his phone rang. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and Mr. Y, half erect standing
at the side of the room grabbed the phone.

“Hallo?”

It was an angry answer, which sounded irritated to the extreme.

His tone changed. His voice grew quieter. He asked questions. She couldn't make out what was
being said. He turned away. She could see his member hanging, flaccid. She hoped he wouldn't be
put in a bad mood. That he wouldn't be angry now. They always got angry and violent. They got
violent when they couldn't get it up, when you weren't wet enough, when you couldn't make them
cum when they wanted to. She feared the end of the call.

Mr. Y. gathered himself at the end of the call. He grabbed his jacket and wallet. He opened a drawer
and pulled out a small calibre gun.

“Girl, I want you to wait here. I might have some more celebrations when I come back and I don't
want you fucking anyone tonight. You hear me girl?”

“Yes. Of course. I will wait right here for you.” She was relieved. Chances were he would get back
too drunk and spent and tell her to go away. She could do with a night off.

Mr. Y left alone. And that would the last anyone would see him alive.

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Chapter 4

Patricia's eyes opened. She had slept on the floor of the shack of the orange-haired man. She lay on
the floor facing the corrugated iron wall, her back to the bed as he and his friends repeatedly raped
the mother. She begged them at first. Pleaded with them. She tried to resist. But one of them said
something about her daughter and she was quiet after that. She had repeatedly asked for her
daughter. They ignored her until the big one, the last one that rolled off her, punched her in the
stomach and left her to cry to herself.

Patricia tried to block it out. She felt her insides twisted. She felt raw inside. Physically and
emotionally shredded. She lay on the floor trying to work it out. They'd given her some old rag
clothes to wear. She tried thinking to herself about her decision to come to Johannesburg. About
what she did and what she should have done. She thought about what had happened to her the
previous night. She hadn't slept. Not really. Not long enough to open her eyes this morning and put
the previous night down to some nightmare. The ground was too cold and hard to let her forget that
easily.

She heard footsteps approaching. She felt her insides clam up. Close tight, her breathing increased.
Almost immediately. The creaky door opened and the heavy boot steps stopped inside the door.

“Hey. Hey. Get up. Now. Hey I'm talking to you two.”

Patricia felt a boot push into her back. It was invasive but felt distant at the same time, like it was
connecting with a part of her that was satellite to her now. She rolled onto her side, avoiding eye
contact as she got to her feet. She saw the mother, being pulled by her arm to her feet and being
shoved towards the door. Patricia could hear her feet dragging her body towards the door. Patricia
didn't look back as her eyes saw daylight again. The sun was rising, the sky grey as she patted her
hair down and tried to palm down the creases in her clothes. They didn't fit her properly, but she
didn’t mind it after the shredded rags her own clothes had been reduced to. She didn't wear any
underwear. She didn't know why she was doing it. It was habit.

They were being shepherded towards the back of truck with its engine running, the white smoke
hovering in the dense cold morning air. Her face felt tight, the skin around her face felt tight and
raw, especially around her eyes. She noticed the other women being shunted out of the tents and
other shacks. It was only the women. No one looked up. None of the old people. None of the men.
Just the line of women pushed to the side. Raymond came out of one the tents. A woman came out
with him. She had been on the truck with them. She wanted to call out. But she didn't. Something
inside her stopped her voice from making any sounds. From making the sound of his name, calling

13
it, asking him what happened.

They were made to get on the truck. She heard one of the men say they were waiting for them in
Joburg. Who ‘they’ were, she didn't know. The mother stopped before the truck.

“Where's my daughter? Where is my daughter?”

Her cries turned to pleas. Three men tried lifting her up and putting her on the truck. She resisted
them. She struggled and kicked and fought with all her strength as she begged and pleaded for her
daughter. The orange-haired man grabbed her by the throat, dragged her away, and pinned her to the
ground under his boot as the truck pulled away. Patricia saw his outstretched arm.

She heard three shots fired. Her heart sank as the tears rolled down her face. Patricia felt so
overwhelmed by fear, that she did nothing. She didn't scream out for help. She didn't plead and beg.
She did nothing, frozen in fear. She felt guilty.

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Chapter 5

Mr. Y came to in a very dark room. Nowhere, as far as his head was able to turn, could he see the
slightest flicker of light. His arms were tied, to the armrests of the chair, his palms taped flat against
them. He tried moving his legs but they were taped around the legs of the chair. He felt a piece of
cloth in his mouth. He lifted his head up. He tried to listen but there was nothing. He felt a burning
sensation in his neck. He remembered.

He was sitting in his car and waitingaiting. The son of a bitch had tipped off the police. Such was
the nature of these things. That if you wanted to continue receiving information, you had to keep
your informants loyal, protect them from identification.

And as he sat in his car he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his neck, his body go numb and the world in
front of him go black. The small shopping centre parking lot was empty except for the security
guards at the entrance. He hadn't seen anyone approaching his car, and he hadn't seen any signs of
anyone approaching him.

He came to in the dark room.

He tried moving by rocking on the chair. If he could turn the chair, there had to be a door
somewhere in the room. The floor had a hollow sound. The kind of hollow sound that tiled floors
made when a wooden chair rocked up and down on them.

He built up momentum, rocking back and forth in the dark room, uncertain of the exact size of the
room. It felt small. Or he guessed as much anyway. The sound of the rocking on the floor bouncing
off the walls gave him some idea. It would have sounded different in a bigger room. Yusuf didn't
know how, it was just a thought as his chair rocked on its side, side to side. He rocked until in
pendulum like movements he could feel himself building enough momentum. He gathered up the
courage to force the chair on its side. Yusuf had no fear. Whoever was responsible would be very,
very sorry indeed for trying to trap him. He was a big man, heavy, falling on his side would hurt.
Knowing it was about to happen didn't make it any easier. Hopefully the force of his weight and the
fall would break the chair and he would be able to free his hands. If anything he had to move as
quickly as he could. Whoever had captured him might come back.

Enemies were inevitable in his line of business. And normally, he would travel with his bodyguards.
But he couldn't well have come with anyone else. Secrets were always best kept when the number
of people who knew them was kept to a minimum. How he regretted this. How stupid he felt. He
had bodyguards for a reason.

15
He leaned over with all his weight and he took in a deep breath as he swung over with all his
momentum. He hit the floor hard on his side. The intense thud from his shoulders was only slightly
worse than the wooden armrest in his side. He tried to catch his breath. The chair didn't break. He
was on his side, bound and on the floor.

His mind raced around. What had he done? His position felt worse now. Bound and on the floor was
worse than bound and sitting in a chair. He felt more vulnerable. His breathing began to slow down.
He began to gather his thoughts. He had to find a way out of here. He listened. He was far from
giving up his business to some rival. Not without a fight. And he had been alone long enough. They
would be back soon enough. Whoever they were.

Light streamed in and hands gripped the chair and dragged him out. A bright desk lamp on a side
table aimed at his face as his chair was pulled upright. He squinted his eyes as the tall figure came
around the front of the chair. He couldn't see the face. He, it looked like a man, had to be a man, to
be able to drag the chair, pull it up, it was a man. Wearing a vest. He saw the leather gloves. Short
gloves. One of them shaped like a fist connected his face. There was something unfulfilling about
wanting to scream after being punched in the face and having a gag in your mouth. The groan was
half fulfilled, like drinking warm Coke. The punch was powerful. Strong, practiced. It was a
message. Yusuf considered it. He would have to tough it out. Weakness was not an option now.

The first punch was followed by a second punch and a third and a fourth. Yusuf lost count after the
first 5 punches. The punches aimed at his head came at him like rapid fire, at his head, side to side,
front on. Eventually the pain stopped and all Yusuf could hear was the dull sounds of skin wrapped
knuckle bones hitting skin wrapped skull. Dull sounds connecting, one after the other, cutting
through the flesh.

The punches stopped and he looked up, something hit him across the head. Something hard, which
drew blood from the side of his head. The blood gushed down his face, over his eyes.

“Hallo Yusuf.”

The voice. The voice was familiar, but it sounded different. Cocksure,confident and without its
usual trimmings.

His scream came out sounding like a moan. A loud and defiant moan. His arms struggled against his
binding. He wanted to tell his captor what he would do, what he was capable of doing, the hell that
would reign down on him for taking such liberties. His captor knelt down. He removed Yusuf's
socks and shoes. He stood up and still Yusuf struggled to recognise the man. His one eye shut and
the other fighting a losing battle at maintaining clear sight.

16
The man walked away, behind Yusuf. He stopped and started walking back towards Yusuf.

“Everyday Yusuf, every single day you trade in pain, you take the pain of people who have come to
this country, very much like you came to this country and you add to it.”

The man stood in front of him carrying something, a long handle, something that looked like a
frying pan, a saucepan. Steam rose from it.

“Tell me which pain is worse.”

He proceeded to pour the saucepan's contents over the feet of Yusuf. Yusuf screamed his muffled
screams. The gag swallowed the venom of his vocal expression. His face contorting as he tried to
freeze the spread of the pain in his feet. His face manipulated by the extraordinary waves of pain
being held from its full expression by the gag in his mouth. His whole body stiffened as he tried to
absorb each wave registering the full depth of his pain. The pain waves grew more intense as boiled
flesh skinned off layers to leave fresh skin exposed. The man carried on pouring until he had
emptied the contents.

Yusuf's breathing was staggered and laboured. It was voiced. Loud breaths exhaled. He wanted to
ask him what he wanted. What he could offer, anything that would slow him down to give Yusuf a
chance to gain some control over the situation.

He raised his head up long enough to see a long, black blade. He had used it a few times himself.

“Long sleeve or short sleeve, Yusuf?”

The pain was surprisingly quick. Sharp. By the time the blade chopped through the bone just above
the wrists of his left arm, the pain of the first amputation was too much, he passed out. He was left
to bleed out. The arm was chopped through and bone broken off the limb. His eyes were removed
with a sharpened teaspoon and his body was left upright on the steps of the magistrate's court. At
5.30 that morning, a passing patrol car stopped to inspect the homeless person seated on the steps.
The gruesome find would break the early morning news on all television and radio channels.

Local gang kingpin found executed.

17
Chapter 6

Dumza Kwanele stared at the print on the wall. It was an architect’s blueprint of the Johannesburg
Station. It had no relevance to his life or any specific memory. He just stared at it, tried to look
through it. At the age of 55 he wondered when the stress would stop, when he would reach some
position where he gave orders instead of took them, where his job title actually carried a meaning
that ordinary people were able to understand. Senior Inter-Ministerial Liaison. He felt congested.
The title was one of many constipated titles bestowed on people with jobs that had no specific
description. He tried explaining what he did to his wife. She would have cared if he had done a
better job of explaining it to her. He dealt with the people right at the top in several departments and
the people on the ground in several departments.

Most time he worked for the government. It was his job to manage the image, the communication
and the politics between competing departments, coordinate their efforts, keep everyone goal
focussed. The Security Cluster. That was who he worked for, a collective of parts from different
departments, all aiming for the same goal. Whatever that was. That's more or less what it said in his
letter of appointment, which he received five years ago, when he was promoted from an Intelligence
handler. He looked at the print on the wall. The frame was one those gawdy gold frames, cheap
wood, spray painted and sold at ten times its actual value.

He hadn't put his briefcase down yet. He held it on his lap as he stared into the print which held his
attention. He tongued at his teeth as he thought about what he would like to be doing. Call it old
fashioned but he could do the farm thing. He never farmed of even lived on one. But he imagined
the life was altogether simpler, sustainable. That was an annoying word he thought to himself. Over
used by anyone who had watched a television news broadcast anytime over the last five years.

His morning day dream was interrupted by the startling buzzing of his desk phone. He pressed the
speaker button on the phone, sighed and answered.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Parker is here, sir.”

“Good. Ask him what he would like to drink and then show him in please. Thank you Gugs.”

He pressed the speaker button again and put his briefcase down. He felt exhausted. He missed the
field. The move into a corner office, the regular hours was supposed to be a soft landing after a
lifetime spent behind the mirror of cloak and daggers. He’d had a lifetime of working against the
government and then a career working for the government.

18
There was a knock at the door. Gugu, his middle-aged and extremely patient PA opened it and let
Sameer Parker in. Sameer Parker was one of his former charges out in the field. When the opening
for a head of the new crime fighting outfit had become available, over a year ago, Dumza had
twisted every arm possible to secure the job for Sameer, now head of the Organised Crime Bureau
which is the proverbial phoenix from the ashes of the demise of the Special Crimes Unit. Sameer
was an unknown as was seen as a compromise candidate politically. He had experience, he was well
known to specialists in the field if not to the general public and media.

Dumza stood up as Sameer walked up to the desk, both men shook hands as they always done, from
the days of Dumza acting as Sameer's field handler.

“You're looking pleasant.” Sameer said.

“Well you walk a little funny when you have the DG from every department lines up to tear you a
new arsehole every day.”

“What happened now?”

“You know that Nigerian that they found on the steps outside the Magistrate's Court?”

“Yeah, I was there, got a special call out.” Sameer screwed up his face as he waited for Dumza to
finish.

“Well anyway, the Big Boys think we might be dealing with a gang war and they want us, meaning
you, the Government's new shiny toy to quash all of this before shit gets out of hand.”

Dumza sounded out of breath as he gave his uninterestingly toned report and plan to Sameer.

“You ok?”

“Ja. Why?” Dumza asked.

“You sound out of breath.”

“Ja, I'm fine.”

“Good. OK, so why all the urgency from the higher ups? I mean these swine are capping each other
laying each other out every day, fewer criminals on the street. What's so special about this guy?”

“Ja I tried throwing that at them. They didn't get it. The bigger your salary bracket, the less of a
sense of humour you have, it seems. Besides, they got a whole lot of PR people whispering in their
ears. It’s all about the image. Per-cep-tion you know. They read the papers and they look for
potential problems that might get out of hand and that is when they call people like me and you.
Also, no one wants anything to tarnish the OCB in its infancy. That's shit on you and me both.”

19
Dumza laughed to himself and started coughing.

Sameer got up. “Let me get you some water. Are you ok?”

“I'm fine. But we have a problem.”

“I thought that was our problem.”

“I could have told you that on the phone. Don't be stupid. I need to make you aware of a press
conference taking place outside our latest crime scene this afternoon at 3pm.”

“What press conference?”

“Well it appears that that Yusuf’s swine's arse’s, creeping fuck of a lawyer is calling a press
conference. He wants to make the public aware of the way the police, and by police he means you
and the OCB, are failing to prevent the loss of life and how you have allowed the murder of his
clients.”

“What?” Sameer's voice underlined his current mood. “What does he mean that we're not doing our
jobs? Clients?”

“I don't know the full details, but I saw a copy of the press release he sent out. I think he is going to
portray himself as the victim in this and you can bet your last pay cheque that Deborah fucking
Patta will be knocking at your front door tonight. You see her coming, you jump the fuck out the
window. She'll castrate you with a microphone and camera.”

“Should I go to the press conference?”

“And do what Sam? It’s too fucking late. The more attention you feed that fuck, the bigger this
thing is going to get. Jesus Christ man! Hopefully no one gives a fuck about criminals killing
criminals.”

Dumza opened his briefcase and pulled out a green bottle of J&B Scotch Whiskey and 5 folders.

“Drink?” Dumza said pulling two glasses from the desk drawer.

“I don't drink Dumz, and isn't it a bit early to saucing up?”

“Yeah. I forget. Muslim. You don't drink. I don't drink either. Just like to taste it now and then.”

Sameer smiled. Dumza had that way about him. His mind was in a thousand places at the same
time. He watched him pour two fingers in the glass. And take a gulp. He wiped his mouth with the
back of his wrist.

“These though are for you my friend.” Dumza said passing the folders over to Sameer.

20
“What's this?”

“Your homework. We're sitting ducks my friend. We started this nice new agency. Made nice new
badges and titles and gave you a job. But what did we fill it with? About to retire SAPS guys and
wet behind the ears recruits and graduates? I mean come on Sam, we get the busts, but we're
fucking up the middle phase. And lawyers like that cunt, Vikhash Mother fucker, will stand in front
of the press this afternoon and tell them how we're not doing our job. And you know what? He's
right. He's getting paid because we don't do our jobs properly. We need a solid midfield. SCU was
good before the politicians buried them knee deep in shit. Those files, former SCU Organised Crime
Specialists. We need a midfield, Sam. Go get me a midfield.”

Sameer picked up the files. Dumza poured another drink for himself. Dumza used to be fit. He’d
never touched anything more than a single, light beer. . Sameer watched Dumza take another gulp
of whiskey. Everyone had their own coping mechanisms. You had to have one. The things they
faced, the victims, the men with AK47s more than willing to kill you for a few thousand Rand.

“And then what?”

“And then we get down to the bottom of this. Ideally I would like to tell that fucking lawyer, that I
hate him and that his life is in danger. But he knows his life is fine. Fucker. I hate him.” Dumza was
all profanity, which was a crutch to express his real emotion.

Sameer knew Vikhash. He was a smug, tall, arrogant, skinny fucker. Many people considered him a
criminal with a law degree. He was the sort of man whom it seemed got gratification from the look
on prosecutors’ and arresting officers' faces when his clients were acquitted. A real drama queen. He
had pitched up over year ago, tearing apart the case of a senior prosecutorand almost ever
subsequent case after that. In that time he had made every law enforcement officer and officer of the
court dot every i and cross every t.

Sameer got up to leave. Dumza was right, there was a vital component missing. But after the SCU
was dissolved and reintegrated, many of their experienced specialists, disillusioned or just tired,
disappeared.

Standing at the door Dumza shouted from his desk.

“If we do find the people responsible for killing three gangsters, I'm not sure if we'll arrest them or
give them a medal.”

Sameer left uncertain about his own feelings, which he mopped up. Finding experienced operatives

21
was a case of closing the door long after the horse had bolted. Why should anyone give a damn? It
was a waste of resources.

22
Chapter 7

They had spent a whole day getting to the small holding plot of land outside Johannesburg.
Bumping up and down at the back of the truck. Every minute away from last night made it almost
believable that it didn't happen, that Patricia had seen it or dreamed it or heard about it elsewhere.
But there was always a moment, a picture in her thoughts that reminded her. That dragged her all
the way back. It was the smell. It took on the form of a presence in her mind, almost tangible. The
smell was like a person. A scary, frightening and faceless person. The smell was real. The breath..
All of them. Their heavy breathing in her face. It was real. That made it real. All of it. Them forcing
themselves in her. The grabbing. The talking. The laughing. One of them licked her face. Told her
he loved her. Asked her if she loved him. And then he pushed harder at her when she didn't answer.

The truck stopped and other men with suits came to the back and lowered the gate. The women at
the back of the truck scared, cowered down and off the truck lined up outside, they looked down,
avoiding eye contact. The defiance and hope forcefully fucked out of them the previous night.
Stripped and ripped from them at the end of a knife, gun and erect cock.

Michael, a tall man who obviously ran the operation came past to inspect after all of them were off
the truck. He stopped in front of them, scanned them from their toes upward. He was inspecting
merchandise. He stopped at Patricia.

“You speak English?”

She nodded. She was reluctant to delay responding after the previous night’s trauma.

“No doll. You're supposed to answer me in English. I didn't ask you if you understood English. DO-
YOU-SPEAK-ENGLISH?”

“Yes.” her voice was barely audible. A soft, reluctant: yes.

Michael shook his head. He looked at the truck driver who was grinning at Michael.

“Tell your boys, they need to take it easy. Send me more broken merchandise and I will send the
whole batch back you hear me?”

The driver nodded. Michael shook his head and turned to one of his suited assistants.

“Take her upstairs. Get them to clean her up, tell them to use the white stuff and get her ready for
around 9 tonight. I think I have someone for her.”

Michael made mental notes. There was a client A couple from, lawyers. They liked them young.
The wife would like her. But she could have her only when Michael had finished with her.

23
He turned to the driver. “I'll give you R1000 for her. Five hundred each for the rest”

The driver nodded. At the rate they were coming over into South Africa over the border, he could
have sold them at R250 each and still been a happy man.

“Fine. I'll send the money down. But you tell your people, they fuck these girls up again and there'll
be no more deals. You hear me?”

The driver ignored Michael. Stupid white idiot, he thought to himself. Michael and his men behaved
all important, but the truth is they couldn't find the girls they needed. It was dirty work, catching
them, breaking them, making them soft for clients by taking the fight out of them. There would
never be a day when they didn't pay for the women, broken or not. He got into his truck, turned the
radio on and lit a cigarette.

Michael signalled his men to round up the women and take them to get ready for the evening's
proceedings. As he watched the women being sheep-dogged towards the house he began attaching
amounts to each of them in his mind. He knew who would be coming for the night's auction, who
would buy, what they would buy, how many they would buy and how much he could charge them.

Hopefully tonight would be according to plan. Normally, the sight of the men, the chatter, the
tension, one or more of the women snapped. That is why he hated the fact those boys at the border
needed to break them in.

Break them when you've paid for them. How difficult was that to understand?

24
Chapter 8

George Williams was a 49 year old former team leader for SCU and now the Head of Security for a
financial services company. He wore a suit to work every day, worked regular hours, was home
every day in time for 18h30 supper. The job was stable, and paid a good salary. He worked in an
office, had a secretary and the most dangerous weapon he carried at work was a pen.

So when Sameer Parker, head of the OCB made an appointment to meet, George was interested to
see what South Africa's latest law enforcer wanted. They met in the reception coffee area. A small
glass enclosed area with leather seats and steel tables. In the corners were high tables with bar
chairs, black leather seats and dark wood. The coffee bar was self service.

George was a big, strong, bear of a man and as Sameer walked towards him, he pictured George as
someone who was probably fond of a 12 gauge shot gun. He put out his hand and grabbed Sameer's
hand with his other paw shaking it.

“Well how are you doing today sir?” he said shaking Sameer's hand as if they were old friends.

Sameer, no small man either felt dwarfed this close to George.

“I'm very well George. Thank you for taking the time to see me. I know how busy you must be. I
promise this won't take long.”

“Oh don't worry Mr. Parker. It's been a slow day today. So what can I do you for?” he said with a
chuckle. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Sameer waved away the offer politely and started with his sales pitch. About the experience that
was lacking, about the great potential the new recruits had, and the invaluable experience of the
SAPS guys. But what they really needed was the experienced former agency folk of the SCU. Every
team needed its own strong midfield..

“Well Mr. Parker it’s a tempting offer, indeed. But I'm not that man from three years ago. My wife
for one would not be happy if I went back into the field. She loves the fact that I come home every
night. And I have a daughter who’s going to university next year and the company is going to give
her a bursary. I'm sorry, I'd like to at least say I would think about it.”

Sameer nodded.

“I know.” Sameer's smile was rehearsed for this moment. He expected it. People left to the private
sector and didn't come back. Not for all the money in the world. Not even a personal visit from the
Director of the elite would suffice.

25
He shook hands with the big man, and told him to stop apologising. Sameer left the corporate
headquarters despondent. The truth was that with four more heads to hunt, he felt the prospects of
building the fabled midfield as Dumza requested, slowly slipping away, especially with the press
conference only hours away. He could have chased after the rest of his list but he knew the
temptation to go to the press conference would be too tempting if he had nothing to do.

Of the four left, only one returned his call that day. Asked for a day to think about it before they
could meet.

Sameer never expected Ayesha Munshi to call him back. Her name on the list caught him by
surprise, after the way her case had signalled the end of the SCU. The denials, the public finger
wagging, the dealmakers crawling out from under their proverbial rocks and the mountain of
resignations. It was a messy affair attributed to Ayesha and her case. There was still no denying her
credentials, her record and experience with organised crime. Someone with that kind of experience
on board would attract others.

Whether she was seriously considering coming back or whether she was just looking for a chance to
shit him out for having the audacity to call her. Sameer hoped it wouldn't be the latter.

26
Chapter 9

The woman who took Patricia away spoke very slowly. Not all the time, just at points where she
assumed Patricia wouldn't understand her. Used her hands a lot and smiled slow motion after she
said or asked something. She sat at the back of the car with Patricia after they left the smallholding.
Patricia's fists were in balls. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she squeezed tighter.

The road leaving the other women and the truck and the men behind was dark. There were not street
light poles. The blonde woman kept talking. Animated, fast and then she would look at Patricia,
speak very slowly and end everything as if she was asking a question. Her smile was an
unthreatening attempt to make Patricia feel at ease.
Patricia nodded. She didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say. She had expected violence.
And more of it. But it didn't happen. They took her away, away from the other women. Took her up
some stairs to a room where they made her stand on a chair, men, two of them took her clothes off.
She held her breath. Uncertain whether to scream or fight. She did nothing. She tried to use her
hands and arms to cover her naked body. The body that had been groped and grabbed at the night
before. She tried to cover the purple bruises on her arms where she had been dragged or held, she
tried to use her hands to cover the bruises on her thighs where they had forced themselves on her.
The men used rags from a bowl of water and wiped her down, her face, her hair, her chest all the
way down her legs. The water stung as they wiped over the grazes on her back, the grazes the result
of being dragged into the shack. She felt sick as she felt the strange, foreign hands move over her
body. In her mind she felt other hands, their hands- the ones from the night before. Her body
stiffened as they towelled her and rubbed a thick white cream over her arms and legs. They dressed
her in a skirt and black top. Michael came in after a while.
“How far are you?” Michael asked, one of the men turned around.

“We're almost done with this one. Just need to do something with her hair.”

“Good. Hurry up. Give her something. I don't want her flipping the fuck out when the buyer
arrives.”

The man turned around and continued with Patricia's hair. He combed it flat, spraying a gel from a
pump bottle into his hand and spreading it over her head. As a finishing touch he sprayed a squirt of
perfume.

“Plucked and ready for the pot you are.” he said standing back, admiring his work.

Patricia felt different about them. It was their eyes. There was something different about them. The
way they looked at you. It was colder. Harsher. It frightened her more. It was their lack of interest in
her. Not that they were not interested as they prepared her, but it was a different kind of interest. Not
the vile type that wanted to force themselves in you, or lie on you, breathing on you, sweating on
you, asking you if you loved them as they pushed mechanically at you. Neither one of the men had
imposed themselves more than what she was expecting, taking her into the room, taking her clothes

27
off and throwing it on the floor, they did nothing else to her. She felt more vulnerable not knowing
what else to expect. What else she had to offer them.

They guided her into a room, a brightly lit room with carpeting and three couches with a glass
coffee table in the centre. She was made to sit down and wait. She didn't wait long as Michael led in
the blonde woman. The blonde woman sat down opposite Patricia. Patricia was nervous and
frightened. The last two days had shattered her every image and hope she had constructed before
she had left her home. It had been destroyed. She was broken and she didn't know what to expect.

The blonde woman and Michael spoke. They communicated mostly in smiles. Patricia struggled to
understand what they were saying.

“You look impressed.” Michael said through a shit eating grin.

The blonde, Margie, sipped her tall glass of sparkling wine. “I must say Michael, for one of those
homosexuals, you do have taste when it comes to selecting them. You sure you're gay? Maybe
you're sitting on the fence?”

Michael chuckled

“Oh doll, why on earth your husband would send you out to find someone else to fuck is really
beyond me.” Michael said sarcastically.

“How much do you want for her?”

“R5000.”

“You're mad. The way they're coming over the border Michael I could pick up 10 000 of them for
that money.”

“Then why don't you? Huh? Come on Margie I know Kevin's given you twice as much to play with
and I tell you what, take her now and maybe if you're really good we can negotiate a discount on the
downstairs auction. What do you say?”

Margie put her glass down and eyed Patricia. She was too doe eyed to let pass. She was young, firm
and innocent looking. The kind of characteristics Kevin loved. Dark skinned, pure, soft, warm and
inviting. Margie could taste Kevin's excitement. He would start on her slowly. They both would.
Give her a job as the maid. That's what most of them came here looking for, a job cleaning up other
people's shit. It would be a nice introduction. Maid.

The car pulled up outside a house with exceptionally high walls, the gate rolled open to a pathway
lit up on either side with small soccer ball sized orbs. The car crunched up the path very slowly. The

28
driver stopped and got out to open the door. Margie gulped the contents of her glass put it on the
tray-table at the back and got out. She leaned in, put her right hand in.

“Come on sweetheart. You're home now.”

29
Chapter 10

Vikhash Bhana was the showman. He deliberately ran late. A cordoned area around where the body
was found in front of the Magistrate's Court is where he would deliver his solitary protest. And the
gathering grew. He had bombed off those emails and text messages himself and he had phoned
everyone who mattered to confirm. He was about to reveal a conspiracy of Constitutional
proportions. Everyone ran when you mentioned the Constitution, the single Act of Parliament that
had turned the whole South African legal system on its head and sent millions of neo-liberal whites
back to their colonial home. He chuckled to himself at the thought. It was a flimsy plan that would
just cause a bit of shit.

He stood back with his notes. A borrowed lectern stood empty, waiting for occupation. Vikhash
watched the media grow impatient, looking at their watches, watching him. He liked them
impatient. He liked them edgy, irritated. When he finally delivered his announcement, they would
suck it up like sponges. And they would do something about it.

He was a good student. A patient one at that.

He pushed his spectacles back with his middle finger. Slapped on the nerdy smile he wore so often
when he was in court. He walked over to the lectern placed on the steps behind the scene of where
the body was found. The muttering from the gathered media, stationed behind a candy tape barrier,
for dramatic effect obviously, lowered their chattering and murmuring. Vikhash looked up and
began.

“Good afternoon. Thank you for joining me here today.” Police officials from the courthouse
watched. The rumours had done their rounds and Vikhash was no stranger to them. It was generally
conceded that everyone in law enforcement hated Vikhash Bhana.

“I am here today to appeal to you, the members of the press and inform you of a conspiracy taking
place in our city and which threatens the lives and safety of all of us.”

The listeners leaned forward. It was something he looked for to gauge how he was doing, whether
he was reeling them in or whether he needed to bait them.

“There has been a gang war brewing in this city, something I have tried to warn the relevant
authorities about. Some of my clients are in danger but the authorities seem unconcerned. And so
we see the latest victim. Yusuf Aboobaker laid down at a Government building. As a sign. As a
warning. Mutilated. Eyes removed, the skin of his feet boiled off. One of my clients and the police
are happy to ignore them. This is a sign of the racist and one side policies taking place. Now I ask

30
you to think about what will happen when this war between the factions begins to escalate and other
businessmen like my client and friend Yusuf Aboobaker, a respected immigrant, a local hero, are
slaughtered by thugs and criminals. What then I ask you? I will miss you ,Yusuf my friend.”

Vikhash dropped his head and held it down for longer than a moment. He held the bridge of his
nose for a second before looking up, looking over the heads of his listeners. Inside he wanted to
smile. The looks of concern were genuine. He had to continue feeding them.

“I am appealing to the only institution that can be trusted to uphold the values and principles of our
democracy and Constitution, the media. I need you to inform our citizens of the dangers they face
and they fact that the Organised Crime Bureau are only concerned with harassing businessmen
instead of stamping out organised crime. Where is their Director? Where is Sameer Parker? Who is
he anyway? Why have we never heard of him and why is his extensive record as the Minister put it,
sealed from public scrutiny? What kind of corruption has taken place and put our lives in
jeopardy?”

There was a murmuring from the gathering. Sameer Parker was the unknown, bearded man with the
sealed past. “Extensive experience in Police and National intelligence” was all the biography that
was given when he was announced as the head of the OCB just over 12 months ago. The OCB had
made a few headlines with high profile arrests. High enough through the instigation of the media by
paid for image consultants, aiming to rebuild confidence in South African law enforcement.

Vikhash ended his brief, hyped up press conference with a brief opening for some questions.

“I will take a few questions if there are any?”

A short haired blonde reporter identified herself.

“Mr. Bhana you claim that a gang war is brewing? How do you know this?”

Vikhash nodded for a moment.

“Thank you Tracy. I can't reveal my sources but my clients were threatened for months, by
gangsters wanting to take their business. Legitimate businesses, I might add, and use it as front
operations for their criminal activities. I don't need to tell you how common this is in our country.
And when they resisted such attempts...well you can see the results.”

Vikhash managed to squeeze out a tear as his voice crumpled towards the end of his answer.

An old, short gentleman with a notepad, brown hornrims and a comb-over to match, put up his
hand.

31
“The men you claimed were businessmen were known criminals, clients of yours. All of them. Isn't
that true?”

Vikhas nodded. His facial expression sold his tone before he mentioned the first word.

“This is the problem. My clients get charged and they became criminals. No one remembers that
none of my clients had been convicted. Or that they were innocent of all charges and when they
tried to help the Police and members of OCB do their job, what did they get?” Vikhash pointed to
the bloodied spot on the steps in front of him.

It was a full drama with him. Blood, the fresh stains of a man slain.

“Thank you for coming.” He dipped his head low as he grabbed his notes and walked away from
the lectern. There were shouts from the gathering for answers to more questions. Vikhash had
planted the seed and now it would be time to sit back and watch it all fall apart. If anything Vikhash
had just bought himself space.

The prime stuff.

32
Chapter 11

There were 12 men that had been loaded onto the back of the three ton truck that left the camp just
outside the South African border with Zimbabwe. Some of them husbands and fathers, others young
men determined to make a life for themselves in another country. Most separated from their
families, tired and afraid to resist after witnessing what happened to the men and women grabbing
the attention of their captors.

Five men were left alive at the back when the truck stopped 200km from Cape Town at a small
game farm in the Western Cape, just off the main road. The five men, in their weakened state,
deprived of adequate food and water, were dragged off the back of the truck. Men with guns were
there to meet the truck and the new guests of the game lodge.

Andries, watched as seven bodies were thrown off the back of the truck. In this line of business you
made concessions. Two or three guys died, the weaker ones who wouldn't fetch much of a price as
workers, they'd be worth more as food. Seven out of the original 12 were piled in the dirt outside
the truck, still bound, by their wrists and feet. Their bodies stiff. The fucking Russians would give
next to nothing for the seven dead. And the five that were still alive, were being stripped and hosed
down, in their state they would get little more than the dead men.

The game lodge, named The International African Hunting Lodge was owned by a former Soviet
spy turned gangster. When the Soviet Bloc collapsed a number of highly trained, unemployed spies
created their own work. The collapse turned the Soviet States into a free for all. Weapons caches
were sold, other spies employed former colleagues as muscle and slowly they became known
collectively as the Russian Mafia. Men who were trained to kill, men trained to survive, men who
were deprived of the capitalist way but who took to it with verve, embracing their new freedom.

Semion Andreiy Solonik, was a 68 year old former spy turned businessman owned, amongst other
operations, The International African Hunting Lodge, an exclusive hunting and game viewing
lodge. It was his official business operation. He kept control over the various aspects of his business
through his sons, Viktor and Sergei. Viktor was his eldest and heir apparent. Sergei was the younger
and enforcer of the family. Both brothers had their roles, but Semion gave the orders.

Andries watched Viktor as he inspected the shivering five left in the sun to dry after their cold
hosing.

“They're good hah?” Andries' enthusiasm was not washing with Viktor.

Viktor shook his head as he inspected his goods. He was disappointed. The money was one thing,

33
but how the hell would these creatures last. One of the men started crying. Viktor turned around.
His face shocked.

“Take them back. I cannot use them. Look at this one? He's-fucking-crying.”

Viktor pointed to a scrawny skid with tufty facial hair on his chin and lip. He had balls of hair on his
jaw. He couldn't have been more than 19. His body shook as he cried quietly, trying to hold it in but
the fear forced quivery tear after quivery tear rolling down his cheek.

Andries slapped the boy hard enough to knock him down.

“Come on Viktor, you know you feed them, let them sleep they'll work for you. Your clients will be
happy.”

Viktor looked at the five men again.

“Andries, tell me, what if they are like pussies again. What if more start crying with my clients? My
clients don't pay for pussies you understand? I don't buy my pussies from you. Do you understand
me?”

“No they won't. They'll be fine. You'll see. They're just hungry. Give them some food and they'll be
strong.” he made a gesture with his arm, flexing his arm.

“Ok, I give you 300 for each of them. And 50 for the dead ones. We make it 2000 for petrol.” Viktor
turned away, signalling to his men to take the five men away.

Andries was reaching for the right words. The Russians were his customers. But at R300 per man
he felt the Russians were bending him over the table with the price. Andries approached Viktor real
close. He was desperate. R2000 for a trip down to Cape Town would not go down well especially
when he had come with 12 men.

“Viktor, come on man. Please. We usually get R500 each and you normally pay us R200 for the
dead. And the petrol...”

“What are you doing? Huh? Get away from me. I don't want my clothes smelling like your stink.
Look at what you bring me? I pay 500 for men, not these … these... things here. I will spend 500
feeding them before I can work them. If you don't like it, you can take it. Go sell it somewhere else?
Go sell it with your plastic hangers by the street lights.”

Viktor and his men laughed. Most of the men who worked for Viktor and his father were Russian
expats. Former sailors, men who had skills to offer and enjoyed the lower competition in South
Africa. There were opportunities a plenty. Although Semion did not employ Russians exclusively,

34
he kept his security Russian speaking. It was a matter of trust. Patriotism was still strong.

Andries didn't find it amusing. But he also knew that he couldn't take his stock back. The Russians
knew it. He could have sold them to someone else. Farmers were always keen for cheap labour. But
at this rate, the five alive would join the seven dead. And they would have got nothing from a trip
across country. Why they had to come all the way across country to sell their wares didn't make
sense to Andries.

“Fine.”

Viktor smiled. His father would be pleased. They would have to feed them. Get these guys some
rest before the weekend. At least the animals would be fed well tonight. Some important Americans
were arriving. They wouldn't pay for the five they saw now but after a few days they would be
worth every cent. He had to make it worth their while. Enjoyable. Make the price tag seem worthy.

35
Chapter 12

The guests were all big white teeth and painted faces. The women all cooed and complemented
Ayesha on her new home, her new baby. Although, baby Majid was hardly a new baby at over a
year, but people still fussed. Aadil had insisted they have a small informal get together for some
friends and off course some family. The new home was a standard 4 bedroom double storey house.
Ayesha and Aadil bought the home to be closer to both of their families. For both of them, having
the little one close his grandparents was more important than the mild annoyances of in laws.

Ayesha sat with her little Majid smiling and laughing and making conversation with her guests. She
could remember a time when she would have seriously given some thought to faking a deadly
illness to get out of events like this. But as she had grown to love Aadil more and had become
accustomed to his life and the socialising. She felt comfortable. Content.

Aadil came in, he was carrying a tray from the braai area and wearing an apron. She smiled at him.
He made his kissy face, dropped the tray on the kitchen counter, told his two permanent kitchen
staff members what to do and went back outside. The men were standing outside, the women inside
were chatting, and commenting, Ayesha chipped in with a comment here and there.

One of the ladies from the kitchen had placed the braaied meat in serving trays and brought it to the
dining area. The other ladies followed closely behind carrying two large glass bowels with salad.
Ayesha stood up and invited the female guests to follow her to the dining area. It was part of the
housewarming experience. The informal tour. Ayesha smiled to herself as the exclamations rolled of
the tongues of her guests. She was actually enjoying herself. She liked the people that had come
over for a quiet Sunday braai. Sunday was the only day you could really get everyone together.
Shops, jobs and general exhaustion from the previous week made any other day impossible. And
although it was never formally mentioned, it was generally understood that women would sit
separately, preferably in the house and the men would be outside for the duration of the visit.

The trays and salads with bottles of soft drinks, jugs of juice, bread rolls were laid out buffet style
on the glass dining room table as the room's centre piece. White leather couches were placed around
the room, against the wall with strong wooden chairs around the table. Her mother was having an
animated conversation with a woman that worked with Aadil at the hospital. Whenever her mother
got excited she spoke with her hands as if she was conducting an orchestra or her hands were
painting a picture. Aadil's mother had followed the ladies back to the kitchen. Aadil had warned her
about annoying the staff and although she always meant well, she had a way of upsetting the best
natured of people.

36
The door intercom rang a second time before Ayesha heard it from the dining area. She looked
around again. It rang a third time. She walked to the door and lifted the receiver. The video screen
lit up and she saw a man in a suit, standing in front of the camera. He leaned into the intercom.

“Salaam Alaikum Ayesha?

“Walaikum Salaam. Yeah, Give me a sec.”

She buzzed the gate to open

Ayesha sighed. She hung up the handset. She called her mother over and handed Majid to her. Her
mother's look of concern and attempt to question her daughter were waved off. Ayesha felt uneasy.
She didn't know what to expect. From herself more than from the details Sameer Parker had to offer
her. She wanted to tell Aadil. But time had run out and when she said sometime over the weekend
she didn't think it would be today. But she felt a wave of old emotions hover over her in
anticipation. Sameer came up the path, the gate closing behind him. Ayesha stood in the doorway,
door ajar.

Ayesha smiled as she stretched out her hand to greet Sameer. He shook it and Ayesha led him into
the lounge area.

“Can I get you anything Mr. Parker?”

“Water please. Cold please. Call me Sameer.” Ayesha went off to the kitchen. Aadil walked in
looking for Ayesha and found Sameer sitting in the lounge. He had his apron on and in one hand
gloved with a tray in his hand.

“Hi” Aadil said, walking into the lounge area, his head tilted to the side.

Sameer turned around and stood up, his hand stretching out to greet Aadil.

“Salaam Alaikum. My name is Sameer Parker. I came to speak to you wife, Ayesha. She's just
getting me a glass of water.” Sameer gave his polite smile. Aadil didn't reciprocate.

There was a moment of silence and awkwardness between the two. Aadil knew who Sameer Parker
was. He had read about him as the new crime fighting hero. The same crime fighting hero called
inept and incompetent by a lawyer a few days earlier. And now he was sitting in his lounge.
Wanting to talk to his wife.

“Meat?” Aadil offered.

“What?” Sameer looked down a little off guard.

Aadil gestured the braai tray with freshly scorched slabs of beef.

37
“Braai meat?”

“No thanks.”

“You sure?” Aadil asked.

“Shukran” Sameer said.

Thank you

“Afwan” Aadil dropped his hand with the tray.

Don't mention it

Both men shared another awkward moment. Aadil knew who he was, what he wanted to know was
what he was doing here, especially after the highly publicised claims made by a lawyer from a few
days earlier. Sameer knew this was going to be awkward. But this was something he wanted
because he knew it would work. He had read her file, extensively, ignoring the trauma of her final
case. The highly publicised “tranny case” as the press had dubbed it; Ayesha had established herself
as formidable investigator and operative. It was the kind of experience that was severely lacking in
the OCB.

Aadil turned and left. He would get the story from Ayesha later on. He had seen her after that case
with Ellen Fischer. Her disillusionment, he had put her together -every brittle fragment back into
place. He had helped her move on. To be able to walk away and heal from the trauma of the Ellen
Fischer case. He passed Ayesha as he walked out. He didn't stop. Now was not the time.

Ayesha brought the glass in on a tray. It was a habit she picked up from her mother. She hated it.
But she couldn't help herself. Sameer took the water as Ayesha sat down from across her.

“I didn't expect that you would come here today.”

“I'm sorry Ayesha. When you said anytime this weekend I thought...”

“It's ok. I know who you are. And when you called about having something important discuss I said
I needed to think about it. But I think you better tell me what you want to talk about first.”

Sameer gathered his thoughts and ordered them in the most appealing way. You can't take these
things personally he reminded himself. He wouldn't blame her if she said no immediately.

“I've had a look through your file.”

“Why?”

“I'm getting to that Ayesha. When the Government decided to put the OCB together, they were

38
looking to build a new team. Unfortunately, as I'm sure you've seen, the convictions are a long way
off from our arrest rate. And the problem is we lack experience.”

Ayesha was quiet. At the back of her head she expected it.

“Sameer, I have a job, I work for a rights group part-time and I have my family. I'm afraid I am not
interested. I'm sorry.”

“Hear me out Ayesha. Please. I mean I know what you went through, with the SCU. And you were
highly rated. I read your file. And I understand your situation. But I wouldn't be here if I wasn't
desperate.”

“Wait. Please, before you go on. I am not interested in what you have to offer. There are plenty of
good men and women that went to work for SAPS that you can pull into the agency.”

“Please hear me out. I read your file. Your experience. Your background is perfect. And I need your
help. We have our problems. And I need people like you, especially with your experience in
organised crime. The OCB is a highly specialised unit. We're not some run of the mill pavement
beaters.”

Sameer spoke. He spoke about the magical midfield metaphor. About the experience needed to
make sure the prosecutions were more successful. Ayesha said nothing. She needed time to think.
She needed to discuss it with her husband.

Sameer left and as Ayesha watched him leave she found herself surprisingly conflicted. She loved
what her life had become and turned into over the last couple of years, domesticity agreed with her
and the work with the human rights group put her skills to good use, but she felt conflicted about
what her decision should be. If she said no, she might be closing a door to something positive. If
she said yes, she would be gambling with the beautiful life she had acquired, her husband and her
son.

Aadil was standing behind her when she closed the door.

“So what did he want?”

Chapter 13

Sinderella was a modern, spanish style small holding situated about 100km east of Pretoria. Situated
in the centre of a horseshoe collection of hills, Sinderella was an exclusive, by invitation only
gentlemen's club. The elitism was a necessity. It justified the price that their clientele paid, the need

39
for armed guards. It was a service like no other.

Sinderella was a world unto itself with its own rules, with its own hierarchy and its own way of
doing things. It was an all-your-wildest-dreams- come- true facility for spoilt power mongers and
brokers whose taste for life was in desperate need of a rare spice. It was run by a lanky man by the
name Corne Visagie. Corn, as he preferred to be called, enforced a strict no questions asked policy.
If a client possessed the means then no wish was beyond their capabilities.

A small army of suited men provided security at the insistence of his benefactor. Although Corn
knew that there was little or no risk or need for burly men in black suits with jackets covering
automatic weapons. His clients wanted one thing above their wildest desires, discretion. And that is
what Corn charged them for. Off course it didn't harm his ambition to keep several hidden cameras
in rooms for certain clients that might be of use in a pinch. Something his benefactor would never
approve of but it nevertheless acted as a form of insurance for Corn. The wealthy and powerful
caught in the act so to speak. It was positively priceless.

The evening ahead was known as “Pork Night” a hot evening when guests would be pumped with
liquor, stripped of their clothes and dignity as special orders delivered and freshly discovered treats
auctioned off.

The guests gathered, approaching the gates of intoxication wearing satin dressing gowns, each one
having been given a room that they would later be using. There was never any exchange of money
at the facility. Each guest was given a card which entitled them to bid and they would be billed later.
There was never a problem with debt recovery since this wasn't the salary to salary survivalist breed
of ordinary mortals.

Richard was cooking in this heat. The basement, the holding area that was used to keep the girls
before they were taken up to the auction, was a poorly ventilated and artificially lit section of the
compound's architecture. The auction was really a big room with the guests, naked, seated in a semi
circle. The lighting was sufficient, the real focus being on the items being auctioned. Corn would
signal him via 2-way radio to bring up the next item. Each item, the girls, some as old as 30, others
as young as 16, were numbered, made to wear no more than a vest and panty. Corn liked the fact
that the basement was so hot, when they were brought up, they were sumptuously damp, sweaty and
sticky. Richard directed the girls and the men bringing them in. The basement had another door
which led out to the holding areas at the back of the compound. It was a large, window barred
dormitory.

Richard could hear the increasing din of voices upstairs. They only ever entered the auction room

40
when Corn felt they were sufficiently liquored up, juiced up with the angst of anticipation. It made
them competitive which for Corn meant more money. Richard's radio crackled.

“Is julle gereed?”

Are you ready?

“Yeah.” Richard answered in English. He might have had an Afrikaans surname but he was English.
Every so often Corn would speak in Afrikaans and would get upset when Richard responded in
English.

“Kan jy nommer een opbring asseblief?”

Can you bring number 1 up please?

Richard went into the dark holding area of the basement. The girls were all seated, sedated with a
hit of heroin and Rohypnol. When they were sufficiently roofied up they were able to walk but not
resist their main purpose. Corn got the drugs cheap. And it added value, made them docile and when
it came to being resold, the girls would be easier to move and resell. There were only that many
uses you could get out of any one girl before it cost more to keep her than you were able to sell her
for every night. Most of Sinderella's clients had a strict one fuck policy. With the odd exception,
there was intense rivalry between some of the patrons, some wanting to fuck a particular girl
because another client had recommended her or because he was able to do something with her. It
was continuous one upmanship. If someone had fucked her till she didnt walk right, someone had to
fuck her in every orifice until she screamed and begged for help. No one ever came to help.
Discretion. It was right paid for and as long as the girls weren't murdered or never able to get back
to work, Corn never asked. Then off course there were those who refused to pay for fucking any girl
that a specific patron had fucked. It had to be an exclusive deal. Most of the time you dealt with
spoilt brats who threw their toys because they didn't like how the toast was buttered.

So after a month the girls were usually traded to city dealers. The girls were dropped off, desperate
and dependent in the care of some city slum, reptilian dealer, who for a few hundred or something
even a thousand Rand, would put the girl to work for him, preying on her addiction. The hand-me-
down was worth a lot to a city dealer. She would earn him twice as much as his best girl because
she was new, a novelty, she looked classier and for the first week at least, she looked cleaner.
Sometimes you just stopped at the traffic lights, opened the door and told them to get out. It didn't
matter where they were from if they could speak English, or what neighbourhood you left them in,
because before her bed was cold there was a new girl to replace her. Whether the new girl was a
South African or an African, or a European or Asian, there was always fresh meat. What happened

41
to them was someone else's problem. Corn had once told Sherry: “If she has a pussy, she can look
after herself.”

Richard led her up the stairs, the noise increasing as he approached the door. He could hear Corn
working them up. Like some phone sex expert on a microphone telling a bunch of over-liquored,
under-endowed men what they would be able to do in only moments. Richard opened the door and
the collective anticipation hit him in the face like a fiery back draft.

He watched them as he led her in, small 22 year old small breasted Thai girl he had bought from a
bunch of sailors in Durban last week. She looked at him as he stood back and pushed her in. In her
intoxicated state her brain registered what was before her. Richard saw the etched little pleas on
her face. He closed the door behind him as he made his way down the stairs again. He could hear
Corn begin his pitch.

“Come on boys, who wants to see what's under the hood?”

A raucous cheer responded and Richard didn't hear the rest. Idiots that paid for sex. You could have
thrown a pig into the room and they would be one hand raised, one hand grabbing themselves, their
mouths salivating.

Richard checked his watch. He walked over to his chair outside the basement door. He opened a
small black satchel and removed one of several syringes with a brown liquid. It was time for a little
anti-hysteria insurance.

He opened the door. And there were 5 girls tied up and against the wall. Jessica's eyes were wide,
her face contorted in panic, her head shaking from side to side.

Three days ago Richard saw a school girl, leaning to one side under the weight of her school bag.
He had stopped and offered her a lift. He was amazed at how quickly she had said yes. And he was
three doors away from her house when he had injected her with enough of the brown stuff rendering
her defenceless. When he saw her he realised they would get at least R5000 for her. Double for a
virgin. They would check that later. These things were becoming less and less certain.

“Please. Don't. Let me go. I know you're a good man. I won't say anything if you let me go.”

Richard kneeled down, thumbed her head to one side and injected the horrible sickly sweet brown
stuff into her blood stream.

Her voice tapered off into nonsensical mutterings. He brushed his hands down her face, over her
neck and rested them on her chest. He spread his open palm over her vested breast and rubbed. He
felt her arousal under his hands. He smiled to himself. He was proud of himself. She was about 16

42
withlong brown hair and well built. She was shapely,and firm under his hand. “Built for sin”, as
Corn would say.

His radio crackled again.

“Richard, bring vir my, nommers, twee and drie asseblief.”

Richard, bring up two and three

Richard could hear debaucherous cheers in the background.

He would take them up one at a time, Jessica first, and then the blonde 18 year old who had
responded to an advert for models needed for an upmarket club. Corn had plans for them, with or
without their cooperation. He plugged the syringe into the neck of the blonde girl.

“That's it, easy now.”

43
Chapter 14

Ayesha had just spent a half hour with an OCB shooting instructor being assessed. The indoor
basement circuit, meant to test your abilities in field conditions had her adrenaline pumping. The
intentionally taxing course it was followed by the static targets at the indoor basement firing range.
Your arms shook under the standard Glock 22 .40 issue running around indoors. Ayesha huffed and
puffed her way through the course, she thought she had done well enough. But the firing range test
was near impossible as the adrenaline pulsed through her veins, her body desperate for oxygen.

She fired off her first eight rounds, reloaded the second magazine and squeezed off the second batch
of eight rounds. She placed her gun down, removed the protective ear muffs and turned around.
Arthur, the armoury instructor put his clipboard down, he thanked Ayesha in his stony faced manner
and proceeded past her to pick up her weapon.

Sameer stood behind Arthur, and waved as Ayesha wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.
This was hardly what she expected for her first day. She approached Sameer.

“Nothing like hitting the ground running.”

“I'm sorry. I should have told you when you called me to say you were taking the job.”

“It’s fine. Anything else I have to do?”

“Well standard protocol dictates that you need an hour with a psychologist for an assessment. Do
you think you do?”

Ayesha hesitated. She knew what the implication of the question was. She remembered how she had
left the SCU.

“Do you?”

The two of them stared at each other.

“Ayesha, if you tell me you feel ready I will pass you.”

“But you made me do the gun tests.”

“In the field, you either know how to use a gun or not. You've been circuit tested. You maybe need
30 minutes on the treadmill everyday but I think you're fine. Now do you?”

Ayesha felt like telling him to fuck off. 30 minutes on the treadmill. Who did he think he was?

“I'm ok.”

“Good. Follow me. I have someone who wants to meet you.”

44
Ayesha followed Sameer up to his office. In the elevator they made polite chit chat, . Ayesha felt her
face wet with sweat. She was unfit. Three years was a surprisingly long time, and the course had
been unexpectedly taxing.

Sameer led her to a windowless room, brightly lit with a long dark wood boardroom table with
eight chairs around it. Plastic bottles of water were placed on it. And judging by the condensation
on the bottles they had been out put some time ago.

Dumza sat in front of his laptop typing away, his spectacles low on his nose as he tried finishing a
line he was typing. He looked up.

“Good Morning Mrs. Munshi. Give me one more minute, and I will be with you. Sam, ask our
newest recruit if she would like something to drink while I finish this letter.”

Sameer closed the door behind him. Ayesha opened the bottle of water on the table and took a sip.

Dumza closed the lid of his laptop and looked up. He wore a broad smile as he looked at the two
additions to the boardroom.

“So Mrs. Munshi, Sameer tells me you want to be our hero, I mean heroine. I don't know, is that
sexist? You can't tell these days. What you can say, what you can’t. How was the arms test?”

“It was okay. I haven't got my results back yet.”

“And the Psych Evaluation? Sam?”

Sameer leaned forward. “I don't think that will be necessary Dumza”

“Mmm... interesting. Well that is your call.” he smiled as he said and his eyes moved from Sameer's
face to Ayesha.

“I haven't introduced myself. My name is Dumza Kwanele. I am Sam's boss and I am usually the
first person to get shat on when lawyers call for press conferences at the scenes where gangsters
bodies are found.” He smiled again as he said it and Ayesha immediately took a disliking to him. He
spoke as if he had a wheeze.

Sameer piped in. “Thank you for joining us here. I don't know if I was clear enough about what we
expected from you.”

“Well as I understood you were looking to get back some of your more experienced operatives for
the Organised Crime Bureau.” Ayesha felt disconnected and uncertain about things. The
communication seemed disjointed. And there seemed to be some sort of tension between Sameer
and Dumza.

45
“I think what Sam is trying to say is that there is a very specific case we need you on. Now Mrs
Munshi, I have read through your file. Impressive. Nasty business that last case of yours. Hung out
to dry like that.”

“It was an emotionally draining case. I reacted and...”

“...and the rest is history.” Dumza smiled again. Ayesha found his smile after every statement he
made unnerving, just slightly,

“There is a specific case. Maybe you heard about it and you will be starting behind the gun.”
Sameer nodded to Dumza, who reached for his remote and began to dim the lights. The screen
against the wall lit up with a picture of a face of the body as it was found at the crime scene.

The gouged eyes of Yusuf Aboobaker hollow black holes in his contorted face, frozen pain. It dug in
at Ayesha. She had seen bodies before, but the passage of time had wallpapered over the experience.

“Mr. Y, real name Yusuf Aboobaker, Senegalese expat, was recently let off from a drugs charge after
a raid by the OCB and the South African Police Services. As you can see , he was found dead last
week outside the Johannesburg Magistrate's court.. The OCB wanted him for various charges:slum
landlord, pimping, drugs and a few murder charges. Unfortunately, when we did try grabbing him,
we were not that lucky. Nothing stuck to him. We couldn't hold him.” Dumza clicked a button on
his laptop and the slide changed.

“Brian Muller, known by his moniker, Skeletor. Enforcer for a bunch of street thugs, some guns,
drugs and muscle work for hire.” The picture was of a man severely beaten left seated on a park
bench. “He was found facing a school playground.”

Dumza clicked the button again and there was a slide of several police officers carrying several
black bags. “Mervyn Green, all 6 pieces accounted for and carried by the helpful SAPS officers. His
body was found in the street opposite his house. No one had seen a thing. Laid out very neatly. All
the parts wrapped and strung together very neatly.” Dumza looked to Ayesha for some reaction. Was
she mentally tough, did she flinch? Was she too tough? There was a problem with too tough. People
who didn't feel or show emotion. Dumza had seen it in more women than men. They were often too
afraid to show emotion on the job, scared some idiot would call them typical emotional females.
Those were the people that Dumza found frightening. Sooner or later it had to spill over
somewhere. “Mervyn Green was Brian Muller's boss and had several month ago been busted for
selling guns. He was suspected of raping a 17 year old school girl after her boyfriend, took her
along to Mervyn's little den of sin. Looking for a banky or envelope of whatever. Things turned sour
as these turn when walking into the pit. The boyfriend didn't walk out. Neither did the girl. The

46
charges were dropped and there was no prosecution after a witness failed to turn up for court.
Questions?”

Ayesha felt queasy. This was the reality of crime. The real stuff, that wasn't detailed in the evening
news; severely beaten, mutilated, decapitated.; were all described with clean words to depict
something beyond the opposite in meaning. Sensitive viewers want to know, but they don't want to
know, not really.

Sameer broke the silence.

“Ayesha the case we're presenting to you, the case we want you to take control over is something of
a sensitive issue. All of these cases have some tie in with the OCB. All three victims were in the
weeks preceding their deaths released from cases brought about by the OCB. We charged them and
set them for trial. Their lawyer is feeding the media with theories of a gang war and that the OCB is
doing nothing because we want to see them kill each other.”

“Do we?” Ayesha's question made Sameer and Dumza glance at each other.

“Well do we?” Ayesha was insistent.

“No. I know as a law enforcement officer we should be happy that a bunch of criminals are taking
each other out. But our intelligence is dead space at the moment. Nothing. The gangs out there are
on their guard. They’re suspicious of each other. One man's poison is another's bread. That sort of
thing. There is a lot of business to be made from taking out your rival. Worse is if it’s a gang war
and some innocent bystander gets taken out in the crossfire. We just can't afford to have things
escalate. So I need you to find a pattern, hopefully point us in the right direction to make arrests.
Even if it’s one of our own.” Sameer's voice was hollow as briefed Ayesha.

And Ayesha finally got the whole picture. She understood the full implication. A dirty cop, a gang
war, each scenario held some implication.

Dumza went on and explained the process. Ayesha would be brought on to investigate the killings.
There were things she had to look for, internally. If there was a bad agent or officer, they had to find
them before anyone on the outside did.

“At this stage, I think it’s likely its one of our own.” Dumza said staring into the space above his
screen speaking to no one in particular.

“What makes you say that?” Ayesha couldn't think of why anyone would suspect their own.

“The scenes were clean. All public places. Who else could get that close, not be noticed. Who else
would want to prove something? Just a thought.”

47
Ayesha didn't respond. This was a helluva way to make her return to her former career.

“Ayesha, go down to HR down on the third floor. They need to finish processing you, give you your
Identification, your parking pass and set you up with IT. I'll get hold of you. That's if you're still
keen.”

“Yeah. Count me in.” Ayesha stood up, shook Dumza's hand and Sameer's. As she closed the door
Dumza turned to Sameer.

“How ready is she? I mean this is no fucking straight forward car hijacking syndicate. We have no
fucking idea who we're dealing with.”

Sameer thought for a second. “She'll be fine. She got into character quickly. I watched her with the
gun. Like riding a bike. She pulled a 69% on the field circuit and got 80% accuracy on the firing
range, right afterwards.”

“Shooting a gun is one thing Sam. Does she have the balls?”

“Well Dumza, they're aren't exactly beating down our doors now are they?”

“Yeah, but the Press is Sam. The Press is.”

48
Chapter 15

After a week Patricia thought she had finally made it through. She was a domestic worker for
Margie and Kevin. She had own room at the end of the house. A large room, fully furnished with its
own bathroom. She hadn't slept, not on the first night. She heard the door open several times and
she heard them talking and then leave. Her heart stopped every time she heard a sound that first
night.

Margie seemed nice. She spoke a lot. She didn't work and her husband Kevin said little. He smiled a
lot. And after three days Patricia looked forward to putting the last week's events behind her.

On the first morning she woke up with Margie standing in her room holding a tray.

“You must be starving hey?” She bent down and put the tray down on the table next to the bed.

“I can't imagine it must be easy coming here. I mean we see what happens in Zimbabwe, that's
where you're from right? Anyway, you don't have anything to worry about. South Africa is a
beautiful country. You'll love it here. After you're finished I'll show you what we want you to do and
you can start work. But first eat up.” Margie wore a sympathetic smile as she stood back.

“Yes mam.” Patricia nodded, her head pointed down. She was uncertain about whether she could
look at Margie or not.

“Please call me Margie. That mam thing is so Apartheid. Ok, Patricia, that's your name right?
Anyway I need your papers. You know. Like your work permit and your passport.”

Patricia's heart stopped. Her head felt light. Sleep deprivation, hunger, stress, and now the woman
wanted her papers.

“I... I... I don't...”

“Oh. Oh dear. That's going to be a problem. See I can't employ you. You know, work for me. You
can't work for me without papers. I mean if they catch us, they'll put us in jail and then they'll send
you back to Zimbabwe. Where are you from in Zimbabwe?”

“Mutare.” Patricia stuttered the words out almost silent. After all she had been through, after being
raped, beaten and abused for several days, a life in South Africa, a life she hoped would support her
family, was being ripped away from her.

“Mutar... what? Never heard of it. Mmm... Let me see.” Margie held her head as she thought.

“Look don't worry. Ok? Don't panic. Let me speak to Kevin. That's my husband. You'll like him.
Anyway I'm sure he will know what to do. You have your breakfast. I'll call him.”

49
Patricia couldn't believe how kind these people were. Kevin had made some phone calls. Margie
told her that night. Kevin had paid a man from Home Affairs a lot of money. For papers so she
could stay in the country. It would take some time to organise, so Patricia had to be careful. If she
went out and anyone knew that she was a Zimbabwean it could mean trouble. That is why it would
be better if she didn't speak to the other women working around the neighbourhood. You know how
jealous South Africans could be. They would probably report her. Better if she stayed inside until
the papers arrived. Margie told her how much she liked her and knew how much her family needed
the money. She told her how they, she and Kevin, would help her. With whatever she needed. Kevin
had contacts at the border so if she needed to send money or groceries to her family, she just had to
let them know.

That was almost a week ago. Patricia began to feel safe. She began to push the images of her
traumatic entry into the country behind her. The urgency, with which she rushed to the beautiful
picture she had painted in her head of the future she coveted, blinded her. Sudden sounds or
footsteps behind made her jump, but she felt safe with Kevin and Margie. They were good and kind
people. She could feel it.

Late that Friday afternoon Margie came to Patricia's room. She popped her head around the door.

“Knock. Knock. Hope I'm not disturbing you.”

Margie's face was flushed. Red in fact. She was wearing a strappy gym set with body hugging
pants.

“Hallo.” Patricia's voice was little. Although she felt safer, she still felt apprehension every time
someone came to her room.

“Patricia, Kevin and I felt that you should get to know us a bit better. I know he hasn't spoken much
to you since you got here and I think you're a little scared of him. Will you join us for supper?
Tonight? What do you think about that?” Margie smiled as she waited for her answer.

Patricia didn't know what to say. She felt a knot of tension in her throat. She was hesitant and
confused.

“I know what you're thinking. But Kevin does it with all his new employees. He likes to get to
know the people that work for him. So he can be friends with them rather than their boss.”

Patricia was confused. She wasn't expecting this. She nodded.

“Ok?” Margie nodded as she asked. Her eyes wide, her mouth open as if prompting Patricia to her
answer.

50
“Ok.” She smiled as she said it, although, she was still unsure whether or not she was doing the
right thing.

“Good. You'd better get ready and come join us at 6.30 in the dining room. I'll leave you to your
programme. I know Kevin will be very happy.”

Patricia nervously tried to get ready. She picked out what she thought was a nice dress to wear to
dinner with her bosses. Margie had brought her clothes that she said she had. She said they were
hers but Patricia wondered how old they were because they were much smaller than Margie. There
were shoes, dresses, tops and even a few pairs of jeans. Not brand new but better than anything
Patricia had brought with her and that had been taken from her when she crossed the border. Margie
hadn't asked why Patricia had no clothes when she got there. Patricia didn't tell her what happened
to it either.

She checked her face in the mirror so many times before she left her room. She checked her clothes.
A part of her felt excited. A large part of her was still apprehensive. She struggled to push back her
recent memories. It had happened to someone else. She had seen it. It wasn't her. It seemed
distanced.

She stuttered into the dining room, with careful, tentative steps. It was a sectioned off part of the
lounge area with patio door opening onto the back garden. The door was opened. Kevin stood up.
He was a big man with a shaved head. He stuck out his hand.

“Welcome Patricia.” he licked his lips as he shook her hand and directed her to a seat on his left
opposite his wife Margie. Kevin pulled out the chair for Patricia. She felt very uncertain of herself.
She sat down. Her head down hoping to avoid eye contact. She mumbled a thank you. Kevin took
his seat. He picked up a bottle of wine. Patricia noticed the big glasses in front of Kevin and
Margie.

“Wine? Wait, how old are you?”

“20.”

“What?”

“20.” This time her voice was a little louder.”

“20? really? You sure?”

“Yes sir.”

“Sir? You hear that Margie? Sir. I tell you what, they got it right in Zimbabwe. Well not now. But

51
respect. I always found Zimbabweans to be so much better than South African blacks. Please
Patricia, we're all equals here. Call me Kevin. None of this baas (boss), master or anything like
that.” he laughed. Margie concurred with her own laugh as she took a sip of her wine. Kevin poured
a glass of wine.

“You'll like it. Well I do. Haha.”

Patricia looked at the glass of wine. She had seen it in movies and where her mother had worked.
People drinking wine. Red wine. She often wondered what it tasted like. She had never had it
before. She imagined red wine was sweet. It looked as if it could be sweet.

She took a gulp of wine and immediately made a face. She couldn't imagine swallowing it. She held
in her mouth for a few seconds as Margie and Kevin watched her, eagerly for a reaction. She
swallowed it, her eyes squinting. It was not sweet. It tasted funny. It wasn't sour, and it wasn't sweet.
It tasted like something that had gone bad. She put the glass down.

Kevin and Margie laughed.

“Sip it. It’s your first time. Don't worry, when the food arrives you drink that with your food and
you will enjoy it.”

The meal arrived. Margie insisted on serving. Patricia was their guest tonight. It was just the three
of them in the house. Patricia sipped the wine as she had her meal. Kevin would fill up everyone's
glasses. Patricia sat quietly through the meal. She answered when she was asked questions. Kevin
picked up the bottle to top up everyone's glasses.

“Shit. Let me get another bottle.” he put the empty bottle down as he got up to get another from the
kitchen.

Margie drank the few drops left in her glass.

“Patricia, why are you so quiet? You must feel like this is your home. Think of us as your family.”

Patricia nodded and smiled. She felt a little weird. She felt a little slow, as if she was hearing Margie
a second too late.

Kevin came back in stopped at the table.

“Margie love, where's the cork screw?”

“It’s on the kitchen counter? I swear if it was a snake it would have bitten you.”

“It’s not there.”

“Let me go find it for you. I swear men!”,she said, mock upset. She got up and went to the kitchen.

52
Kevin stood next to Patricia with the bottle in hand. He put the bottle down on the table. He stood
behind Patricia, seated in her chair.

“Relax Patricia.” he put his hands on her shoulders and started massaging her, his thumbs on her
neck, moving up and down.

Patricia felt tense when he touched her. It was intrusive. But it wasn't. It wasn't like the men from
when she crossed the border. She felt her heart pounding. She was unsure. She could feel his fingers
over her shoulder, rubbing up and down. His hands moved over her shoulders and neck.

“We're all friends here. Isn't that what you want? To be friends with me and Margie?”

His hands inched over her shoulders. She felt his fingers over her neck. The drifted slowly as part of
his massage dance down the front of her dress, over her chest and under her neckline.

“Just relax.” he leaned in, his hands, course on her skin slipping under her bra probing at her breast.

Patricia jumped up, panicked as Margie walked in with the corkscrew in hand. She was
overwhelmed with fear, guilt, and confusion. She stood up and ran out. As best as she could. She
felt wobbly on her feet, the room spun as she tried to escape to the sanctuary of her room. She
stumbled slightly, her head spinning, gripping the walls as she found her way to the room. She burst
into tears as she closed the door. She heard them arguing.

“What do you mean it’s the wine?” Margie's voice was raised. Patricia couldn't imagine she was
capable of raising her voice.

“You fucked up. Again. Damnit Kevin!”

Patricia sobbed to herself. She wasn't sure of how she felt. She wanted the world to swallow her up
now, to disappear. To go back to her home. To have never left. She felt safer in Zimbabwe than she
felt here. How could she have allowed that man to touch her, how could she betray Margie by
sitting there and letting her husband put his hand on her? The guilt enveloped her. She heard
footsteps coming towards her room. She held her breath. Margie would probably fire her. Tell her
to leave. And then where would she be. How could she have let him do that. Right there, in the
house. Fear had been replaced by guilt.

There was a knock on the door. Margie popped her head in. She was carrying a glass with her. She
walked in slowly. Patricia avoided looking up. She couldn't begin to imagine how angry Margie
was. Margie sat down on the bed next to her and put the glass next to her.

“Are you ok?”

53
She put her arm around Patricia's shoulder.

“It’s ok. It’s ok.”

Patricia choked back tears as the guilt she felt worsened.

“You're just in a bit of shock. Here take this.” She gave Patricia two white tablets.

“What is this?” Patricia looked up, her face wet with tears.

“Something to help you feel better. Here take it with this.” Margie smiled as she passed Patricia the
glass of wine and handed her the two white tablets. You'll feel much better just now.”

Patricia swallowed the tablets, taking in a huge gulp of wine. She didn't like the taste of the wine.
But she didn't want to offend Margie. She expected her to be upset, finding her husband's hand
down her top.

She started to feel detached. Like she was outside her body.

Margie held Patricia close to her.

“Kevin likes you. He wants you to like him too. He wants to be your friend. Don't you want to be
friends with him?”

Patricia felt heavy. She felt as if she was swaying. Margie's voice boomed, but in the distance. Like
she was far away and shouting at her.

“You know if it wasn't for Kevin you wouldn't be able to stay in the country. He paid a lot of money
so you can stay here.”

The room began to spin. Patricia felt a hand between her legs. She tried to push the hand away. She
didn't. Her arms felt heavy. She saw Kevin standing, naked in front of her. Margie kissed her. The
woman's tongue darting serpent like in and out of her tongue. She felt like screaming. She didn't.
She felt hands over her. She felt breath on her.

She woke up in between a naked Kevin and Margie. She wasn't in her room. She was in the master
bedroom. She was naked. She panicked as she tried to pry herself from the limbs. She didn't want to
wake either of them up. She didn't know how she got here. She tried remembering. Her head ached.
Throbbed. A strong beating pain from the back of her head to the front. As if her scalp was being
pulled off. Her eyes fell heavy. She picked up her clothes off the floor as she ran out of the room
down the stairs to the back of the house. She got into her room and closed the door behind her. She
felt sick. She had no memory. “Oh God, what have I done?”, she repeated to herself. And yet
nothing ignited her memory.

54
She turned to see her reflection in the mirror. She dropped the clothes she was wearing. She looked
at her face. She looked at her naked body. She felt sore. Her body felt sore, raw. She began to
breathe heavy. She couldn't stop herself. What would her mother say? What would her father say?
She wanted to pray. What would God say? She felt ashamed. It was a monstrous weight on her
shoulders as she fought of images of her family, as if they could see her in her current state.

She gasped as she struggled to breathe. She threw up. On the floor, on herself.

She dropped to her knees. She looked at her reflection. She felt the push of vomit come from within
her. She threw up again. She fell to the floor, passed out, naked on the floor.

As she drifted off into the darkness, on the floor, she struggled to remember what had happened,
how she had got to where she had found herself. How did she let this happen? She felt the crushing
weight of guilt on her.

55
Chapter 16

“Why must I sit with the blackies? I always sit with them?”

Sergei, lit cigarette hanging off his lip and dressed in his trademark nylon tracksuit and gold chains,
was complaining, as he questioned his brother. He had a tattoo of a tiger's head on the right of his
chest. In Russian criminal circles it was sign of being a lethal enforcer, a right usually granted by
the leader of the group. Sergei had his done after his first kill. He was very proud of it.

“Because that is all you're good for.” Viktor was irritated. Whenever the Americans came to town
for their annual hunt he found himself annoyed. They were loud, brash and annoying. They still
didn't know the difference between being from Russia and Ukraine. But at $250 000 for the
weekend his father convinced him he could put aside his prejudice.

“What do you mean that's all I am good for? Huh? When I must clean up after you, then I am very
good.” Sergei threw his cigarette down and stubbed it with his running shoe.

“Sergei, stop being so sensitive. That's the problem with you brother, you watch too much TV and
you always think I'm being unfair.”

“This is bullchit. You hear me? Bullchit!”

He was about to leave his brother's office when Semion walked in.

Semion was shorter than both of his sons. His long grey hair combed back. His beard brushed flat.
His face looked to be in a permanent frown and he spoke very slowly.

“Sergei. What is the matter with you? Every time you complain? Don't I give you everything you
want? What is the problem?”

Sergei hung his head. As much as he complained he would never think of speaking that way to his
father.

“Nothing. I was just going out father.”

“No. I hear you complaining to your brother. I told him to tell you to sit with the animals. Do you
want to know why?”

“It's ok. I'll go.” Sergei kept his head down. He was embarrassed. He wanted to get out there. He
needed another cigarette.

Semion stopped his son, put his hands on his shoulders. “Look at me.”

Sergei looked up to his father's face.

56
“Because, I can trust you to do what I ask.”

“Yes father.”

“Good. Now go down there. Keep your phone with you ok?”

“Yes father.”

Sergei left. Semion met the disapproving eye of his eldest son.

“What? You also been watching Dr. Phil?”

“You spoil him. That is why he never grows up.”

“You don't know how to deal with people Viktor.”

“He's not people father. He's my brother.”

“Exactly. He’s your younger brother. He looks up to you. Learn how to speak to him.”

“Yes father.”

“Good. Now I want you to go downstairs. Those fucking Americans are downstairs. Drinking all
my liquor.”

“They paid for it.”

“Yes well take them down. I don't want them sitting around getting drunk and then going hunting.
Otherwise we have to feed those animals another month till the next time. And this is not some
fucking animal shelter.”

“Ok, I'll drive them down and tell Sergei to let some of them out. How many?”

“Let two out. If they're good, we'll let out more.”

“It’s those brothers. You know how they like hunting blacks.” Viktor laughed.

“Yes, well last night they brought a friend.”

“Then we should let out three.”

“No. Not yet. Keep your phone on you. And take your gun with.”

Viktor looked at his father strangely as his father left.

“What is the matter father?”

“I don't like surprises. Just keep your phone on you.”

Semion left as slowly as he had entered. Viktor never understood why his father said and did some

57
of the things that he did. His father was an old spy who was never out of touch with his tradecraft
paranoia. He opened his drawer and took out a long nose Baretta he kept. An old fashioned 6
shooter. But it was his favourite and since his father had told him to keep a weapon on him, he
needed a business weapon.

*********************

Sergei parked his Jeep outside the reinforced wooden shed. It was situated in the middle of the
smallholding. And although there were no wild animals out right now, the use of small speakers
with a CD on loop helped maintain the illusion of lurking wild animals. No man in the locked shed
would think of escaping. Every day for the last week Sergei would drive out with a bucket of food
and open the small door hatch and shove the bucket in. A bucket of water would be shoved in.
Sergei would inspect the building to check if any attempts to escape were made. There were never
any. The loop ran throughout the night. The barred windows allowed limited views. Sometime
Sergei would let out a lion or another big cat, just to keep up the illusion.

Today was different. Sergei got out of the car. He pulled out his gun. A large hand cannon that his
brother Viktor disapproved of because he thought Sergei was too influenced by movies. He stubbed
out his cigarette in the dirt. He shouted at the shack.

“Hey blackies. Niggahs! Get back against the wall.” he didn't know why he shouted out the
warning; he knew none of them would dare escaping. The five men inside might not have been the
weak creatures that arrived here but they wouldn't bother escaping since they had been made to fear
everything outside the shed.

Sergei opened the door, unlocking the chained gate and then the padlocked bolted door. He opened
the door and found the men seated against the far wall.

“You two, come with me.” He chose two men, signalling with his gun hand.

One of them asked: “Where are you taking us?”

“Don't ask stupid questions. You want to work? Huh? Or you want to stay here? All you blacks. You
are lazy. You can stay here. I ask someone else.”

The two men he pointed out immediately stood up, dusted themselves off and followed Sergei out
as he locked the door behind him. The men stood by the Jeep.

Sergei looked at them as he got in, and they proceeded to follow him and jumped onto the back.

Sergei pointed his gun at them.

58
“Get out my Jeep! You make it stink. You want to go free? Now you go free. Go before they let the
lions out.”

The men got off the back of the Jeep. They stood and looked at each other, confused.

“What is wrong with you? Huh? You stupid? You dumb huh? Go! You free. Go. Run. Now!”

The men looked at each other. They were confused. They had no idea what was expected of them.
Not since they were shunted into the shed. But they started running. Sergei watched them run into
some tall grass. The two of them ran together. He lit another cigarette as he phoned his brother.

“Ya, they're out. Running south. They're together. What did you want me to do? Ask them to run in
separate directions. Next time you come here then!”

Sergei closed his phone. Everything for those fucking Americans he thought to himself. Next thing
he would have to shoot them himself and hang them up for those swines to shoot from the trees.

******************

Viktor drove the men up through the clearing to where the dense bushes and trees began. Under the
cover of the thick grass it was difficult to see your prey. If they knew how to hide and the hunters
knew how to look for their prey.

Lucas and Luther Buck, billionaire twin brothers, aged 48, owners of Brown's Processed Meats.
They introduced themselves as cattlemen from Dallas, Texas. Which was partly true. Since it was a
matter of public lore that one out ever 3 cattle slaughtered in Texas was from one of their many
ranches. Every year for the last 3 years the brothers had come to South Africa for 4 days of the best
hunting they had ever experienced.

This year they had unexpectedly brought a new another member in their party. Nicholas Cole was
introduced as a childhood friend of the twins and regular of their usual back home hunting trips.
Semion who had met them the night before was caught off guard.

As he told his son Viktor: “People are creatures of habit. When they break the habit unexpectedly,
make sure you have one hand on your gun.”

Viktor watched them load up their rifles. Luther did all the chatting with the newest hunting pilgrim
and Lucas made sure they had everything.

“I tell you what Nick, there ain't nothin like it. I knows you said you'res a good hunter, that there
ain't nothing that moves you haven't killed. Well I says you're still a virgin. And boy, we're gonna
pop your cherry today!”

59
“Luther, stop working him up. Nick, here's your ammo.” Lucas was very serious.

Nick took the ammunition.

“Don't we need to wear a reflector jacket?”

Luther slapped him on the back. “Not unless you want to be seen.”

Lucas turned to Viktor. “How many you let out?”

“Two. As per your request.”

“Good. We'll radio you when we're done. Thank you Viktor.”

Lucas took the rest of his gear, binoculars, radio, rifles, handgun and a small backpack with him as
he followed Luther and Nicholas into the bush. Viktor sat in the Jeep. Ordinarily he would drive
back to the lodge, have a whiskey check up on the other operations. But when his father told him to
take a gun with he knew, he needed to be closer to the action.

Almost three hours passed by, Viktor had passed out in the heat. He hadn't heard a single shot
coming from the three men. But then again if they had drifted far into the bush, the sound of the
rifle cracking would not have disturbed his sleep.

Sergei drove up, his tracksuit jacket unzipped almost to open, his chains dangling, the heat sapping
the last bit of his will and patience. He would rather have been inside with an ice cold vodka. South
Africans always found it odd that he kept his own stash of Swedish vodka in the freezer. It was a
grudging acknowledgement, but since the rise of capitalism, young Russians had embraced foreign
brands with verve. Swedish vodka was becoming more popular than the traditional homemade
Russian brands. It was seen as old fashioned.

He walked over to his napping brother. Stared at him. He was burning in the sun. Sergei laughed. It
would hurt later on. He was carrying his handgun, smoking a cigarette. He nudged his brother with
his gun hand.

“Viktor. Hey, Viktor. Hey wake up man. Hey, wake up man.”

Viktor opened his eyes, turned to meet his brother's sunglasses covered face, smiling broadly with a
cigarette hanging from his lips.

“I'm up. I'm up. What are you doing here?”

“Father phoned. Says you're not answering your phone. So he sent me here to you. You’re fucking
sleeping on the job again. But we have a problem.”

And that was all Viktor needed. He phoned his father immediately. 45 seconds later he was on his

60
radio. There was no time for intricate questions, intructions and urgency.

“Hallo Lucas? Lucas come in. This is Viktor.”

The radio crackled.

“This is Lucas. Come in.”

“Lucas, there is a problem, we did a count and found one of the leopards missing from the cage. It’s
probably nothing to worry about but my brother and I will come and pick you up just in case.”

“Damnit boy! We're God damned expert hunters. We ain't scared of no feline.”

“Please Mr. Buck, my father insists.”

“Fine, we're camped about three miles north of where you dropped us.”

“Good. My brother and I are on our way. Out.”

Viktor put the radio down looked up at his brother.

“I never liked those fucking Americans anyway. You have the rope?”

“Dah.” Sergei nodded.

“Good, get your shit and let's go get them. We still have to get to the other end.”

Viktor and Sergei took the short drive and found the three men camped behind a large fallen tree.
There were few high positions to hide in. Under the shade of a low hanging tree the three men had
found a position behind a fallen tree and hid there. Sergei got out first.

“Hey Americans, you find anything?”

Luther turned to face Sergei, his rifle at his side.

“No, we been waiting here the whole time and we haven't seen anything yet.” The words were void
of his earlier enthusiasm.

“Too bad.” Viktor followed Sergei, holding his hand behind his back.

As Viktor approached the three men his hand swung around, Sergei's hand moved instinctively from
behind his back and fired off two shots each. Lucas and Luther were shot first, one in the chest and
the other in the throat, Nicholas tried to jump over the fallen tree trunk and received two shots from
the brothers in his back. He fell slumped over the trunk.

Sergei pulled out his knife. It was stained with smeared blood. Viktor knew that his brother had
been to work. Sergei walked over to the Lucas who had been shot in the chest and sliced through his

61
neck, side to side, holding his head up by the man's hair, the last breath escaping through the new
orifice. He cleaned his knife on a clean piece of material of the jacket of one of the hunters.

Viktor picked up his phone.

“We're ready.”

“Good. Come back, we have 20 minutes.” Semion was brief.

Viktor turned to his brother. “Hurry up and stop playing. We have to take care of the men in the
shed and the two we let go.”

“Don't worry brother, I cut them all. While you were sleeping.” he chuckled.

“What did you do?”

“Throat and stomach. The animals will eat well this week.”

The brothers met up with their father. The lodge had been emptied of all staff for the weekend. A
few trusted guards kept. But they had been given marching orders as part of the sudden closure
plan. The nature of the event necessitated giving almost all the staff the weekend off. Semion was
waiting with three duffel bags on the verandah of the lodge.

“Pack the bags in the car. Did you take care of the shack?”

“Yes father.” Sergei picked up the bags and took them with him to the black Mercedes.

Viktor followed his father into the lodge.

“What happened?”

“What did I tell you about surprises. Those swines brought an Interpol agent with them. But we
don't have time. I need you to destroy the Jeeps. Just throw out petrol over the inside ok? Take the
cap of the petrol tank. Go park it by the cages and get your brother to help you.”

“Ok I will but how did you find out about them?”

“I checked. That is why I said take you gun with you. I was waiting. Now hurry up.”

“What about the animals?”

“They're out of their cages. I let them out ages ago.”

Viktor left to carry out his father's orders. They were leaving. He didn't know where to or how yet.
But they didn't have time for council.

The three of them met outside the lodge. They got into the Mercedes Benz and drove off. Semion

62
had brought only a silver briefcase. $100 000 in cash, 4 small bundles of bound notes, three
passports with new driver's licences and new credit cards. Everything needed to get elsewhere
contained in the briefcase. Sergei drove with Viktor riding shotgun.

The buildings had been set as a burn box, similar to that of a burn bag that was used in the field to
prevent unauthorised access. Except that it was on a time delay. Every building was set up from the
main office to self ignite and burn. The inner walls lined with a combustible lining and wired to
burn everything down to ash in under an hour. Everything inside incinerated. Buildings razed. Ten
minutes after they had driven out of the gates, the inside of the Jeeps burning near the animal cages,
the timer would set off a fuse that would ignite the walls and then floor of the mostly wooden lodge
buildings. All the records showed it was owned by a company from Cape Town and managed
people whose names would be untraceable. People who never actually existed.

Semion sat at the back of the car and remembered his own exit from Kiev all those years ago.
Except this time he wouldn't have to start anew. Just relocate to another of his operations. There was
no time for sentimentality. He would miss being so close to the coast. The Western Cape had
become his home. And some of his clients preferred landing at Cape Town than Johannesburg. It
was just the perception. Now he would have to disappear from the Western Cape.

He would wait a while before buying another farm to restart the hunting lodge. There was always a
market for hunting humans. There was always an appeal in hunting a human. There was something
special about hunting a person. Knowing you held a life in the palm of your hand. That the prey
could turn around and beg, or attack you, fight back. Humans could think, they didn’t posses
instinct. They were unpredictable. Humans didn't die like normal animals. There was that
connection, people had with each other and being able to sever that, and detach onesself from that
person, it elevated some people up to the same level of a god.

And it was addictive.

He would miss the International African Hunting Lodge. Semion put his head back and closed his
eyes. Maybe he needed a break to concentrate on one business at a time. It had been a while since
he had visited Corn and his operation in Pretoria. Semion cared little for the sex trade and the small
whorehouse operation he ran. He had been hands on involved many years ago, and he was good at
it, but he didn’t enjoy it. Corn was okay for a faggot. Semion began to doze, his mind drifting
through images. The look on the Americans faces when his sons shot them. The animals feasting on
them as they were left to bleed out. He wondered if Viktor would enjoy running Sinderella and if
Sergei would end up fucking half the merchandise like he had done as a teenager when Semion

63
operated his own fuck shop. The boys were older now. Maybe it was time to go back to it.

And then he fell off to sleep.

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Chapter 17

Supper had been an awkward affair of coached politeness and forced civility. Aadil had said near
nothing. His mother played go between, asking questions, talking about this aunty she had met or
that aunty that had phoned to tell them her daughter was getting married. Got proposed for, that's
what they called it. Age 24. It was about time. She wasn't getting any younger, Aadil's mother went
on. . Ayesha received a text message from Aadil before she left the OCB, “We're having supper at
my mother's house.”

She would rather have done the fitness test than go home.

Aadil's father said little. Whether he approved of his daughter in law working or not, Ayesha
couldn't tell. He greeted and smiled and engaged with his food quietly. But then he was never one
for conversations and long verbal exchanges. It gave him the image of someone in a general state of
anger with everything. Aadil always joked that his father was probably smiling on the inside. Aadil's
mother was overly talkative. Aadil had obviously told her what had happened.

The fact that Ayesha had come from work wasn't even acknowledged. There was no work talk. It
was all polite and civil. The ingredients for an awkward evening. They had driven separate cars to
supper and home again and it was only after Majid had been put to sleep and Ayesha had got ready
for bed that Ayesha felt it was time to discuss the elephant in room.

She sat on Aadil's side of the bed as he pretended to not notice her. He was reading President Jacob
Zuma's autobiography, sitting up and he didn't say or do anything when she sat down.

“What's the matter Aadil?”

He closed the book and put it by the side of the bed on the stand.

“Nothing.”

“Aadil, please, I know you aren't happy about my decision. Can we talk about it?”

“There's nothing to talk about.”

His face was vacant of emotion. Typical male sulk, Ayesha thought to herself.

“We sat through supper like strangers. You looked right through me, like I wasn't there. Please
honey, let's talk about this.”

“Ayesha, we had a chance to talk about this. Last night. Yesterday? After your boss left. You
remember that?”

Ayesha had experienced whining with Iqbal, her first husband. It seemed that it was a typical male

65
trait. Sulk and whine. She wanted to laugh at the thought. She smiled.

“You find this funny? Forget it.”

“Aadil, I'm not laughing at you. I'm just thinking how silly this is, the two of us arguing because of
this.”

“Ayesha, this is not as small as you make it out to be. But there is nothing to talk about. You made
up your mind. And I'm tired.”

Ayesha tried to reach out. Aadil put his bedside lamp off and turned on his side. Ayesha sat on the
side of the bed for a moment. She was angry and disappointed. She felt something that she hadn't
felt in a while. Why couldn't she have it all, the family, the job and the loving and supportive
husband? She sighed, stood up and walked around to her side of the bed. She sat on the edge of the
bed for a moment. Was she doing the right thing? And if Aadil could say what he had reservations
about, maybe they could find a way of this working out. She pulled the covers over her and got into
bed. She sat up for a while and then switched her bedside lamp off. Aadil was facing away from her,
his back to her. She and Iqbal had spent many nights angry in the same bed. Each one facing their
side, back towards each other, as if the object of your annoyance would stop annoying you with
your back to them, in the same bed.

Aadil's eyes were open. He couldn't sleep when he was pissed off. He wasn't angry, not yet. He
stared into the darkness, with his thoughts rapidly shot through his head. Why couldn't he be like
the other men in his family? They said what they wanted and the women obeyed them. He couldn't.
He was unsure of half the things he had to decide on in his own life, there was no chance in hell he
could manage another person's life. He was scared. Scared that the job Ayesha was about to take
was going to chew her up and spit her out.

Under her tough exterior, she was fragile. Little pieces of her were being put together slowly, it had
taken time. If this had to happen now, if she had suffer a repeat, what then? She was a mother now
and a wife

Aadil felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Organised crime? She had been away for three years and
now she was being sucked back in. He didn't like it. But he didn't want to tell her she couldn’t take
it. He hoped she would have remembered enough of her experience to say no. He didn't want to be
one of those husbands that micro-managed their wives. And if he told her she couldn't take the job,
he would be one of them. She would hate him.

Ayesha watched the back of Aadil's head and him breathing. Why couldn't he understand? This was

66
a second chance, and that being out there satisfied her. His body rose and fell. He was taking deep
breaths. She could hear him exhaling.

“Aadil?”

“mmm?”

Ayesha pulled herself closer to Aadil and put her arm around his waist. She felt Aadil's hand cover
hers. She kissed him on the back of his neck. The uncertainty for both of them felt less.

67
Chapter 18

Patricia didn't come out of her room for the whole day. The day she woke up naked and tangled in
the sleeping naked bodies of Margie and Kevin. She had showered five times that morning. There
was a scent that invaded her nostrils, her mind and reminded her of what had happened that night.
The images were thick and heavy, gravelly as she tried piecing them together.

Margie and Kevin hadn't come near her. Patricia heard movement around the house. Her heart
stopped every time she heard footsteps outside her door. But no one came in that day.

Patricia tried praying. She kneeled down and put her hands together and images would rush to her
mind. She would feel hands, blurred pictures. She felt ill and stopped. She tried sleeping, but her
eyes would close and images would flash, too quick to notice detail, but enough to make her open
her eyes, leave her staring at the ceiling.

Eventually she felt off to sleep, late that night. Exhausted and drained from the torture of controlling
her every thought. It was a torrid sleep that was frequently interrupted by sounds and noises, real
and imagined. She didn't know what to do. She wanted to leave, but where to? Where would she
go? How would she get there? She had no money. She didn't know Johannesburg and she didn't
know who she could trust.

It was around 6 'o clock in the morning when she heard footsteps approach her door. She held her
breath as the door opened. It was Margie. She was wearing a baby blue strappy top and matching
pants. She walked up to Patricia's bed and sat by the side of the bed. She leaned forward and
whispered.

“Patricia?”

Patricia kept her eyes closed. If she pretended she was sleeping maybe Margie would go away.

“Patricia? Are you sleeping? Wake up honey.” Margie's soft toned voice whispering to Patricia.
Patricia kept her eyes closed. Her heart pounded, loudly. She tried to slow her breathing down. She
could hear her deep breaths through her nose. And she was certain Margie could hear them. All of a
sudden she felt the warm hand of Margie on her cheek. The back of her hand stroking Patricia's
cheek. Patricia felt the weight of Margie lean in on her. She felt Margie's breath on her face as
Margie kissed her on the cheek. Patricia tensed up.

“It's okay my angel. I can see you're not ready to get out of bed. We'll talk later when Kevin and I
get back tonight.”

Margie stood up and stared at the woman lying in the bed. It took some time and effort to get them

68
to be more willing. With a little more encouragement Patricia would begin to enjoy it more. Margie
closed the door behind her after she left. Patricia laid very still in bed, her eyes closed, praying,
hoping, that they wouldn't come in. She heard them leave. The door locking behind them and the
car pull out of the driveway. She laid there, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She imagined what
would happen that night. She wouldn't drink anything. Not even water. The wine made her sick.
Made her forget. Made her do something she was ashamed of.

They would come and fetch her from the room. They would force her. What if they got angry? What
if they told her to leave? What if they tried to kill her because she said no. What if they hit her?

Her heart beat faster with each thought. She couldn't stay in the room forever. She made up her
mind then. God forgive her. But she had no other options left. She was scared. Frightened in a way
she had never felt before. Scenarios flowed through her mind rapidly, causing her to tense even
more. She began to cry.

“Jesus. Save me. Forgive me Lord.”

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Chapter 19

Corn was flapping. Or that is how he described anyone that behaved as he was now. He screamed at
the bar staff. He screamed at some of the girls. Sherry caught it a bit when she didn't move fast
enough after Corn had told her to check on the girls.

“I would kick your arse to the street but you wouldn't make me much money out there. So if you
don't want to be sucking cock for brown bread and not being stabbed, go fucking do it now!”

Sherry was a middle aged woman who had made a career out of prostitution. She was tall, slim,
grey haired and gap toothed. She looked like someone's grandmother with her grey hair. Corn had
found her standing on corner of a downtown, Johannesburg street. He stopped his driver, rolled
down the window and offered her a job. No one actually knows the full details on why he offered
her that job. That job of calming the new girls down, of briefing them ahead of tonight, of being the
mother figure. Especially the virgins, the literal and the business types, they needed the
encouragement and Sherry had that way, her perfect elocution, her reassuring smile. Sherry came
from good stock. Peddling her wares on the street though had mostly erased her roots. They trusted
her. She and Corn had had their run-ins before. But Richard had never seen Corn react like this.

He walked outside. The main building was double story longhouse of Spanish style and terracotta
painted. The bottom floor was purely entertainment, large open bar, leather couches and single
seats. Waiters delivered drinks to where ever you were and there was no exchange of cash. It was
part of the service.

Below was the guests only floor where the auctions, bets and actual business took place. Under that
was the basement attached to the holding rooms outside. The holding rooms were dormitory like
structures with minimal light, these reinforced structures were where the new girls were housed.

Upstairs, there were 30 private rooms with 20 separate bungalows outside. They were seldom all
used at once. Every one of them had at least several hidden video cameras in them. Corn had his
office situated at the far end of the building on the ground floor. After his guest went to their room,
he would go to his office and record each of their sessions on the hard disk drive system. In the
morning he would record it to DVD for his own private collection. Insurance, he thought to himself.

But today he was in a panic. Sinderella was for all intents and purposes his property. His to play
with. His to play god. And now the fucking Russians were coming.

Semion's call had left him cold. 10 minutes after he had yes sir'd his way to the end he sat there. He
had only ever met the Russian in Cape Town. Semion hated travelling. He hated leaving his beloved

70
hunting lodge. And without any explanation of why, he told Corn to get the three bungalows ready.

Corn stood in the foyer holding his head. He took in a deep breath. He sighed slowly as he tried
move the pieces of what needed to be done before his boss arrived. He brushed over his head with
his palms as he turned to see Richard standing outside the front door smoking a cigarette. He
stomped purposefully toward him. Richard noticed Corn walking towards him. He turned and
walked towards the railing. He flicked the remaining cigarette and leaned on the railings as he
sighed the last of the smoke. He heard the rapid footsteps of Corn come from behind.

“Richard, Richard. Look at me!”

Richard turned around.

“I need you to go down and have a look at the merchandise. Take the bruised ones out. Get them
cleaned up.”

“Why? We having a show?”

“No. Only tomorrow night. But see what merchandise we need and see if we need to stock up.”

“I'll do it later.” Richard turned again.

“No. You'll do it now. Not later, not tomorrow. Now! Get moving damnit or else you're better off
finding a new job.”

Richard sighed. He hated Corn in one of his moods. Corn's voice went all high pitched and whingy.
Or as Sherry described Corn, with extra bitch.

“Fine, what you want me to do with the scrap?”

“Get rid of it. And make sure you replace it. Speak to Sherry first and see what our orders are for
tomorrow night.”

Corn scratched his head as he walked off. Richard reached into his pocket, pulled out another
yellow tipped cigarette and lit it. He walked around the building towards the back. Most of the girls
were new. Newish. He doubted there would be any bruised merchanise to get rid of. Not now
anyway. Maybe after tomorrow night. Couldn't hurt to check and maybe take a drive into town to do
some window shopping.

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Chapter 20

Patricia had stolen anything and everything of value. Value being anything she could trade or sell
for cash. She found two rolls of blue R100 notes. She grabbed them. She didn't know how much it
was. They were fat rolls. It would be enough to get her out of here. She packed what little she had
accumulated into a bag she found in Margie's walk in closet. She left the heavy jewellery. It would
too hard to sell and she would be worried about being robbed the whole time. She left through the
front door and raced down the road. She took side street turns and carried on walking, constantly
looking behind her, scared, frightened that Margie and Kevin would come home, find her gone, see
their things missing and come find her. How she didn't know, but they had a car and she reasoned
that they knew the area better. She twisted and turned through the surburban streets. She guessed
her way through, gutt feelings navigating her. She felt driven by adrenaline. Her heart pounded with
every brisk step she took. It was a fearful freedom.

She saw a petrol station. A white building with a short facebrick wall outside. Patricia pulled the
bag tighter over her shoulder. She didn't know where she was going. The petrol station would be the
first place they would look for her. She didn't know where she was now. Even if she wanted to go
back.

She walked towards the petrol station. Each step taken carefully, listening, uncertain, frightened,
cautious. She walked hesitantly, scanning vehicles, people in vehicles, people on the forecourt,
people inside the convenience store. She looked at everyone. But she was extra careful to look at
the white people. In their cars, on their phones. They looked back at her. The black woman with the
bag on her back and strapped over her shoulders. Who walked straight backed and very slowly, her
head looking up periodically from the ground to glance stare at the people around her. She walked
up to the old man with the worn cap. He wore a blue jacket and he watched the young girl walking
towards him. She wasn't local he thought to himself. If you were a South African you knew what a
foreigner looked like, there was just something different about them. The way they walked and they
way they looked. Some people said it was because they were darker. Everyone called them
Nigerians. The old man had just started his shift on the forecourt.

The girl walked up, feet close stepping as she approached him, her head down.

“Tata.”

“Ntombi. Where you coming from?”

Patricia kept her head down avoiding eye contact.

72
“Zimbabwe.”

“Eh?” he sighed. “Now what? What you want?”

“I want to go to Joburg.”

The old man laughed.

“Are you mad? This is Joburg”

Patricia looked up. Confused. Her eyes welled with tears. Her bottom lip quivering as she tried to
hold back her frustration. She looked away. The old man reminded her of her father. The hard
exterior. Her father had a kind heart. She didn't know about this old man.

“Wait here. Don't go.”

The old man, sighed as he walked onto the forecourt and spoke to a bearded man with a white
Toyota Quantum bus. He turned and pointed to Patricia. Patricia looked and then turned away. She
felt it rude to stare back. Besides the tears had begun to roll down her cheek. She wiped away the
tears on both sides of her face with the back of her hands. The old man summoned Patricia over.
She stood there wide eyed for a moment. He walked towards her and she finally moved towards her.
He met her halfway on the forecourt and stopped.

“You got money?”

Patricia was wary about telling the old man that she had two rolls of R100 notes in her bag. She
didn't want to tell him about the watches and ear rings she had taken. The stuff she planned to sell
so she could find her way back home. She also didn't want to tell him how she got it. She felt some
unreasonable obligation not to disappoint him. The further she had walked away from her prison,
the more justified she felt in what she had done. She wished she had taken more. If she told the old
man how she had acquired it, she would have to explain why and she didn't feel comfortable talking
about those things, least of all to an old man that reminded her of her father.

“No.”

“And how did you think you were going to travel? Your good looks sisi? You must go home. Back
to Zimbabwe. This place is not good for you.”

“Yes tata.”

The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out a pink R50 note.

“Ina. Take it. Buy some food for you. Try and get down to the Anglican church in Hillbrow. Ask for
father Clarke. You understand?”

73
Patricia guiltily accepted the R50 note. She had more money in her bag than the old man probably
made in a month. And here she was taking money from him. But if she said no, he would force her
to and if she insisted she would have tell him about her bounty in the bag.

“Now go with Freddie. He will take you to town. Ask him to drop you in Hillbrow. Ask for the
church and look for the priest. Ok? I'm sure he can help you get back home. And go home. Go back
to Zimbabwe. Joburg is not the place for a young girl.”

Patricia thanked the old man. Freddy stood by the Toyota watching. He opened the sliding door on
the side. Patricia looked back one more time to see the old man that reminded her of father. He
looked back with the permanent stern expression that reminded Patricia of her father. Freddy closed
the door behind her, walked around and got in. He hit the hooter twice as he left the petrol station.
Patricia looked back. The old man had turned and was walking away. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Inexplicably. The kindness of one man and her guilt wrenched her guard apart and she cried quietly
at the back of the mini bus taxi.

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Chapter 21

Sergei paced up and down the hotel room. His father had been very clear and specific. No one was
to leave the hotel. It was one night and Sergei could handle it. In the morning they would leave. And
he didn't want to waste time either waiting for Sergei to sober up or for him to come back. This was
Johannesburg, not the outskirts of Cape Town. They didn't know the area and who to bribe if he got
into shit.

“This is bullchit Viktor. Father always talks to me like I am a kid.”

“Watch some TV. Get some room service. Get drunk and fall off to sleep, as long as it’s here
brother.”

“Why are you so fucking relaxed Viktor? Huh? I need to go out. I need to fuck. You know when I
had a proper fuck? Last week.”

“You can hire adult films on your TV.” Viktor laughed.

“Fuck you.”

Semion walked in from his adjoining room.

“Sergei. Again, I find you complaining. What is wrong my boy? Don't you trust me? Tomorrow
night you can pick any girl you want, and you can pick as many as you want. All I ask is that you
trust me, and that tonight you stay indoors. Ok?”

“I'm sorry, father.”

Semion walked over to the boy and lifted his downward faced head.

“Don't be sorry. You are my son. You never have to apologise. Not to anyone. You hear me?”

Sergei nodded.

“Good. Now why don't you do what your brother said, order some food, some drink and get some
sleep. Tomorrow we'll leave early. Ok?”

“Yes father.” he nodded and went to his room.

Viktor looked up at his father.

“Don't look at me like that Viktor. He is your younger brother, he doesn't understand everything.”

“You spoil him father.”

“You do what you have to”

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Semion knew that Viktor, his eldest didn't approve of the kid gloves he used when dealing with
Sergei. And he had to agree, he did spoil him. Semion walked to his room picked up his phone and
dialled.

“Are you ready? Good. I will be there early in the morning. My boys are tired. I need a phone line
and a computer. Please arrange those for me Corn. Thank you.”

Johannesburg was crowded with Russian gangsters. Brothers with their ties to the motherland and
their familial tattoos. Sergei and his attitude would attract unnecessary attention, and Semion hated
attention. He wanted no connection or conflict with any of them. He had seen enough of the soured
business relations in Russia. He’d seen his own boss blown up and the leftovers of their gang
picked at by the victors. He was content with his business and the illusion of the hardened Russian
gangster, kept everyone in his employ in check. Thank you, television.

He swore under his breath.

“Whore!”

Interpol. Someone was too close. Well good luck to them finding anything. He didn't want to think
how they had got that close. Whether they knew anything. He assumed they knew enough to justify
him torching his quiet business and disappearing. He was untraceable. The three of them had
travelled separately so they wouldn't be able to profile them at the airport.

From tomorrow he would begin building from scratch. Maybe he would buy a small farm near the
border. Build another hunting lodge.

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Chapter 22

Ayesha watched as the file trollies were pushed into her new office. Her new gun holstered and her
plastic laminated temporary ID together on her desk. Sameer had informed her it would take a few
days for her official badge to arrive. She smiled at the young men as they parked the trolley, looked
at her, looked at the trolley and left. Ayesha sat and stared at the box files, the brown folders, the
lever arch files. She reached over her desk and picked up her firearm and ID card and put it in her
desk drawer. She stood up walked around her desk and sat on the edge facing it. She turned to pick
up the phone and dial.

“Hi How are you? Good. Yes I am fine. Could you please send me another table, yes a long one.
No. Don't worry about the chairs. And I need two pin boards as well. Ok. Thanks.”'

She placed the phone back and looked at the pile of notes. The complete records of the three
victims. The start of the evidence the State would need to prove... She didn't know what she would
be able to prove or where she would start. She couldn't use the PC yet. Not until the IT guy had
been around to set her up.

Until then it would be back to old fashioned detective work. First thing she needed to do was
establish if the victims were really connected. Build a picture of the killer. She didn't imagine
cooperation from her colleagues would be easy. Dead criminals were better than live ones.

Why look a gift horse in the mouth?

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Chapter 23

Khadija watched her husband, Sameer, staring out into space. He hadn't noticed her by the door. He
sat at his desk in his home office staring in front of him. She brought him a cup of tea and a
sandwich. The couple had been married for just over 20 years. Their only child, a daughter, died
when she was three months old. After that they had never really tried. Sameer got more involved in
his intelligence work for the ANC and their urban disobedience operations and Khadija learned the
art of being a wife. Later on he joined the police. And he spent most of his time away. It was only
three years ago, when he was pulled from the field. Just over a year ago he was told to cut his hair,
shave and trim his beard and put on some weight and offered the job of Directing the OCB that
Khadija had to get used to the idea of having a fulltime husband, a husband who was home for
supper everyday, who went to bed with with you, who woke up with you and who looked the same
every week.

But something had changed in him. She noticed it over the last year. The gun he kept on the floor
under his bed. The gun she found taped inside the bathroom cabinet. The pistol in the kitchen
cupboard. She had asked him once. All he said was: “Do you remember the lessons I gave you?”

She said, “Yes”.

That was all he said.

Sameer had made a point of teaching her everything he could teach her, how to use a gun, how to
defend herself. She remembered the first time she had squeezed of a round. She had held her hand
out, her head turned away and her eyes closed as she anticipated the bang.

Sameer would only say that he could never promise to always be around to protect her and that she
needed to know how to take care of herself. She knew many women who wouldn't have put up with
this sort of life, a husband who was away more than he was at home and a husband who had more
guns than shoes around the house. But she had learned to deal with it. It was easy in the beginning,
she lived with his parents in East London and they had moved west to Cape Town, away from their
support structures. Khadija found herself having to get used to a new everything which probably
allowed her to roll an absent husband into it.

Some days Sameer worked from home. His door was usually closed and he would be on the phone,
or at his computer. But today he stared into the space in front of him. His computer was on, he had a
few notes on his desk.

“Sameer. What's the matter?”

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“Hmmm. Thank you. I'm sorry. I was just thinking.”

“About?” Khadija seemed to always have a dishcloth in her hands. She folded it on the desk and
pulled up a chair next to Sameer.

“It’s nothing.” He smiled.

“I don't like your nothing. Last time you said nothing you sent me to my mother's house on the bus
with a gun in my handbag and I didn't hear from you for a year.”

Sameer laughed. A tired, resigned, half laugh. He looked down as he responded.

“When I'm 80 you'll still be talking about that.”

“If the stress doesn't kill you first! You look more stressed with this job than you did when you
worked undercover!”

“Ja. I feel it. You know when you're out there, you worry about your life. Now I have everyone's life
to worry about.”

“So what happened?”

Sameer smiled.

“Nothing. I'm just tired.”

Khadija smiled. She never pushed the issue. Some of her friends could never understand that. If
men said it was nothing, you left it as if it was nothing. Nothing caused a fight faster than a nosey,
pushy wife. His mother had done a good job of teaching her how to deal with her husband's moods.
If he says its nothing, don't force the issue. Khadija knew that it was more than nothing though. But
it didn't concern her and if it did, Sameer would have told her. She trusted him.

“Okay, well if you're fine and just being lazy for work, I must go back to my work. Let me make
your tea hot, it’s probably gone cold.”

“It's okay. Let's go out for breakfast.”

“Huh? Are you mad? You know how much work...”

“And the work will be here waiting for you when you get back. I promise.”

Khadija laughed. “It’s going to take me forever to get ready.”

“I'm at home today. Take your time.”

“Fine. I'll be an hour. Where we going to go now?”

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“I don't know. We'll drive around. Just you and me.”

Khadija took the tray with the sandwhich and her folded dishcloth away with her. Sameer smiled at
her as she left. She was the best wife he could have expected to marry. What she had seen in him 20
years ago was still beyond him. She had made a husband out of him. Much to his own mother's
pleasure.

He turned to his PC. He re-read the email.

The whole hunting lodge had been burned down. Fire investigators were investigating and would
file their report, but the two brothers and the Interpol agent were missing. The father and his two
sons were missing as well.

Sameer closed the email application. Shut down his PC and then slammed the desk with his fists.

“Son of a bitch!”

He gathered his composure again, grabbed his keys from the desk and walked upstairs to find
Khadija. He needed to get out of the house and away from all of it for the day.

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Chapter 24

It was around lunchtime when Freddie had awoken her from her sleep on the bus to drop her off in
front of the Anglican Church. She opened her eyes, her mind caught in between the dream she was
having and the real voice of Freddie which had somehow found itself into her dream. She blinked
her eyes a few times, tried to absorb what was being said to her.

“Do you hear me?” Freddy had turned around and was trying to stress his point.

“Find that priest. Don't make friends with anyone you find here. They'll rob you. You hear?”

Patricia nodded, took her bag and got off. She thanked Freddie, closed the door and looked at her
salvation. A tall, under maintained building, decorated with a plethora of people around its front
doors. On the pavement women and men sat behind cardboard boxes selling cigarettes and sweets
and hair combs. Most of the people though were sitting on the steps of the church. You wouldn't
notice it was a church unless you looked up to see the steeple above. She walked apprehensively
towards the entrance, eyes scanning her as she walked in. There were children, a mass of moving
small bodies playing, running around the entrance, inside the building.

The inside was dark with beds against the walls and in the middle. Some had erected makeshift
curtains around their beds. Some of the beds were populated with sleeping bodies. Patricia saw
eyes: suspicious eyes, wary eyes, tired eyes, desperate eyes: each pair telling a story. The
atmosphere was thick. It smelled of desperation, of hope smashed into hopelessness, confined
ambition and shards of dismay. Patricia felt a rising fear inside her. The church was dark and voices
emanated from every direction. Patricia felt them all aimed at her. She wanted to ask someone
where she could find the priest. But none of the eyes looked friendly. She walked to the front of the
church. A giant white Jesus, eyes down turned, watching over his flock. A middle aged man in a
black cassock, wearing a thick auburn beard and black horn-rimmed spectacles was standing in the
corner talking to a young black lady in animated conversation. The priest held his chin as the
woman's hands articulated every words she spoke. The priest raised his head, put his hand on her
shoulders and the woman's hands dropped. She began to cry. The priest held her in an embrace. The
young woman pulled away and wiped the tears away from her face. Patricia could see her face. She
was angry. Her shoulders slumped. Her back hunched. The priest put his hands on her back and
directed her to walk with him. Patricia walked up to the priest.

“Father Clarke?”

The priest turned around. “Yes?”

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“I...I...I need your help.” Patricia said pathetically.

The priest looked at Patricia. Patricia looked into the bespectacled eyes of the priest. He had
piercing blue eyes. The skin around his forehead and eyes were wrinkled. Deep creases at the corner
of his eyes.

“What's the matter?”

Patricia's eyes welled up. The words choked back and she began to cry. She stood there, closed her
eyes and sobbed. The young lady who was following the priest stopped. The priest stopped, turned
to the lady.

“Go to my office at the back and ask for Gloria. Big lady. Tell her I sent you and she'll help you. I'll
come see you just now ok?” he smiled and the lady who still looked angry nodded. She walked
towards the side door which lead to the church hall at the back where the priest's offices.

The priest came up to Patricia, raised her chin.

“It’s going to be ok. Let me help you. Do you want to follow me? We can try and get you something
to eat? Okay?”

Patricia nodded and followed the priest. He took her by the hand, patting the top of her hand
occasionally and looking back at her as they made their way through moving bodies inside the
church. Something to eat was the best way to calm someone down. It was old fashioned but it
worked. Food helps build trust. Sharing sustenance builds bridges.

Father Clarke was in his late 50's although he felt like he had aged by two decades over the last
year. The church no longer held regular services. There was just no space anymore. Every room or
inch of floor was occupied as living space. Everyday more people found their way to his steps and
he would make space. His living quarters were occupied by refugees who worked in the church.

The young girl's face had grabbed him. It was impossible for him to become desensitised to the
stories each person brought with them. Almost every person had suffered some atrocity, whether at
the hands of their countrymen or South Africans. South Africans were frightened. These were
turbulent times and foreigners made great targets. Most of the time they were here illegally so they
would almost never reported incidents of attack to the police and those that did report matters to the
police seldom got the cooperation from police. The young girl whose hand warmed in his hand had
her own story. Probably not the worst he had heard but no less traumatic. He would find her
something to eat, a piece of floor to sleep on and help her as best he could.

Patricia was given two thick slices of stale bread and a tin cup of coffee, black with too little sugar.

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The slabs of bread had a yellow spread scraped onto each side with a thin layer of red jam. The
priest told her how he managed to get day old food from some of the hotels and restaurants and
some of the supermarket chains occasionally. He apologised for the coffee. He apologised he
couldn't give her more.

Patricia told her story. She began crying as she told Father Clarke about how she had made up her
mind to leave Mutare, her home in Zimbabwe. How food was so hard to come by and how shops
charged so much for food. How she envisioned a way to make money and send it back to her family
in Zimbabwe. She told him about how she had borrowed and saved money and paid a man to bring
her across the border. How she had been raped that first night when they had crossed the border.
How all the women had been beaten and raped, separated from their families, the men taken away.
How she was taken to a house near Joburg. How they had cleaned her up and dressed her. How
Margie had met her and taken her to her house and told her how she could work for them and they
would help her with papers so she could stay in the country. She told the priest about the supper,
about how Kevin had started putting his hand down her dress, about how she had run away to her
room, about feeling funny in her head and finally about waking up naked in the bed with Margie
and Kevin.

She told him about how she ran away this morning and she just wanted to go back to Zimbabwe.
She noticed how she had stopped crying. Her face felt taut with dry tears. It didn't shock her
anymore. She was telling a story. Someone else's story. She felt detached. She felt nothing for those
images in her head. She didn't feel ashamed telling the priest the story. It was a weight being lifted
from her.

“I tell you what. Gloria over there will find you a space to sleep. If you really want to go back, I'll
see what we can do about organising you some papers. Then we can get you across and back home.
But you go and rest. Don't worry. You're safe in here. Just be careful with your valuables” He eyed
at the backpack she was carrying on her lap.

“People are desperate. We have our incidents of theft and sometimes it gets a little heated.”

Patricia nodded.

As Patricia left, Father Clarke prayed to himself. It affected him. He wanted to ask God why? Why
did people have to endure this kind of suffering? Why did he have to notice and why did it affect
him this much? Every story tore at him. Ripped a part of him. She was a child. A child should be
doing child things. She was a child of God, did she not deserve God's love and protection? She
should have been at University. She should be working and dating a guy. She shouldn't be worrying

83
about, let alone know about being raped and about the absolute evil of men and women. His
thoughts bordered on the blasphemous as he fought to gather himself again.

In the end he prayed for patience.

“By the grace of my Lord, give the strength to keep my faith. Give me the strength to help these
people Lord. Please Lord, I beg of you; give me the strength to keep my patience.”

A tear rolled down his cheek as he said Amen.

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Chapter 25

The cars drove into the gravel driveway of Sinderella. Those with drivers were directed to the
parking area at the back while their employers were entertained inside. The whole area was fenced
off and patrolled by suited men with small arms. Security was tight and necessary. The front gate
was the only access point and it was tightly controlled from a boom gate and sentry hut. One guard
maintained control with constant radio contact with the main building. It was part of the
discretionary offering Sinderella provided for its patrons. Officially it was gentlemen's club. It
catered for every whim and fantasy- at a premium.

Corn was less than his stellar hospitable self. The stress was etched on his face. And even though
the evening was to be a relatively quiet night, Corn's mind was elsewhere with the impending
arrival of Semion and his two sons.

He stood on the porch, Sherry handing out glasses of Champagne to arriving guests, some of them
recognisable newsmakers and power brokers. Corn smiled, shook hands and made small talk.

“Relax Corn, you're going to have a heart attack.”

“I don't need to relax I need to make sure everything is ready for tomorrow.”

“You worry too much. Here have a glass.”

“Sherry I swear, if one more stupid comment comes out of your mouth, I will put you on the floor
tonight for a stuffing. You hear. Just shut up now. You don't know what you're talking about!”

He smiled again as another man walked up the stairs. He directed him to the lounge.

“I don't have the time to play cock stroker to these fucking half masts tonight.”

Sherry didn't say anything. She knew Corn was all talk. He was just nervous. Bitchy. Flapping as
Richard would call it.

A short, rotund man came walking up the stairs. He walked up to Corn nervously and introduced
himself.

“Hi, Corn? Yes. My name is Derick, Semion is a friend of ours.” The words stammered out of him
in a thick sludge like manner. Corn smiled at him. Not a friendly smile. A condescending smile. The
one he reserved for politicians and judges and crooked police officials Semion insisted Corn grease
from time to time. Soft cock TV heroes who needed their fragile egoes massaged from time to time
in order to perform favours. That was the problem right there Corn thought to himself. Performance.

“Good evening. Derick. Yes. Semion told me to expect you this evening. If you would please take

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glass and join the rest of gentlemen in our smoking lounge I will arrange for your room to be
readied.”

Derick, whose real name was Eugene Barrett, was a city counsellor who had found a warm place in
Semion's pocket. A vocal supporter of the urban regeneration programme, he was often seen on the
evening news pulpit bashing against the degradation the inner city had suffered. He was often
found, oppportunistically giving press conferences at the scenes of building fires, fuelling his own
crusade for evictions. Corn hated his sweaty type. Angry, horny and for sale. They never paid for
anything. Instead they traded their power for opportunity. An opportunity to have their fantasies
indulged.

“I'd rather go to my room please. Erm... now.”

They never had any manners Corn thought to himself.

“Did Semion tell you what I wanted? I was very specific.”

“Yes. Mr. Solonik was very specific about your request.”

“Good. I would like to go there now.”

Corn sighed. An audible sigh. He didn't care about offending the policians. Freeloaders. Demanding
freeloaders. He didn't make any commission of them.

“Derrick. Sherry over here will make sure your room is prepared. In the meantime, why don't you
order a drink from the bar and Sherry here will come and get you when your room is ready.”

Eugene was flustered. His face was pale and looked clammy with the fine mist of sweat that had
developed.

“This is unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. I told Semion that I didn't want to meet your other
guests. I wanted to go straight to my room!”

Corn took in a deep breath.

“Sir, if you're worried about being recognised, I can assure you, we pride ourselves in our
discretion.”

“That's not the point!”

He turned to leave, his little legs turning on a point under the round body of his. Corn noticed the
black case he was carrying close to his body. It was smaller than a briefcase. But bigger than a
purse. Corn knew that if he let the spoilt brat leave, he would be on the phone with Semion and
whatever Semion had intended for “Derrick” would be scuppered.

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Corn pulled him back.

“Very well. Sherry please take Mr. Barrett to his room.” The formality was intentional.

Derrick turned to look at Corn as Sherry took him to the room upstairs. Corn smiled at him.

“I know who you are fucker.” Corn whispered under his breath. Corn watched him walk up the
stairs, his short little legs lifting his body at every elevation, his head pointed down, a vain attempt
at being invisible.

Corn walked to his office at the opposite end of the buildings. He unlocked it, entered and locked
the door behind him. He switched his computer on. Four video screen opened up. On one of them
Corn saw the door open and “Derrick” being led in by Sherry. She gave him a glass and made him
take a seat on the bed. She left and Corn watched as “Derrick” the Johannesburg City Counsellor
put his bag on the bed.

“What's in the bag Eugene?” Corn said to himself.

“Guess I'm just going to have to keep an eye on you.” Corn said pressing the red record button on
his screen.

Corn left, locking the door behind him. He would have a little viewing later. And if it was good he
would slip Semion a copy. Depending on Semion's mood when he arrived.

Corn could hear the noise all the way down from the other end of the building. 20 men, the
prosepect of sex and free booze. It was time to get down to business and make some money. He
phoned Richard.

“Are we ready? Good, bring them up one at a time 5 minutes from now. I'll get the lights.”

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Chapter 26
Ayesha had removed the file trolleys from her office, with the exception of a path through to her
desk and the small table, every surface was covered with paper. It was organised chaos for her. In
her head it made sense, the pattern that defined every person, their actions and lives recorded by
numbers and words for her to scan through. On the pin board was the black and white headshot
photo of each of her victims, Brian Muller, Mervyn Green and Yusuf Aboobaker the last victim.
Each photo was of the victims during better times. A point during each of their criminal careers.
Especially when you consider the last photo that was taken of them and the condition they were
found in.
Brian Muller was found with burn marks at the base of his neck on his right. Ayesha visualised it, it
was at the base of the neck, almost on the shoulder. It wasn't a case of what caused them. That was
easy to establish, a common, over the counter, stun gun. The ones sold by housewives and people
with jobs looking to make more money on the side. They were relatively easy to sell. Muller was
not a small man either. At 130kilogrammes and at over 6 feet tall, he was probably the easiest take
down. Held to the neck it would be a matter of seconds before the 240 volts of electrical shock
knocked him out. The attacker couldn't risk a front on attack. Firstly, he wouldn't want to be
identified in case the victim escaped or and if the victim knew their attacker. Considering who the
victims were, the attacker needed to get it right the first time. You can see the burn marks at the
back of the neck indicating a rear attack.

Eye witness reports say that Brian Muller was last seen taking a call and leaving abruptly. He didn't
say where he was going and who he had spoken to. Muller was charged with assault and
intimidation on a witness in a rape trial, the victim's boyfriend. He had failed to turn up to court on
the day and Muller's lawyer, one Vikhash Bhana moved to have the case dismissed. The rape charge
was against Mervyn Green. The victim in the rape trial was still missing as of a month ago. Ayesha
marked a red “X” over Muller's photo.

She worked through Mervyn Green's file. His file read like a man who had no concern or care for
the law. A satellite of a very well organised gang from the Western Cape, Mervyn had gone off on
his own. He was married with 2 daughters and a son. His last official run in with the law was a rape
charge from a 17 year old matric learner . While she was missing, Green was considered the main
suspect in the victim's disappearance, up until the identification of his six, separated body parts.
Ayesha wondered how many other charges had not made it to this file, crimes had he committed
which went unnoticed, sitting in a file on some detective's desk, moving to the bottom of the pile
everyday with the plethora of cases that came in.

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Yusuf Aboobaker, arrested and murdered almost a week after his release. He had been charged with
various charges from racketeering, prostitution, drug possession with intention to sell, all Of which
were statutory crimes with technical criminality. The OCB had forced a prosecution after a raid had
yielded results of illegal immigrants being housed in tiny curtained off rooms, charged out by the
hour. Several municipal by-laws related to hygiene were added to the OCB charge sheet. The OCB
case was flimsy at best and the worst that Mr. Y had to deal with was fines from the city regarding
the health conditions in his building.

The cases had two commonalities. The OCB had navigated the entire process, from tip off to arrest.
The other factor that was of importance- Vikhash Bhana, had defended them all and had got them
all acquitted. In fact over the last 18 months he had made a habit of having charges brought by law
enforcement, and in particular the OCB over the last year, dismissed against his clients.
Technicalities in arrest, the chain of command in evidence handling, evidence gathered at the crime
scene, wrongful arrest. But these were the only clients found dead.

She put the pieces together in her head.

She doubted it was a gang war. Gangs, the high level, successful business minded types, seldom
went to war because, quite simply, it cost money. It cost money to hire extra men, it cost money to
feed them and it cost money to give them guns. It cost customers and clients because a gang war
had no rules. Like ordinary war for that matter. You could be in the wrong part at the wrong time
and find yourself in the middle of an attack.

Gangs didn't have marketing arms that could take out full page adverts in national weeklies
informing the public about rumours of a war being untrue and that business was still booming.
There was no gang boss PR manager you could call. Gangs were surprisingly pragmatic. In a
dispute they would send out representatives to feel the other out, usually covertly. Rivalry was
strong, and the last thing any leader needed was showing weakness or fraternising with the enemy.
So they would begin the cautious mating dance to come to some bloodless conclusion. Then they
would negotiate a settlement which the leaders would assent to. It was politics and ran like
governments, except without tolerance for ineptitude and dishonesty. At the end of the day it came
down to guns and who had more and bigger guns. If all else failed, then and only then would there
be a call to arms. All out war offered a certain finality too, which negotiations could never
guarantee.

No one would start a gang war. Or at least no one from the gangs anyway.

There was no evidence to back up her theory. But there was nothing to prove against it either.

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Muller and Green operated in over-lapping circles with Mr. Y. But intelligence files didn't make any
mention of the slightest conflict between the two groups. Muller and Green were South African and
Aboobaker was a foreigner. But business and money didn’t really have a nationality.

Ayesha hated the direction her minds seemed to be carrying her. Police had scant respect for one of
their own acting against them.

“Welcome back Ayesha.” she said to herself closing the file.

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Chapter 27

Eugene Barrett woke from a dream which felt like a post match summary consisting of the
highlights of the previous evening with the young Jessica. Her eyes, piercing green eyes, like mint
he thought to himself. She had tried to remain calm at the beginning. But they always broke down.
He always got what he wanted. He put his hand down his shorts to feel the strength of his erection.
Give it time, he thought to himself. She was asleep next to him. She wasn't going anywhere. Tied up
and injected only hours ago with a relaxing heroin shot. He would be late for the office this
morning. He would help himself to another serving in a bit.

He removed his hands from his shorts and ran his hands over the body next to him. He had bound
her naked. He wasn't one for much giftwrap. He didn't see the point of wasting all that money. And
last night as Sherry had led her in, wrapped in strips of chiffon, and tied her to the bed, Eugene had
wanted nothing, but to have it all removed. It was just a waste of time for him and a needless
obstacle.

His hands met a damp body, cold, and rubbery under his touch. His heart started beating faster. His
hands moved up towards her soft breasts. He palmed over them. He turned to face her; he could
make out the image. She was breathing, but very shallow, almost silently. His heart pounded even
more. He ran his hands over her face. It was wet with sweat. He jumped out of bed pulling the
covers off. He switched the lights on. Her body was blue in the light. He opened the heavy curtains
and looked back. She was flat on her back. Her eyes open, her arms tied above her, her legs bound
and tied. She looked up to the ceiling. The small cuts on her cheek dried with black blood.

He swallowed hard. His lips dry. He closed the curtains. He didn't know what to do. His car was
right around the back. Where no one would see it. He had intentionally parked it out of sight. He
would be seen if he left now. It was too far to be walking. He paced up and down the room. He
scratched his head. He couldn't leave late. He couldn't be in the same room as Jessica now. There
were other people here. There was a whole corridor of men who would be witnesses if he came out
of the room and if he went to his car.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

He panicked. He couldn't leave the room. He would stay here until he was sure they had all left.
They would leave early. It was a long drive and they would all need to get to the office. But these
weren't the kind of people who kept office hours. Fuck. There was the breakfast this morning. He
collapsed to the floor and began to weep. The weeping turned to sobbing and he watched the young
Jessica's breasts moved slower and slower as her breathing became irregular. He would watch her

91
stomach for movement at times. Sometimes he would be staring at her body, looking to see if she
was still breathing, too scared to go close to her, and his mind would drift to an event from last
night. His mind reminded him of what his hands felt like on her stomach, he would stop himself.
She was dying. And he was in the room. He needed to get out. Now. Before she died. If she died
when he was gone, he could say he didn't know what happened after he left. She was alive when he
had left.

But he couldn't leave. Next time he would tell that faggot he wanted his own private bungalow. That
would be more discrete.

He sat in the corner, his case of sex toys, scalpel blades and photos open on the floor where he had
begun his ritual the previous night. Her fear had been an important ingredient in the creation of his
orgasms last night. She was one of his toys, manipulated into position, prodded, probed, and
frightened, she was perfect last night. He was disappointed now. He wanted more this morning.
Now she was dying and Eugene didn't know how he could make it too his car without being seen.
What if she died? What if one of the other guests saw him leaving? What if this was leaked and
what if this cost him his career with the Council?

Sergei insisted on driving. He was surprisingly chipper. Viktor didn't mind. It was too early to
argue. Semion as usual sat at the back. He wanted to leave as early as possible. Before it got too hot
and before the roads filled with traffic. There was never a point at which there was no traffic on
Gauteng roads. By6 in the morning on a weekday, roads began to fill up. So when Semion had
woken his son up at 4 for a 4.30 departure, protestations of it being too early were not heard, least
of all from Sergei who was promised the prospect of girls and booze and being able to stretch out.

The drive was shorter than expected. Just over an hour through from Johannesburg to outside
Pretoria, the car drove through the gates of Sinderella and they were met by Corn standing outside
in the gravel parking area outside the main building. Corn was wearing a grey shawl covering his
shoulders and his arms under it. Sergei looked at his brother as the car drew closer.

“There's your faggot friend. You going to share a room with him?” He laughed.

“Shut up Sergei. Must you be childish.”

“You don't like me talking about your faggot boyfriend. It’s ok. I will stop it.”

“Both of you shut up. He is an associate of ours and makes a lot of money for us. This will be our
home for now. So stop acting like children. Both of you.”

“Sorry father.” the sons said in unison.

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Viktor got out and opened the door for his father. He looked into the car and directed his brother to
park the car at the back of the building. Viktor and his father walked towards Corn standing in front
of the building.

“Good morning Semion, Viktor, how was the drive?”

He extended his hand to greet his guests.

“Good day Corn. How are you? How is business?” Semion shook his hand.

“Business is good sir. We have some clients sleeping over from last night.”

“Did...?”

“Yes. “Derrick” arrived last night, we set him up with a room as you told me. But maybe you'd like
to come to my office first. We can have breakfast served while I show you something.”

“What do you want to show me?” Semion followed Corn. Viktor staggered behind.

“Patience my friend. I think you will be impressed. And you might find some use for what I have to
show you.”

The three men walked towards Corn's office. The sky was a powdery blue with the rising sun the air
cleared Sergei's nostrils. Or maybe it was the excitement of a soon to be realised promised. Maybe
he needed a drink first. His father and brother had disappeared with Corn. It didn't matter to Sergei.
He was sure he would be able to find the bar and he was sure they would find him at the bar. He felt
relaxed. He was going to enjoy himself at his new home. No animals to worry about. No fucking
Americans he thought to himself. The animals must have eaten till their stomachs were round.

Sergei found the bar easily and finding no one behind it at after 6 in the morning walked around and
pulled a few bottles down and placed them on the bar. The bottles were at room temperature. He
hated warm drinks and there was no ice available, but he needed a drink more than he needed to
fulfil his preferences. He sat down at the bar, poured a drink and smiled to himself.

Viktor and Semion sat behind the desk and watched the large flat computer screen. Specifically they
watched Eugene Barrett, Johannesburg City Counsellor, parading as Derrick sitting in the corner
crying to himself as the bound body on the bed shuddered and shook, caught in the middle of
convulsion.

“What's wrong with her?” Viktor pointed to the naked girl on the screen.

“I gave her something to calm her down. I was counting on her having a reaction.”

“Why?”

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“I don't think your father sent him here to just enjoy himself.”

“What did you give her?”

“Some bad heroin. She's just having a reaction. She'll be okay. It doesn't matter, we'll get rid of her
just now anyway.”

“How old is she?” Semion interrupted.

“I think she's 16 or something.”

“Good. You have the whole video?”

“Every sordid twist.”

“Good. Viktor, I want you to help the good counsellor. Take his driver's licence from him. Corn,
make a copy of that video. We'll have use for it soon, I'm sure.” The old man said with a smile on
his face.

“What can he do for us father?”

“Don't worry what he can do. Help get rid of him. Corn, get one of your people to get rid of her, she
doesn't look like she'll make it. I don't want her dying here.”

“Oh it’s just some bad brown sugar, Semion. She'll be ok. In fact we've had some requests for her
services this weekend.”

“I don't care. Look at her. She's over-fucked. I don't like dealing in over fucked. Our clients don't
pay us for over fucked. They pay us for the experience that they can't get anywhere else. We'll have
to sell her out cheap. Sell her or dump her. But get rid of her. You hear me?”

“Yes Semion.”

“Good. Now tell me when did you put in the cameras?”

Corn expected this question. He hoped the value of the video would have impressed Semion enough
for him not ask these type of questions.

“You don't like?”

“I like the fact that you took initiative Corn.”

“Well I had this room specially prepared. For situations which might offer us other opportunities.”
The word “opportunities” came out sounding like a euphemism.

“Well I like it. Do you have any other rooms with cameras?”

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“No. Not at all. I would never.”

“Good. Very good. Keep it that way. We cannot have our clients thinking we're recording their
sessions here. Discretion, Corn. Remember that. We are not selling them pussy, we're selling them
discretion. And we make a lot of money from them.”

Corn nodded.

“Shall we order our breakfast now?”

Viktor walked down the corridor and up the stairs as he was directed to the room. He put his gloves
on as he approached the room. He knocked at the door. There was no answer. He knocked again.

Still there was no answer. Men in a panic were dangerous. They didn't think properly. They did the
first thing that came to their minds. If Semion wanted “Derrick” dead, this would have been a lot
easier for Viktor. But his father wanted “Derrick” to come out of this a friend. As much as a friend
to Semion as could be expected considering what pressure would be brought to bear on him.

Viktor tried the door. Nothing. It was locked and he didn't have a key. He was annoyed. Because if
he broke the door down, he would wake up the other guests and they would never be able to sell
“Derrick” on what they were able to offer. He pulled out his phone and began dialling, then stopped,
closed the phone and put it back in his pocket.

“Eugene, open the door. My father sent me to you. Semion.”

There were footsteps approaching the door. Viktor watched the shadows under the door stop.
Obviously checking through the eyepiece.

“Open the door. I know you can see me.”

Viktor didn't want to raise his voice anymore. He hoped using his father's name would convey
enough confidence in the old bastard behind the door for him to open it.

“Yes, erm...What's the matter? How can I help you?”

“My father wants to see you.”

“Oh good. Errm... Good, I'll meet him downstairs just now.”

“Now. Open the door.”

There was hesitance in the voice from behind his voice. Fear permeated every word. Viktor
imagined that it was probably the first time he had actually seen a person on their way out. A virgin
he thought to himself.

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The door opened and stopped abruptly as Viktor pushed it open. It was chained.

“I...I... need a few minutes. I will be down in a few minutes.”

Viktor looked at the short man behind the door, behind the delusional security that a 5cm metal
alloy chain gave. He was short. Fat, round body in a sweaty vest. White underpants. His thin
straight black hair combed over from the back of his head to cover the alice-band balding at the
front of his skull. He had thick black framed spectacles.

“Now. Open the door. Don't keep my father waiting.”

“I'll be down now. Just give me a minute.” Eugene, now stripped of his Derrick identity was trying
to close the door and Viktor's patience, was being tested. It was too early.

The problem with door chains is that it gave the illusion of safety. Screwed into a wooden frame
and wooden door, a sharp jolt would lift the screws that held them in the wood. Viktor pushed the
door sharply. He felt the tension in the door chain release, the second and the final third push
knocked Eugene off his feet as he tried to push the door shut. Viktor walked in, his size imposing to
Eugene attempting to lift himself from the floor.

“You can stay on the floor. I am not here to hurt you.” Viktor closed the door behind him. The
damage to the door and frame was minimal and he was out of the passage. Victor closed the door
behind him.

He checked the girl on the bed. She had stopped shaking like she was on the screen he had seen
earlier. She was covered in sweat. He hesitantly removed his glove and placed his two fingers under
her jaw on her neck to check her pulse. Her heart beat was faint. She was on her way out. He turned
to Eugene still on the floor.

“You have a problem, Eugene.”

“I swear I didn't.”

Eugene's words stuttered, dripping in fear.

“It doesn't matter Mr. Eugene. My father has offered you some hospitality and this is how you repay
him?” Viktor turned to look at the dying girl on the bed.

“What did you do to her?”

Eugene knew where it was all leading to. It wasn't his fault. She was a little shaky when she came in
last night.

“Nothing. I know what you're doing. You're setting me up. I won't fall for this.”

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Eugene's attempt at almost belligerent defiance was laughed off quickly.

Viktor sat down on a small foot stool. Eugene was still on the floor. He wanted to stand up. But he
didn't. He just sat there.

“Fine. We set you up. But I will inform my father and he will call the police.”

“What? Hahaha. Don't be stupid.” Eugene felt confident enough to stand up again. “You won't call
the police. What are you going to tell them? That I killed one of your whores? Hahahaha. Don't be
fucking daft.”

“No. I will show them a video of what happened here last night. And then I will tell them you said
you wanted to spend the night with your wife and you brought her here last night. You know the
police are looking for her? She was kidnapped over a week ago, coming from school.”

“What do you want?” Eugene had flopped to the ground again. His heart sank. Fucking hidden
cameras. Fucking Russians. He held his head and squeezed his eyes shut in the hope he would wake
up from this. He should have known that it was too good to be true. That the Russian's offer had to
be a trick.

Viktor smiled. “See how easy that was?”

“What do you want? What do I need to get out of here?”

“Get dressed. Take your bag of toys. Go home to your wife and daughters and son. And go to work.
My father will contact you.”

Eugene looked at the girl on the bed shivering.

“What about her?”

“You owe us for her. R50 000. She's not going to make it. She was very much in demand. And now
you killed her. You owe us.”

“I don't have that kind of money man. I mean I can maybe pay it off. Huh? What do you think?”

“She's not a fucking TV. Does she look like one? What do you think this is? Now we have to tell all
those other clients we can't accept their money because she's dead. We have to give it all back
because you went too far. You sick fucker.”

“She's not dead yet. You can take her to the hospital.”

“And do what? Tell them what? Don't be stupid Eugene. Just go home. I'll clean up here and my
father will phone you and tell you how you can repay him.”

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Viktor opened the door and stopped.

“Don't forget to take your bag with . I wouldn't want Mrs. Barrett to miss it.” he laughed as he left,
closing the door behind him.

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Chapter 28

Patricia spent her first night in that sickly awkward space between sleep and being awake, when
dreamy images are overlaid with the voices of your world outside. Children crying, men and
women talking, laughing, and shouting. She feared falling off to sleep. Even with the priest’s visits
after Gloria had given her a small room to share with the sulky lady, Lindy, she felt frightened,
more frightened than when she was on the road, running away. She felt confined. She didn't feel at
all safe. She couldn't run away if she needed to.

Lindy was a Mozambican. She had come across with her child. A wealthy Malawi woman had
promised her work in South Africa. After her husband had left 2 years ago, Lindy, who spoke with a
mixture of English and Portuguese accent, decided to leave and come find him here in South Africa.

The woman had sold her to a man who kept her in his basement. The woman had taken her 4 year
old son and told Lindy if she wanted to see her boy again, she would have to pay her $4000 or she
could work it off with the white man in his basement for 2 years. Lindy told Patricia of her dislike
for white men. She told Patricia of the one that had held her captive in his basement; who would
bring her food once a day. At the beginning he would put something in her food. She was sure of
that. Because usually after a meal he would come in, she tried to find an escape once but she felt
dizzy and fell by the door. He picked her up, smacked her a few times before he raped her. He raped
her about three times a week and she had spent almost a year in the basement. Patricia shook as she
absorbed the details. Lindy recounted the incidents, the friends he invited over, his smell, how he
would sometimes come down into the dark, dusty basement and hit her. He would fist her, and kick
her and when she thought he would rape her, he would leave.

“How did you escape?” Patricia was morbidly fascinated by Lindy's story.

“One day he forgot to lock the door, I was very scared. He was gone to work.”

Patricia knew how the rest of the story went. The fear, the apprehension, the what if scenarios that
played through your mind like warning signs as you tentatively crept through the house and out the
front door. The short exhilaration of having found freedom and the wave of fear that enveloped you
as you realised that you didn't know where you were, who you could trust and how to find safety.
She felt like veteran.

“We must be careful here. I don't trust this priest.”

Patricia was startled out of her own montage of images from her own escape, her own journey to
where she found herself.

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“What do you mean?”

“I heard rumours. Some of the people talking. That he keeps the young women here. He doesn't let
them go out. And you see Gloria, she carries on like his wife.”

Patricia squinted. The priest had been good to her, especially when she had arrived. She hadn't
noticed anything about him. But she hadn't noticed anything about Margie or Kevin either. How
well did she really know him anyway?

“I don't understand.” The implication of what Lindy was saying lingered on the edge of Patricia's
conscious mind. Her mind though had been squeezed and drained of everything she thought she
knew about people in the last few weeks.

“Are you stupid? Huh? What man you know, doesn't have a wife but he has so many young women
living in his house. You just arrived yesterday and look, you are in his house.”

“But he's a priest.”

“Gah! He's not a saint.”, Lindy said with disgust.

Lindy's face wore hard. Stone faced, her once attractive features had been uglied. She wore her
curly hair thick. Her skin was fair and her large eyes were now narrow and strained as she tried to
emphasize her point.

“I'm just saying to you, don't be stupid. This is South Africa, you can't trust anyone. Not the black
ones and not the white ones. And especially, not the white ones.”

Patricia shook her head, the words holding back inside her head. A priest would never.

“You see what happened last year? Those attacks on the foreigners? These people know we're
scared. That we can't go back home. That we can’t stay here. They know.”

“I'm going back home.”

Lindy looked at Patricia, her head turned to the side slightly. “Home? Home?”

Lindy's tone had turned to shock at Patricia's intentions.

“Yes. I can't stay here. I... I...”

“You can't go home. What are you going to tell your family? That you were raped here? That these
white men raped you? Huh? Don't be stupid.”

Patricia was confused. She didn't think she would have to tell anyone anything. She would go home.
That was the only thought that had occupied her mind. Going home. It was safer at home. Soldiers,

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police, gangs and she still felt safer in Zimbabwe than she did here.

Patricia was quiet.

“I'm telling you. Don't go home. Someone from there will know and tell your parents when you get
back. They will ask questions. They will point fingers. Do you want to go home with nothing and
face that?”

Patricia's heart stopped. She wanted to start crying. She felt her eyes begin to sting. She fought to
hold back her tears. She felt as if her tears would show her to be weak in front of Lindy. And she
didn't want that. Not now. She turned on her floor mat and faced the wall, pulling the red tartan
cover over her shoulders.

Lindy was quiet. She was lost for words. But she saw silly girls who came to South Africa everyday
and who were too trusting. Lindy couldn't go home. She didn't want to go home. Not until she
found her baby. Not until she found that fat, Malawian bitch who stole her child.

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Chapter 29

Jessica felt cold. Her arms and legs felt cold. She wanted someone to cover her up. But no one did.
She laid on the bed, her arms tied behind her head and her legs tied to the bed. He neck felt hot. Her
cheeks felt hot. So hot they made her eyes squint. She felt like throwing up.

She watched as the tall man picked the short fat bastard off the floor, picked up his bag and clothes
and took him out the door. The tall man looked at her as he left and closed the door behind him. She
felt weak. Her head throbbed. She wanted to sleep. She wanted a blanket. The tall man came back
in, this time with another man, the one that she had begged, pleaded with, he was talking, their
voices made the sound of words, words that passed over as incoherent noise. She moaned, groaned
for their attention. One of them had to see that she was naked, that she was cold.

The tall man left. He pointed to her, the window and hit his hand with the other repeatedly. She
wished she could hear. She strained harder. The words seemed to dance outside her range. She
struggled to breathe as she gave up trying to make sense of the garbled talk.

Richard came up to the bed after Viktor left the room. He pulled the bed sheet and threw it over
Jessica.

“What a waste.” he said to himself.

Richard had been instructed by Viktor that he didn't want a half dying girl here. It was Richard's job
to get rid of her. Wait until sunset, dress her and take her out of here.

Richard looked at the mess staring back him from under the covers. He couldn't sell her to anyone.
Not even the Nigerians would buy her looking like that. Not a fucking chance he thought to himself.
The Nigerians were keen on buying white girls. They put them out at R200 a fuck and R50 a
blowjob. Black girls working for them got in at most R150. And that was seldom. But the Nigerians
wouldn't touch her. Not the way she looked. Richard expected her to die. That was what Corn had
expected, following the bad brown sugar. But she was hanging on, looking like death. Fuck, he
thought to himself. What do you do with a live girl that is on her way out who can't be sold?

Richard walked over to the window. Reinforced steel bars on the outside of the window overlooking
the front entrance. The three Russians were being escorted to the bungalows that had been prepared
for them at the rear of the main building. He watched Corn do his dance, trying so hard to impress
them.

“Cock sucker!”

He turned back to Jessica and it came to him. He knew how he would get rid of her. But first it had

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to be dark.

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Chapter 30

The priest came by the room with a tin bowl of soup and a chunk of white bread that had been
ripped from the rest of its body. He kneeled down at the side of Patricia and put the bowl and bread
down on a side plate. He shook Patricia gently. She didn't move. He shook her again. Patricia
moved to find Father Clarke over her.

“Morning Patricia. Lindy told me you weren't feeling too well. I brought you something to eat.”

Patricia sat up.

“I was just tired.”

“It’s ok. Here, have some food. You can go to the kitchen, help yourself to some tea.” he smiled.

Father Clarke stood up, slowly, his palms resting on his thighs above his knees as he pushed himself
up. He sighed as he stood up.

“Don't go anywhere too far. It’s not safe out there. And hopefully we'll have someone coming
around later who can help you get back.”

Patricia nodded. Father Clarke smiled.

“I'm serious Patricia. You're safe here. I will protect you as best as I can. But out there, it just isn't
safe. Hopefully the lady coming in will be able to help with your papers so we can help you get
back home soon.”

Patricia said nothing as the priest left. She felt growing panic. As much as she wanted to find her
way home, Lindy's words came back to haunt her. “You can't go home.”Patricia knew she wanted to
be back at home.

The priest made her feel uncomfortable. It had changed so quickly. What if he was just keeping her
here for himself? What if he was lying about trying to help her get home? Questions began to
bombard her, each question attached to a horrific image she had endured. Her mind raced and she
made up her mind.

She needed to leave.

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Chapter 31

Ayesha's preparation and report was near finished when Dumza's PA called her and invited her for a
non-optional meeting.

She gathered her notes and the preliminary report that she had compiled. It was a sickening feeling
knowing that you had red ringed fellow officers as suspects in the murders of convicted criminals. It
cross grained the whole brother in arms ethos. She was a woman and an outsider to the OCB.

She made her way to the elevator up to the upper floors of the building. Dumza's office was situated
near the stratosphere of government administration. Sameer was waiting in reception. He turned to
greet her, grimaced face in toe.

“Hallo, Salaam, Ayesha. How are you?”

“Wasalaam Sameer. How are you? You look a bit stressed.”

“I'm fine. Just a bit preoccupied with other cases at the moment.”

“Oh. I tried getting hold of you yesterday but they said you were off.”

“Yes, spent the day with my wife Khadija. You should meet her sometime, bring your husband,
err...”

“Aadil?”

“Yes. Aadil. Come around to the house. How is he doing?”

“He's okay. Why do you ask?” Ayesha screwed up her face. The conversation had slipped into
personal. Too friendly for as short a distance of acquaintance.

“No reason. Just I don't think he was too happy when I came by.”

“He's fine. He understands. The job you know. This used to be my life before...”

“Before the Fischer case?”

“Before we got married.”

Sameer switched subjects without acknowledging the awkwardness.

“What did you find?”

“Sorry?”

“The case files?”

“Erm. Well I was almost done when I got the call to come up, so I just sort of brought what I had.

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But it’s not looking good.”

The PA at the desk stood up to get Sameer's attention.

“Mr. Parker if you and Mrs. Munshi would like to go to the boardroom, Mr. Kwanele will see you.”

“Thank you.” Sameer said walking towards the boardroom, Ayesha with her files and notes
following behind. Sameer towered over her, and he was a big man. He had a very erect way of
walking, his feet almost perfectly straight when he walked. She'd seen it before, the career soldiers
in civilian clothes. Hours of drills became habit. He stood outside the door to the boardroom, cell
phone in hand, opened the door and let Ayesha in ahead of him.

Dumza was seated in the middle of the table facing Ayesha and Sameer. Sameer switched his phone
off, pulled the battery out and put the phone in a metal box on the table.

“Protocol, just leave your phone in the box with its battery detached.”

Ayesha put the files on the table and followed suit.

Dumza watched all of this without saying a word at first.

“Coffee anyone?”

Ayesha and Sameer shook their heads.

“Good. Thank you for coming. I'm sorry it was such short notice. But we had this served on us this
morning, well the Department of Safety.” Dumza dumped a thick wad of pages on the table.

“What is it?” Sameer said reaching across the table.

“That my friend Sam, is a Notice of Investigation taking place courtesy of the good people at ICD.
Your mate, Bhana, that fucking irritating, swine of a lawyer.” he sighed and tried to regain control.
“He's charging misconduct by officers in SAPS and OCB and he's named you as someone who
should be receiving special attention.”

“What the...?”

The ICD or Independent Complaints Directorate was a national body set up by government to
investigate suspicious police activity. Any insinuation of corruption, abuse of power, or as Vikhash
Bhana had charged, gross negligence resulting in the death of civilians. The ICD was the police for
the Police.

Ayesha sat back quietly, finally understanding the gravity of the situation she had walked into.

“He's accused you of complicity or at the very least gross negligence in preventing the deaths.”

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Dumza had lost most of his friendly demeanour from when Ayesha had first met him. Both men
sighed together.

“Now what?” Sameer slouched back into his chair. The question was aimed more towards the
universe than Dumza.

“Well let's see what your star import has to offer before we respond. Ayesha?”

Ayesha cleared her throat, out of habit. Two names of fellow officers that needed to be investigated.
She knew what officers went through in an investigation. She reeked off it every time she went
home and the stench is what separated you from your family, your home and your sanity. You held
onto it selfishly, very much the same way drug addicts held onto their habits. And like all addictions
it destroyed you and everything else in the blast radius. But from the outsider’s point of view, every
angle needed to be investigated, if only to eliminate the suspects from the list.

Ayesha sighed as she decided on the words that would most appropriate when reporting on a matter
like this.

“Well, erm...” she shuffled through her notes remembering a case she wanted to mention and why it
was worthy of mention. Dumza stood up and walked over to the window.

“Carry on Ayesha. I'm listening to you.” Dumza sensed that Ayesha's delivery might be easier if he
was not looking at her at the same time.

“Well. Let me start at the beginning. So you have an understanding of how I went through the
process and what measures we need to implement if we decide to follow through with this.”

“What do you mean follow through with this?” Sameer sat up from his slouch.

“Well the men on this aren't dirty cops, we have no clear evidence, just circumstantial evidence to
build an investigation.”

“My father used to say, if you smell shit, you're close to it.” Dumza's comment was a brief
interruption. He turned back towards the window looking out below and across Johannesburg. The
answers were there. It would have taken a lesser cop with more of a case load longer to pull the
pieces together.

Ayesha began to read from her notes. She discussed the last cases of each victim discussing their
history and the technicalities regarding charges being dismissed. She discussed the analysis of the
victims, the very public displays and her belief that the only people who could get close enough not
to be noticed would be someone with a badge.

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“And you think one of our own actually links these cases?”

“Well in the Muller and Green cases there was one officer. He was appointed to investigate because
of his close knowledge of Green's operations and on Muller because of his connection to Green.
Does any of this make sense to anyone so far? Stop me if you have any questions.” Ayesha felt she
had spent a lot of time talking. It had only been eight minutes. Her throat felt dry. Neither man said
anything. Dumza stared out of the window, his back turned towards her.

“Perfect. Name?”

“Xolani Gqaca.”

Dumza turned around. “I know him. He was suspended pending an investigation from ICD”
Dumza's hands were behind his back as he looked at Ayesha.

“Yes. I was just about to say. And the Aboobaker case was lead by Christopher Harris. Christopher
Harris, spent close to two years investigating Aboobaker on a cell phone handset scam that
Aboobaker was behind, which lead to other charges being investigated, the OCB responded to a tip
off that led to a raid that led to the arrest of Aboobaker. Harris was in the process of asking for the
victim to be re-charged...”

“I know who Christopher is. He's a good man.” Sameer sat back and looked towards Dumza who
hadn't turned away from his position at the window.

“I worked with him. He has many years experience in police intelligence. I doubt he would be
behind something like this.”

Dumza finally turned.

“Where is he now?”

“Still undercover.”

“You're still getting reports?”

“Yes. The last time I checked.”

“What's he working?” Dumza was emotionless. He spoke directly to Sameer. Ayesha felt invisible.

“As a buyer looking to procure cell phone handsets. I thought we best leave him under, maybe we
could salvage something.”

“Good thinking Sam. Let's see what he's heard out there.”

“Ayesha. I need you to go and see these men, establish their credentials. The ICD is going to check

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the investigating officers first. And you can bet that lawyer is going to go in all hot and heavy and
make sure they check every fold and crease. Start off with Christopher. Sameer go with her. He
knows you, maybe you can explain things to him. Leave Gqaca to me.”

Ayesha and Sameer left. Both said nothing to each other as they walked down the passage and
through the doors into the elevator. Both put their phones back on.

Sameer stood facing the doors, Ayesha with the folders in her hands, still uncertain as to what she
was doing, wondered if she was expected to ask questions. It all seemed clear cut to her. Her job
was simple. It was the politics, the media, the public opinion and the fallout that made it dangerous,
that made it taxing and hat was wore you out- Deciding how to deal with it, and deciding how to
handle it all.

“Can you come to my office please? I think we need to talk.”

Ayesha nodded and followed Sameer to his office. He opened the door and let her in and closed the
door behind her. He asked her to take a seat and then walked around the desk to sit down opposite
her.

“I know I haven't been around to offer you much support. To be honest, I thought you would go
through this and come to the conclusion that our hands were clean. You realise that is why we
brought you on. I needed someone smart, someone I could trust.”

Ayesha nodded, uncertain of where it was leading to.

“Good. But now we do have a problem, because of what you said, that these, these, erm victims,
were found dead, used to make some sort of statement right after their charges had been dismissed.
My department will be the first place they'll look and I need you to do a good job. Please. I know
it’s not easy. Looking at your own department. I know. But better you than the ICD.”

Ayesha nodded. She didn't know what else to say. She had thoughts about a dirty cop, killing
criminals. How many other cops would be lining up to congratulate her if she broke this case?

“What if this thing blows up?”

“Well that's why you're here? If it blows up, we all go down. Top down. Our government doesn't
tolerate screw ups. Public trust lost means we go if we caused it. That'll be the end of the OCB.”

Ayesha stood up to leave. As she got to the door, she stopped and turned around.

“Gqaca, why was he suspended?”

“He put a neighbour in the hospital and used his service pistol to beat him. Pistol whipped him.

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Repeatedly.”

“Stress?”

“Probably. But he was drunk when the SAPS guys pitched up to arrest him.”

Ayesha nodded.

“What did the neighbour do?”

Sameer didn't hesitate.

“He went home, heard the man next door beating his wife. So he went over there and beat him
back.”

It was a lot of pressure to voluntarily get yourself into, Ayesha thought to herself. But it was a way
back for her. People often forgot that cops, the people trusted to protect us had normal lives.
Sometimes they forgot that as well. Surrounded by filth, human depravity and limitless degradation,
it was easy to lose patience and to forget that your job was to uphold the law.

If she could survive this, maybe she could come back to this job full time, if there was anything to
come back to.

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Chapter 32

Jessica hung on. She wasn't dying. Not in the way Viktor, Corn or Richard thought she would.
Neither did her condition improve. The three of them waited in the room, watching over her,
deciding when the most opportune time would be to take her out. Some of the guests from the
previous night staggered out long after the normal, salary dependent people were behind their desks,
whilst others ordered in and decided to take the day off, in their private suites.

Viktor was instructing Richard on what needed to be done.

“Go around, get your car. Come up here, wrap her up, and take her down to the car. Put her on the
backseat and find some place to leave her. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. Off course.”

“Good, because it looks like whoever gave her the heroin last night fucked up. She's not going to
die soon and I don't have the whole day to wait for her to die.”

“Take it easy Vlad, I'll make sure we don't see her again.”

“Corn says we'll need new girls for tomorrow night? And my name is Viktor. Learn it or pay the
price.”

“Oh yeah, tomorrow's another Pork Night. I'll have a look around, see what we can get, or else we'll
have to buy some from the guys at the border.”, Richard said, ignoring Viktor's last statement.

“Well I don't care what you do. My father is going to be watching things tomorrow and I don't want
any fuck ups.”

Viktor was abrupt. He didn't trust South Africans. They were lazy, soft and pathetic. He didn't say
anything else and left the room. The mere fact that this girl was still here and it was halfway
through the day irritated him more. Like there was no plan, like everyone was waiting to be told
what they should do next. It was a simple thing too. Dying girl. Get rid of dying girl. If she couldn't
be sold, get rid of her. What was so hard to understand?

Richard watched Viktor leave and close the door behind him.

“My name is Vick-tore, learn it or pay the price” he said in his badly constructed Russian accent. A
father and his two sons, what the fuck was so scary about them? Didn't they think he knew how to
run things? He had been doing it perfectly before then, and now the arseholes thought they could
come and squeeze him.

He walked over to the bed and undid the blue arms from its binding to the headboard. He sat at the

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edge and looked into the dark ringed eyes of Jessica. She wasn't going to die on her own. She was a
fighter this one. He put his hand on her throat, his palm overlapping onto her clavicle. He wrapped
his fingers around her throat and felt the damp flesh which had been immersed in perspiration.

“I know what you want?”

“You want to kill me. I can see it in your eyes. But you're too weak now aren't you?”

Jessica didn't move. She couldn't. Her body wouldn't allow her to. She had asked him for help
before. Even after that first injection. She had begged him. Nothing.

He licked his lips as his hand moved from her throat over her chest under the sheet.

“It’s a real pity hey sweetheart. They don't want me to shoot you, so I'm going to have to think of
something else. And I have the perfect place for you. One night and you'll be dead by the morning.”

He smiled to himself as his hands absorbed what was left of the girl beyond the tangible clammy
skin.

“It's such a real pity. If only you had a bit more juice left in you.” he licked his bottom lip again.

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Chapter 33

Xolani Gqaca was career policeman. A family man with a high school teacher wife and three
teenage boys, he thought the suspension would give him some much needed time to bond with his
family. But as with many police spouses and parents, the family develops their own routine. Xolani
felt like he was in the way. Suspended from his job he found himself almost redundant in the
household. And it wasn't like he could mingle with the neighbours. There were mostly old people
and those people of his age tried to avoid all forms of contact with the policeman. He had even
heard mutterings of how he shouldn't have got involved in matters between a husband and his wife.
It made him angry. So he spent most of his days in his workshop working on the small carpentry
projects which had all been birthed years ago on weekends off and subsequently left in the dusty
incubator of intended finishes in the workshop.

He found it the one place where he could be on his own without the feeling that he was out of place.
He wasn't one for sitting and watching TV. Especially on your own while his wife was away at
work and his boys at school. This way he was out of their way and they were out of his. He was not
one for drinking in public places either. He was a cop and a pretty well known one at that. Have a
drink too many and you could find yourself trying to defend the badge on some drunken
misunderstanding. Every morning after his wife had left with the kids he would grab a pistol, put
on the leather apron and head off to the workshop behind the house in the backyard. It was almost
complete. The electrical tools were his, but the hand tools passed down from his father and
grandfather.

His father had been very vocal when his son mentioned his intention to become a policeman.

“What is wrong with a carpenter? Listen my boy, if you want to help people, SAP is not going to be
it. Carpenters always have work and people trust them.”

He wondered if his father was trying to warn him so many years ago. The people in his area didn't
trust him. Even though most people knew what a bastard his neighbour was, they felt that Xolani
was just being a cop, beating up an innocent man because he was a cop.

Xolani sat on the high stool, leather gloves on and his goggles and he pushed a piece of wood
through an electric saw. He watched the spinning wheel cut along the pencil line he had drawn. The
reflection of a mirror or metallic object bounced off the wall outside the door of the shed. He saw a
suited man walking along the side of the house coming towards him,

Xolani turned his back towards the door. He knew the man well enough to trust leaving the gun in
its waist holster under his leather apron. He heard the knocking at the door. He ignored it as he

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pulled another piece of wood through the saw. He heard the knock and the footsteps stop behind
him.

He switched the machine off and turned around, removing his goggles.

“Don't tell me you've come to deliver the bad news yourself. I thought they would at least call me
themselves.” he said looking expressionless at the man standing at the door. Dumza took a step in
and stuck out his hand.
Xolani cold fish shook his hand, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and
walked over to a shelf and pulled down a bottle with two glasses.

“No. I don't know about those ICD charges. I'm here for another reason.”

“Ja? What am I being accused of now?”

“It's not what you're being accused of, but what ICD might think if they continue with their current
investigation.”

Xolani put the glasses on a work table, poured three fingers each, put the top back on the bottle of
brandy and left it on the table picking up the glasses. He walked up to where Dumza was standing
and handed him a glass. Xolani pulled up a red plastic Coke crate, turned it on its side and sat down.
He pointed to one behind Dumza.

“Sit wena.” he pulled one for himself and the two men sat with their warm brandy.

“OCB is being investigated by ICD. This lawyer laid charges with the ICD. They received it and
gave me a call.”

“So? What's that got to do with me?” he made a loud clicking noise with his tongue to show his
strong disapproval.

“Well, the lawyer for the victims believes that the OCB knew that his clients were in danger and did
nothing about it. And it looks suspiciously like an inside job.”

“So?”

“So Brian Muller and Mervyn Green were both cases you worked before they were killed. You
arrested them. You threatened them when their cases were dismissed- in public. ICD is...”

“Gah! What is this Dumza. Chini! You come into my house and tell me in your roundabout way that
you think I'm responsible for murder? Do you know who I am?”

Dumza felt that sickly sort of awkward. There was no easy way of telling a cop, a suspended cop,
that a shit storm was gathering.

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“You're not a suspect. And I don't want you to be. That's why I'm here. ICD got a complaint and
they will turn over every stone and I'm worried about you.”

“Hey, hamba! You can voetsek! How long you know me and you come in here like this? Dumza, I
swear you are not right you. Not right up here.”, he tapped at the side of his head with his index
finger.

“Xolani. Please listen. This is not personal. I just need to know. If you say no, I won't ask and I'll
make sure no one touches you.”

“Ask me what?”

“Did you have anything to do with Muller and Green's deaths?”

Xolani threw back the contents of his glass. Stood up and slammed the glass on his work bench. He
stood by the door, wiped his mouth with his hand.

“You shouldn't have to ask me Dumza. I'm going into my house. When I come back, you better
fokoff. You understand? You can take your shit somewhere else. I don't fokin’ need your help!”

Xolani didn't listen to any of Dumza's protestations as he left. Dumza knew that Xolani would have
understood if he didn't feel like he was being singled out. He wanted a chance to explain things to
him. Make him understood. More than that, Dumza needed to clear the air. There was more than
enough circumstantial evidence to show a link between the violent cop with a history of violent
resolutions to disputes and the criminal who slipped away out of his grasp. Dumza needed the OCB
to be completely clean.

Dumza finished his drink. Put his business card on the table under the glass and left. It didn't change
what was needed. He still needed to speak to Xolani. Unless he knew well enough that Xolani was
innocent, he couldn't do anything. If he was dirty, he would find a way to get rid of him. One
organisation didn't need to be sacrificed for an individual.

Xolani watched as Dumza drove off. He knew well enough what the deaths of Muller and Green
meant. And it wasn't the first time he was suspected in their murders. Half jokingly suspected by
colleagues. Especially after his tirade when Green walked out of court.

What would he tell the ICD investigators? That he was happy they had met their ends? He wasn't
sad. He wouldn't be belly aching over their demise.

Now was not the time to be honest.

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Chapter 34

Richard drove a small, beige, 1400 three door van. He had bought it for under R20000 and with a
little work it became quite a reliable vehicle. It was a nuggety little vehicle, surprisingly quick, low
on fuel and came in handy when transporting stock. Police never gave it a look, and thieves seemed
to be repelled or offended by it. It was that kind of odds defying vehicle

Today Jessica lay in the back, dressed in a neon green and black nylon tracksuit. Richard had spread
open an old carpet and placed Jessica on it. When he found the right place in town he would just
drag the carpet out with the girl, roll one end over the other and leave.

He pulled out of Sinderella gates, nodding at the guards as he passed through. Corn had told him to
find a young black girl, preferably in her teens. Something that could warrant the price tag of R2000
for the night. He was expecting some new girls from the Far East and from Russia, or round about
there. All the places there sounded the same to him. All part of that old bastard Semion's shake up.
In two days they would spice things up, charge extra for the new talent for Pork Night. It didn't
matter what it was called. It was just an excuse for very rich and powerful men to do as they pleased
without consequences. One massive fuck frenzy, non resisting women, and free liquor, it was
paradise.

The drive to Johannesburg's inner city became more congested the closer Richard got to it. He was
travelling in the opposite direction of the general traffic, although it had also had it its bottlenecks.
As he drew closer he smiled as the old buildings swallowed the last of the setting sun. He drove into
the city, absorbing what he felt was missing from his life, the collective energy of the inner city.
This was where the real power was. It was what drove everything else. If Johannesburg was the
heart of the African economy, the core of that heart would be Johannesburg's inner city. Because in
spite of the condition it found itself in, where some places looked like the gutted remains of an
Apocalyptic movie set, it was the people here that kept Johannesburg alive. Millions of people
flocked to Johannesburg. Not driven so much as they were drawn here by the magnetic power of its
promise, of the sacrifice it required and the fork tongued prospects it offered, but they were sucked
in so they could be sucked dry.

Richard took in a deep breath. Men and women headed in opposite directions. Well not quite.
Working men and working women walked and rushed towards taxis and bus stops with parcels and
carrier bags. Faces exhausted having toiled and made their daily contribution and paid the tax for
the honour and privilege of working the machine. The working girls came out, slowly, one or two of
them on corners. They thrived on the darkness. They would never survive in long sunlight hours.

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They prospected for the piece of pavement that would profit them the most. Some tried to make eye
contact with him as he drove past. He looked at them and past them. It was still too early. Besides
he couldn't snatch one of the regular pavement cheetahs. They would be missed. And pavement
cheetahs were not exactly what his clientele wanted. Although, sufficiently sauced up, any hole
would do.

He also scoured around for a place,that would be quiet enough to rid himself of the cargo. He
stopped at a stop street and removed his jacket. He threw his jacket at the back. He kept his gun on
a shoulder holster. He loved his beloved Johannesburg with its beating heart fuelled by the constant
ebb and flow of human flesh, the constant creation and absolute destruction of dreams. Ambition
was shaped and funnelled and conceived and birthed and murdered, all in a single day in
Johannesburg. And it was it here, right here in the inner city that kept the rest of Johannesburg alive.
It was a source, of humanity, of cruelty, of love, fear, hope and death. People out in the surburbs
dared not come here, danger lurked on corners and at stop signs. It was the inner city and its evils
which kept people awake, it was the inner city which was a source of cheap labour, satisfaction and
exploitation. It was honesty personified, it was the real jungle, where prey was preyed upon. It was
the unadulerated face of the real humanity.

Richard felt it creep into his pores. He was home. He could follow its vibe, its pulse beating through
him and it would lead him to where he needed to go. He didn't fear the city. He was as much a part
of it as it was a part of him.

Jessica's eyes were open all the way, from Sinderella to Johannesburg, her body bounced as the little
van covered every bump and crack on the road. She watched as the light changed on the panels
inside the van. The natural light slipped into the artificial white and sometimes yellow street lights.
She watched shadows appear, morph and disappear as the van drove through Johannesburg. The
sounds sent her menacing salutations of a fearful and impatient welcoming. Jessica didn't know
what Richard had planned for her. She didn't want to think. She tried praying. She closed her eyes.
But she felt dirty and ashamed about praying to God, lying there on her side, filthy, with the smell
of strange men still occupying her memory and nose. She smelled it on herself. She tried thinking of
her parents and her sister and brother. She tried thinking of her dog but the thoughts hurt too much.
Every single thought. Regardless of how small or insignificant, all the thoughts she wanted to draw
on, thoughts to keep her alive, to keep her hope alive, all of them felt wrong, as if each of the
thoughts could see her. As if the thoughts could see her now, see what she had done, as if the
thoughts wouldn't understand her, that she had no choice.

She felt ill. She felt sore. Her body ached. She wanted to cough. But her head felt like a balloon

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being blown up inside her skull, expanding with every cough, pushing outwards. She lay at the back
on the carpet. It smelled of wine and dust. She saw Richard's jacket, it was black. She reached out to
touch it. It felt like plastic. Her hand moved over to something which had caught her eye.
Something in the jacket. Something she couldn't identify. She touched it. It was thin. Ripples of thin
layers. She grabbed it and pulled it closer. It was his wallet, a leather wallet with a single strap clip.
She held it. She didn't know why she kept it, but it reminded her of something or someone. The
wallet was cracked, bits fallen or broken off it. It was thick, and folded in half.

“That's it. Guess what sweetheart?”

The van stopped and Richard got out of the vehicle. In seconds Jessica saw the rear door open and
Richard pulled the unrolled carpet out with her on it. Richard dragged it out with such strength that
he let it fall with Jessica on it.

“Home sweet home darling.”

Jessica was too weak. It was freezing cold outside the van. She could feel a strong bite from the
unwelcoming air. Where was she? She tried picking herself up from the carpet and Richard put an
end to that thought with a stomp of his foot to her back.

“Now now, darling, eager to meet your maker? Don't worry; you'll be meeting Jesus before
midnight.”

“Please...” she whimpered.

Richard looked at her for a second.

“Please. Help me.”

“Like I said before, you would have been a great piece. I wanted to put a bullet in you, but it was
the Russian's idea to let you go out naturally.”

Richard kneeled on the ground, his one arm flattening and lifting Jessica's head, his knee on her
chest. Richard pulled out a hypodermic needle, removed the plastic cap from the needle with his
teeth. He injected the brown substance in the side of her neck.

Jessica's eyes rolled back as the sweet heroin pumped through, leaving her feeling detached, almost
euphoric. She forgot for a few seconds where she was. It seemed so distant. She didn't feel the cold.
Or the throbbing pain. She didn't feel dirty. She didn't care. She went lame.

Richard rolled up the carpet and pushed the roll against a dumpster. She would be dead by morning.
They would find her dead from the cold, a set of tracks on her arm, on her neck, and she would just

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be another junkie whose friends or pimp had dumped her here when she was OD'ing. He had given
her enough to cause a reaction. Whatever Sherry had done the night before, she had fucked up.

Someone would find the carpet, unroll it and they would find the body of a drug addict. Dead -
another statistic. They'd probably rob her for the clothes and the carpet.

Jessica was caught in the middle. Strange pictures entertained her while she could feel her body
being moved and shoved around. A slow dance with a faceless stranger, she could feel the impulse
to say no to the welcoming embrace grow stronger. She drifted along. But it seemed to be at a
distance. As though she was watching it, but could feel it at the same time. It didn't occur to her to
move or attempt to move.

She felt very cold. Jessica heard a car move past her, she felt its light and heard its knocking sound
as it passed her, stopped in the distance and drove off. Sounds invaded her senses, peppered it,
seeking attention and demanded she take note. She wanted to sit up, she wanted to stand up, she
wanted to run away.

And then Jessica slipped into darkness. Her body jerking and shaking in the rolled up carpet.

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Chapter 35

Christopher Harris walked through his store, a store devoted exclusively to everything cellular and
computer. Customers examined products, spoke to salesmen and none the wiser as to whom
Christopher Harris really was. It was part of an SAPS set up 4 years ago, plant an agent as a loud,
brash businessman, let him buy a few stolen products and establish his credentials with the
underground as a trusted and reliable customer. For law enforcement it would be a vital source of
information and intelligence.

He was in his late 30's lived on his own, was known for being loud and brash. He had gained
credibility amongst criminals after a few arrests, several fines and a few months behind bars. Today
though, he was not expecting the call as he eyed a young brunette mother with her 11 year old son
eyeing a desktop PC. As he got closer he noticed the mother, who looked to be in her mid 30's
arguing with her son.

“That is too expensive. I don't understand why the other one is not good enough. I swear Jason,
you'll be the death of me!”

Chris stood back. He knew what the kid was getting at. Parents didn't understand PCs the way kids
understood them.

“But this one is faster.” he said in a high pitched voice. The kid was a chubby kid with hair combed
straight down in a dorky fringe. She couldn't be his mother. He checked her fingers. There were no
rings, no tan lines around her finger. Maybe she wasn't married.

“Faster for what? If you're going to do your homework faster, then maybe.”

“But I can’t put any games on. Pro Evo will never play on that other one. It’s a a Celeron, everyone
knows that.”

“Not everyone. If you don't want what I give you, then we're going home now Jason!”

Christopher saw it as perfect opportunity to slip himself into the conversation.

“Easy there mam. What seems to the problem?”

The mother turned around, annoyed and irritated by the salesman.

“I'm sorry but my son is making it impossible. We're going home.” She grabbed her son's hand and
pulled it. Christopher put his hand up to stop her.

“Well, let's see if I can help you, maybe we can work something out to make everyone happy. What
do you want son?” Christopher said putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. He thought that was a

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nice touch. He hunched a bit as he pulled the boy in. He knew the mother was watching. “You want
a gaming one, yeah?”

“Yes. But my mother doesn't understand.”

“I do understand. But when you're working and earning your own money, you can buy anyone you
want, right now you take what I can afford. If you don't want it, then we can go home and I can
save my money.”

“But mom.”

“I swear, I give up.”

“It’s ok mam, I tell you what I'm gonna do, I want you to take this machine. Not just because you
have a pretty smile, but I think your boy will be the next Bill Gates yeah?” He squeezed the boys
shoulder. He thought that was particularly impressive.

“I...I don't know. Erm...”

“I'll give you the same price for this model as that other one. How's that sound?”

“You can do that?”

“Off course I can. This is my store. I can do whatever I want. Now if you would just like to give me
your details.” He smiled at the young mother.

The mother was confused. She looked at her son.

“You're just like your dad, very lucky. Say thank you.” she turned to Christopher. “Thank you so
much. I really don't know what to say. He’s been bothering me and his father for a computer for so
long and I thought he was just too young, but then every kid in his class has a laptop and I
thought...”

Christopher's mind hung on the one word which blurred the rest of what the young mother had to
say. Father. He didn't hear a single word after that. It was flagged word.

“...and where is his dad today?”

“Oh, he's at home, he hates shopping. Typical male hey. Let the women do all the work and then
complain about it when we get home. Speaking of which, can we return this if he isn't happy?”

“I thought this was for Jason.” Christopher didn't know who Jason's father was, didn't know what he
looked like, if he liked animals, helped little old ladies across the road, what he was like as a person
but he knew he didn't like him. He might even hate this invisible adversary.

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“Oh no it is. But it’s his money. You know.” She said jokingly. Christopher was turned off. She was
no longer the sexy thing that had grabbed his attention minutes earlier. She was a man. An old, fat
man with hair out of his nose and ears. His interest was lost.

“Sure. As long as you have your slip, we'll change it for you.” Christopher's tone was one of
disappointment.

“Speak to Steve over there. He's our salesman, he'll help you with your purchase.”

Christopher walked to his office. What a bust he thought to himself. Sometimes you won, most
times you lost. He walked to the back of the store, climbed the wooden staircase to his office. The
door to his office was open. He had locked it before his floor rounds. He pulled out a small pistol he
carried on him under his shirt. His store was in downtown Johannesburg, selling previously high
end merchandise to the low end of the market. It kept him close to the ground, close to what was
happening, where people were the most vulnerable and where the roots of his targets explored for
sustenance.

“Hallo?” He said, both hands around the pistol. He kneed open the door, his hands following the
slow swinging door.

“You?”

Sameer sat behind the desk, wearing a blue golf shirt and denim jeans with his famous short boots
on the desk., his feet up on the desk.

“I don't get to do much of this lately.” He smiled. Christopher put his gun back under his belt under
his jacket. He closed the door behind him.

“Slumming it, are we boss.”

“Well you don't send me flowers anymore.”

Both men laughed.

“Pity about the MILF.” Sameer said indicating at mother and son he had been watching from the
office.”

“Well they call if MILF for a reason. If I had succeeded she'd be MIDF.”

“MIDF?”

“Mom-I-did-fuck.” ,Christopher said with a grin on his face.

“You're twisted man.”,Sameer laughed.

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Both men laughed again.

“Okay,seriously now Sam, what are you doing here?” Christopher said sitting across from Sameer
at his desk.

“You got me. This isn't a social call. It’s a bit of business. We got a new member I wanted to
introduce you to. But not here.”

“You came out all the way here to tell me we have a new member?” Christopher's tone and voice
had changed significantly from the Christoper Harris who had been on the shop floor.

“Yeah. You know phones. Can't trust a thing. And I need to have a talk with you. Away from this
place.” Sameer looked through the one way glass wall of Christopher's office. It was mirrored so
that anyone from the office could look out over the shop floor but no one from the shop floor could
look in.

“How did you get in? I hope no one saw you.”

“Well you didn't. And if you didn't, then no one saw me. Unless your game is sliding.”

“Well you know some of us do age better than others, hey old man.”

Both men exchanged pleasantries. Spoke about superficial matters and mentioned nothing about
their real business. Christopher had always looked up to Sameer. He felt betrayed when Sameer had
quit the field for a job behind a desk. Between them were secrets that only people who had
experienced their situations would be able to understand, the things they saw, the things they had to
experience and the difficult decisions they had to make.

Sameer stood up to leave.

“Midnight. The usual place.” Sameer handed him a slip of paper with a phone number.

“If anything goes wrong or you can't make it. Let me know.”

Christopher took the slip of paper with the phone number and looked at it.

“Don't worry Chris, its clean.”

“Ok. Any chance of a hint of what it’s about?”

“Patience, friend. Patience. And there is nothing to worry about.”

Sameer left and closed the door behind him. Christopher looked through the window and didn't see
anyone who remotely looked like Sameer walk through the shop. Spooks he thought to himself.
Once one, always one. It did worry him though, especially when one of the big muckers came

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down to you.

More so when they told you not worry.

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Chapter 36

Three women sat at the back of Richard's van. Patricia felt relief as she the vehicle moved further
and further away from Johannesburg. She felt too tense in the church. Every inch away from the
church made her feel like she was closer to her own salvation.

Lindy told Patricia of a Senagalese man in Hillbrow who knew a way to get her out of
Johannesburg without needing to stay at the Church. Patricia was determined to go home, she
wanted no part of South Africa anymore. Home could not be worse than this.He could be trusted.
Lindy took Patricia up to a room in one of Hillbrow's former glorious hotels, which could easily be
described now as a cesspool. The corridors with their obligatory stained carpets and lurking piss and
semen smell from too many half spent cocks, was Patricia's way home. The man sitting in the
backroom, behind the throng of hollow eyed desperados, men and women gave Patricia a once over.
He wore a scar across the bridge of his nose, forming a thick worm of scar tissue. He nodded his
approval, Lindy made Patricia sit down on a chocolate brown couch while she and the scarfaced
man left the room. Patricia looked around. In front of her was a glass table with small packets of
rocks, white powder and a wad of cash and cellular phone. The walls were painted red and Patricia
could hear the noise from the street below. For the first time in a long while, Patricia felt relief. This
man who Lindy had promised would be able to help Patricia get back home could be trusted.
Patricia could feel safe.

Patricia didn't panic when Lindy didn't come back. She didn't give the slightest thought to why
Lindy had not come back or what she had said to the man. Nor did Patricia notice the 5 R100 notes
that Lindy had accepted as payment. Lindy was right. No one could be trusted in South Africa.

Richard popped in and bought the three women. It was the quickest profit Scarface had made in a
while. They were good replacements and stock for the next evening and Richard wouldn't mind
testing them to make sure they were up to scratch if he had to.

Patricia, was so overwhelmed by the possibility that she didn't ask why Lindy had disappeared, why
no one had asked her for a cent to get across the border or why Scarface had not even said a word to
her.

Richard watched the three women at the back of his van. Disillusioned Zimbabweans. He preferred
Zimbabweans. They were easy to understand. He hated Mozambicans. They were too aggressive,
and you couldn't trust them. When you least expected it, they would try to kill you and then rob you,
although they were better looking. Corn would be pleased with his haul. The Russians might have
something to say. But what could they say? There were three young girls, looking for opportunities,

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with nowhere to go, alone and trusting. This was too tempting an offer to ignore.

Richard never made conversation with them, even if he was in the middle of the catch. He was just
giving them a lift. He kept the connection narrow, because one couldn't afford to be friends, even
travel buddies for that matter because when they arrived, and were taken out, put in the basement,
smacked around and tied up, they would call you like a friend called you, and it took an immense
amount of strength to not turn around and help them or comfort them. It was business. If they were
sold tomorrow night he would make a nice commission from them. It was about money. They were
money. The three women were asleep at the back, content in the belief that he was taking them
across the border.

He imagined the eyes of the old bastards, sitting there in their wrinkled nakedness, watching the
girls as they were brought in, arousing themselves together, and becoming aroused in unison like it
was a group exercise. That was one of the reasons Richard never stayed for the show. It was off
putting watching a bunch of under endowed, pale white, cancer spot-freckled men with more money
than common sense seated around a young woman, or sometimes young women, stroking and
pulling at themselves as they tried to out bid each other. The prize, half dressed and within fucking
distance was as much the prize as out bidding your rival. Everything was a pissing contest.
Everyone's daddy was Superman propped up by cheque accounts and private bankers.

Corn enjoyed it for obvious reasons. And none of them seemed to mind sitting in a group with lights
dimmed manipulating themselves.

Richard looked in his rear-view mirror. The three women were asleep. That was a good sign. They
felt safe. They felt calm. There was no adrenaline flowing. Like hunting, you needed the animal
unsuspecting before you pounced, else the meat would be bitter if the animal was in panic when you
killed it.

People were too trusting.

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Chapter 37

The coffee shop was a truck stop on a back road between Johannesburg and Pretoria. It was also a
stop and drop for intelligence operatives needing to meet their handlers. Sameer sat in a booth near
the bathroom at the back of the coffee shop. Outside was a petrol station which catered mainly for
late night revellers and passing truck drivers. It had relatively easy access for the public, but most
importantly it was easy to escape. Parties arriving early had a good view of who arrived.

Sameer ordered a coffee. Coffee kept most people awake. It did nothing for him except to warm
him up. And at midnight at a petrol station by the side of the highway, something warm was called
for. He watched the lot outside, some of the cars stopping at the convenience store, the odd truck
pulling in.

Christopher Harris arrived dressed down. His hair was combed differently. Sameer watched him
walk in, scanned the cars behind him, the people walking in and those already seated. He noted the
slight bulge on the ankle of Christopher.

Christopher walked up and slumped himself in the booth opposite Sameer. He pulled a box of
cigarettes and asilver lighter and slapped them together on the counter.

“Isn't this a little late for your age group?”

“Hahaha. Carry on with the cancer sticks and you won't live till my age.”

“Hey, I have limited vices, allow me the few joys that haven't been outlawed yet.”

“Coming from someone undercover, I find that hard to believe.”

“No sale?”

“What do you think?”, Sameer's sarcastic tone made Chris laugh.

Chris sat back, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, sucked on it and exhaled.

“Sam, you didn't call me here to talk about my addictions.”

“You're right. I didn't. I wanted to run some stuff by you. See what you thought.”

“You've never been good at bullshitting me.”

“Yeah I know. And I'm not here to bullshit you. I'm just trying to find the words, the right words.”

“Why would you need the right words?”

“We have a potential problem, or something that might involve you, or in the very least question
your credibility.”

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“My credibility? What the fuck man? If someone thinks that I'm not shooting straight, you need to
come right out and say it.”

“Easy there. I know you're honest. I know that.” Sameer was trying to reassure Christopher.

“That's easy for you to say. What gives?”

“Yusuf Aboobaker?”

“That fucking idiot. He's dead now so I don't see what that's got to do with me.”

“That's the problem Chris. His lawyer is looking into the deaths and looking a bit hard into it
actually. He laid a complaint with ICD.”

Chris stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. His fingers trembled.

“ICD? What the fuck for? What are they accusing me of?”

“They're not accusing you of anything. But your name did come up”

“With what Sam? That I was working the case? That I wanted to put his fat arse behind bars? What
do you think? Let them come, I got nothing to hide. I never took anything, in fact- if anything, I was
against that fucking raid. I mean that tip off was bullshit.”

“It’s not that Chris. It’s his death. There might be some questions and well we want to be sure.”

“Be sure of what?”

“That we're all batting on the same team?”, Sam's tone was almost accusatory.

“Same team? Same team?! What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Bloody hell! If you want to say
something come out and say it!” Chris was shouting and some of the very few people that were
inside the coffee shop turned to look.

“We just need to be sure that there is nothing we have to be worried about or that there are no
surprises later on.”

“Are you listening to yourself Sam? Are you? Or is the air up there getting to you? You want to
know something, just ask me. Have the fucking balls to ask me.”

“Did you have anything to do with Aboobaker's murder.”

Christopher stood up and killed his cigarette in the ashtray.

“No. I didn't. You know everyone was right about you. You are a dick.”

Chris walked out of the shop in a huff. Sam didn't stop him or say anything. He was glad he hadn't

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told Ayesha about the meeting. Chris's reaction might have been worse if there was a person
especially brought in to check up on them. Cops hated being checked up on. But what else was Sam
going to do. Any day now the ICD would make that call and it would all be official balls rolling.
The OCB would either be a victim or have to cut someone loose to fly solo.

Sam sipped his coffee. The night had turned out colder than he expected.

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Chapter 38

Patricia opened her eyes to the loud noises of men barking commands. The friendly white man
stood at the door of the van and smoked a cigarette as hands reached in to pull her out. Flashlights
beamed across her face as each woman was dragged by her arms through the doors of a building.
The door led to a set of stairs leading down. Down to a basement. Patricia started to panic. The
hands grabbed hard at, the fingers wrapped around her wrists aggressively. She tried to pull away,
realising where she was, and what was about to happen to her. She began to scream. The hands
pulled at her wrists as she tried falling back, using her full bodyweight to leverage against her
captors.

She pulled back, some hands trying to grab her ankles. She kicked at them while screaming and
begging. She felt hands wrap around her neck as she backed into the rear of the front seats. The
hands held her up her head around her chin, she felt a pinching line across her neck, a stinging
pinch. A knife. The white man, the one that had driven them here. The one that had promised to take
her to the border.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“You can kill me I don't care. You can kill me now.”

Patricia's voiced stuttered out her resolution.

“Easy there sweetheart, you don't know where you are, I make wishes come true. Even for you.” he
pushed the blade a little deeper. The tip of the blade made a tiny cut to her skin.

Patricia breathed heavy as she struggled to think of her next move. What could she do? She was too
little to fight and she didn't know where she was.

“I thought so. Pull her out. Put them into rooms. I'll take this one, looks like she'll need some
manners taught to her.”

There was a general chuckle as Patricia was dragged out of the car. The men knew what it meant.
The professionals, the girls willing and able to were led in through a different entrance. Those led
into the back were the small perks of the jobs. They were unwilling, unintentional girls. They were
always in demand. Their resistance is what turned most of the men on. And you could tell the
difference between the professionals and amateurs. Corn sold them from R2000 a night for a girl.
Way beyond the pay grade of Sinderella grunts. But tonight as ordained by Corn, they could take
turns softening up the new stock. Within bounds though. Corn emphasized the principles of you
break, you buy it.

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They wouldn't be too rough. Chances are that the girls wouldn't last more than 2 guys. Richard
watched as two men held onto the arms of Patricia and pulled her away. She walked through the
doors, her head hanging, resigned.

“What you want us to do with their shit?” one of the guards said pointing at their bags that had been
left in a pile on the ground.

“Go through it, see if there is anything of value. Burn the rest. I've got a date tonight.” He said
smiling to himself. He congratulated himself on his latest pick. He had forgotten about Jessica.

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Chapter 39

Alviro Hendricks was fuming. He stood at the backdoor to his bakery, pissed off. He had set the
ovens for the daily bread order and as per normal, his brother Lance was nowhere to be found. You
would have expected more from your older brother. A year ago his parents who had run the bakery
for more than 30 years had taken up retirement and given him and his brother the business to run.
His father told them: “When your mother and I die, don't expect pots of money, we've worked hard
and long enough, your mother and I are going to enjoy it. If you want money, you have a way of
earning it.”

The business was left to them to run and build their own fortunes. But Lance was about as reliable
as an insurance company. When you needed him, he was nowhere to be found. Over the year it had
got to the point where every morning that passed and Lance was either late or just plain absent,
Alviro thought of buying his brother's share out. But the old man said that as long as he was alive,
the business would have to remain in the family and between the two of them. It was easy for him
to say. He didn't have to deal with Lance. Family and business didn't cohabit peacefully. You
couldn't fire your brother. You couldn't reprimand him, or dock his pay. Alviro had taken up
smoking again.

Johannesburg city was quiet during the early hours. You would hear the odd siren if you were
paying attention. A broken bottle here, and the odd gun shot. At four in the morning, in the freezing
Gauteng winter, it should have been the calm before the storm. The easy start to the day, but Alviro
had to wait for Lance. Someone had to be there for the staff as they arrived, someone needed to start
the machines for the bread, get the float, someone needed to be there while the other was out with
the delivery truck. They had already lost customers because he had delivered late. And no one
bought stale bread the next day.

“Fuck!”, he sighed.

“Daddy's favourite. Fucking swine.”

He flicked his cigarette up the dark alley, the dimming red cherry and the filter separating. He heard
a noise that made him turn around. He squinted as he tried to see where the noise came from. He
heard it again. It was a knocking sound, against one of the dumpsters.

He walked into the bakery kitchen and fetched a large black torch. He walked into the alley and
walked tentatively toward the sound. He moved crab like, sideways, as he approached the sound.
There was a heap of garbage just left in a pile against the dumpster. The dumpster was as usual over
flowing. Alviro felt a cold shiver down his back. For a moment he thought it was the cold air

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creeping up his spine. But it was the rhythmical sound of the knocking.

Knock... knock... knock... knock

The tempo increased as he approached. As if it was responding to his steps in the dank alley. The
sound was from the dumpster. Alviro felt his heart pounding.

“Hey, come out there. I have a gun.”

He didn't have a gun. His father said there was no need for guns. Right now, Alviro would have
loved to have had one.

“I said come out. I can hear you.”

The knocking was fast now. It was haphazard, frustrated banging against the metal side of the
dumpster.

Alviro tried to determine what it could be. It had to be a human. It couldn't be an animal. Cats
wouldn’t carry on knocking. But he couldn't understand how and where it was coming from. The
dumpster was full, over flowing with garbage. He waved the heavy torch on the ground. He walked
around, waving his torch around him, scanning his surrounding inching around a pile of garbage.
Please don't let it be a baby he thought to himself.

His heart stopped as he saw the unrolled carpet on the side of the dumpster. Dirty bare feet lie on
the ground. Toes on the wet ground, the body attached was face down with an upright up knuckle
knocking on the side of the dumpster. Alviro stopped, his breath frozen in his lungs as his mind
tried to make sense of what lie in front of him, illuminated by the beam of his torch.

Jessica's dark hair was matted and wet as Alviro kneeled down at her side to roll her over. He pulled
the limp body of Jessica on her back. The pale face with the half open eyes, wet, covered in dirt and
her long clumpy hair, in long strands over her face. She was breathing. She moaned inaudible,
painful words. Alviro stopped to look at her, he didn't know what to do. She had tiny bite marks on
her face.

“It's ok. Can you hear me? It's going to be ok. I'm going to get help. Just stay here. Ok? I'll be right
back”

Jessica moaned loudly, using every drop of energy she could. The panicked sounds of the man that
rolled her over, reassured her. She needed him to be there. She had been knocking for an eternity.
She needed someone else to be there and find her. When he turned her weak body over, she felt
certainty wash over her. She felt no fear. She was holding on.

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Alviro ran, he left the torch on the ground next to the girl. The staff were at the front door knocking.
He stopped. Why did he say stay here? She wasn't going anywhere. What a stupid thing to say. He
searched for the keys. He saw the phone and dialled.

The truck would be late again. Lance would have another excuse to escape. Alviro needed another
cigarette.

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Chapter 40

Semion played observer as he shadowed Corn through the preparations. Sergei had found a quiet
position at the bar to cure his hangover. Semion and Viktor had taken a tour of the basement to view
the girls and Semion had kept his reservations to himself. Viktor was not happy. Semion had sent
him to the office. Corn felt particularly uncomfortable being shadowed. He stopped to explain every
step, from the preparation of the rooms to the main room where the bets and bidding would take
place.

Pork night was a like a cattle auction, betting hall. Mostly girls were brought out to be bought for
the night. No one wanted to go to bed hero cock in hand, so they spent their money, building and
maintaining real world rivalries here, in their paid for fantasy.

Semion stopped at the bar and whispered in Sergei's ear. Sergei put the glass down, the expression
on his face less than happy and skulked off. Corn smiled on the inside. The boss's son was drinking
on the job. What would the other staff think? Semion called Corn over to the bar. Both men sat at
the bar. The barman who was busy stocking the bar stood up to offer his services. Semion ordered
two coffees.

“Corn, I am a little concerned. How many guests do you have tonight?”

Corn hated being questioned and this is the sort of thing he dreaded when Semion had told him was
coming up to Johannesburg.

“About 25 men, all powerful types. Big spenders.”

“I know. Big spenders. But what concerns me is that … is what we're offering them.” Semion
struggled to find the words to express himself properly.

“I don't understand Semion, what do you mean what 'we're offering them' ?”

“Well I looked around, how many girls do you have? 40? Living here? How much are we spending
on feeding them? And why so many black girls? I know this is Africa, but this sort of business
should have some variety. Something special, something unique. Something that makes us special.
More special than anyone else. Don't you think?”

Corn nodded. When Semion had given him this chance, he built this business on his own. Girls
came and went. Some were professional sex workers, some were there under duress. The over heads
were low and he turned over a profit.

“The black girls are cheaper. White men like them. Most of our clients are white so we cater for
what they want?”

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Semion screwed up his face. He wasn’t happy with the answer.

“Do you watch the news?”

“I'm sorry... err... what?”

“The news, do you read, or watch or listen to the news?”

“Err... I guess. Sometimes when I have a chance. Why?”

“I was watching the news. This xenophobia nonsense. It attracts too much attention. The news
people focus on blacks a lot.”

“Erm... ja. But, I'm sorry. I don't understand.”

Semion sighed and took a sip of his coffee.

“You see, I was thinking, we could get some other girls. Sergei will bring them in from everywhere,
Ukraine, Russia, Far East, lots of girls. What do you think?”

“Ok. But I still don't understand what this has to do with xenophobia?”

“These black girls, the ones working and the ones in the basement, are they local? South African?”

“Some of them. Ja. A lot of them are from other countries. Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Malawi,
Sudan. They're usually cheap and they have nowhere to go so they are easy to put to work.”

“My point exactly. But they do have somewhere to go. You see what I'm saying? There’s too much
attention on them now. They're not here to work. And if they scream everyone is going to come
running. I don't like attention Corn. I saw this priest on TV this morning. In Joburg. He keeps all of
them in his church and he was talking about how these African women are being used in the sex
trade. We're in the sex trade aren't we?”

“Ja, but that's in Joburg. We're in the middle of nowhere. I think you're being paranoid.”

Semion sighed. Looked into the reflection from the mirror behind the bar. The younger generation
was not cautious enough.

“You know what happens when there is a lot of attention on something? People start to notice.” he
swallowed the last of his coffee and put the cup down.

“I don't like attention Corn. I work hard at not being noticed. Sergei will bring in more girls next
week.”

“But they'll cost more.”

Semion slid of the stool at the bar and without turning said: “Then we'll charge more. Big

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spenders.”

Semion walked to the office. Corn's office had become their office. He walked in and found Viktor
busy at the computer.

“How are we looking?”

“We should be making more money.” It was always the bottom line with Viktor.

“Yes. And we will. Sergei was sulking in the chair opposite Viktor, a half drunk cup of coffee in
front of him.

“Sergei, how are you feeling?”

“I have a headache.”

“That will happen when you drink so much, you must be carried to your room.” Viktor chirped in
from behind his computer screen.

“Shut up Viktor! I was relaxing.”

“I want you to take a drive to Johannesburg Sergei.”

“But father, you know how far that is. Send Viktor. He likes driving.”

“Sergei, Viktor has work to do here. And I need you to do this for me.”

Sergei was annoyed. He wanted to get back to the bar, maybe get one of the girls back to his room.
Two days here and he missed Cape Town. Joburg was so dry. Semion walked over to Sergei with an
envelope and a black DVD jewel case.

“I want you to take this to that counsellor, Eugene. Derrick or whatever his name is. Give him the
DVD and tell him to phone me.”

“What is this?”

“Insurance. Now go so you can come back early. And when you come back there'll be a surprise in
your room. Now go.”

“What surprise?” Sergei was smiling, excited like a kid.

“A surprise. You'll like it when you see it. Now go or else you'll get nothing.”

Sergei bounded out. The news of a surprise from his father infused him with energy. He grabbed the
keys and was out of the door.

Viktor shook his head as he turned his head back to the screen. It annoyed him.

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Semion smiled as he saw his youngest son left. He turned and saw the disapproving look from his
eldest son.

“Viktor?”

“You spoil him. You spoil him too much. That is why he is, the way he is. Irresponsible.”

Semion sighed. Pulled out the chair and sat down. Viktor had been forced to grow up fast when his
wife had died. He was the father type older brother while Semion grieved in the darkness of his
work away from home.

“I do spoil him. And maybe I am wrong. But he didn't have a mother. I don't think he even
remembers her. You know how old he was.”

“Father. I'm sorry. We don't need to talk about this.”

“We do. How old is he? 24? How many boys you know have done what he has? He needs to feel
like a boy sometimes and not have to worry about the business. That's all he hears sometimes and
he doesn't care about the business. So let him be a boy, he'll grow up and you'll see. He'll be
different. Give your brother a chance.”

“He's 24 years old father. He is not a boy. He sits around and drinks. In Cape Town he behaved like
a child. Getting into fights, shooting, smashing cars. And now we're here and he doesn't do
anything.”

“We've only been here a few days Viktor.”

“Yes and I have been working. From the moment I got here.” Viktor's tone was aggressive. There
was none of the usual control.

“Do you also want a surprise in your room? Will that make you feel better?”

“I don't want a surprise! I want to know what we're doing here, because if we stay here, Sergei is
going to become an alcoholic who fucks everything with a heartbeat here.”

Semion sighed. He knew that his sons would be frustrated. They were far from Johannesburg and
were having withdrawal symptoms of Cape Town. Sergei had immersed himself in a whiskey bottle
and Viktor had taken to sulking behind his computer.

“I know my son. This business is small. We're selling pussy for hire. And we can charge them as
much as we like for whatever they want, but then what? I don't know. Maybe we need to get rid of
everything and go home, or London or even America. I don't know. South Africa, especially up here
is dangerous for us.”

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Viktor had never heard his father express doubt. The admission by his father had made his father
look old. He noticed all the tiny creases on his face, the slouched shoulders, and the uncertain
expression on his face. He knew they couldn't go back home. But his father was old. Maybe he
wanted to go back home. And London and America was competition. A million other men like his
father had formed their own operations in all the big cities.

“I'm sorry father. I didn't mean to raise my voice. I was just...”

“I know my son. Frustrated. We had a good thing in Cape Town. And then we got found out.” The
old man looked into space as he said it.

“Do we know anything about that?”

“Not yet. But I hear they're still looking for the Americans. But no, I don't know how they found
us.”

“The two brothers, what if they talked?”

“They wouldn't. Admit to murder? You can't trust Americans.” Semion said as he mock spat on the
floor. He despised the Americans. He still saw them as an enemy. The wall might have come down,
but prejudice took longer to break.

The two men sat there, both comfortable in the silence. Viktor understood his father. Semion loved
his sons. But they needed to get on with their lives. He had enough money. And this wasn't the kind
of business to leave as an inheritance or legacy. Maybe it was time to get rid of everything. He
would like to die in his own country. If the police, Interpol were looking for them, now would be a
good time to get away. Move somewhere else, start up a new business. Maybe he was just being a
coward. Maybe all that was needed was a fresh idea.

Corn had come to the office to find the list of orders. Special requests, big tits, round ass, dark
skinned, black, small tits, virgin, young, schoolgirl, the orders looked like a regular meat order,
parts or parts of parts listed, the rest was auxiliary to the buyers' needs. But it was business as usual.
Sherry needed the orders to start readying the girls. He had stopped at the door, listening to the
raised voices.

If they sold the business, what would happen to him? Corn didn't have any savings. Well not the
kind of savings that would keep him in the life that he had become accustomed to.

Thank the heavens for his insurance.

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140
Chapter 41

Ayesha knocked on Sameer's office door. He was reading a wad of notes. The pages had been
folded in three and by the looks of things, the expression on Sameer's face, it wasn't pleasant
reading. Sameer looked up slowly and nodded for Ayesha to come in.

“Morning sir.”

“Morning Ayesha. Please call me Sam, sir is a schoolmaster, and my father was one of those. What
can I do for you?”

“Okay. Errm Sam, I was hoping we could arrange those interviews with our suspects. Today, I
compiled my report and I would like to start with the officers in question before we continue with
the rest of our investigation.”

Sameer nodded. He stared at Ayesha blankly and then at the wad of papers he held in hands.

“Take a seat Ayesha, close the door behind you.”

Ayesha closed the door and took a seat opposite Sameer. Sameer's office was what could be
expected from a director in government employ. It had pine furniture masquerading as imported
oak, and the walls were a light bronze colour with matching carpet tiles. Sam's desk was massive.
With a leather pad in the middle. His desk carried the usual clutter, a desktop brass nameplate,
penholder, and a single photo frame. Behind on the wall was a picture of President Zuma and his
deputy, Deputy President Motlanthe. Below them was the Minister of Safety and Security, Nathi
Mthetwa and the Minister of Justice, Jeff Radebe. Both pictures were a reminder of the love child,
the OCB, that had been created by both Ministries. It reminded Ayesha of her time with SCU when
the child had to be culled and both Ministries pointed fingers at each other.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. No, actually. You do realise what this job expects of you? That if you bring those suspects, as
you call them, you will piss off everyone here in this building. Not a single officer will trust you?”

“Does everyone include you?”

“No.”

“Then I'm fine. I spoke to my husband, not about the details of the case, but about the job and he
understands.”

“Well it’s not too late to turn back now. No one will hold it against you. I certainly won't”

“Are you trying to discourage me?”

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“In a way.”

“Why?”

Sameer thought for a moment. His mind drifted, searching for the right words, the right thing to say.

“Because once you cross this line, you will be on your own. You'll never be one of them. And
heaven forbid we find that one of those guys are responsible, it will get worse for you. Ignorance is
bliss. No one knows and if you choose we can reassign you and no one will be the wiser. The men
and women out there will always see you as having betrayed one of your own. If you do stick
around afterward, you won't find a willing line up wanting to be your partner. Are you okay with
that?”

“I haven't thought that far yet to be honest. I'm sure you read my file. Maybe you saw the
resignation letter. I could have been a lawyer. But I wanted this job. I wanted to make a real
difference.”

“Lawyers don't carry guns.” Sameer said jokingly.

Ayesha laughed: “ Yes. They don't carry guns.”

“Well, we're in the middle of it. Hope you're wearing your old clothes” Sameer said pushing the
wad of paper across the desk to Ayesha. “The shit storm's started.”

“What is this?”

“It’s from the Independent Complaints Directorate's notice of complaint.”

“I thought we had that already.”

“No that was just a courtesy call from one of Dumza's contacts.”

“And this?”

“That's the formal notice. It’s a request for files. For Xolani Gqaca and Christopher Harris.”

Ayesha's face dropped as she looked up from the pages.

“I know.” said Sameer. “That was quick.”

“But how? It took me a day to go through those files.”

“Well it’s not too hard to imagine. Both men made their feelings well known. All of that is on
record, so they would start there. Besides it’s not their jobs to investigate the crimes, just if the
police that had anything to do with those crimes, if there was any wrong doing on my part.”

“Why you? I mean you had nothing to do with those cases.”

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“It doesn't matter. It’s procedural and that son of a bitch lawyer made a point of red ringing me.”

The profanity didn't suit Sameer. Or maybe that was just her, but the words seemed incongruous
with her perception of him.

“Well then maybe we should interview our suspects as soon as possible.”

Sameer screwed up his face a bit.

“I'm sorry. I mean I know I should try not to call them suspects.”

Sameer waved his hands.

“It’s not that. Dumza went to see Gqaca yesterday. Visited him, told what we thought was going to
happen and Dumza was promptly kicked out. And I went to see Harris. Yesterday. We spoke.”

“I thought we were supposed to go together, this is still my investigation isn't it?”

Ayesha's voice was annoyed.

“Look, don't be upset. Please.”

“I know this is your department. And I get that you want to protect your people. But you can't bring
me in, and then let me do all the leg work while you sneak around behind my back.”

“I wasn't sneaking Ayesha. Honest. I was just making sure. Chris and I go back a long way.”

Ayesha stood up. “No Sam, what you want to do is find someone to pin this all on so you don't
become hated by the rest of the officers. I'm not here to be a scapegoat for you.” Ayesha stormed
out. Sameer put his hand up to try and stop her. He sat back and sighed to himself. He hadn't given
her enough credit. But there were things that she wouldn't understand. This was becoming complex
and he was not a politician. Not the kind that could handle this.

He knew he wasn't the man for this job when Dumza had made the offer to him. Years of
intelligence experience didn't make you the best leader of men. Or women for that matter. The news
people would be calling to ask for comment. This needed to be resolved as soon as possible. Even
if it meant that one of the OCB had to be sacrificed. He had to let go. This was Ayesha's and she had
the experience and skills to run with it.

He read Dumza's note.

“Subject has an electric saw.”

The media would hang him on that alone. Based only how one of the victims were found. Combine
that with his history of outbursts. Ordinary people didn't get it. Lawyers didn't get it. The media

143
didn't get it. No cop would be that stupid. But no one thought like that. Someone would have to be
hung out if the OCB was to survive.

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Chapter 42

Dressed in strips of cloth the women were led out to the centre of the room by men in black coats.
The room as dimmed with only the centre illuminated for the show. 30 naked, inebriated men sat on
chairs, some semi aroused, some fully aroused, and others continuously stroking themselves to keep
themselves in the game. The women were taken into the centre and stripped of the pieces of cloth
and left to stand naked. Even the room's temperature had been preset. Warm air wafted into the
room causing a slight sweat, a stickiness that added to the anticipation. The women and girls were
led out in lot numbers, drugged and inebriated as the eager men bid and outbid each other.

Corn stood as ringmaster, selling, pushing, and enticing his clients to bid. The men grew rowdy as
the combination of liquor, tiny blue pills and visible, willing, naked female bodies took effect. A
brunette and blonde walked out. They stripped down, fondling each other, teasing the hungry men.
In the centre of the room they performed to the tune of loud, encouraging cheers from their
audience.

“I see two slices of bread. But where is the meat? R2000 gentlemen.” Corn hissed over his
microphone.

Eager men raised their resting hands, rivalry driving them as they absorbed the couple on the floor.
Waitresses in tiny, French maid outfits, in keeping with the fantasy theme served drinks, replacing
empty glasses almost immediately. Keep them drunk Corn told his staff. Don't wait to be asked.

The show evolved as the bidding reached R10 000. A grey haired man with thick grey chest hair
and fried chicken skin stood up, staggered half mast to the girls and began groping them. R10 000
was nothing for him. The women reciprocated, fiddling, kissing, and drawing him into a 3-way
kiss. The audience of men who had lost the bid booed as the two men in black coats grabbed the
three and guided them out. It was an angry anticipation as each woman or girl was being led out, a
sense of vile hunger greedily seeking out satisfaction. No price was too heavy to pay.

Patricia, intoxicated from a drug cocktail and alcohol fed to her over the last few hours was taken
into the room. She swayed in the centre of the room as the torch lights flashed over her. She opened
her eyes and saw the lights, beams and spots flashing at her. She closed her eyes and felt the lights
cover her body, creep across her body, like a hundred hands. She swayed, as the voices seemed to
boom from a distance, sound waves travelling in slow motion.

“Gentlemen, our prize for the week, a Zimbabwean. The land invaders. Look at her. Yours for
tonight. Look at that patch. Any of you limped dick, old farts think you have it in you to invade
that?”, Corn's cocky remark was met by a loud cheer.

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“I'll give you a million Zim dollars.” a voice from the darkness said to loud laughter.

“Knowing what your last wife took you for, that's probably what you're worth.”, responded Corn as
the room burst into drunken laughter.

“Come on, you're not afraid of a little 18 year old girl. Scared you can't keep up? Or maybe you
can't afford it.”

Corn knew how to get them worked up. Men in power hated being told they couldn't do it, or have
anyone think that.

“Let's start the bidding at R1000.”

“I'll take that piece for a thousand a voiced shouted with a raised hand as confirmation.”

The bidding began. Eventually, the bidding stopped at R13 000.

Two naked men, one tall with greying black hair, the other a short bald man with excessive body
hair stood up and made their way to the front to claim their prize. The tall one stood next to Patricia,
put his arms around her waist and put his open mouth on her breast to the cheers of the remaining
men behind him.

“The two of you?” Corn enquired the short man ran his fingers greedily between Patricia's legs.

“We're both war vets, we think it’s time for a little invasion of our own.” Again the room burst out
in cheers and laugher.

Corn thought to himself. One man off the floor was one less bidding. He hoped he could get more
for her. Now it was a tag team.

“Well enjoy. Just make sure your swords don't cross. I want to see you back here next week, not
down at the Blue Note.”, said Corn in reference to a fictional gay bar.

The men left, Patricia's arms around each of her captors shoulders for the night. The room swayed
and she could feel nothing. Not cold. Not hot. She was in a dream. She didn't know where she was
going. She didn't really notice the men on her side, who poked and prodded her, who felt and
rubbed and licked her face and who said dirty things to her in her ear, fantastic filthy confessions
which she couldn't understand. She needed to lie down. The men took her up to a room. Both
voiced their fantasies to her in her ear to each other, agreeing eagerly as they stumbled into the
room. They were overwhelmingly satisfied.

No one would hear Patricia's screams from later on that evening as the effects of the drugs wore off.
No one would take notice of her screaming as the men forced themselves into her, two at a time,

146
reliving every fantasy they had seen online or watched on DVD. No one would hear her scream as
they slapped her around the room when her screaming spoilt their rhythm and interrupted with what
they wanted to do. And no one heard her tears fall as both men forced her conscious mind into
realising what was being done to her body.

Corn watched them later that night on his computer screen. He was impressed by the two middle
aged farts. He didn't think they had it in them. Maybe the girl was worth something after all.

Semion had watched the entire evening's proceedings from a dark corner in the room. Viktor by his
side, uncomfortable with the events.

Semion leaned over to Viktor: “We should speak to Corn about making some changes for next
time.”

Viktor nodded his head. Sergei hadn't returned and Viktor didn't want to bring it up with his father.
Changes indeed.

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Chapter 43

Richard was leaving his flat. It was before lunch and under normal circumstances he would still be
sleeping after the previous night's heavy drinking and fucking at Sinderella, but for Corn's call to
purchase more heroin. Corn himself never dealt with the drugs. He never administered it, usually
leaving it to Richard and Sherry to perform and whenever the stash ran out Richard would get a call
and was expected to get it immediately. It was Richard's fault because he couldn't be expected to
remember to do it later, so whenever Corn called with his shopping list, it was a now affair.

He got into his white golf, started up the car and waited while the car warmed up. Fuck he thought
himself. He should be sleeping. He didn't live at Sinderella. One because then Corn would sneak a
camera into his room and God alone knows what that faggot would do with that. Secondly because
besides working as Corn's fetch it guy, he did a little business of his own. Drugs mainly, sometimes
a little muscle work for small time gangsters in exchange for more drugs which he re-sold to other
buyers.

He pulled out of his street parking space and headed off to his drug dealer, Angus. Or just Alonso as
he made people call him. Alonso was a pale skinned, former kickboxer, who had immersed himself
into pseudo Rastafarianism. In short, he wore dreadlocks, dirty orange haired dreadlocks that came
down to his shoulders and he spoke with a Hollywood inspired Caribbean accent. Richard found
that particularly annoying.

He pulled up outside his store. The fat man under the umbrella with the cardboard box hawker
counter, nodded at Richard like he had countless times before. Under the covering of sweets,
playing cards, cheap bangles, phone cards and bootleg loose cigarettes, was a small hand cannon.
The fat man was a sentry to the store. He also had a two way radio in case the police should get
closer than was wanted.

Richard walked into the store. It smelled of incense and the old decay of the building. The store was
stocked with a myriad of products. Plastic bowls, glasses, dinner service sets, linen, cutlery, ugly
wall tapestries with the Big Five machine-printed onto it, along with the ubiquitous Made in China
label. It stocked green tea, over the counter, no prescription needed erectile dysfunction medication,
and make-her-want-you medication which didn't really work, but did a roaring trade never the less
as buyers bought it to slip into some unsuspecting woman's drink or food for guaranteed results.

Richard walked to the back, passing the shelves of dishcloths, plastic containers and the bargain bin
of ladies underwear. Black, grandmother beige and tan coloured garments of odd sizes all mixed
together in a pile under a sign that read,

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 “3 panties for R10

3 bras for R20”

He walked to the backdoor and opened it and went outside to a small building in a damp, dark
courtyard. Three giants sat outside. They stopped their conversation to look at Richard. Recognising
him they went back to their exchange. Richard greeted them.

“Gentlemen. Angus in?”

“Sure. Go in, he's on the phone.”

Richard opened the door. Angus was on the phone behind an old table was his desk. Richard
knocked on the door and stood in the doorway; Angus swung around and motioned for him to come
in.

“Darn’t be giving me tha grief marn, I gave yooo whar yoo want yar? No fucking do whar I tell ye
baay!”

Angus put the phone down. He looked annoyed.

“Rich-ud my marn. Whar brings you to dis end of tha city?”

“How are you Angus? You know the usual. I need a stack of cards and a bag of the brown
stuff.”,Richard said sitting down, making reference to the Rohypnol and Heroin he needed.

“Rich-ud, how many times muz I tells ya, its Alonso. Angus is my slave name.”

“I'm sorry Alonso.”, Richard said, amused. Too much sampling of his own disco biscuits, Richard
thought to himself. Angus stood up and walked over to the door and leaned out. He gave one of the
men instructions and he got up to go fetch the order. Angus came back and sat down.

“So how be beezniz Rich-ud? Eets been a while huh?”

“Yeah well you know how it is, fucking work. The way things are going, I don't know how normal
people survive.”

“Yar be bettar arf working for yis self marn.”

A man walked in with a brown paper package and placed it on the desk. It was small enough to slip
under his arm Richard thought to himself. Richard pulled a roll of notes held together with a thick
rubberband. He tossed it at Angus.

Angus took the roll and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

“You’re not going to count it?”

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“Rich-ud? After all dese years marn? I trusts yaar like yous my own brudder.”

Richard thanked Angus and left the store. He felt odd. He looked in his rearview mirror. He looked
around the car, checking outside. Nothing untoward. Nothing dangerous or threatening. Then he
thought about the package that was on the floor in front of the passenger seat next to him. He leaned
over and pulled the parcel onto the passenger seat. He looked out of the window. Something just
didn't sit right with him. It was bright sunshine outside. Maybe it was the whisper of the cold air
that drifted past him and through the open windows. Something felt out of place. He opened the
package, ripping at the taped brown paper. Everything was there, the box of ten cards with 20 white
capsules on each card, underneath it was the plastic bag, tightly wrapped and taped, holding its
brown contents. It looked real to him. Doubt still fingered at him. It was inexplicable. He was
eliminating reasons to have doubt. He pulled a knife out from his belt buckle. It had a black plastic
handle with a short, straight edge that was sheathed in a leather pouch that was clipped to Richard's
belt. He cut the end of the bag. Fat Man outside was looking at him from his position. Richard
ignored him. He licked his pinky finger and dipped it in. He stuck the coated finger in his mouth
between his top lip and gum.

It was heroin. The same batch as he'd always bought from Alonso.

“What the fuck man! Get a grip!”

He was sleep deprived. He had a hangover. He could feel it. A quick glance in his rearview mirror
confirmed it. He looked like he had been dragged sideways through a bear's arse.

He started up his car and drove back to his flat. It was too early for work. He could still get in
another hour of sleep and he would be good, without any of this dippy paranoia. Fuck it, he thought
to himself as he drove away.

He pulled into the vacant spot just outside his building. He leaned over and picked up the contents
of his purchase. Some of heroin had spilled out. He would put it into something when he got up to
his flat. He put the things together under the ripped up brown paper. It didn't cover everything. He
looked around his car, opening the glove compartment, searching for something he could cover his
purchase with. What would the chances of someone seeing him, stopping to talk, asking what was
under his arm, what was in the brown paper?

He found a crumpled KFC packet with a used polystyrene burger container and paper milkshake
cup. He chucked the contents out of his window and put the stash into the plastic bag. He rolled his
window up and got out of the car. He locked it, put the alarm on and walked briskly to his flat.

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He was near the shadow of the building when he noticed a man in his periphery. It was something
about him. The way he was walking. The way his arms were straight against his body. Or maybe it
was the flak jacket. Or the metalic object in his left hand about to join with the right hand. He
turned, dropping the parcel in front of him and reaching for the oversized knife handle he kept at his
back under his jacket. He started to run forward and saw another man approaching him from the
front. He turned to the first man again. He was too far from his car and it would take too long to get
in, start it and drive off. He stopped, taking deep breaths. He looked to his right. A woman was
rushing towards him. She was pointing a gun, screaming at him. He rushed at her, swung his knife
hand at her, the knife in a fist grip with the blade hanging out from under his fist. It was a fighting
style which he had adopted, in the case of missing your target the first time, you could swing your
fist back and stab. He stopped his follow through and swung at the woman, the blade following
through.

He received a swift blow to his ribs which winded him. The momentary lapse in fighting
concentration garnered him a kick under his knees. He felt his feet slip from under him and he was
falling back. It was too late to fight back as rapid footsteps approached him. His head so close to the
ground he heard the sequenced steps approaching him.

There was a lot of shouting as he was turned over onto his stomach, his arms pulled behind his
back. The knife kicked out of his hand. One of them put a foot on his head. It wasn't the first time
he had been arrested.

“Dumb fuck. Richard Smit you are under arrest.”

Richard didn't say anything as he was pulled to his feet. The woman was reading something.
Reciting. He ignored her. Pigs. They were always angry. They always said angry shit like they had
just saved the world. He said nothing. Neither acknowledging nor denying whatever she was
reading. Kidnapping- the word stuck in his mind. He couldn't put a face to anyone that could accuse
him of kidnapping. He was frog marched past the flat, some neighbours standing watching the
drama unfold. Some hanging out of windows, shocked, and simultaneously taking in some live
entertainment. Fuck them. He didn't care much for his neighbours anyway. One of the cops was
carrying the package of the heroin and Rohypnol capsules.

Richard thought to himself as he was taken to an unmarked car. Corn could sort this out. He would
sort this out. But he would be pissed about the drugs.

Richard still felt the cold breeze dancing on the back of his neck. There would be no chance of sleep
today.

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In a hospital bed less than 100km from where Richard was arrested, Jessica woke up screaming.
She looked at the pipes plugged into her arms and screamed more. He was in her dreams too. His
hands reached and grabbed and pulled at her. She looked around and flopped back down. Nurses
rushed to her aid as the girl found almost dead in an alley two day ago was miraculously awake.

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Chapter 44

Ayesha was checking her email when Sameer popped his head into her office. “Can I disturb you?”

Ayesha looked up from her PC. She removed her spectacles. “Sure.” It had been an awkward
avoidance since the day before when Ayesha stormed out and Sameer was left with the note from
Dumza.

Sameer walked in wearing a pale blue shirt and grey woollen pants. He pulled out a chair across
from Ayesha and sat down.

“What does your day look like?”

“Sorry?”

“Your day? Are you very busy between now and lunch?”

Ayesha looked around. She couldn't imagine why Sameer wanted to know what her diary looked
like. They hadn't spoken much since the previous day's bust up. Ayesha had spent her day
scavenging for work and Sameer had spent his day in meetings with other Organised Crime
Bureaus from across the country. Crime was a global network which didn't respect or follow the
rules of national borders. It also gave him a chance to meet up with some old colleagues. He'd also
decided to get out of the office to keep him away from temptation.

“No. I was actually sending you an email. To tell you that I plan to interview Xolani Gqaca today
and Christopher Harris this afternoon. Dumza sent me an email asking for progress on the
interviews.”

Sameer leaned back. “Have you contacted them?”

“Who? The suspects?”

“Yes. The suspects.”

“No. I was going to call them after 9.”

“Good. Grab your things, meet me in the basement parking. I want to show you something.”

Sameer stood up, pushed the chair in and left. Ayesha sat there gathering her things. She should
have asked where or maybe even why. She felt bad after the way she had stormed out of Sameer's
office the day before. But what else was she to do? Because that is what it looked like to her, like
she was being brought in to be the donkey the proverbial tail was pinned onto. If that was the case
she would be happy to walk away. Happy to let it go and happy to let Aadil know he was right. That
is what had played on her mind. Aadil had picked up on that last night. She had brushed it away

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with a “nothing” when he asked what the matter was. She was too embarrassed to tell him that she
thought he might have been right.

She picked up her things with her coat and made her way down to the parking garage in the OCB
building basement.

Sameer was waiting in a white Nissan pool car. He pulled up at the front of the doors. Ayesha
walked around the rear of the car and got in.

“So where are we going to?”

“Some place that will make you understand where I am coming from. As well as your suspects.”
The word ‘suspects’ was said in subtle, but noticeable tone.

*************

Ayesha sat in the reception area as Sameer spoke to the doctor. Sameer waved to Ayesha and called
her over. Ayesha put her magazine down and stood up to meet Sameer. Streams of traffic populated
the hospital. It was continuous movement in multiple directions. Pushing, being pushed, sitting,
everywhere were people, all with some business in the world of hospital. Life arrived and departed
here, it was redirected, saved, treated and nurtured.

The doctor led the way with Ayesha following Sameer. She still had no idea as to what they were
doing at the hospital. All Sameer had said when Ayesha had asked them as they pulled into the
hospital was,

“Have a little patience.”

They followed the doctor down the corridor. Ayesha walked past rooms with patients lying in bed,
some with people around them, some in rooms by themselves, others sharing a room with several
other patients. The doctor was tall and lanky. He was taller than Sameer and stooped as he spoke.
He had long, greying brown hair combed back, the ends dancing lightly off the collar of his coat.
He stopped outside a door and opened it, standing aside to let Sameer and Ayesha in. He stood by
the door.

“You have 10 minutes.” he said in a low voice as he smiled and closed the door behind him and left.

Sameer stood in front of the bed. Fixated. He held his hands on his waist as he looked at the young
Jessica who had woken up screaming the day before and whom the doctors had sedated
intentionally. Sameer turned to Ayesha.

“Come closer. I want to introduce you.”

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Ayesha stepped closer.

“Jessica Brown. She went missing several weeks ago walking home from school. She is barely 15
years old.”, Sameer's voice cracked as he tried to introduce Jessica to Ayesha. Sameer walked up to
the side of the bed and pulled down the sheet. Ayesha stepped closer. The girl was asleep, in an
artificially induced slumber. Her hair was pulled back in a stringy ponytail. She had several dry
patches on her pale blotchy skin, the kind of patches that develop from poor diets. Her cheeks had
several scabby lacerations and what looked like bite marks. There were bruises around her neck and
there were several tiny sores around corner of her mouth. It was then that Ayesha noticed Sameer
standing with Jessica's outstretched arm out.

“17 different puncture wounds. Or track marks. Look at it Ayesha. This is what your suspects, men
like Gqaca and Harris, deal with. . This is what they have to see. Every day, Ayesha. So before you
drag them in like suspects, look at this, think about how it makes you feel.” Sameer's face was of a
man who had seen unimaginable evil. His face was creased as he tried explaining, through Jessica
Brown, what he felt.

He covered her up again and left the room. Ayesha stared at the girl. She was a child. Her features
weren't full developed. Her face, even in its battered and bruised form, was child like. Stolen, ripped
from her. And it was more than the rape. It was the many things her senses had been exposed to.
The many wounds on her mind that would never heal, that would lurk in the darkness and appear as
episodes in her life. Ayesha turned to leave. Her eyes welled with tears as she got to the door. She
tried palming them away. Sameer would be waiting behind that door and she didn't want him to see
her crying. She didn't want to come across as emotional. She wanted to be the professional.

Sameer was seated on a bench in the corridor near the reception. Ayesha went and sat down next to
him.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Sameer looked to her.

“So that you know what the men you seek have to deal with everyday. Normal people could never
understand this, cope with this and still be considered normal.”

“I know. I know what this job takes out of you. The pressure it puts on you. But why? Why her?
Why now?”

“Yes. But I brought you here to see. And I hope you understand enough to be able to deal with
Gqaca and Harris.”

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“I don't know.” It was all Ayesha could think of saying. I don't know. She didn't.

“Well you'd better know soon. You are going to have to interview them.”

Ayesha didn't say anything. The sight of the girl bothered her. It angered her.

“But first I want you to sit in on another interview.”

“What interview?”

“We have the suspect responsible for the girl. Richard Smit. SAPS guys arrested him yesterday. I've
been letting him stew. You want to have first bite?”

“First bite?”

“First round questioning. Just squeeze him a bit. I have some other business to take care of and it
gives you something to do while you get ready for Gqaca and Harris. I'll join you just as soon as I'm
done with my meeting. Okay?

Ayesha nodded. She needed a channel for her anger. Nothing would be better than the man
suspected of putting Jessica there.

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Chapter 45

Semion was having breakfast outside his bungalow at the rear of the main Sinderella building.
There was a small table with white table cloth, a basket of croissants and bread rolls, the adjacent
table had with various bowls and jugs of juices, coffee and yogurt. One of the men in the black suits
led Eugene Barrett to Semion and Viktor. Eugene looked less than happy. As the guard announced
his arrival, he stood before them and their breakfast as the next course of their meal.

“What is the meaning of this Semion?” Eugene waved the black DVD jewel case that Sergei had
delivered to him. Semion looked up, squinted his eyes as if to identify the unknown black plastic
case in Eugene's hands.

“I see you received my invitation. Come sit down join Viktor and I for some breakfast.” The
friendly tone bordered on the condescending.

“No thanks. Just tell me what the meaning of this is. What do you want?” Eugene was being as
forthright as he could be, considering the man he was talking to had the original tape of him with
Jessica.

“Sit down Mr. Barrett.” Viktor was less than cordial and his voice intimated anything but someone
who was making a polite request. Eugene bit his bottom lip as he walked up to the table, pulled the
chair out and plonked himself down with as much protest as sitting down in a chair could indicate.
Sitting this close to men who were about to make their demands angered Eugene. He felt more
upset witht himself more than he was at them.

“Viktor, Eugene is our guest. Please, offer him some coffee.”

“I don't want...”

“I insist.” It was Semion's dance. Subtle and the not so subtle intermingled, intertwined to press and
mould you into what Semion desired.

Viktor poured the cup of coffee.

“Mr. Barrett I have some business for you take care of for me.”

“What kind of business is that?”

“I want you to lead a campaign. There are these places in your city, all these foreigners, they stay
there ...think of it as part of your urban regeneration programme..”

“Safe houses.” Viktor interrupted.

“Yes safe houses. You know they come in, they stay there. I want you to shut down them down.”

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Eugene looked at Semion, confused. “I don't understand.”

“There's nothing to understand Eugene. You are a city counsellor. Yes? Think of it as part of your
job?”

“But how am I supposed to shut these places down?”

“You're a politician. You will think of something. Like I said, sell it as urban regeneration.” Semion
said sipping his glass of orange juice.

“And if I don't?”

“You know the girl from that video is dead. We managed to get rid of her. But I don't know what
you will be able to do if they played that video on the news.” Viktor said.

“Bastards. Fine. I'll do this. But then we're even and I want the original destroyed.” Eugene was
livid. His expression wanted nothing more than to be murder the old man and his son. How dare
they speak to as if he was some type of servant.

“No. I'll tell you when we're even. Now go. I'm sure you have a lot of phone calls to make.”

Semion cut Eugene off. He was in no mood to negotiate. Eugene understood and that was the end of
that. Anything more was just a waste of breath.

Eugene looked at Viktor and Semion. He was visibly angry. He gripped the plastic jewel case tight
as he stood up. He stopped to turn and say something. Words failed him now. What could he say. He
walked down the path, stomping angry little stomps, his little legs protesting, leaving Viktor and
Semion at their breakfast table. A cool breeze blew over them. Semion closed his eyes and let the
breeze tickle him. He missed the cold air.

“Where is your brother?”

“Sleeping. He came in this morning. Drunk. Why?”

“I want the two of you to book tickets. I want the two of you to go to Amsterdam. I have someone
there with some merchandise for you to bring back.”

“Two of us? Why don't you let me go? Keep Sergei here. He'll just get in the way.”

“No. I want you to take your brother with. He needs to get out of here.”

“How are we bringing the merchandise back?”

“By plane.”

Semion was about to buy new girls for his establishment. He was appealing to a new market and he

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needed new girls. He wanted to change the face of his business. What he had seen the previous
night had sickened him. These were powerful men behaving like animals. Their imagination,
according to list of orders, plummeted the depths of depravity. It bothered him. The proximity of it
to him and his establishment. It needed to be someone else's problem.

“How are we going to get them in here?”

“Don't worry about that. That is for me to take care of. Just make the arrangements. I want them
here by next week.”

“Have you told Corn about your plan?”

“No. Of course not. I will speak to him later. He will understand that changes need to be made.
Especially when he sees the kind of money that can be made.”

The two men finished their breakfast in silence. Both were engaged with conversation with their
thoughts. There was no point to taking Sergei with him. He would just cause trouble in Europe.
Semion thought about the new girls that were waiting to make the trip to South Africa. There were
too many black girls. . He had to keep them, drug them, feed them and clean them up after they
were finished being used. It was too complex. Some of them were left in terrible states, either too
drugged, or bordering on death. It needed to be someone else's problem. Sinderella needed variety.
The hard to come by variety. His boys would bring them back. He would get the other businessmen
selling sex to be his customers. He was going wholesale. Offer them what they needed but couldn't
get their hands on.

If his plan worked out, he would be making more money than he was currently without all the
administration. He sat back and was pleased with his plan. The only image that soured his
expression was the one from Pork Night, he pulled a face. All those men sitting there, that would be
someone else's problem.

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Chapter 46

It had been almost two days of the repetitive procedure as ordered by Sameer. Take Richard to his
holding cell. Keep him there for an hour, walk him in shackles to the interview room. Shackle him
to the table and chair for an hour and then take him back. Repeat. Ignore all his questions. Deprive
him of sleep. It was torture, but very subtle.

Day two of the process Sameer thought he would test the waters. He drove back to OCB with
Ayesha from the hospital. It was a silent drive. Comfortably silent. Sameer told Ayesha he wanted to
to give her a chance at interviewing the suspect. His file was available, so was the file of his victim.
Sameer had another meeting to go to but he would watch from the viewing room before he left.

Ayesha was angry. It was a festering kind of anger. A living anger that had been conceived by the
sight and knowledge of what she had seen at the hospital. That was a fucking child. Left for dead at
the back of an alley, pumped up with drugs, and raped repeatedly. Ayesha searched her head for the
words, the exact voice, sound, the pitch and tone of the doctor, the authenticity of the repeated
projection fuelled her anger.

“Severe vaginal and anal tearing indicative of sexual trauma.”

It was such a clinical term. So clean a description for something that was a filthy ordeal. It defied
description. She wanted to ask him. She wanted to have a chance to sit opposite him. Face him,
looking into his eyes. The eyes were a script, you could see the world, behind, the world present,
the world in front. Hardened men in prison had frightening eyes. They never got that right on TV.
Bad men weren't good looking. Bad man didn't sparkle. Bad men didn't make you feel empathy.
Bad men were frightening. Anyone that had seen real bad men, the ones chained and shackled and
led into a magistrate’s courtroom knew the difference between good men and bad men. The thin air
when you got near to them. The way your heart seemed to pound, silently as if to avoid making a
noise, in case you were noticed. Your breath froze in your lungs. It was something inside you that
recognised what was missing in them. That is what frightened people. They didn't look like us, they
didn't sound like us. They had an absence of fear. That is what frightened ordinary people the most.

Ayesha wanted to see Richard. She wanted to see that arrogance. She wanted to see that absence of
fear. She wanted to beat his face into the table and ask him about the child in the hospital bed. She
wanted to take those chains off. She wanted to ask him to use his strength on her. She wanted an
excuse.

She found the two files in Sameer's office. Richard Smit, a career criminal, freelancer for various
gangs, specialised mainly in drugs and weapons, a middle man. When SAPS had arrested him, they

160
had transferred him over to OCB after his arrest. He was a criminal with a record of being involved
in organised crime.

Ayesha's hands shook as she approached the interview room. She tried to shovel her feelings under
the blanket of professionalism. She was here to do a job and Sameer was increasing the scope of her
job which meant he was beginning to trust her. She didn't think about how easily she had slipped
back into it. She prepared herself, her mind, she reminded herself to smile. If she showed she was
pissed off he would attack first.

Sameer watched from the viewing room as the two officers on the television screen chained and
shackled Richard to the table and the chair. Richard was mouthing off. Sameer had the sound turned
down. Richard was tired. He had been ignored and deprived of his TV- taught one phone call
allowance, and dragged up and down from his cell to the interview room. Richard's lawyer, when he
got one, would be sure to make it a bone of contention.

Ayesha walked in with Richard seated. She introduced herself and then opened the file and spread
out photos from the crime scene where Jessica was found in front of Richard.

“You recognise any of this?”

Richard looked at Ayesha, tongued his tooth as he sucked in.

“Are you my lawyer, sweetheart?”

“No. Sir. My name is Ayesha Munshi. I am here from OCB.” She leaned forward “I'm here to
question you.”

“Question me for?”

Ayesha realised that he was a career criminal used to the same procedural questions.

“Lady, as good looking as you are, a little old for me but I'm not saying dick to you until I have my
lawyer. Now, be a darling and get me my phone call.”

“You know once your lawyer arrives we stop playing nice. We don't offer any deals. You take what
we give you. Do you undestand? Do me a favour and just tell me what you know about these
photos. Let me help you.” Ayesha had no patience. She was trying to be as direct and sweet as could
possibly be. She wanted to take her chair and use it to beat Richard. He sported a smug expression.
He was too confident. Over confident.

Richard bent down so his mouth could reach his cuffed hands which were chained to the table. He
used his fingernail to scratch between his teeth. He lifted his head to inspect the slimey substance on

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the corner of his nail, made a face and then stuck his finger in his mouth cleaning his finger. He sat
back.

“Look here darling, I don't give a fuck, not here anyway, but if you're a good girl and run along and
get my lawyer. I promise I'll be gentle.” he said with a smirk on his face. “Come on you know you
want to taste it. Indian men and their small little cocks, that's why you hang around all these men.
Isn't it?” He laughed.

Ayesha expected it. The in-your-face scare tactics. It was done subtly. He was a criminal. He wasn't
stupid. It was more for annoyance. The clichéd threat of rape and the belief that secretly all women
had an excuse for asking for it.

“Well let me tell you something that is going to really give you a hard on. You want to hear?”

Richard sat back with a massive shit eating grin across his face.

“Enlighten me sweetheart.”

“We found your wallet at the crime scene. In fact it was under her body when we found her. She
was rolled in that carpet.”

Richard laughed. It was an intentionally dramatic, over the top, laugh.

“Look here darling, not sure where they pulled you up from, or who you blew to sit in the big chair,
but if that's all you got, then let me go now and I promise I won't sue you.”

“Sue me? What are you going to sue me for?”

“You're holding me for some dead girl who had my wallet. Seriously? You kept me here two days,
ignored me when I asked for a lawyer. Heard of wrongful arrest, darling? Or didn't they teach that
to you at pig school?”

Richard was well pleased with himself. He had recognised the crime scene instantly. He wasn't
expecting it. When they had picked him up, he thought it was the drugs, that Alonso had sold him
out, set him up. A momentary flash of panic had quickly been absorbed into the show he was
putting on now. A dead girl with his wallet, a first year law student would be able to walk him out of
court.

“Ja. That would have been a problem. See first we caught you with a KG of heroin and some
prescription drugs you didn't have a prescription for. The wallet led us to you. So in a way you sort
of gave yourself to us. But here's the cherry on top, darling.” Ayesha leaned forward and whispered.

“The girl in those photos. She's not dead. She woke up after we arrested you. We're just waiting for

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her to take a statement, and when she's well enough we'll bring her in to ID you.” Ayesha leaned
back smiling, admiring her work.

Richard was speechless. His face was pale and the panic had enveloped his cocky, brash tongue to
the point of where he looked physically ill.

“And when we're done, just to make sure you get everything you deserve, we'll match the heroin
you bought to the heroin in her blood stream.” Ayesha sat back and grinned. The grin was to annoy
him. She still wanted smash his face in. She imagined what he did with Jessica. Seeing him
squirming was a small amount of satisfaction.

Sameer sat in the viewing room watching the monitor. He was pleased with Ayesha's work. He
heard a commotion coming from outside the room. He switched off the screen and opened the door.
There was shouting, loud shouting coming from the reception area.

“I demand to see my client! You bring your Director out here immediately! I demand to see him.
Let him explain why my client is being denied his right to legal representation.”

Vikhash Bhana was leading a small army of press as uniformed officers pushed him and his
entourage back.

“Sameer Parker, come out! Who do you think you are? This is not an Apartheid State! You cannot
ignore the rights of South Africans! You cannot ignore the Constitution of the Republic of South
Africa!” Bhana was shouting at the top of his voice as officers gathered in a barrier around the
reception area. Sameer walked up to the entrance of the Reception area and looked through the open
doors. There was a throng of pen and pad journalists, video cameras, flashing cameras and noise.
Questions were being shouted above Bhana's voice. Journalists wanting to know, questions that
needed to be answered. Bhana had orchestrated another Public Relations smash and grab.

“The OCB is just another excuse to destroy the rights of South Africans. This is not Apartheid.”

Bhana was screaming now. An officer turned around the corner and found Sameer up against the
wall. Sameer looked up at the officer.

“Sir what do you want me to do? He won't go unless you come out. I mean we could arrest him, but
with all the news people. He's making a scene sir.”

“It's okay. Don't arrest him. He wants the attention. Give me a minute.”

“Okay. Should I tell him you're coming?”

“Yeah. Tell him I'll be out in a minute.”

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The officer left and Sameer let out a sigh. He wasn't used to the spotlight. He abhorred it quite
honestly. But it was worse to send someone else out there. It made you look like you had something
to hide. Or that the accusations were true. He took in a deep breath and exhaled.

He opened the doors to the reception area and walked out. A momentary silence was killed with a
storm of questions and journalists trying to grab his attention.

Sameer turned to Vikhash and asked: “What do you want?”

“I want you to answer some questions for us!” Vikhash Bhana was being aggressive.

“I don't answer to you. Now if you will please remove yourself from the building. Immediately.”

Sameer was voicing calm. Inside his emotions were boiling over each other.

“No. You can't kick us out of here. This is government property. This is a public building and we
have a right to be here!”

“Leave or I will have you removed.” Sameer stared at the man he was beginning to hate. The press
conference had annoyed him. But Sameer felt his emotions begin to overwhelm him.

“Or else what? I'll end up dead like my clients? Is that what you'll do? Are you behind the OCB's hit
squad? Are you responsible for taking out people who walk free from your charges?” The press
entourage stopped long enough to focus their attention on Sameer and his reaction.

Sameer didn't give much of a warning. He didn't swing so much as his fist bolted towards Bhana's
left eye. The single punch took Vikhash off his feet. It was followed by frenzied questions peppered
at Sameer with a barrage of camera flashes and clicks. Officers grabbed Sameer and dragged him
behind the doors. Three officers pulling their boss away from what was now a worse situation than
what they’d begun with. Some journalists offered to help pick Vikhash up, he struggled to his feet,
his legs almost giving way several times. His nose bled a bit.

He looked to the desk. “I want to press charges. I want to do it now. You're my witnesses. You all
saw that. I was assaulted! I want to press charges now.” The officer behind the desk stood by
calmly.

“This is not South African Police Service. You can lay charges with them.” He was expressionless.

Vikhash nodded. “Oh it’s like that huh? You'll be sorry. All of you will be sorry!”

He left with his posse of journalists. There were cameras clicking, and questions being launched as
he made his way out to lay charges at his nearest police station.

Sameer sat in the viewing room, surrounded by several senior officers. It was a precautionary

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measure. They had seen enough temper breaks to know that there was always a round two and
although the big mouth lawyer deserved it, the law was on his side. The camera would back him up.

“I need to get out of here.” Sameer said standing up. The officers uncertain of what to do turned to
face him.

“It’s okay guys. I'm going home for the day.”

Sameer left. His knuckle was throbbing slightly from the connection he had made.

At least there would be something worthwhile on the news broadcast.

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Chapter 47

Vikhash Bhana sat in his BMW with a frozen packet of peas on his cheek and nose. Surprisingly
that was all you could find to take down the swelling in a modern shopping mall. The stares and
turn arounds were not worth it, but the people at the pharmacy couldn't help. Swelling was caused
by blood flowing into an area of damaged tissue. The cold was a means of constricting blood
vessels to control the swelling. His lessons were so technical. The hardest part about walking
through a supermarket with your face distorted and a skew nose was deciding what the best item
was for keeping on your swollen face. He thought about buying a few stick of ice creams. Then
thought against it. They would melt. They wouldn't last too long. Eventually he settled on a packet
of frozen peas, the cheap store brand. Hopefully, when they finished construction on the mall they
would have a store that sold already frozen ice packs.

Vikhash turned the bag over to get a cold section on his face, something that hadn't been under his
hand or on his face. The passenger door opened and Sameer Parker got in and closed the door
quickly. Vikhash had a fright.

“Jesus. Fuck man. How about a bit of a warning.”

“Don't tell me you're scared of a little dark parking lot. I always told you, you watch too many
movies.” Sameer said with a smirk on his face.

Sameer was carrying a folder with him.

“Damnit I punch you in the face and see if you're all serenity.”

“I'm sorry. Now quit your whining damnit.”

“You could have warned me.”

“Then it wouldn't have been authentic.”

“Fuck you.”

Sameer laughed. “What's wrong, you want me to kiss it better for you?”

“Shut the fuck up man. Are we in?”

Sameer slid the file over to Vikhash.

“ICD are going to take Gqaca in today.”

“Fuck man, I thought you said he was Halaal.”

“He is. Don't worry. They'll never pin him. He's safe, we just need an opportunity to get in there. I

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mean the first thing they'll do is run the tests, we used power hand tools. He has a big machine. He'll
be fine.”

“And that cocksucker you got holed up?” Vikhash making reference to Richard.

“Oh you should have seen his face when Ayesha told him the girl was still alive.” Sameer laughed.
“Priceless. She yanked his balls off with that.”

“So you think he'll go for it?”

“If he doesn't, he's an idiot and you can convince him to take it if he doesn't buy what I'm selling.
Either way, it’s our chance man.”

Vikhash put the bag of peas down and opened the folder.

“Son of a bitch. I'll prep the place. How long before I take him?”

“Give me till tomorrow night. I'll make the arrangements and I will text you. You think you can take
him? He's a not small.”

“Fuck him, he's just another rung in the ladder.”

Sameer looked at Vikhash's face. “Jeez it looks awful. I guess we're going to have to change your
name from Pretty Boy Bhana to something … less pretty.” Sameer chuckled.

“Ja well I actually can't wait to get rid of this fucking name. How the fuck did you come up with
it?”

“It comes to me in dreams, you can't argue with genius.” Sameer said sarcastically.

“Yeah, well I sound like a lunch time news reporter.”

Sameer turned to Vikhash. “You know I appreciate what you're doing. Shukran, my brother.”

“Afwan” Vikhash nodded. He didn't know what else to say.

“Now go to the hospital get an official report and go to the police. I want to see the charge sheet on
my desk tomorrow. You understand?”

“Yeah. I hope you know what you're doing.”

“I promised you that Russian swine. We'll get him. It’s part of my plan.”

Sameer looked around, checking the rear-view mirror and his side mirror. “I better get out of here.
I'm at home. Email me when you're done. From your phone ok? Don't use a PC.”

“I know. You taught me well. So just relax.”

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The men shook hands.

“Salaam Alaikum”

“Walaikum Salaam” Vikhash replied in greeting his friend. Sameer slipped out of the car and was
gone. Vikhash checked the rear-view mirror and watched the tall figure walk off between the few
cars and construction equipment. He was grateful to Sameer and literally owed him his life.

Vikhash started up his car and pulled out, he slipped his sunglasses on and his face hurt as he put
the glasses on. Hopefully the doctor would be able to give him something for the swelling before
he called the press around. Then again Sameer would prefer if Vikhash looked his worst for TV.

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Chapter 48

Ayesha stood in front of the stove stirring. The image of her interview disturbed her. She had
forgotten how vicious these bastards were, remorseless, deliberately antagonistic. She turned to find
Aadil standing in the kitchen holding baby Majid.

“Honey? Honey? Come look at this?”

Ayesha followed him to the lounge.

“What?”

“You boss on TV. I was calling you. There. Check it out.” Aadil said pointing to the screen. The
newsreader was reporting on the incident at the OCB offices. The camera got real close as Sameer,
standing side on was saying something barely audible. His hands on his waist. He was visibly
pissed off and the swing that knocked the lawyer off his feet.”

“Did you see any of that?”

“No, I was in a room with a suspect.”

Aadil looked up at Ayesha. “Suspect?”

“Yeah some guy they caught for raping a schoolgirl. I heard about it though.” Ayesha was absorbed
by the news report. Local politicians were giving their opinions. No official OCB or Police
comment.

“Sorry babe? You were saying?”

“I didn't say anything. I thought you were working on the internal investigation.”

“I am.”

“So now you're working on two cases?”

“Yeah. Okay, I don't like the tone of that question. What's wrong honey?”

“I just thought this was a temporary gig, something you needed to get out of your system.”

“System? What? Aadil, I said we'll see where this goes. I told you I do miss the job.”

“So you made up your mind then?”

“No, I haven't made up my mind. Not yet. Sam, just asked me if I wanted to interview the suspect
and I said yes. I don't see what the problem with this is. I don't understand why it’s an issue.”

“It's not an issue. I would have just liked to have known about this. When did you decide?”

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“Decide what Aadil? To question the suspect? I'm sorry if I didn't phone you to ask your permission
first.”
“Don't give me that crap Ayesha. You know that's not what I am saying. Just answer my question.”

“What question? Damnit Aadil!”

Ayesha turned to walk away.

“If you're going back permanently?”

Ayesha stopped in the doorway. She inhaled. There was no answer to the question. She didn't know.
The work she was doing was like a second skin to her. Maybe that was fucked up on her part.
Maybe she wasn't cut out to be a traditional wife. Maybe that is what Aadil wanted.

“At least answer me. That's all I want.” Aadil's tone was passive. He was exhausted from all the
tension.

Ayesha turned around. “Why? So you can tell me it was a mistake to marry me? When you met me
I was ankle deep in this shit. You knew who you were marrying. I didn't lie to you. And I am sorry
if you thought I was going to be happy staying at home, cooking your meals and ironing your
clothes. But that isn't who I am.” Ayesha's eyes had tears streaming from them, down her cheeks as
she shouted.

Aadil sat down. He looked at his son and then back up at Ayesha.

“The woman I fell in love with, the one I married, was broken. They broke you. And I'm scared. I'm
scared for me, I'm scared for our son and I am scared for you. What if they break you again? I don't
know if either of us have it in us to put it back together. I don't want to lose you.”

Ayesha felt small. She stood there, unable to move. She felt like an idiot for going on the defensive.
She walked over to Aadil eventually, each step like walking through mud. She felt so stupid. She
kneeled down in front of his chair she kissed her son on the head. She put her arm around Aadil and
kissed him.

“Baby, I'll be fine. I'm not that woman anymore. You changed me. I won't let anything break me.
Trust me. I know I have a family and you come first. You always have and always will.” She put her
around her husband and pulled him and her son close. She cried quietly.

“I'm a lucky woman to have you.” She whispered in his ear.

Chapter 49

It was an assembly of men in the sweat room, previously used for auctions, bets, themed evenings.

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But in the light of the afternoon sunlight, it had none of the sinister allure it had for some of its
normal patrons. None of them were present. In their place were men who in the business
environment were rivals to Semion. Corn stood at the back of the crowd. He didn't agree with
Semion's change of direction. He had built up Sinderella, from almost nothing besides an idea.
Semion had given it to him so he could sit in Cape Town. What happened to hating the Joburg
climate?, Corn thought to himself.

Corn held his cell phone. He kept glancing at the screen. No one had heard from him and he hadn't
responded to any messages. And now he was watching his business being sold. Fucking jackals
lined up to see which piece of the carcass was enough to carry home. Semion warned him, the girls
would only find out when the deals were done, until then Corn was to keep his mouth shut.

Semion stood in front of the men after the waitresses left and closed the door behind them. Viktor
and Sergei had left for Amsterdam and would be back in a week. But by then the face of Sinderella
would change, as would its name. Corn seethed at the back of the room. Every thought seemed to
fire up his emotions. The old man looked naked without his two sons. Even the lack of the drunken
one's presence looked conspicuous.

Semion cleared his throat.

“Good afternoon gentlemen. My name is Semion Solonik and in the past you have had to deal with
Corn, but now you have to deal with me.”

“Deal with you how?” said a balding man with a tight Sharks rugby jersey on.

“I want to propose a new business that will benefit us all.”

A scrawny man with black hair and graying temples put his hand up. “I don't mean to piss on your
hospitality. I mean none of us thought we would sit inside Sinderella, but I don't understand what
we're all doing here together. I mean I look around and what I see is every big operator in the arse
and tits business. Let me just be upfront, my business is not for sale.”

Semion raised his hands and smiled. “Please my friend, don't be alarmed. We are businessmen, all
of us, not enemies and what I want to propose is that we work together. We are all in the same
business and yet we are competing against each other. How much money do you want to make?”

The room was confused silence as the gathered looked at each other. They looked back at the old
man with the grey beard in front of them.

“The Sinderella is closing down.” The statement was met by a murmur.

“In its current form.”

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“What do you mean current form?” The question came from the crowd.

“I want you to be our clients.”

The general confusion resulted in another question.

“Semion, either none of us are understanding what you’re saying or you are not speaking clearly.”
said a short man with a very large stomach sitting at the front. His thick moustache curled at the
ends.

“I'm selling to you. Selling. Not renting. Not tricking you, the girls are yours.”

“What is this Semion? Some kind of joke? Why should we trust you? We've got girls. We don't need
to buy from you.”

“Listen gentlemen. It’s simple. In a year, maybe two, maybe even 6 months, prostitution will be
legal. My girls are worth twice as much as anything you have to offer. You know that. You buy them
today, you will make more money than you know what to do with.”

“That's all good and well, Semion.” the fat man retorted. “But what's in it for you then?”

“I am a businessman and this is a business decision. All your future girls you will buy from me.”

There was a collective sigh.

“So that's it. You want to make money of us.”

“Yes. I don't see a problem with that. Where do you get your women from? Who do you contact?
How much do you pay and how much money do you get out of them before you have to get rid of
them? Huh? We will provide you with the girls. You come to us. My sons are away and when they
return we'll have a sale of girls from Europe. You can charge more and make more.”

“We could do it ourselves.”

“But you haven't. You can’t afford our clients because you can't get them what they want. Now I am
giving you this chance. I won't sell it more than that. If you are serious about making money this is
your chance. If not, I thank you for coming out.”

Semion stood in front. He looked around the room at the confused brothel owners. Men who still
dealt in pocket change as far as he was concerned. Some of them had bought girls from Corn when
Sinderella couldn't use them anymore.

“Then I think we have an agreement. Now please contact Corn tomorrow to let him know if you
will be attending the sale. Good afternoon gentlemen.” Semion nodded and walked towards the
door. Sherry was standing at the back in conversation with Corn. It was a panicked and heated

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exchange, which died quickly as soon as Semion approached them.

He stopped and looked at the two of them. His face was expressionless, hiding his thoughts. He
looked permanently angry to new people he met. His face was continuously frozen in this
expressionless pose. He was never seen talking much and when he was seen outside of his room, it
was always with the hard to read expression. It placed people under self imposed duress without the
need for Semion to add any of his own.

Corn turned, coughed, his head aimed at his shoes, his phone still in his hand. “Semion we have a
problem.”

“What problem?”

“It's Richard. He's been arrested. I think you better come see this” Corn said taking Semion to his
office to watch a recording of the press interview with a lawyer who had been punched in the face
by the head of the OCB. The newsreader flashed an ID photo of Richard and that he was being held
without charge and that OCB refused to give comment.

Semion sighed. This was a time when he could have used Sergei. Sergei was clean, ruthless and
didn't like the look of Richard, which was only further motivation for what needed to be done. He
didn't know anything, nothing significant, but he knew enough to attract attention. The wrong kind
of attention.

South Africans he thought to himself. You couldn’t trust them.

“Do me a favour Corn. Find that lawyer. Get him to call me. I want to speak to him.”

“Are you going to get Richard out?”

“We can't leave them there...” the rest of the sentence Semion finished in his head....to talk us into
trouble.

Changes indeed.

Chapter 50

“Two fucking days here and all you're gonna do is sit here and look at me?” Richard was incensed
as he pulled at his shackled hands chained to the table. “This is fucking bullshit man, you can't keep
me here. I want my fucking lawyer.”

Sameer sat back. He smiled annoyingly at Richard.

“Say something already. What's your fucking name?”

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“Sameer. Sameer Parker.”

“You're Muslim aren't you?”

“I am.”

“So how does that work, being Muslim and being a pig?” Richard chuckled to himself. Sameer
stopped smiling for a second. Clever sod, he thought to himself.

“Not so fucking flash now, hey? Where's the winning stupid grin, hey?”

“How has your stay been?” Sameer was doing his version of cordial. He knew enough about
Richard from his interview with Ayesha to know what he was dealing with.

“What? Are you tripping? You pull me out of my cell to ask me that? Where's the chick? Send her
in here, nice pair of tits, what you think?”

“I think that if you stay here long enough we can lose you in the system. And who knows who
might be saying the same thing about you?” Sameer smiled mischievously as he said it.

Richard's broad grin was killed in its infancy. He was just beginning to enjoy himself. That was the
only way to get at the cops. They wouldn't touch you. They couldn't. Even though they were dying
to give you a beat down. And the more you poked at them, the more frustrated they got. Frustration
is what got charges dropped in court.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“Well you’ve been in this cell for how long? Two days? No lawyer. In fact there's no file on you.
And I can make it all disappear.”

“What the fuck are you doing? Hey?” Richard was playing at not being interested but he was
leaning forward. Sameer noticed the contradictory body language. Richard was panicked.

“I want to offer you a deal Richard. You get to walk away from all of this. What do you think about
that?”

“I must have stupid on my face. Do I? Do I fucking have stupid on my face?” Richard responded
sarcastically.

“Well I don't know if it’s on your face, but you're plenty stupid to get your wallet lost with a live
girl that can identify you. Ja, that's actually very, very stupid. Maybe stupid is written in Braille on
your face.” Sameer said making reference to Richard's adult acne.

The two men sat in silence. Richard was trying to make sense of it. As much as he tried to hide his
fear behind the verbal snipes aimed at his interrogators, he was concentrating on his reality.

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“You're mad.” he said very softly.

“Yes I am. See I had a look at your record. You're a fucking nothing. Sure you think you're Mr. Get
Bad, but I'm not interested in you. You're nothing to me. And I am willing to open the door and let
you walk. If you do something for me.”

“Look here friend, I don't know what you think you know about me, but I'm no fucking snitch. You
hear me? I don't turn for no one.”

“Oh keep you here long enough, they'll turn you every which way they can bend you. But the
choice is yours.” Sameer said smiling to himself. He was painting a picture for Richard. Make him
make the choice before he was offered one.

“You know you can’t keep me here forever.” Richard said defensively.

Sameer looked at him. Richard was a clever bastard. But he could see his prisoner was weighing up
his options. Sameer decided to start swinging.

“If you think you're going to be safe inside here, don't you think whoever you work for will find a
way of getting you inside? Why do you think I been keeping you from being processed? You go
into the system, you place your life in jeopardy.”

“Don't give me that bullshit man. This thing might work for the those JSE types you arrest, the real
criminals, but if you think this TV cops and robbers bullshit is going to frighten me you can send
me back to my cell.”

“Fine. I wanted to give you a choice. But you're not leaving me with much. I'm going to release you
at around lunchtime tomorrow. I'm going to let you walk right out those doors like a free man.
Tomorrow morning I'm going to call all those news people and tell them why we arrested you and
how you agreed to help us in our investigation. Basically in exchange for your cooperation, we're
letting you go.” Sameer gave Richard his widest grin.

Richard's face went pale. He felt sick to his stomach. The fucking Russians. Corn had told him
about what they did down in Cape Town. About the sons involvement. They would have someone
waiting for him. He couldn't go home. And if they knew from the morning before he was released,
his protestations would mean nothing. It didn't matter if he did or didn't. A press conference called
was too much attention and he, the cause for it, would be removed from the equation.

He was void of words. Thoughts flashed through his head like pictures. He wanted to express his
emotions. He wanted to tell Sameer to fuck off. That he would never help a pig out. Instead he sat
there with a blank expression, blinking.

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“You can't?” Richard stammered.

“I can. And I will. Try me.” Sameer said, arrogantly.

Richard said nothing, his eyeballs looking away, his head dropping, his darting around, searching
his mind for options.

Sameer pointed, the grin having returned. “You're finally listening. I'm glad.”

Richard stuttered out the words. “What do you want?”

Sameer leaned in. “Tomorrow, I will release you and call a conference after that. I will make that
announcement that you're free to go. In return I want you to give me information on your bosses,
what they do and when I can take them down. Do you understand? I will sort out the details in the
morning.”

“So you're not letting me go now?”

“Don't be daft, boy. It’s after 10 at night, whose going to believe your story about why you were
released. I will get you a credible lawyer, so that you can go back and get back into the swing of
things. Do we have a deal?”

Richard gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. This was the closest he felt to emotional turmoil. He
felt angry.

“And the girl?”

“Don't worry about the girl. I'll worry about that. All I need is your cooperation. Do we have a
deal?” Sameer was insistent. It was his way of negotiating. It was his insider knowledge of how
things really worked. It was Richard's need for self preservation ahead of his loyalty to the people
he worked for.

“I need some time to think about it.”

Sameer stood up pushing his chair back. He walked to the door and banged on the door with a flat
palm. The door opened and a guard came in.

“Take him back to his cell.” He turned to face Richard.

“Do yourself a favour and have an answer for me tomorrow morning.”

The guard removed Richard from the interview room and escorted him back to his cell. Sameer
would have to move the girl. He would have to justify his angle with Richard with Dumza. But he
needed Richard out of police custody.

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Sameer pulled out a cellphone from his pocket. He typed out a short message.

“I need you here before lunch. Time for formal introductions. S”

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Chapter 51

Ayesha could see through the windows that Dumza was more than a little upset. He held a brown
file in his hand which he waved up and down as he paced up and down Sameer's office. He would
sit down and listen to Sameer, then raise his hands when he heard enough and get to his feet and
then he would pace as he replied.

“I understand Sam, but how the fuck could you punch him in front of the cameras? Journalists are
like a pack of wild dogs and now they smell blood. Our blood. Not just your professional blood.
Our blood.” Dumza was angry as all hell. The journalists had gone straight to the Ministers' office
when OCB failed to comment.

“How many times must I tell you that I'm sorry? Come on. I asked him to leave and after all he's
been doing I just lost it.”

Dumza sat down again.

“That's exactly my point. That son of a bitch lawyer is going to enjoy this. Especially now.” Dumza
sighed. He was making reference that Gqaca was going to be charged.

“Sam, I'm taking heat here. The DG from Law and Order is asking me, why? Why the fuck are we
falling apart? What am I doing? And why the fuck did I recommend you for the job?”

Dumza sat in silence looking to Sam for an answer.

“Dumza, look, you pulled me from the field. I didn't ask for this job. You said you wanted me to
take this, this was a chance, Gqaca is his own man, if they're not happy because I punched a fucking
lawyer, then they can come down here and tell me themselves.”

“I'm telling you Sam.”

“What are you telling me?”

Sameer's tone was becoming increasingly irritated. He felt spoken down to and although Dumza
and he were friends, their history going back decades, this was a job situation. Friendships became
muddied in the workplace.

“If Gqaca is arrested and found guilty, there will be sacrifices with him.”

“What do you want me to say Dumza? I'm sorry. I can't apologise for what one our officer's did. I'm
sorry I punched that guy, but there is no way you can make me a scapegoat for what Gqaca did.”

“I know.” Dumza was tired. He had spent too much time on his cell phone the night before,
speaking to editors, Heads of news, station managers, and journalists. No one wanted to let go of

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the story. The OCB was falling apart and if anyone didn't cover it, someone else would. Dumza was
exhausted. The struggle continued.

“Have you decided what to do with Ayesha?”

“Well since we got word that ICD had started a case I pulled her. I figured there was no point in
carrying on. Horse bolted and all of that. I have her working the case with the girl they found.”

“Good. Very good thinking. She's known in the media, after her SCU case. And we need the
positive press. Where's the girl?”

“I'm having her moved to a hotel?”

Dumza's head jerked back. He was slightly confused. The last he heard she was comatose in
hospital.

“Hotel?”

“Well, Ayesha interviewed the suspect yesterday. He was getting a bit cocky, lawyer 101. So she
told him the girl was alive and his face froze. But if we want the girl to testify, we better move her.
Richard doesn't operate in church going circles.”

“So you thought hotel?”

“Why not, she will be in a public place, guard at the door. And I spoke to her doctor, she's fine to
move. She's awake. We'll move her with one of her parents. We have the SAPS guys keeping an eye
on the family house.”

“And the suspect? You've had him for three days. You know when you get to court the Judge is
going to knock some sense into you?”

“I don't think it will get that far.”

“He confessed?” Dumza had the beginnings of a smile on his face. Maybe this was salvageable. He
would feed the press large easy to swallow bite sized chunks. Get Ayesha on screen, get the story
about the girl found in the alleyway, the suspect arrested and OCB taking him to task. He would
squeeze the last drop out of this if it meant he could direct attention elsewhere.

“Not quite. We have enough evidence to convict him. With the girl's testimony he'll be more willing
to make a deal. But I'm going to let him go.”

Dumza's expression had turned from pleased to sour. His eyes squinted as he tried with all his might
to restrain himself from cursing his friend. The dam wall burst.

“Are you fucking mad? Are you? Do you have some sort of death wish? Sam please tell me you

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have a plan here? That you understand what's going on?”

“Dumza, relax, I have a plan.” Sameer pulled a file from his desk.

“What's this?” Dumza said opening it and scanning it. “It's his record. So what?”

“Look at the crowd he's running with? You want to make a bust? Trust me on this. Please.” Sameer
was pleading. Dumza's word could kill this and then he would have to revoke his deal.

“I don't know.” Dumza leafed through the file. “Russians?”

“Apparently the old man and his sons are the owners. They pitched up a few weeks ago.”

Dumza paged through the file. He closed this. “And how do you have this? And why is NIA
watching some whorehouse?”

“They weren't keeping tabs on the whorehouse, they were watching a few of its patrons.”

“Who are its patrons?”

“People with more money than God.”

Dumza sat back in his chair and took in a deep breath looking at Sameer. He exhaled loudly.

“Are you sure of what you're doing? I mean, really? Because if this blows up, we'll both be with our
blue cards in the unemployed line. This is not just your balls on the line.”

“Trust me Dumza. I have everything under control. Once I have him where I want him, we'll all be
happier.”

“And NIA?” Dumza asked.

“NIA don't care. They came across some information through their network, thought we might find
it useful. The bust is ours if we want it.”

Sameer stuck his hand out from across the desk. Dumza looked at it for a few seconds. He
eventually shook it.

“Whatever you do, don't fuck this up. You hear me? Just don't fuck this up.” Dumza was relieved
and worried at the same time. They were taking a gamble. They were letting a bird go for the bush.

“Don't worry Dumza, I have a plan.” Sameer said smiling.

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Chapter 52

Jessica woke up in the hotel room. The small white pill she swallowed at the hospital had erased
most of her memory of how she ended up in a pair of pyjamas in the dark room of a luxury hotel.
She remembered her mother walking beside her as very large man pushed her in a wheelchair. She
didn't feel sleepy, just an inability to hold her head up. She had sat in the car on the way here. The
rest came to her in a set of blurry snapshots.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Her mouth was dry. She tasted an odd taste in her mouth. Bitter at
the back of her tongue. She reached over for the glass of water on the side of her bed. The room was
mostly dark, except for the odd lines bolting from the curtains where the curtain wasn't closed
properly.

She swallowed the water down in gulps. The water tasted incredible. It was refreshing, cool. It was
perfect. But as her brain analysed the joy and pleasure of a glass of water other elements in her
mind were illuminated. Her consciousness spread its spotlight over the unveiling reality. A reality
she had forgotten for a moment, the moment of her sleep. Her heart sank. It continued to sink as
reality set in, weighed down, and her mind was bombarded with images. Images of men on top of
her, of men saying crude things to her in her ear as they mounted her, of Eugene Barrett, of her
pleading with him, of how her defences disappeared, of how she wanted to scream, but Eugene
threatened to hurt her more. That he could do whatever he wanted to do, that she belonged to him to
do with whatever he wanted. She saw Richard injecting her arm. She began to cry. The tears rolled
down her face. She sat there, her shoulders shaking as she tried to push each image from her mind,
her tears aggravating her mood. She didn't want to cry. She couldn't help it. It just rolled down her
face.

Her hotel door opened and her mother came in slowly. She tried to make as little noise as possible.
She closed the door and turned to face Jessica on the bed sobbing quietly on the edge of the bed.
She put the bag down on the floor and rushed to her daughter.

“Jessie baby, what's wrong? Are you ok?” She checked Jessica's body for some indication of what
could be causing Jessica to cry. She switched on the beside lamp.
“Jessie? Baby, what's wrong?”

“I'm sorry.” Jessica blubbered. The consonants of her apology swallowed up.

“Baby, what's wrong what happened?” her mother still not yet grasping the cause for her daughter's
dismay.

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“I'm sorry for everything.” the sobby apology coming out. Jessica looked directly at her mother this
time. She didn't know how else to express herself.

Her mother pulled her daughter close and held her. She began to cry with her daughter. The doctor
told her that Jessica would go through feelings of guilt. “Reassure her”, he had said.

“Oh baby. It’s not your fault. I'm just happy you're back with us, safe. We're gonna get through
this.” Jessica's mother held her daughter and began crying as well. She could feel her daughter's wet
face and tears under her neck and on her shoulders. There were no real words that would magically
fix her daughter's heart. The images of what her daughter went through invaded her mind. She
reigned in her imagination. She didn't know and she found her imagination running away with her
based on what the doctor had told her. Her shock and sadness had turned to anger, but she put it
away. She couldn't be angry in front of her daughter.

She stroked her hair, uncertain of what to say or do to calm her daughter and allay her fears. She
didn't want to show her anger, because she was afraid that her anger at what had been done to her
daughter would frighten Jessica, or cause her to feel guilty. She just held her. There were no words.
Tears streamed down both their cheeks, both shook with the energy of silent sobs between them.

Jessica eventually pulled away. Her mother was in pain. Jessica felt it in her mother's laboured
breathing. The jerky sobs. The words were unspoken. Her mother looked up at her daughter,
looking for a sign, something of significance that would indicate that she had soothed her daughter's
emotions.

Jessica stood up. She smiled at her mother. She felt an incredible weight of guilt bearing down on
her. The more she looked at her mother, the heavier it felt, her mother’s teary swollen face made it
worse. She was sorry. She wished she could take it back. She knew things would never be the same
for her or her family. The people would talk. Her mother would bury that pain inside her.

“I love you mom.” she said wiping the tears from her face. Her face tight and raw. She smiled again
before kissing her mother on her cheek. She turned to walk away.

“Where you going Jessie baby?”

“I think I need a shower. I need it.” her voice was calm. Jessica needed to get away from her
mother. Her mother made her feel guilty. It cut deep inside her to feel her mother's tears or feel her
and see her crying. She tried to imagine what her mother was suffering and going through and she
felt the weight grow heavier. She couldn't breathe anymore.

Her mother nodded. Seated on the edge of the bed, her mother pulled tissues from the square box by

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the side of the bed to wipe her face and blow her nose. Jessica stopped at the bathroom door to look
at her mother. She looked at her mother's hair, the light brown hair, it was wiry at the side of her
head above her ears, strands bunched in points. Days at the hospital would do that to you.

Jessica closed the door. She stripped her pyjamas off and stood in front of the large mirror above the
granite sink counter. She looked at the eyes staring back at her. She had to close her eyes. She
looked at the face. The slight cuts on her face which hurt like hell. The bruises on her neck, her
breasts, the tiny bite marks on her face, the line of black dots on her arms. Purple marks where her
arms had been held tightly. She touched them. It was surreal to be looking at the part of her body
that hurt as she pressed it with her hand. She felt the pain. They said it would hurt. But it didn't hurt.
She pressed the track marks on her arm as hard as she could. There was no pain. She touched the
bruises on her abdomen. Hands, men's hands were touching her again. She could feel them, she
could smell their breath close her, talking to her, telling her what they were going to do, what they
wanted to do, their hands rough, hard skin hands probing, grabbing, twisting, pulling, and
squeezing.

She closed her eyes, and stopped looking at the naked body of the person in the mirrors. The
person with the black eyes and dark rings around them. The images were clearer with her eyes
closed, they were energised, and alive as they bombarded her senses. They had sounds and smells
and she could feel each image. They teased her. Tormented and tortured she opened her eyes and
she saw Jessica, the prisoner, dressed in the strips of chiffon staring back at her, rope around her
wrists. She saw Eugene Barrett standing behind her, his hands greedily groping her from behind.

Jessica punched the mirror, picking up the bottle on the counter and hitting the mirror until it broke
into a spiderweb of glass shards. The shards felt on the counter, the floor and into the sink. Jessica
heard the banging at the door. It seemed so distant, far off. Too far for her to respond to. She looked
at the few pieces of mirrored glass surviving on the wall. She caught tiny projections of the wall
behind her. She wasn't in the reflections. She put her hand into the sink and pulled up a triangular
shard and held it. She gripped it tight in her small hand until her hand was crimson. The blood
covered her fist and the shard. She could feel the broken edge cutting into her palm, slicing through
the flesh on the bones of her fingers. There was no pain. She could feel the edges, but she squeezed
harder. There was no pain.

She grabbed onto it tighter until she swung her hand to her neck. She stopped it close enough with
the point above the corner of her neck. The banging on the door seemed to be drifting further away.
A distant hollow sound like the ticking of a clock in your bedroom late at night when everyone was
asleep and it was just you and your thoughts in the dark. You never noticed the ticking unless you

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made the effort to.

She forced down hard with the point of the broken glass, piercing her skin, she dragged the glass
shard across her throat. She felt the warm flow of blood down her body. Some of it sprayed out onto
the wall in front of her. She felt the blood run down her neck. It was only seconds but she could feel
the warm rush on her skin, it covered her bruises, it covered the parts that those hands had touched.
It washed her clean.

She smiled as she fell backward. Her eyes closed she could feel her body moving falling, a slow
slide down. She smiled to herself.

She didn't feel pain anymore. She couldn't hear the banging and voices from the door.

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Chapter 53

“Just sign the papers. It’s not that difficult to understand.” Sameer was not in the mood to be
negotiating. Richard read through the papers again.

“So let me get this straight, if I help you, you will make sure I am not charged.”

“Look boy I don't know how many times I have to explain this to you. I'm making you an offer.
Give me the people you work for and I will give you freedom. It’s that simple.”

Richard scratched his chin.

“And how do I know this won't be linked to me, because if they catch me, I don't know.”

“You don't.”

Richard looked up at Sameer standing in front of him, impatient and annoyed. A girl left for dead
would get him jail time. Jail time for murder was different. They could make your life hell. Richard
wasn't afraid of prison. He had spent time there. But it was murder. And in jail he couldn't hide. If
they wanted to kill him, they knew where to find him.

“What if they ask why I was released? What do I say then? They'll suspect something.”

“Look here boy, if you don't sign this, I can't have you as an official informant, in which case I can't
make those charges disappear. Are you following? One blink for yes, two for no.”

“You haven't answered my question. How do I know they won't try killing me when I get out of
here?”

“You don't, you have to trust me, like I have to trust you that you'll do what you say you will. We'll
do our best to protect you by deflecting attention elsewhere. Now sign the fucking papers.”

Sameer knew there was no guarantee that they wouldn't kill Richard which might upset Vikhash
slightly but if they did he would have enough to take down Semion and his sons. Although the
bastard was slippery. It was not ideal if Richard was taken out, but it wouldn't be a loss. All Sameer
kept doing was talking fast, keeping the pressure on Richard and hope he signed the papers fast
enough.

Richard thought about it. It was his best chance for survival. He signed the paper, initialling on
every page to signify he had read every page. He hadn't. No one ever does.

The document was a handler's sheet, it was an agreement from a criminal, an official declaration on
the part of the criminal offering his services to Law Enforcement. It was some record keeping that
needed to be done. It was also an admission of guilt declaration in case he failed or colluded against

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Law Enforcement. Richard didn't see that paragraph in the agreement.

Sameer picked up the agreement, checked the signature and smiled.

“By tonight you will be back home.” He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a yellow cell phone.

“One number. I call you, you pick up, you let it ring more than five rings I find you and chuck you
in jail. It has my number on it. Don't call me. Message me. Do you know how to send text
messages?”

Richard nodded.

“Good. Text me when there is a problem. This phone goes with you wherever you go. Do you
understand?”

Sam took the phone and put on the table at the side of the room.

Richard pulled at the chains and cuffs. “What about these?”

Sameer smiled. “In a moment. One more order of business left.”

Sameer knocked on the door with bottom on his fist. A stocky man opened and walked in.

“Richard, meet the keys to those chains. Now when your lawyer asks, this has been going on for
days. You understand?”

“Going on what? What do mean? What's going on?”

Sameer nodded to the man and left without saying a word. He closed the door as he heard Richard
screaming at him.

“What's going on?”

It was quickly muted by a loud groan.

There was no way to manufacture a credible alibi when you've been arrested and were being
reinserted to funnel information back to the authorities. There would be questions, what happened?
Why did they release you? There needed to be an answer to every question. Criminals, especially
those bright enough to organise themselves and run along strict and ruthless business lines were not
stupid idiots. They would see enough reason to shoot Richard in the face and throw him by the
roadside. Richard had to have a reason. Sameer enjoyed it a bit. He told the stocky man to pretend it
was someone he really hated. All that he had to keep in mind was that Richard needed to be able to
walk out of there in 30 minutes.

The spokesperson would be reading a statement after Vikhash made an announcement about the

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release of his client. Vikhash was with the Russians.

There was a plan.

And right now Sameer was helping create that reason. It was better than being dead Sameer
reasoned with himself.

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Chapter 54

Vikhash drove Richard, battered and bruised back to Sinderella. Richard was surprisingly quiet.
Especially after everything Sameer had told him about Richard.

“Don't worry Richard, he's done. I guarantee it. I'll get a doctor to come over this afternoon, and I
will lay the charges for you. Okay? Don't worry.”

Richard stared out his window. He yelled for the man to stop. Yelling was his only weapon. His
hands cuffed and legs shackled to the chair that was all he could do. The man spoke as he handed
out the beating with his fists.

“If you want them to believe you, it has to look real. So just relax I know what I'm doing.”

Skin and muscle only lasts for so long when being smashed against your own bones. The skin split
around the edges of his bones, like his cheek and jaw and his eyebrow ridge. His face was covered
in blood as the man hit him repeatedly. He wanted to quit there and then, He may have even
screamed out loud for them to stop. But he was ignored. And as they drove through the tall gates of
Sinderella, the lawyer being waved in after his earlier visit, Richard felt the sinking sensation he had
dreaded. Facing Corn, the old Russian and his two sons. He tried to remember what he was going
to say.

The car pulled up outside the building and stopped. The men in the black suits watched as Richard
extracted himself from the car very slowly. His entire body ached. Every stress placed on is bones
and muscles felt like torture. His face, tight and swollen, bruised felt heavy. He got out and walked
very slowly towards the stairs and then climbed them. The men in black coats watched. Sherry
came out and gave him a painfully tight hug. Vikhash pulled away to go and park the car.

“Oh baby I'm so glad you're out.” She held him tight and Richard swallowed his breath. “Are you
okay?”

“I'm ok.” Richard heaved, as Sherry withdrew.

“Oh we were so worried about you. And look at your face. You look awful. Well Corn and the old
Russian got you a good lawyer, so we'll sort them out you hear?” Richard nodded. So it was Corn
and Semion who had organised the lawyer. Fuck he thought to himself. He didn't want to answer
questions right away. He needed time. To prepare himself, make sure his story was right. Corn
walked past and stopped as he saw Richard standing talking in the doorway. He walked over
uncertain of his own feelings about Richard's arrival. Three days locked up, and the charges get
dropped. A girl raped and beaten and found near death with his wallet next to her. It felt wrong

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seeing him here.

“Sherry, don't keep our man waiting. Let him come in, I'm sure he would like a drink and something
to eat. You look like shit Richard. Maybe afterward you can take a shower too.” He shook Richard's
hand, a broad smile on his face belying his own feelings.

“Ok I'll go and organise something from the kitchen, Richard what would you like to drink?
Coffee? Tea?”

“Sherry, after three days in a cell our man deserves something a bit stronger. Get him some beers.”
Corn put his hand on Richard's shoulder and smiled at him.

“So how are you feeling friend? You okay? You look awful? That lawyer helped? Cause Semion
and I spoke to him as soon as we found out.”

Sherry walked back all awkward on her heels rushing to confirm the order. “Rich, eating in your
room or at the bar?”, Sherry asked. Corn answered on Richard's behalf.

“Send it to my office. I want to chat with him first. Okay? Thanks, Sherry.” Corn said turning back
to Richard.

“The old man and I just want to chat to you, find out what happened and what we can do to make
this shit stop....”, Corn said circling Richard's face with his index finger, ” anyway why don't you go
down to my office I'll be there in a bit.”

Richard's heart pounded as he walked closer to Corn's office. It seemed to have come about all of a
sudden. He wasn't prepared. What if he said the wrong thing? What if Semion and his sons had
other plans for him? His face leaked sweat as he tried to remember his lines. He knocked on the
door and opened it. Semion was sitting behind the desk. He stood up and smiled at Richard as he
walked in.

“Richard. Please come in. Sit down. You look terrible. Are you okay?” The old man came from
behind the desk and pulled out a chair for Richard to sit down in.

“Yes I'm fine. Just a little bruised. Corn told me to meet him in his office. I... I didn't mean to
disturb you.” Richard stood next to the chair.

“No please sit down. I wanted to talk to you. Where is your lawyer? I want to find out from him
what happened. Why does your face look like this?” Semion sat on the edge of the desk scrutinising
Richard's bruised face.

Richard lowered himself slowly into the chair. His rib hurt when he breathed and as simple as

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sitting was, he could feel sharp stabs of pain.

“They got a bit rough when I wouldn't talk to them. They kept me in my cell, they wouldn't let me
call. Otherwise I would have called Corn to let him know.” Richard said slightly panicked.

There was a knock at the door. It opened as Vikhash walked in closing the door behind him.

“Morning Semion. As promised, Richard.”

“That was very quick of you.” Semion said, the surprise evident in his voice.

“I told you before, I work fast and I know what I'm doing.” He shook Semion's hand.

“I suppose it helps that they know you.”Semion replied.

Vikhash laughed loudly. “I guess that's one way of seeing it.”

“So how did you do it?”

“Well it was very simple, the prosecutor was reluctant to bring charges against Richard after I
pointed how his rights had been abused while in police custody. I mean look at his face. Speaking of
which, I called a doctor to come pay Richard a visit today to get a report on his injuries so that I can
take it further.”

Richard sat uneasily in his chair as his lawyer filled in all the blanks. Sameer had been clear, don't
mention the deal to the lawyer. He doesn't work for you, he works for your bosses so if you tell him,
he will tell them.

“No. I don't want that. No charges. Get the doctor. I'll pay for him. I want Richard better soon. You
understand?”

Vikhash nodded. “But we can't leave them to get away with this.” he protested.

“I know about your case to bring them down. And that is fine. I like your work. But you will attract
too much attention to us. Do you understand? We have our man back. That's all what I wanted.”

“Yes. I see your point. I apologise.” Vikhash said. Semion's intentions seemed a bit obvious.

“It's okay. Now if you can find Corn, he will have your money for you. If we need your services
again, I will give you a call.” Semion's tone was cold as he dismissed the lawyer.

Vikhash stood for a moment.

“Very well. Thank you. And please don't hesitate to call me.” he stood awkwardly waiting for an
acknowledgment. He nodded and left the room closing the door behind him.

Semion spoke to Richard. “I don't like lawyers. Big fucking mouths. Never know when to shut the

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fuck up. What happened inside there? How did they take you in?”

Richard felt the words gather at the front of his mind, arranging themselves in sequence. He dug in
as he relayed the story as Sameer had made him rehearse it.

“They found my wallet on the girl, the one Viktor told me to get rid of. So that's... that's how they
found me.”

“They found you with drugs?”

“Yeah. I was going to buy some H... heroin and some roofies... erm.. Rohynol. Corn told me we
were running out, so I went over to the dealer and I bought the stuff and when I got back to my flat
they jumped me. I didn't see them I swear, I would have run if I did.” Richard was panicked.

“Relax Richard. I believe you. And what happened after they arrested you?” Semion said
reassuringly.

“They kept me in my cell. I asked them for a phone call. Nothing. They didn't even take me to
court. They just left me there. Ignored me. The only thing they did was take me up and down to the
interrogation room. The fucking Director man, I mean the Director, he just kept with the questions. I
told him I don't know anything, my wallet was stolen and I don't know how it ended up there. Then
he loses it and starts beating me. He jammed the door with a chair and just whaled down on me.”
Richard broke down. He kept his head down to catch his breath.

Semion put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s ok. You didn't say anything. You made a great sacrifice
for me and I will never forget this.” Richard felt his heart rate slow down. It was working.

“You know in Russia men have sat years in prison, no lawyer, men beating them up, torturing them
and they never ever talk to the police. Do you know why?”

“No” Richard said looking up.

“Because in Russia, they kill you for talking to the police. Either way blood must be spilled. I am
proud of you.” He tapped Richard on the shoulder. Richard was relieved.

“Which makes this more difficult for me. I don't want you here, not for now anyway. You're
attracting a lot of attention. I don't like attention.” Semion had plans, immediate plans, and even
though Richard had walked out the front doors, there would still be a lot attention, attention that
would slow down his plans.

Richard was confused. “I don't understand.”

“I'm sorry. I want you to work for us. When my sons get back you can work with them. It’s more in

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line with what you are used to but different, but right now, I can't have you here. The police will be
watching you and I want to make changes to this business. You are too hot now. Do you
understand?”

Richard was confused. Hadn't he sold the old man on what had happened? Didn't he trust him?
Maybe it was a better idea to leave. Richard nodded.

“What plans do you have?”

“Oh yes you've been away. Sinderella is no more. I don't like the name and I don't like the way we
do business. Tomorrow night the girls will be sold.” Semion said very matter of factly.

“Sold? How? What are we going to do?”

“Easy there Richard. I told you I still want you to work for me. I just don't like what we're doing.
Too many people. Too many holes. Those men that come here are rich. Rich and careless. I watched
them the other night and I was disgusted. If we want to make money here, we need to be more
careful.”

“But who are you selling to? What about Corn and Sherry?”

“Corn is staying. He's not happy. Sherry has to go. I have no need for her. Why so many questions?”

“Huh? No I was just...” Richard searched for the words to say.

“You're confused. Relax. You get better. When my sons get back later this week it will all make
sense.”

Richard smiled. Had the world changed this much in a matter of days. “I want to work for you.”

“And you will. For now I need you to take a break, get some rest and get well. We'll see how we can
use you when Viktor and Sergei get back.”

Richard stood up, shook the old man's hand and limped out of the office. It was an opportunity, he
could get out from it all in less than two days. He walked into the bathroom, latched the door shut of
the cubicle and took out the phone Sameer had given to him. He typed out a text message. He sat on
the closed toilet seat and waited. What are you doing he repeated over and over to himself.

A message came back, buzzing phone, in his hand, Richard feared that even the buzzing was too
loud. He opened the message.

Meet at the meeting point. Midnight. Caution.

Richard's heart sank even more. For a man who had been around the criminal business for this long,
he was uncomfortable lying to one side and playing for the other. But he had clear choices. Death or

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life. He flushed the toilet as he left.

In the bar area, Vikhash was about to conclude his conversation with Corn. Corn had passed him a
thick white envelope. His clients never paid by cheque. Bigger criminals working at the large
corporations did that. The old fashioned kind paid in cash. His phone beeped and he pulled it out of
his pocket. It was a subtle beep. A single alert he kept both for incoming calls and messages. He
read the message.

Midnight. Parking lot. Get the place ready. Wait for my signal.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and smiled to himself as he shook Corn's hand, finished the
last of his drink and left the bar. There was a spring in his step. He had read every detail of the file
that Sameer had given him. A child like excitement built up inside him in anticipation for the
evening ahead.

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Chapter 55

The fallout over the release of Richard Smit had caused a stir. Print would follow by the late
afternoon and the evening news would really drive that dagger deeper. But his plan had soured with
the news of Jessica's suicide. He couldn't think of a reason to justify it. He didn't see it coming. He
thought he was doing a good thing moving her. Richard signing an admission of guilt didn't make
him feel better.

“And now you have to go.” he said to himself.

“Who has to go?” he heard coming from behind him. Ayesha stood in the doorway.

“Oh no one. I was just thinking aloud. Can I help you with something?” Sameer's tone was
detached. Barely cordial Ayesha felt.

“Oh. Erm. No. I was just coming to check if there was anything else that needed to be done before I
leave.”

“Leave? Where're you going to?”

Ayesha walked in closer. “Well both cases are dead in the water. I was too late to prevent ICD from
stepping in. They found exactly what I found and now they're about to arrest Xolani Gqaca. And
Smit is a free man.” Ayesha was dejected. This was hardly the way she expected her return would
be. It seemed almost redundant. “I informed Dumza this morning. I thought he would have told you.
Sorry you weren't in and...”

“What did he say?”

“I need to speak to you first.” Ayesha said.

“Good. Come in. Close the door behind you.” Sameer said. His face relaxing slightly. He sat down
after Ayesha sat down.

“It’s not over Ayesha. Dumza probably felt it wasn't his place to let you know and I should have told
you sooner. We released Richard Smit. He didn't walk out of here because we messed up.”

Ayesha sat there shocked.

“But the lawyer...”

“He doesn't know anything. I don't trust him. Three of his clients turned up dead. Besides Richard's
not paying his fees.”

“Who is?”

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“The people Richard works for, very bad people. They service the high end demand of the
prostitution market. Exclusive club, and clientele with more money than brains. We can never get
close enough to them to make any arrests. Until a month ago we knew they were being run by some
guy by the name of Corn Visagie.”

“Are you using him as bait?”

Sameer hesitated for a while. “Yes we are. I made a choice. Kill one small bird or go for the whole
lot.”

“And where do I fit in here with this?”

“Do you have any plans for tonight?”

“Excuse me?”

“Tonight. Do you have any plans?”

“Err. Okay, I don't get you.”

“You wanted to know why you need to stay on, then tell me I can meet you tonight or I can pick
you up if you like.”

Ayesha wasn't sure if he was hitting on her or if he was being serious.

“I'm meeting Richard tonight. He says he has some information. I don't like doing it over the phone.
Meeting him out in the open gives me a chance to gauge for myself. I would appreciate it if you
were there. The way things are going lately I'm scared that if he catches a cold his lawyer is going
to ask for my dismissal.”

Ayesha laughed. “You make it sound serious.”

“Okay, so maybe not a cold, but I don't want to take any chances. I'm in enough shit as it is and
Richard hasn't been there long enough to be able to deliver results this fast. I might need the
backup, just in case I'm being set up. You up for it?”

“And you're asking me? Don't get me wrong I appreciate it but don't you think it would be better
served if you took someone who didn't have three years of post childbirth fat?”

Sameer laughed.

“You passed your firearm test and you'll be fine tonight. Nothing should happen, and if something
does, I would rather have someone there I can trust. You do know that if you decide to stay longer,
this will be a regular occurrence?”

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“You haven't answered my question.”

“Yeah, I could ask someone else. By the way, you're not fat. God! look at Eddie who sits with the
tacticals. That's fat. I don't want too many people knowing about this. I still don't know how safe it
is to have information freely available.”

Ayesha nodded. “Fine, I'll meet you there. Where do we meet?”

Sameer was about to tell her when an officer burst in. “Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt you but you had
better come downstairs. We have a situation. There is a woman downstairs causing a scene.” the
officer was out of breath and panted as soon as he finished delivering a message.

“What woman? Where?” Sameer said standing up, walking towards the door.

“Sir, just come down. We wanted to remove her but she resisted. She's asking, actually screaming
out your name!”

Sameer rushed out the door followed by Ayesha. He took the stairs. It was 4 flights. He took big
skipping leaps over stairs. He could hear a woman shouting and cursing. He opened the door to the
foyer reception area. It was Jessica's mother. She was swinging her bag at the officers who were
trying to subdue her. Sameer raised his hands, signalling them to back off.

“Mam, you wanted to see me?” Ayesha followed him down the stairs behind Sameer.

The woman turned around. “See you? See you? You son of a bitch. My baby is dead because of
you!” She rushed at Sameer, her arms wild, screaming, her eyes fierce as she swung to hit him.
Sameer stood there. He didn't move back or try avoiding the punch. The punch landed on his chest.
The side of her fist spearheading her anger, landing on his chest. She hit him repeatedly and
Sameer stood there, taking every blow. She blabbled words at him. Angry words. She unleashed her
fury at him.

“It’s your fault. Your fault! How could you let that bastard go? How could you!”

Two minutes of beating and screaming the mother fell in a heap at Sameer's feet sobbing and
broken. Sameer kneeled down and whispered in her ear. He put his arms around her and held her as
she tried to resist at first and gave in. Why did it have to be her daughter?

Sameer held the woman, kneeling on the floor he looked up at Ayesha. She wouldn't understand.

Chapter 56

Ayesha wrapped her hands around her third cup of hot coffee Sameer had offered her a cigarette.
She told him she had quit when she got married and it was something she didn't intend going back

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to. Besides Ayesha was seated in the non-smoking section which meant she would have to stand up
every time she needed to smoke. Getting to your destination an hour and a half before your target
arrived was a lot of time to kill.

Sameer sat on his own sipping at a hot cup of tea leafing through a tatty old book. Ayesha sat near
the door paging through an old You magazine. Under her handbag was her service weapon next to
her. Sameer had his in a folded newspaper next to him. Both sat quietly in the coffee shop waiting
for Richard to arrive. From time to time, Sameer would make eye contact, smile and then go back to
his reading. Both scanned the parking lot, the people coming in, and the people leaving their cars
while they filled it with petrol. Those just stopping for something to eat, travellers. It was just after
12 when Richard pulled in. His car pulled in. Ayesha watched him as he sat in the car. After a few
minutes he opened his door and dragged himself into the coffee shop. He wore a hoody top with a
baseball cap. He kept his head low as he walked in, glancing around the shop for Sameer. He didn't
notice Ayesha sitting at the table near the front. He kept his cap on as he walked over to Sameer's
table and plonked himself down opposite him.

“Were you followed?” Sameer said looking up from his book.

“No. I don't know. I don't think so.” Richard said nervously.

“Then what's the matter?”

“Nothing. I don't know. Fuck man. This is fucking stressing me out man.”

“Shut the fuck up ok. Smile. Smile damnit!” Sameer said smiling. “You'll be fine. Now tell me what
happened? I didn't expect you to have something for me so soon.”

Richard, his face a small community of purple bruises after the compulsory battering he took, stared
at the Formica table top. His eyes glanced over the scratches and dents on the table top that had
accumulated after years of use and service to countless, faceless patrons.

“They know man. They must know.” Richard sounded more panicked as the words came forth.
“They kicked me out. Kicked me out. I did exactly what you told me to say, they just paid the
lawyer and then when he left the old man tells me I can't be there anymore. The fucking cheek.”

“Who Richard and keep it down.” Richard's voice grew louder as his mind consumed his panic.

“The old man. He just told me. That he had plans for me but not now. He said I was bringing him
too much attention.”

Sameer nodded.

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“And what else?”

“What else man? What else? Man are you even listening to me? They know man. They know and
they're going to kill me.”

“Richard, I want you to relax you hear? Just chill the fuck out. Is that all that happened?”

“They having some show tomorrow night. The old Russian said something about closing Sinderella
tomorrow night. Wants to go in a different direction, so he's selling all the girls.”

The girls, Sameer thought to himself. Richard had covered as many details as possible in his
disclosure document. There were about 30 to 40 girls, some of them working there as professionals.
There was a room at basement level where girls for special orders were kept, those bought at the
border, kidnapped schoolgirls. Richard explained how they picked up immigrants in town, offered
them jobs, or lifts, brought them in here. They would be raped and beaten, enough to get
compliance, nothing that would cause bruising. No permanent damage. They would also be
drugged. That's what they had found on him when they arrested him. Rohypnol slipped into water
or food and regular shots of heroin. H is what Richard called it.

“No point in selling her for R10000 and willing to do anything and she turns and bites his dick off.”
It was supposed to be a funny comment. Sameer didn't find it funny as he put the disclosure
agreement together.

“Say something.” Richard kept looking around. He had moved to his flat but hadn't enjoyed a
moment’s peace. He spent more time sitting at his window peeping through the lace curtains than
resting on his bed. A car parked too long in the street was someone watching him. A car idling was
sure sign. The paranoia was killing him.'

“You said this would work? I mean look at my fucking face. I let you do this so they wouldn’t kill
me.”

Sameer said nothing. It was hard for him to say anything positive. You are getting your just desserts
would have gone over the head of Richard. And if he did comprehend, it was hardly what was
required now. Sameer picked up his phone.

“What time?”

“Huh?” Richard wasn't concentrating, the paranoia was consuming him. He wanted Sameer to help
him. There was no other place for him to turn.

“Tomorrow night, what time are they selling the girls?”

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“I don't know. They didn't tell me. But old man said we're not running the same thing anymore. That
when his sons get back from Amsterdam with other girls, they might have a job for me.”

“What job? Richard you need to give me real information here.”

“I'm fucking trying man. I'm telling you everything I know!”

A few people turned around. Sameer smiled and looked back at Richard.

“Ok, chill the fuck out. Now, I want you to go back to your apartment. And I'm sending someone to
keep an eye on you. Okay?”

“Where? Outside.”

“What if they come to my apartment. No one will hear them. What if...”

“Shut the fuck up! You want protection, I'm giving you protection. Now go home and I promise
you, you will be fine.” Sameer held his phone in his hand and started dialling.

“I need you to meet Richard Smit at his apartment.” Sameer looked up at Richard.

“Happy?” he said putting the phone back into his pocket. Richard nodded.

From the parking lot Vikhash stood up, putting his phone away. He removed his gloves and stuffed
them into his pocket. He could see Ayesha sitting on her own sipping her coffee reading a magazine.
It would be easier to take Richard at his apartment. He didn't like the thought of using the stun gun
in public. It was quick but made too much noise. Something had obviously changed in Sameer's
plan. Which means they wouldn't be needing the place tonight.

A text message came through.

“Stun him and tape him up. Give him something to calm him down. Wait for me. I want Richard
alive.”

Vikhash read the message, sighed to himself and put his phone back. He walked over to his car and
watched the front door as Richard walked out. There were two signals, if Richard was at the door
with Sameer, it was an abort message. If Richard walked out alone, it was to continue. A text
message and phone call. Something had definitely changed.

Vikhash knew where Richard's flat was. No point in waiting for him. If he moved he could get there
before him and wait for him when he got inside. Vikhash started up the car, reversed and drove out.
Richard didn't notice the BMW of his lawyer driving off behind him.

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Chapter 57

It was expensive, but as a South African marriage agency, Sergei and Viktor were pulling out all the
stops to come across as legitimate. They held very serious interviews with women seeking
husbands. They turned down some candidates. Had a portfolio of wealthy and single men looking
for a wife.

Sergei asked questions about education and family. Drinking habits, smoking. hidden in the mixture
of questions was a sequence of answers that gave some indication of their suitability. Sergei was the
showman, Viktor played director to the showpiece.

Amsterdam, like any other city in the world had its beauty, its heritage and history and made
headlines through the ages for creating a world of spectacular achievement and unimaginable
cruelty. The women that applied, were desperate, eager prey. No families to speak of. Some of them
were immigrants looking to emigrate. There was no place for them and the marriage agency offered
the promise of prosperity. The women paged through the list of photo profiles, each one with a brief
biography and requirements. The women were genuinely interested. Viktor was uncertain of the
whole process. Bringing in women from this far to be sold to buyers in South Africa. Maybe his
father was too paranoid.

“Tomorrow night ladies, meet me here. We will be flying to South Africa where your husbands will
be waiting for you.” The women responded with a cheer. Viktor smiled as a waiter handed out
glasses of sparkling wine. The one thing that Viktor was impressed with was his younger brother.
He certainly had a way with the women and with the business.

In two days he would be home.

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Chapter 58

Richard walked out of the elevator. He slowed his walk down, straining to listen between each step
if he could hear someone. He walked to the door, the Yale lock key in his hand. He had held it
specifically to save time. People in the movies always struggled with their keys and were never able
to get in fast enough because while they struggled with their keys, they lost valuable time. He slid
the key in and turned it. He turned the door knob and got in. He switched the light on, quickly
scanned the room for some tell tale sign that he might be hosting an unwelcome visitor.

He closed the door, putting the chain on, latched and locked the Yale lock. He walked over to the
kitchen, throwing his keys on the small table that was used to eat at. His flat was simple. Tiled
floors and tatty wallpapered walls, with damp marks near the skirting creating brown ghosting lines
like a map of sorts. His kitchen was one of built in cupboards with a three decade old fridge, white
melamine cupboards and white tiles on the floor and wall. The grouting was black with mould.

He opened the drawer. He took out a lightbulb and walked back to the door. He smashed the bulb on
the floor and spread the pieces near the front door where he estimated a first step into the apartment
would be placed. If anyone did come in tonight, he would hear them as the glass broke under foot.
He pulled out a small gun he had bought from a small time dealer. Ordinarily he would have
stopped at Alonso on his way back from the coffee shop, but he was a leper to the likes of Alonso.
They would ignore him and the fat man would have stopped him. He didn't waste time trying. The
police had gone through his apartment and removed the gun he kept under his bed. This was going
to be his last night. It made sense to him. His sons weren't in Europe. They were probably waiting
for him. That is why Semion wanted him away from Sinderella. He was planning to kill him.
Richard stopped in the bathroom. He opened the mirrored bathroom cabinet and took out his
mouthwash. His mouth had a strange metal taste. Brushing didn't help. He looked at his reflection in
the mirror. It was time to leave. Fuck Joburg, he thought to himself. Fuck the Russians and fuck
Corn. They were setting him up to be murdered. He would have done the same in their shoes. But it
still made him very angry.

He poured the green peppermint flavoured mouthwash in the cap to halfway, threw it back and
swooshed it around his mouth, using his cheeks to push it from one part of his mouth to the other.
He threw his head back and gargled until he needed to breathe. He spat the contents out, gritted his
teeth in the mirror. His mind was made up. He would disappear. Fuck that pig, Sameer as well.
Either way he was dead. He wasn't going to stick around for whatever Sameer was planning. He
wasn't going to stick around for anything. Standing still was going to get him killed.

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He switched the lights off in the corridor. If anyone came in they wouldn't expect the broken glass
from the light bulb on the floor. The crunching under their shoe would at least alert him. He peeped
out of the bedroom window, from the side, under the curtain. The streets were fully parked. At after
2 in the morning there was still life on the streets of Joburg. He stood in front of his bed, undid his
shoes and jeans. Kicking off the former and dropping the latter to the floor. Walked out of them and
pulled the covers open of his bed, a simple green duvet with a woollen crochet blanket. He got in,
lay on his back and reached next to his bed for the lamp switch. He looked up at the ceiling. He had
to leave, what choices did he have? He could leave. Maybe he would go down to Durban. Durban
would be a nice place to start again. He would find a job there.

He closed his eyes. His mind drifted into serenity. His senses resting, finally. He could feel his
beating heart slow down. He was tired. His body ached from the tension, and the paranoia. He tried
to listen out. He couldn't fall off to sleep altogether.

It sounded as part of his dream. A dream that he forgot was a one. The smell of someone's breath.
He felt it and smelt it on his face. The sharp stinging pain he felt surge through his body woke him
up momentarily. Under his right ear, just above his shoulder. He smelt burning flesh as he found
himself falling into blackness. He could feel his body being dragged from the bed as he drifted
further and further away. What was being done to him was at a distance. And then he disconnected
into the black.

The distant slapping and water splashing grew more intense. He found himself more drawn into it.
His eyes opened as the water from a bowl was thrown at him. And his lawyer's threw a backhand at
him.

“Wake the fuck up swine boy.”

Richard's eyes bulged as he recognised the man bowing in front of him, the man who had just
slapped him. His scream erupted in a muffled groan held back by the thick slip of broad tape over
his mouth. He groaned more, his eyes bulging as he protested.

“Shh Shh Shh. You're gonna give me a fucking headache, chop.” Vikhash said putting a finger to his
mouth.

Richard tried moving. He was seated upright in one of his kitchen chairs. His arms were tied and
bound to the arms of the chair. He pulled angrily at the binds.

“Easy there, Dick. Hope you don't mind me calling you Dick, dick.” Vikhash slapped Richard
again. “Sit still damnit!”

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Richard was in his bedroom facing the door. His legs had been tied with rope around the legs of the
chair. His arms had been bound with tape and rope around the arms of the chairs. And his mouth
had been taped over. Sameer didn't want him moved. It was too much risk.

Richard heard the TV on and footsteps walking down the passage towards his room. After a few
seconds Sameer stood there. In the dimmed light he recognised the man who promised him
freedom. He groaned louder, the veins in his face and neck straining. Vikhash punched him in the
face.

“I told you to shut the fuck up.” Vikhash was himself. Not the Indian lawyer with the over sized
suits banging on the metaphorical pulpit protesting the derogation of human rights by law
enforcement officials. Vikhash turned to Sameer.

“Are you sure you want to do this here?”

“Well, it’s too late now.” Sameer said handing over a small plastic lunch bag and a brown paper
bag. It contained an amount of heroin, stolen from the evidence room. It was the same heroin parcel
that Richard had been arrested with. The brown paper bag carried a candle, box of matches, a
spoon, a rubber hose and a syringe and needle set. The evidence room at the OCB was a criminal's
one stop shop, weapons, drugs, electronic goods.

“Cook this up. I want to have a word with him first.”

“Aw, no you don't. I want him to be sober when I turn his face into a speed bag.” Vikhash was
animated.

“Relax. You can take him apart after that for all that I care. But I want him to die from the heroin.
Just pump in two full syringes.”

“This spoon isn't big enough Sam.”

“Well you better get cooking then...” Sameer said, letting it hang between them. He kept his head
cocked. He turned to face Richard. He smiled.

“I bet you're wondering what's going on here. See my friend here is going to give you a dose of
some of your own medicine. Literally give you a dose of your own medicine. Isn't that what you
did?”

Richard responded with a loud groaning plea as he watched Vikhash in the corner with a tablespoon
over a candle.

Sameer held his face. “Richard, you're just screaming yourself hoarse for nothing. You see, we're

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going to kill you. You killed a little girl. A fucking child, man. I mean I look at you and I see a
person and then I think about that girl cutting her own throat with a piece of broken mirror after
what you had done to her. And all you were worried about is whether or not the Russians were
going to kill you.”

“If they wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already.” Vikhash said turning around from his position
with the candle.

Richard gave a short burst of a moan, pleading, protesting,and begging. He began to cry, each wail
an elongated groan.”

Vikhash turned around with a full syringe.

“Dry your eyes sissy boy.” Vikhash said smiling. Sameer raised a hand to hold Vikhash back. He
continued with what he wanted to say.

“I don't think I will ever know how many girls you sold into prostitution. Do you? Huh? Did you
honestly think I was going to let you go? Jail would be too good for you. And you make me sick.
You're the reason people live in fear and you exist purely to fuck up people's lives. And now you
have tears rolling down your face. What's that for? Huh? Scared? Worried? Hmmm?” Sameer stood
up and walked out of the way as Vikhash threw a punch at Richard. He threw a second before
Sameer held him back.

“Don't. Give him the syringe.”

“Sam, you said I could.”

“Save it. He's not who you want. Save it. Use the syringe. I want him to get a taste of his own
heroin.” Sameer turned to Richard. “Isn't that what you did? You gave them heroin and roofies to
calm them down? And then you tried to kill her by giving her more. Make it look like an overdose.
She was fucking 15.” The “15” dragged out of Sameer's voice. He was appalled. “If it was up to me
I would put a bullet in your head. But that's too good for you. You deserve a dose of your own
medicine.” Sameer nodded to Vikhash and walked away. He stood back as he watched Vikhash tie
the rubber hose around Richard's arm. He tied it very tight, tapping the crook of his arm, searching
for a vein.

“A nice fat one. Look at that. Like it’s meant to be.” Vikhash said laughing to himself. There was no
real joy in watching the bastard die slowly from an overdose. What Vikhash wanted, was more
hands on. Blood didn't bother him. The screaming victims motivated him to be more creative, to
sustain that scream.

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Vikhash injected the contents into Richard's arm. His groans and moans protesting, signifying his
resistance died as the sickly sweet substance sped on the highway of his blood. Everything slowed
down for Richard.

“Give him another one.” Sameer came forward looking at the effect it was taking on Richard.

“Damnit Sam, I just gave him one.”

“Give him another one.” It was like Sameer was hypnotised. His stare fixed on the drugged
Richard.

Vikhash visibly upset stepped away and picked up the candle and began the process again of mixing
the heroin in the spoon and then holding the spoon over the flame of the candle. As the mixture
bubbled up he removed it from the flame and used the syringe to eagerly suck up its contents. The
process was repeated for an hour. After the last syringe deposited its contents into the bloodstream
as Richard's body reacted. He gasped for air. Desperately sucking air through his nose. Sameer and
Vikhash watched him as he squeezed the last drops of life from him. Richard's eyes bulged as he
tried to resist losing his grip on life.

Sameer leaned forward.

“You didn't think they would be desperate to live either?”

Sameer stepped back as he watched Richard eventually relinquish his grip on life. The two men
stood back and watched their handiwork. Vikhash wanted to exact a physical retribution. The bent
nose and tear on Richard's cheekbone was his contribution. But he understood what Sameer wanted.

“What are we going to do with him?”

“Nothing. I'll let my office know that he hasn't been responding. They'll send someone to check him
out. They'll find the body.”

“And then?”

“And then they'll think his own people did it.”

“You want me to leave the heater on just in case?”

“No. I don't want him ripe yet.”

The men cleaned out the room, taking with them their party favours and avoiding the broken glass
left on the floor behind the door.

Outside the building, the two of them walking to their cars parked a safe distance away. Vikhash
asked: “Do you think we're ready?”

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Sameer didn't look at Vikhash as he answered. “I don't think we have a choice. Tomorrow night I'll
take that Russian bastard in. You can have him the next day. Do you know what to do from there?”

“Disappear.”

“Good. We're ready then.”

The two men shook hands in the street. “Shukran Sam. Seriously. You saved my life and I can never
repay you.” Sameer held Vikhash's hand with both of his hands. He didn't have the words to
reciprocate. Nothing he could have said would be adequate. So he just held Vikhash's hand in both
of his.

“You'll be ok from here?”

“Yeah. My car is around the corner.”

“Good. Get your stuff ready. In 48 hours, you'll have what you want.”

“I know” said Vikhash with a broad smile on his face. The men crossed the road and headed in
opposite directions.

Sameer felt a sense of relief. In 48 hours, Vikhash would disappear. The name belonged to a baby
born thirty years ago who had died within months of its birth. Vikhash Bhana was a ghost he had
helped create. He would be satisfied, happy. Murder is the only thing that kept Vikhash from going
over the edge. Sameer started his car. It was almost 4. Tomorrow was going to be tight because he
needed to make arrangements early. There was no possible way he could have a late morning. He
would catch an hour or two of sleep before getting to work.

Richard could wait a day or two before Sameer started to panic. Richard wouldn't be too ripe by the
time they found him.

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Chapter 59

“PEEE-AAAHH. PEEEEEE-AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH” Dumza repeated to himself

in the confines of his office. The Director-General's words. “We need good PEEE-AAAHHH” That
was all that stayed with Dumza till the morning after the midnight phone call. The proverbial shit
was hitting the fan and Dumza, the middle man was taking the heat. He poured a whisky from his
supply he kept in his desk drawer. Not the best of vitamins to start the day with, but a glass now
would prevent him from committing regrettable acts later. He was starting to sound like them now.

Public Relations or as the practitioners were referred to, PR - people dedicated to creating
perception. When the fuck did life become so artificial?, Dumza thought to himself. Honesty was
something some wordsmith created, read out by some government lackey and later regurgitated by
Mahendra Ragunath on the 7 'o clock news. Anyone who manipulated the truth to that extent was
worse than the criminals they chased every day. And Government employed them.

He swallowed the two fingers of whisky he had poured in a single gulp. He breathed out loudly. The
first thing on his list was get the good people in Community Relations to prepare statements and
arrange conferences and interviews. Dumza wished that he didn't have to be in the middle.

There was a knock at the door. Dumza shuffled papers on his desk, moving one pile into one place
and moving the other around. He had cases to oversee and report on, but today belonged to the
massive balls up that was the OCB. Xolani Gqaca had been arrested and kept in his own cell
overnight. His workshop and home had been raided, the tools had been stripped and taken in as
evidence and Gqaca had to endure the humiliation of TV cameras, neighbours and his family
witnessing his arrest. “PEEE-AAAHHH” The ICD were not above currying favour with the general
news watching public. Crooked cop gets taken down. They probably drafted the press release before
they issued the Warrant of Arrest.

“Come in!” Dumza bellowed.

The door opened and Sameer popped head in. “Got a minute?”

“Actually, I was coming down to see you.”

“Well then I guess I saved you a walk, knowing how much you hate exercise.”

“It’s too early for your shit, close the door and sit down.” Dumza put the bottle down on the floor.

“Rough night?”

“Well it appears the big salary brackets are vampires. They don't sleep when normal people sleep,
they have cell phones and they live to suck the blood out of middle management.”

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Sameer laughed. “What happened?”

“You catch the news?” Dumza said pulling two separate files out in front of him.

“No, I was busy last night. That's what I came up to chat to you about.”

“Well you missed out. The shit is everywhere. The DG was up watching some all night news
channel, OCB operative takes revenge. I mean those fucking journalists are going to town, asking
the public for comment. Turn on the radio. That's all those morons are going to talk about all week.”

“What's the reaction been?”

“Well it’s too early to tell but some of the comments are the usual batch. Some people love it, some
people hate it, and some people are saying the President is the antichrist. Fuckers.”

Dumza was not known for mincing his words. He was a fierce supporter of the President. And his
slightly boozy approach to dealing with people often gave people the wrong impression. Dumza
was a thinker and political strategist. His boozy personae or his casual way of speaking often
allowed people to drop their guards.

“I'm sorry.” Sameer said. He didn't know what else to say. That seemed like the only words that
would suffice in a situation like this.

“Ja well, what are you going to do. I'll be dealing with the press today. Have I told you how much I
hate journalists? I guess I can deal with it for one day. But I need some time to speak to you.”

“Well, can I go first? Please?

“Well tell me you got something because I have some news for you too.”

“I need two tactical units for tonight.”

Dumza's eyes widened.

“What do you need two tactical units for?”

“We're going to raid Sinderella tonight. Richard told us last night that the owner is planning a little
sale. Every sex trader in this area is going to be there, cash in hand looking to buy the place out.”

Dumza sighed and sat back. “Sam, they've tried this before. The most we ever get is some illegal
immigrants. Unless there is an exchange of money, an actual exchange of money, those sons of
bitches will be out before lunch tomorrow on bail.”

“The buyers are all the big brothel owners. They only deal in cash. They don't trust each other.”
Sameer said. Dumza thought about it. It would be a great media counter. Something to balance the

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negative publicity the OCB had been receiving lately.

“Who is going to be leading this raid?”

“I will be.”

Dumza raised an eyebrow. “You?”

“Don't look at me like that. You know I have the skills. And its good press. I swoop in with my
team, free some captive women, arrest some bad guys, take all the money. I'll be a hero.”

“Yeah, maybe in the movies. This is not a movie. How sure are you that this is credible?”

“You should have seen Richard. Scared. Frightened. They moved him off the property.”

“And you trust the integrity of the information?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I'll organise this, but if this blows up, then I don't know how much time I can buy you.”

“Buy me? What for?”

“The DG wants to have you reviewed. Your position. That girl's suicide. The teary-eyed mother, the
punch you dropped on that lawyer, the fact that he charged you with assault. The DG thinks that
maybe we need to evaluate your position within OCB.” Dumza was almost robotic as he spoke.

“Speak English Dumza. Do they want to fire me? For punching that son of a bitch lawyer? The
lawyer that started all of this shit?” Sameer was visibly incensed.

“That's what I wanted to speak to you about. South African law enforcement needs to speak with
one voice. Right now it looks like it’s a free for all, one of your guys is taken in for murder, not just
one but multiple murders. ICD are going milk this. And when they are done with him they will
come after you and I don't know if I can shield you from it.”

“I don't need you to shield me. What the fuck for? I have done well in this job. And now because
they're worried about their image they want me to be the sacrificial lamb? This is bullshit Dumza
and you know it!”

Then men sat in silence. Neither able to find the words that would break the tension that had
developed between them. Eventually, Dumza made an offering.

“Look, I will support you as much as I can. Get these guys tonight and no one will be able to touch
the hero cop. It works both ways.”

“You know when you said this job was a chance, I didn't think I'd be dealing with all of this is

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bullshit!”

“Ja, it’s all bullshit. Politicians don't get elected without the bullshit. What time do you need the
units?” Dumza tried to calm things down by focussing on the raid.

“I need to brief them at 16h00 and we need to move by 18h00.”

“Fine.I'll make all the arrangements. I'm sorry Sam. I didn't mean to...”

Sameer raised his hand. “It’s ok. Perils of the job....”

Sameer stood up to leave. “Thanks.” Dumza nodded. The danger of friendship and working
together. Dumza knew that if tonight failed there would be sacrifices. The Director-General
answered to The Minister and the Minister answered to the President. Votes were lost and won on
what people like Dumza and Sameer did every day and the public's perception. Safety was one of
the core issues that many election campaigns were built on.

Sameer left, his expression somber, until he got into the elevator alone. He pulled out his phone.

“It’s go time. We raid at 8. Watch the news. We're almost home brother.”

Tomorrow Sameer and Vikhash would engage in some dramatics. Whether or not he kept his job
seemed so peripheral now. He smiled to himself. He couldn't have planned this better.

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Chapter 60

Patricia sat zombie like on the edge of the bed. It was a thin mattress on a single metal frame bed.
She was sitting on the bench outside the front door of her mother's house. She could see it through a
small tunnel in her mind and the more she thought about it the closer to it she felt herself moving.

It was hot downstairs in the basement. Her teeth ached, her joints hurt and even though the light was
dim downstairs, the little that there was, hurt her. She had been sitting on the edge of the bed for
hours, how many she couldn't say. It didn't matter. The hive, the other women in the basement with
her, played their roles. Some screamed, fought, the anger in them burning the last of their fuel up.
Some laid on their beds and sobbed. Others prayed. Patricia sat on the edge of her bed and stared
into the nothing.

There was a noise at the door as the bolts and locks were removed and a cart was pushed in. Sherry,
was accompanied by two men with black suits. All the women backed away as Sherry pushed in.

“I brought lunch, ladies.” Sherry smiled. “Damn, this place smells like shit.” Sherry said pulling a
face. “Have you emptied your buckets?” Sherry handed down plates of food laced with Rohypnol.
Patricia sat on the edge of the bed unconcerned about the food. She didn't feel like eating. She didn't
need food. Sherry shoved a plate in her face.

“Eat love. Keep your strength up.” Sherry smiled blandly in the dim light. Patricia took the plate
and put it on her lap.

When she had done, under the eye of her bodyguards, Sherry turned to face the women in the
basement. “We're moving you tonight. To much better places. Somewhere where you'll be looked
after and you'll live much better.” The announcement didn't garner more than a blinking eye. Even
the praying and angry women said nothing. Sherry smiled at them, standing at the door. She turned
and left with her guards following, locking the door behind them.

Patricia imagined the horrors that waited for her. Eagerly, greedily waiting to feast on what was left
of her. Eventually the pain she felt over her body would stop. She would make it stop. She could do
that. Remove herself from the pain, and experience it without feeling it.

Patricia ate her food. Beef stew with rice. The rice was cold.

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Chapter 61

The two captains of the Special Task Force tactical units were seated in their fatigues as Ayesha
entered. Sameer was seated in front. The Special Task Force was the police's elite unit, a total of
only 90 members, situated in Pretoria, their job was direct confrontation with tense situations. They
had not lost a civilian in any kind of hostage situation in the last 20 years which made them one of
the best units in the world. Because of their speed, training and tactical awareness, they were best
known for their good track record in the prevention of loss of life.

“Come on Ayesha. Thank you for coming. How was the interview?”

Sameer was referring to the request Ayesha had received from ICD in the morning. The interview
to determine if there was any fault on the part of OCB in determining the criminal liability of
Xolani Gqaca who was being arraigned later that day. Or as Dumza had put it, the science of
covering your arse.

“Draining.” Ayesha said pulling a chair out and sitting down. She nodded at the two other men.

“Ayesha this is Captain Abrahm Cornelius and Captain Wickus Rademeyer of the Special task
Force. They will be assisting us in our operation tonight.”

Ayesha and the two men greeted each other again. “You were cagey about the details over the
phone.”

“Sorry, it was and is still very sensitive. We're operating a raid on a target outside of Pretoria
tonight. The objective is to arrest suspects in connection with organised crime activities. We will
also be searching for vital evidence at the scene. Captains Rademeyer and Cornelius are probably
the best in South Africa at effecting an operation of this nature without it turning into a bloodbath.”

Sameer stood up and handed out folders.

“Inside you will find the names and pictures of the gentlemen we're hoping to find. They’re some of
the leading names in racketeering, prostitution and drugs. SAPS have tried to get them before but
the law favours them. This is the first time in a long time that we will be able to get all of them in
one place, where most importantly there will be actual money exchanging hands. The spin offs from
this will mean we will be able to effect search and seizure warrants on all the properties of those
people we find there. I can tell you this much, this will be the biggest bust in OCB history.”

“Who else are we involving in this raid?” Ayesha asked.

Cornelius stood up to answer. “Unfortunately the nature of this raid means that we are limiting the
number of communication channels. After we apprehend the suspects we will be involving

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everyone from Home Affairs to the Department of Labour and off course the South Africa Police
Services. We don't want to take the risk of a leak getting back to our targets.”

“Captain Rademeyer will be assuming operational control and I will be taking on overall tactical
control.” Sameer said

“Ok, where do I fit in here?” Ayesha enquired.

“We expect to detain a number of females and I would like it if someone of seniority was there to
ensure due process was adhered to for the women we detain.” said Rademeyer

“Basically you need a woman there when you arrest them?”

“In a matter of speaking.”

“Fine.”

“Are you up for this?” asked Sameer.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I'm not … well I just want to know, do you think you can handle this?”

“I wouldn't have said yes if I didn't.” The question annoyed Ayesha. She was one of the team and
she didn't need constant checking up on. It was like having two husbands, one at home that was
frightened she would fall to pieces at the slightest bump, and one at work who teased her with offers
and then added his own doubt. “Unless you think I can't.”

“I didn't say that. I think you'll be fine for tonight's purposes.”

“Good, now that we've established whether or not I am fit,” Ayesha said dryly, “I have a few
questions.”

“Shoot.” said Sameer.

“How do we know the information's good?”

“You were there Ayesha. You heard him.”

“Well I saw him, I wasn't close enough to hear him. Is there any chance he could be setting us up,
maybe without him even knowing.”

“We don't know. SAPS intelligence gave me a report 30 minutes ago saying that one or two of the
people on that list will be at the site tonight. Besides I don't think Richard would be stupid enough
to pull something.”

“I think we should bring him in.”

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“What for?” Sameer said, realising that Richard was not a part of his plans this early on. Richard
needed to be found after the raid to increase the chances of it looking like an inside murder. Russian
gangsters were notorious for executing men who had been arrested and released under suspicious
circumstances. The assumption was always, the longer you stayed in prison without actually serving
a sentence, the greater the chance that you had switched your allegiance.

“I think if we keep him here, we'll know where he is if things don't go according to plan, and if they
do go according to plan, he is safer with us than on his own. I don't want him to panic and start
running.” Ayesha's points were valid and Sameer couldn't think of an argument to counter her.

“Fine. Bring him in and keep him under lock and key until after the raid. He's your baby till then.”

“What time is the raid scheduled for?”

Rademeyer stood up as Cornelius had. “We are assembling the men at 4 for load out and briefing.
Director Parker will brief them on the layout and the objectives. We'll confiscate all cellular phones.
We should be on the road by 18h00.”

Ayesha looked at her watch. “Then I'd better go and get Smit now.”

“You're going by yourself?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You should take someone with you. Just in case.”

“Just in case what? I can handle myself.” Ayesha said, standing up.

“It’s not you I'm worried about.” Sameer said smiling. The other two men laughed.

“Ja well, I promise I will be gentle.”

Ayesha left and Sameer felt a momentary blip of panic inside him. Fuck he thought to himself. “I
guess not everything can go according to plan.” he muttered under his breath.

“Sorry?” Cornelius said.

Sameer looked up at Cornelius. “Sorry I was just thinking aloud. I want to take out the guards as
quietly as possible. The front gate has one guy. Do you think we could do that?” Rademeyer
answered, but his voice was a quiet din in the background of Sameer's thoughts. 45 minutes. That's
how long it would take for Ayesha's call to come in. Vikhash would have to be waiting ready. The
news people needed more drama. Maybe this would be a better plan after all.

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Chapter 62

Corn was going through the motions. His beloved Sinderella, a name he had come up with for a
business that generated a substantial amount of money for his benefactor was being dismantled.
Piece by piece, woman by woman it was all being taken from him. He watched as Semion had
workers arranging chairs in a circle with an aisle path down the centre.

What did he know? There was a more money to be made. Luckily he had his insurance of several
portable hard drives, spindles of DVDs and few video cassettes hidden in the base of his bed,
waiting for a rainy day. Today it was pouring on him.

Semion walked over to him.

“Don't look so pathetic. I know what you are thinking. But in order for a business to be successful it
must evolve. It has to move forward. It’s a process and sometimes it can be painful, but if you
follow the flow, you will find it less painful, you might even enjoy it.”

Corn turned his head, his hand holding his chin, “I don't understand why though. I mean you saw
the books, Semion I have made you a lot of money. You could have at least discussed this with me.”

“Corn, listen to me, by next year the South African Government will make prostitution legal. Which
means all those rich men who come and do nasty things here won't have to travel all the way out
here to spend R10 000 a night. Are you with me?”

“So how is selling all our girls going to benefit us?”

“This Government is not going to just open the gates, they'll want information, taxes, details, too
much attention. Besides, we are not changing completely, just changing direction. We are going
wholesale while everyone else fights for retail. It’s safer, lucrative and I can get more girls, more
European girls, Asian girls and North Africans. What you do, anyone else can do, what we will do,
requires too much effort.”

“Do you really think they'll buy all the girls tonight?”

“I don't really care if they do. If they don't, we leave these women where ever. We need fresh
women to sell in here, tomorrow my sons will arrive and tomorrow night we'll have more women.
We need to be become the suppliers and I need you here. You know this business, we're just
changing what we do. So can you stop acting like a woman and be happy. We are going to make lots
of money. Trust me I have a plan.” Semion was more excited than Corn had ever seen him. He
thought it was possibly because Semion’s sons were away or maybe because they were returning.
But the truth was that there was no going back. Maybe Corn could make a few Rand on the side

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selling the videos blackmailing his former clients. That would be a nice retirement package. He
could sell it to some of tonight's buyers. Some of South Africa's most powerful caught in the most
deplorable acts.

Corn left to go to his room. He decided to hang onto his insurance. Until he was more sure of what
to expect after Semion's fire sale.. A senior government official preaching about the rights of
women on TV, having his arse spanked on camera would bring peace of mind. To Corn at least.

Semion's phone rang and he pulled it out of his jacket pocket and tried to read the number. He
answered it. He was always weary of answering cell phones, he seldom got calls on it and he
seldom used it himself, but with both sons away, there was little option.

“Hallo?” Semion answered.

“It’s me, Derrick, I wanted to ask...”

Semion interrupted him. “Eugene, Eugene Barrett, Mr. City Counsellor, what can I do for you.”

Eugene Barrett, Johannesburg City Counsellor, pervert extraordinaire, and currently the target of
immense duress from Semion. Semion was uncharacteristically boisterous when he replied.

“Please, call me Derrick.”

“No, your name is Eugene. Now say it with me, My-name-is-Eugene-Barrett.”

Eugene repeated it.

“Now what can I do for you Mr. City Counsellor?” Semion was being deliberately antagonistic. He
didn't care much for politicians who he considered to be professional turncoats. He didn't care much
especially for Barrett. “How goes the closure of the sanctuaries in your City Centre?”

“Look, I did what you wanted, I can't do anymore for you. You can't do this to me.” The beginning
of a sobby plea on Barrett's part.

“No, you are doing your job. You are a representative of the people Mr. Barrett and I would like to
acquire property in your city centre but what concerns me is the health conditions that so many
people pose living in such a small area. I mean how safe will my investment be?”

“What? What are you talking about? I did what you asked me to do?”

“So then? Are those places closed down?”

“It’s not that simple, there are laws and processes and...”

Semion interrupted him. Semion was annoyed. He had overestimated the reach of Mr. Barrett.

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“There are also the laws of cause and effect. Do you know what that means? For every action there
is a reaction, Mr. Barrett. Do what I ask of you and we do not have to have this conversation again.
Good day.” Semion ended the call.

He could see the plan in his head. With the market potentially flooding with women next year,
decriminalising prostitution meant people in his line of business stood to lose a lot of money.
Opportunities needed to be rare, there were willing buyers but there needed to be fewer willing
sellers. Close down the places that housed the desperate and you cut off a vital supply to the trade.
Along with the attention these places got would be other social ills. Clean up the streets, limit the
supply. It was good business.

He smiled to himself. If only Barrett would stop crying and panicking things would feel a lot
smoother. Semion had a grand plan that he would float. That would do well for his other interests.

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Chapter 63

Ayesha parked her car in front of the building. She was wearing the not much more comfortable
Kevlar vest under her jacket. She had insisted on coming alone. She was being macho about it. She
smiled to herself at the thought. She pulled out her sidearm and checked it. She looked at her eyes
in rear-view mirror.

“We're going to go in nice and easy. Bring him out nice and easy. And if he misbehaves we're going
to kick his ass blue.” She smiled to herself again. It didn't help the butterflies. She squinted her eyes
in the mirror.

“Crow's feet? What the.” She looked out her window at the building. She checked the batch of cable
ties, the set of steel handcuffs, the can of pepper spray. She was going to bring one guy in. But if she
ran into a gang she could take them on as well. “Piece of cake.”

She got out of the car, closed the door and pulled her jacket straight. She thought against wearing
anything identifiable. The vest was dark and blended with the dark jacket. Only close inspection
would reveal the vest. It felt tight on her. She remembered a time when the old plate vests didn't
even register on her. Now she felt bulky, like a Hockey goalie. She walked through the doors and
entered the elevator. The foyer had numbered wooden post boxes. Some of them the tiny wooden
doors broken off, the floor papered over with flyers thrown out by the owners of the boxers. It was a
plague of South Africa, your mailbox bombed with flyers, brochures, printed on both sides, slips of
paper telling you how to lose weight, make more money part time and specials on ink jet printer
refills. The doors to the elevator closed and moved up. The elevator stopped on Richard's floor and
Ayesha stepped out.

The passage was empty, dark. There were flats on either side of the corridor. At the end of the
corridor were two large frosted glass windows. The lights in the passage didn't work, some fittings
were sans light bulbs. Ayesha walked slowly, her jacket pushed back slightly over her side holster.
Her right hand cocked at her side in case she needed to reach for it. Adrenaline pumping she tried to
calm herself down. It was her mind playing tricks on her. A partner's presence would have calmed
her down. She straightened her back, she walked slowly, listening to sounds. Behind the doors of
Richard's neighbours was a cacophony of sounds from the televisons, arguments, radios,
conversations, dishes, and the hive of human activity. This is where they lived, the animals like
Richard, living amongst the humdrum of human existence, integrating themselves, being the
neighbour, everyone oblivious to the cruelty they inflicted, or the transgressions they committed
without remorse. If Richard was frightened last night, he was only worried about his own hide.

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Ayesha didn't trust him. He was a survivor in the world of crime.

Ayesha got to his door, stopped and looked around. Apart from the sounds coming from the
neighbouring apartments, there were no other signs of life. She put her head to the door. She
listened for a sound, some sign of movement. She pictured the layout of the flat, it would open into
a living area/lounge. The kitchen was usually near the front door there were probably rooms to
either side. She looked at the front door and the window next to it. A bathroom window with fine
lace curtains, a glass on the sill with four toothbrushes and tube of toothpaste in it. There was a
bottle of shampoo and conditioner as well on the sill. Ayesha peered into the open window. One of
the toothbrushes was a Spiderman toothbrush. Spiderman was upside down, the bristles of the brush
were designed to look like they were being shot from Spiderman's wrists. Soon Majid would be
making those demands. What was it her father said to her, there are two days you enjoy your kids,
they day they're born and they day they leave when they get married. She shook the silly thought
from her head.. This was the neighbour's bathroom; which meant that there would be no rooms to
her right if she had to barge in. The image of the apartment in her head changed. She changed the
pattern of her entry, where to look, where to point, what she could lean against without worrying
what would come from behind. She sucked up air and exhaled in a sigh.

She banged on the door. “Richard Smit open up!”

Ayesha used the flat of her hand as she slapped repeatedly on the wooden door. She listened.
Nothing. Not even a slightest of rumbles. He would never have gone out. Not after last night, unless
he was playing for time or he was setting the OCB up and he was planning an escape with everyone
would be looking one way while he escaped in the other.

She tried the door. She pulled down on the handle. The door pushed slightly. She looked up at the
yale. She opened her wallet. She had never actually picked a lock before. Aadil had once locked
himself out of the house and used a plastic lid from an aerosol can to slip past the Yale lock. But she
didn't have the time to cut and play with one now. Besides, you couldn't go around asking for a
plastic can lid for official police business. Even if it was the truth. She pulled out several plastic
cards. Aadil had explained it to her, why Yale locks were not really that secure. She figured the
process would be the same with a round plastic cap and flat plastic card. She fumbled the cards as
she stuck them in her wallet. She shoved the wallet in her back pocket. She used her driver's licence
card, the most flexible of the lot. She bent it around the door where the Yale lock made contact with
the doorframe. The card stopped a millimetre, she withdrew and did it again, this time forcing it,
this time the card slipped past its first impediment and Ayesha could feel it sliding between the lock
and the door frame latch. She put her other hand on the handle and eased the door open. She

220
slipped the driver's licence in her back pocket and pulled out her pepper spray from her side. She
was too edgy to use her firearm and unless he actually fired a shot she didn't plan on using it. She
closed the door behind her and felt the crunch of broken glass under her shoes she stopped. She
quickly listened for movement, looking to her left for Richard to surprise her. There was no
movement. She walked slowly, one careful step in front of the other. The flat was sparsely furnished
with a tattered couch and mismatched brown single seaters. There was a passage to her left. There
was one room to the side and another dead in front of her., with the kitchen next to the passage. She
stepped slowly into the open plan kitchen. It was empty aside from the dishes and glasses on the
sink. The kitchen smelled of hot garbage. The flat was dark and Ayesha adjusted her eyes. With
every step, Ayesha rehearsed scenarios in her mind. She would and could subdue Richard without
the gun, she walked into the passage from the kitchen, she opened the door opposite her, it was the
bathroom, she pushed the door open, it was empty.

She walked over to the closed door. She listened. Go in low she told herself. She put her hand on
the handle and pushed down on it slowly. She leaned in as the door opened, her pepperspray
carrying hand guiding her around the corner. She stood up, disappointed and relieved. There were
no other emotions as she put the pepper spray can back into its pouch. She walked closer to the
bound body of Richard in the chair. His head was back, his mouth opened, as if he was breathing,
his eyes open. His eyes had a grey film over them. Dry blood from under his nose formed black
chips that stuck to his top lip. Ayesha checked his pulse. It was habit. She had seen worse finds,
who later went onto testify in court against the police that had found them. His skin was, like hard
meat under her fingers. His lips were blue, dry and chapped.

Ayesha sat down on the edge of the bed. She looked around the room. His arms had a line of black
dots on each arm. Black dots in some demented pattern on his pale white skin. There were bruises
around his wrist, the skin purple where he had been bound and where he had obviously struggled.

Ayesha pulled out her cell phone and dialled.

“Sam, we have a problem. Ja, you'd better send someone over.”

She put the phone on the bed next to her. She had wanted to bring him in on her own. Richard had
stolen her opportunity from her. She sighed.

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Chapter 64

Droids dressed seductively in the familiar chiffon strips, enticingly wrapped. The only change was
that each woman was under a cape. Patricia stood against the wall, disconnected lost in the absence
of thought, with nothing lasting long enough to register any recognition by her conscious mind.

Sherry led zombied girls in, along with the professionals or the women that were not there against
their will. Will was an academic discussion now. Where would they go if they chose to stop earning
a living here? Most of them were in demand; Corn would never let them leave anyway. It was
better to go along, it was stressful. A few glasses of wine, a line of coke, it didn't matter, you could
remove yourself, close your mind while you were being done. Turned, twisted, flipped, pulled,
squeezed and penetrated.

The girls lined up, in their black capes. Some of them would mingle in the bar/lounge area. Semi
naked women with the promise of submission greased the wallet wheels better than anything known
to men. Overseeing the entire process were the armed men in black suits. They would escort the
women through the centre of the main room. Buyers would be able to view the girls, the capes
would be removed and the girl would be left for them to bid on. After the sale the girls would be
taken to a private room of the buyer to wait until after the evenings events were over where she
would be picked up by her new owner. The room was complementary.

A strong arm pulled at Patricia. She groggily looked up, her eyes heavy with drowsiness. Sherry
was pulling her up.

“Up. Stand up. Someone give her something. I can’t have her looking half dead before the buyers
arrive. Not too much either. I don't want her screaming or fighting her new boss.” A man in a black
suit pulled Patricia up to her feet. The yank was so swift that Patricia only felt the dull throbbing
under arm while she was walked, one foot dragging behind the other, down the passage.

She wanted her shoes. Her feet felt gritty walking barefoot on the floor. She couldn't remember
where she saw them last. Patricia's head swayed slowly with each step. It felt like she would fall
over a cliff's edge. But each step met the floor, hard and solid, the cold tile holding her up, pushing
back her through every step. There was no edge she was falling over. People passed her, talking
around, all of it seemed to be at a distance, like the sound of a TV in the adjoining room. That's
what it sounded like to her.

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Chapter 65

After the Red team of the Special Task Force had cleared out the bungalows, the basement of girls
and the support staff that worked at the rear of the property, they cut all electricity to the property. It
was a quiet insertion. It was fast. The boom gate was being manned by a member of Red team,
having taken out the sentry using a tazer gun. The Blue team waited in the long grass opposite the
main building and parking area for the signal, having cut through the chain link fence. The signal
was the lights going out and ensuing panic that would follow from the main building. The idea was
to have two teams clearing and moving from opposite directions. The parking lot was full, high end
vehicles watched over by paid drivers and muscle men dressed formally to fit in. Besides the loose
fitting jackets, with enough space to conceal a small hand canon with extra ammunition, they
looked like ordinary people.

Ayesha and Sameer sat secure in the back of the Red team Nyala. Sameer phoned through and
signalled for an OCB support team to help with the arrests and to have paramedics at the ready.
The site was secure enough to open the plan up and allow additional support structures. Sameer
handed Ayesha a large brown envelope.

“What's this?”

“Hold onto it, it’s the paperwork in case anyone asks.”

The lights disappeared and the shouts of panic soon fed a volley of gunshots from the bodyguards.
Loud sounds of broken glass and shouting. The use of voice was a deliberate tactic by the Special
Task Force, it was used to disorientate and unsettle. It was an alternative to the use of any firearms.
Not that they were afraid to use their weapons.Armed attackers were dealt with decisively as teams
moved and cleared the site. In the background the shouting continued, like a finely orchestrated
musical piece. Each party playing their role. There was general panic as the Red team entered the
building through the rear of the building. The personnel carriers switched on their bright spotlights
at both sides of the buildings, temporarily blinding their targets. Ayesha and Sameer quietly
followed the Red team carrier at the rear of the main buildings. Several Red team members were in
position around the carrier while some of them moved through the building. Blue team had done
them same with several officers hanging back to provide cover and secure suspects arrested.

Sameer listened in as radio confirmation of positions came in. No officers had been hit and several
suspects had been injured. None were dead and that was something to be thankful for.

In forty-five minutes radio confirmation came in from both captains with an all clear. Sameer
wanted to take Semion in. He wondered if he would be recognised. Maybe his face would finger at

223
some distant fuzzy memory in the Russian's mind, nothing more.

Their black flak jackets carried bright yellow lettering with OCB on the front. Sameer carried his
weapon in his right hand, Ayesha followed suit. Sameer turned to Ayesha.

“Get all the women together, make sure they're dressed properly when we take them in. Make sure
they're all dressed warmly.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need to check on something.”

Sameer navigated his way through the house as Ayesha, carrying her weapon on both hands, her left
hand cupped under the right moved inside the dark building, illuminated by the glow of the green
and orange light sticks used to light up the building and as markers to show other teams which areas
had been cleared. Ayesha could see through the windows the piles of light sticks outside on the
ground in front of kneeling men, hands cuffed behind their backs. Protesting women, passive
women in white gowns and black capes were being led out. Some were resigned to their fate,
kneeling down, heads hanging, the plastic cable ties around their wrists, behind their backs, they
walked, escorted by the officers, some resisted and struggled, swearing, spitting, and cursing. It
took three officers to subdue a not particularly big woman with pale white skin and auburn hair who
was convinced she needed to resist to the point of physicality. She was left face down on the floor,
her feet cable tied with her wrists bound behind her back.

The lights came back on and Captain Cornelius came in looking for Ayesha.

“Mam, we have someone who says he wants to speak to someone in charge.”

“Who?” asked Ayesha.

“I don't know but he says he needs to speak to someone in charge immediately.” Said Captain
Cornelius.

Ayesha looked around. Sameer had disappeared. “Show me where he is.”

Captain Cornelius led her through the building to a room, which served as a small boardroom. At
Sinderella, it had been seldomly used. But Corn had said it was the safest place in the building.
Ayesha opened the door and found the gangly man, dressed in a navy blue dress shirt and grey
slacks, his hands secured behind his back seated on a chair away from the square table. His eyes
were puffy, his cheeks and nose were red. Corn had been crying.

“Are you the person in charge?” he said through a sobbed voice of tears and stifled crying.

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“No, but you can speak to me.”

“No. Go away and find me the person that's in charge.” he hung his head and began sobbing again.

“Look you can speak to me now or I can put you with the rest of the men outside to wait until I find
the person in charge.”

Corn looked up. He didn't want to be returned to the rest of them. Semion had disappeared. With
that lawyer. The moment the lights had gone down, just as they were leading out an auction item the
room turned black, Semion had disappeared. Corn couldn't go into prison. He wouldn't survive it.
He was too fragile to be someone behind bars.

“Don't take me out there. Please. I'm begging you.” Ayesha looked at the pathetic figure with the
swollen eyes and the snotty nose. He was crying, and frightened and begging her out of fear.

“Speak then, I'm your only choice at the moment.” She said

“I want a deal?”

“A deal for what?”

Ayesha thought it was rather quick. Most hardened criminals were loathed to show any emotion
once they were arrested. They certainly didn't offer themselves up so soon after being arrested.

“Something where I don't go to jail. Can you sort that out?”

“I can't guarantee that. I'm sorry. Tell me what you have and we'll talk.”

“Then get me someone who can!” Corn shouted.

He began sobbing. “Tell them I have information. Tell them I have names of people. If they keep
me out of jail I will testify. I have videos.” The words came out like sharp stabs. Each an idea, an
offering to show how serious he was.

“Fine. I'll find someone who can help you. You can stay here for now. But I'm warning you, if
you're stuffing me around...”

Corn, through the tears and snot: “Thank you, thank you, so much. I'm not. I promise you.”

Ayesha left the room, told the officer to keep an eye on him. He wasn't to move unless the Director
or one of the Captains moved him. Videos. The consequences of this case were blowing up in front
of her. There would be a rush of phone calls from lawyers and brokers on behalf of the former
clients, bargaining, promising and negotiating. Everyone had a story to tell, everyone knew a secret,
a valuable commodity, willingly sold and disclosed for the cool of freedom. Freedom from
incarceration and embarrassment. If Corn was telling the truth, if his claims were genuine, then he

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wore a bounty on his head worth more than even he could imagine.

Ayesha called for Sameer on the radio. She called for anyone seeing the Director to ask him to meet
at the main building. The Director of the OCB did not respond. She stood outside as all the men,
were put down on the ground on their bellies, hands behind their back faces down in the dirt.
Paramedics had arrived to tend the wounds of those shot in the initial contacts. Several officers had
taken shots to the vest. None had suffered any serious injuries or fatalities. SAPS were on their way
as support. OCB operatives processed suspects.

Sameer had rushed to find Semion. The old Russian was nowhere to be found. Sameer had checked
every man that was arrested, lying belly down in the gravel of the parking area. None of them was
the old man. Sameer remembered what Semion looked like. This was more than reaching out to an
old acquaintance. Semion needed to be brought in personally. A simple slip up and he would
disappear. And Sameer wanted him, because he was bait for the sons, although, Sameer had his
doubts whether the sons would surface after this, they were well trained by their father. He had a
plan.

Sameer moved to the back of the property. The bungalows had been searched and cleared, but there
were no officers outside them now. The closest presence was outside the rear entrance of the main
building. Sameer moved slowly along the path, between the trees, looking for signs of movement. If
Semion had managed to escape, he would be gone for good. He was hard enough to find and if he
was found, the South African authorities would have a hard time actually apprehending him. Human
trafficking was a difficult activity to prove. Men that dealt in humans were dangerous. Not because
they employed better security, but the ruthless efficiency with which they dismissed the human
beings they owned, it made them brutally dangerous to any and all threats. Perceived or otherwise.

A shadow danced off a wall of one the bungalows as Sameer approached, his weapon drawn in front
of him. He kneeled down as he pushed the door open with his gun hand. Vikhash had his back to
the door, he was standing over Semion who was bound and gagged in a chair. Vikhash was
throwing down punch after punch, leaning in between and whispering something into Semion's
face.

“You don't even remember her do you? She was my fucking wife you bastard!” Vikhash threw
several punches at the face of the old man.

The element of surprise was lost as Semion's bloodied face turned to meet Sameer on his haunches
with his weapon drawn, aimed at Vikhash. Vikhash turned from the beat down that he was handing
out, he was breathing heavily, his tie loose around his neck, the baby blue shirt with darker blue

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patches of sweat under his arms and neck.

“Sam, buddy, Salaams my brother, look what I found?” Vikhash turned to Semion. “If you think
that you were fucked before, the two of us together are going to make you wish you were dead. You
hear that!” Vikhash screamed.

“What are you doing here?” Sameer asked, standing up, clutching his gun.

Vikhash, wiping sweat away from his face with his arm walked to a nearby table and picked up a
bottle of water and opened it. He took a large swig of water.

“Oh you know. Getting a headstart. See I thought about it Sam, why wait, why wait when the
opportunity to take him was right in front of us. I don't think I can sit quietly pretending to be his
lawyer, waiting for him to confess all. I just don't think I can do it. I mean knowing what he did.”

“Let him go Ebie, I'll take it from here.” Sameer dropped his arm, he kept his gun by his side
though.

Vikhash turned to Semion. He swung his right hand, backhanding the cheek of Semion. Vikhash
winced and grabbed his hand. The back of his hand had caught Semion on the cheek bone.

“Son of a bitch. That fucking hurt. That fucking hurt! You heard me?” Vikhash smacked him
Semion repeatedly.

Sameer walked closer, cautious. Vikhash was in an ugly place. A dangerous place. There was a gun
on the table next to the water bottle. Sameer clung to his weapon. His mind raced at what could
possibly be done to salvage the situation. This was not the plan. It was too risky. It was going to be
difficult to explain Vikhash, Semion and himself doing in a room.

“Let him go Ebie. I can still get you out of here, we can think of something else.”

“Damnit Sam! It’s too late for all of that now. I thought about this. It’s my plan. I'm doing what I
want. We always do what you want.”

“Are you drunk Ebie? How much have you had to drink?”

“I'm not drunk Sam. Fuck it! This is me, this is who I am. Can you understand me? Huh? Stop
fucking trying to control me. What the fuck are you looking at.” Vikhash threw a tired punch at
Semion, using his bodyweight behind the fist, almost falling forward. The old man's head rocked
back. His resistance was failing.

Sameer started to panic. He didn't have enough time to calm Vikhash down and get him out of there.
And Semion was listening. He wasn't that badly beaten that he wouldn't remember it while he was

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in hospital and in his cell. Someone below, guarding the rear would start to hear the noise, Vikhash
shouting and making a noise, drawing attention to himself, by acting like a demented man. Sameer
put his gun in his hip holster and moved towards the table. Vikhash was holding his head in his
hand mumbling to himself walking around the room. The temptation of being so close to his target
had pushed him over the edge. He was behaving erratically, pacing around the room now, shuffling
his feet as he walked around the room.

“Do you know what you do? Do you really understand what you caused? My wife? Do you even
remember her?” Vikhash was asking random questions. Walking around the room.

Sameer picked up the gun and shot Semion in the head. Vikhash turned, stunned. He stood there for
a moment and quickly walked over to Sam. “What are you doing?” Semion's head hung to the side,
a black hole in his forehead with crimson tail hand down his face running over his face.

“What are you doing?” Vikhash's voice was crackly, panicked and jittery as if the gunshot had
switched his personality, and woken him up from a sleep.

Sameer turned the gun, Vikhash's gun, on himself, aiming below his liver, on the side of his
abdomen, the thick but unprotected area of his vest. There were thousands of stories of officers
being shot in unprotected areas. He squeezed the gun once and felt the sharp exploding pin prick
rip through his flesh. Getting shot was traumatic because of the damage it caused, but victims
seldom felt the pain of the bullet entering. Aiming the gun at yourself, squeezing it, the pain of the
anticipation was enough to make you drop it. But there was no other way to save the situation. At
least this way he could salvage something, save himself from this. Sameer's legs staggered under
the weight.

Vikhash grabbed him, as he almost collapsed. “What are you doing man?” The panicked stressed
face from earlier was swimming in murky waters. Vikhash still didn't understand. Sameer dropped
Vikhash's gun to the ground.

“Trust me. This is the only way.” Sam said, using his own gun to squeeze two shots into Vikhash's
chest. Sameer held Vikhash close as he squeezed off the second shot. Vikhash gasped, a
combination of shock and his lungs collapsing. His eyes screwed in on Sameer's face. He had
questions. Nothing escaped his mouth. His hands slid off and down Sameer's shoulders and chest as
he slumped to the floor. Short shallow breaths tripped from his lips before he stopped altogether.
Sameer fell to his knees and then on his side. He lay on the floor till he could hear the rush of
footsteps. He faced the dead eyes of Vikhash. This is not how he planned it. Vikhash stared through
him. Into him. Sameer closed his eyes. He was blacking out.

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Officers finally arrived, Sameer could feel blood leaking out from under his vest. The tight vest
couldn't have helped. Hopefully the bullet hadn't caused too much damage. An officer was kneeling
next to him, Sameer tried to open his eyes, the light seemed too bright now. The voices kept asking
him questions. Someone said take the vest off. Another shouting to get the paramedics here. That
close to the ground all Sam could really hear was the cadence of running boots on the ground. .
Vikhash was dead. Sameer heard them confirm it. Ebie had forced his hand. He tried. His thoughts
tripped and stumbled over one another as he was lifted onto a gurney. The world went black after
then. Distant noises playing in the background.

Why did he have to ignore the plan?

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Chapter 66

In the days following the Sinderella raid, Dumza Kwanele became a somewhat reluctant South
African law enforcement spokesperson.

Semion Solonik, former security operative during the bad days of the Cold War had turned criminal
when the Iron Curtain collapsed. He was reputed to have been heavily involved in criminal
operations in South Africa. The details were vague from local sources but Interpol comment placed
Semion as one of southern Africa's leading figures in the business of human trafficking. Interpol
described how Semion was still under investigation at the time of his death for the alleged deaths of
foreign nationals in South Africa. The laws and resources in South Africa were typically weak
which allowed Solonik to operate almost freely. Solonik's two sons were still wanted for
questioning in connection with the raid at Sinderella by the OCB.

Officially it was an incident with details still to be confirmed. Details surrounding the death of
Solonik’s lawyer, Semion Solonik and the shooting of Sameer Parker, Director of the Organised
Crime Bureau were still sketchy. Dumza refrained from commenting until the matter had been fully
investigated. Or at least until Sameer was out of the hospital. But unconfirmed reports in the media
detailed the lawyer shot by the Director after the lawyer to the criminals, Vikhash Bhana had
murdered Solonik. The reasons didn't matter nor were they acknowledged, or the lack of reasons
either. Speculation was rife in the media, especially considering the nature of the relationship
between Parker and Bhana. Footage of the punch-up at the OCB between Sameer and Vikhash were
played on a loop.

Director Sameer Parker was on medical leave pending his recovery from the gunshot wound he
suffered. His statement, as part of the report was kept confidentials and only Ayesha and Dumza as
acting head of the OCB had access to it. The last thing they wanted was “a copy of the Director's
statement in possession of...”

Sameer had walked in on Vikash Bhana after hearing shouting and screaming coming from the
Bungalows. He knew that no one should have been there so he went to investigate. As he opened
the door he saw Bhana shoot the old man in the head. Sameer tried rushing the lawyer to apprehend
him and was shot in the scuffle. He managed to use his weapon to shoot Vikhash Bhana before he
collapsed.

Ayesha read through the report. Questions bombarded her. Mostly why and how questions. Ayesha
decided to visit the offices of the deceased lawyer. Somehow the puzzle seemed fractured.

Corn was kept in protective custody pending the outcome of the investigation into the information

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he had provided to the OCB. Banking records, codes used for records and the most sensational of
the batch, the hard drives and DVDs he had stored away. He could have held onto the video
recordings, stored them away, but with the computers being confiscated and his prints on everything
the videos were his only guaranteed leverage. Alone in his cell, alone on the floor with exception of
a single guards, Corn prayed for a way out. He was too fragile to go to prison. He was too delicate.

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Chapter 67

The most obvious place for Ayesha to start was at Vikhash Bhana's office. She wanted to be a part
of the pandemonium and chaos that the OCB had become. Dumza had set up various inter-
departmental task teams to help assist in putting the Sinderella raid to bed. But it kept growing. It
was more than just the trade in sex, it was the number of women being held against their will,
illegally in the country. It was the attention poured on the situation. It was fractured pieces of
Semion's much grander plan to profit from the prospect of legalising of prostitution, being operated
by individuals, entrepreneurs with a gift for ignoring human desperation and making a tidy profit
from it. It was public opinion confusing everything.

Situated on private plots of land, these gentlemen's clubs were high end prostitution rackets
indulging the fantasy of men who refused to let go of the idea that they couldn’t get anything and
everything they wanted. It was the ultimate commodity trade. Sinderella was one of many
establishments which had mushroomed in secret.

Others posed as legitimate escort agencies offering women to cater for every taste with the express
understanding that money was being handed over to the agency in exchange for sex. Questions of
how were not restricted to Ayesha and her investigation but also the public at large. The public
image of rape, being one of having your attackers brandishing a weapon and having their way with
you against your will. But the reality of it was more frightening than that. Rapists didn't need guns
or knives or masks. Many of them worked and committed their crimes in plain sight.

What was more shocking though was the number of women involved, complicit in the crimes. They
acted as agents, owners, and negotiators, in fact every aspect of the business seemed to have some
female presence involved. Human trafficking may have been a somewhat male dominated crime, or
perceived as male on female violence and cruelty. But it was more than that. It was a species turning
on itself. It was metaphorical cannibalism. It was...

...Not well understood. The raid on Sinderella, the subsequent raids on other establishements around
Gauteng and even as far as Pietermaritzburg and Polokwane had garnered much media attention.
Scantily clad women, struggling to cover their faces, some of them only in dressing gowns found
with clients, shunted into the back of a police van peppered headlines daily. It was an excuse, a
ticket for some to engage with the public, to be heard and most importantly, to be associated. But
the public didn't have the blanket sympathy, opinions differed, some resorting to the if-they-stayed-
in-their-country-argument. Others wanted to save them dumping all the blame on the male species
for de-humanising the female of the species.

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It was a pile of shit growing mushrooms by the day. No one actually knew what was happening.
People were arrested. Women were arrested, Evidence was collected. Women were taken to special
camps until their statuses could be determined. An equally vague term from the Department of
Home Affairs to label a situation they were ill prepared for.

Most of the women didn't want to go back to their own countries. They couldn't go back to their
own countries, not after what they had suffered. Some of them had children. Some of them had
become visible casualties of the socio-economic war: exploited, dehumanised anddegraded.

And in the middle of the storm, the task teams, the absent Director recovering at home, Ayesha
found herself standing in the middle of what was supposed to be Vikhash Bhana's office, glass and
dry-wall partitions, a cream, shaggy carpet with brown leather waiting room furniture, with
obligatory glass table and supermarket magazines. Brown potted plants, desperately in need of air,
sunlight and water. Ayesha stepped outside the front door for a moment.

V. L. Bhana

Attorney at Law

B.A. LLB (UCT)

In gold lettering on the glass of the front door. The landlord had let her in after she had showed him
her identification. But there was no one in the office. There was a reception desk, two furnished
offices with frosted glass partitioning. Ayesha roamed around the first office. She noticed the thin
layer of dust on the dark wooden desk, a desk calendar, desk pad and an office chair. She checked
the filing cabinet. The drawers were empty. She checked the desk drawers. Empty as well. Ayesha
checked the receptionist's desk in the main waiting area. The first drawer she pulled out had the
original invoice tapped to the inside of the drawer. She picked up the phone on the desk and tried to
dial. There was nothing. The cable was plugged in. She pulled out a small notepad and scribbled
some notes. She pulled the invoice inside the desk drawer out, folded it and put it in her jacket
pocket.

“What the hell is going on here.”

She opened the door to the office behind the receptionist. The blinds were drawn. A good start.
There was a blanket on the leather couch next to more filing cabinets and dying plants. She walked
in slowly. The air smelled different. The office outside smelled like air that was absent of life. She
stopped at Vikhash's desk, files, folders, multi-coloured folders. She used her pen and lifted a few of
them up. Muller, Green, Aboobaker, Gqaca, Harris, Smit, Munshi. The last name froze her. She

233
shifted the files off the Munshi file. She picked it up and hesitated. Did she want to know what was
inside. She shifted the chair, moved it back and sat down. She opened the file and was relieved and
angry at the same time. The file was her record with SCU. The file listed her assignments, arrests,
names of suspects, shooting scores, field training. It was her entire professional life. Except for one
thing, an OCB Terms of reference document. Like the one she had signed with HR when she
joined. A photocopy of the original that she had signed. She grew angrier. She opened the drawer
and found more files. Policemen, files of criminals, Ayesha consumed the information, her rage
fuelling her appetite as she absorbed more and more information.

She stopped herself. Her emotions were getting the better of her. What had she uncovered? How
had her file ended up on his desk and who had given it to him. It was confidential. It contained
information that needed to be kept a secret. Things like your next of kin, contact details, home
address.

Ayesha left the office and found the landlord talking to the neighbouring tenant next door.

“Hi, sorry, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

The landlord, a middle aged man with thinning hair and a slight hunched back smiled as he turned
to meet Ayesha.

“How can I help you, love?” he said in his time long since passed way. “Did you find anything in
there?”

“That's the thing, it looks like it’s hardly been used. The phones are dead. It doesn't seem like
anyone has been in there for a while.

“Oh it was just that young Indian man, a lawyer I understand? Yes it was just him.”

“Are you sure? How long has he been here?”

The landlord scratched his head as if he was mechanically trying to summon his memory. “Say
about a year or so, let me see, would have been over a year. More like a year and a half. So tragic
what happened to him hey?”

“Yeah. Awful. Is there anything else you can tell me about him? Like if there was any mail for him,
if there were any visitors you can remember. Anything at all.”

This time the old man held his chin. He scratched it a few times. “Let's see... Well I don't think any
mail was delivered here. That is hardly peculiar, very few businesses receive their mail at their
premises, what with all this identity theft nonsense that goes on. And no I don't know about his
visitors, you'll have to ask one of the other tenants.”

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“That's Okay sir. Thank you. You've been a great help.”

“Oh I'm so sorry that I couldn't be of more help.”

“It’s Okay. Thank you.”

Ayesha left the building. A block of offices for rent. Boardrooms, conference rooms. Free tea and
coffee service. They walked through the offices and were seldom noticed. People seldom stopped
the conversations on the telephone for them. The only time that anyone did notice them, was when
the tea and coffee was not steaming on their desk.

Ayesha went back in to the building find the tea and coffee lady.

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Chapter 68

Time was of the essence. It had become a cliché of sorts but right now everything was a first
priority. The lady that pushed her cart from office to office, floor to floor and delivered hot tea and
coffee to each and every office in the six storey building was the key. Well she had answers that to
Ayesha's immediate questions.

Vikhash never ordered coffee. Or Tea. There was no receptionist. And she only ever saw him in the
office a handful of times.

Already Ayesha was beginning to see sketches of a picture. Something she was reluctant to share. It
was late afternoon, most of the office was empty as she rode the elevator up to Dumza's floor. The
reception area was empty. Ayesha let herself through the glass doors and walked on the glass tile
floors. She knocked on the door and let herself in. Dumza looked up from his computer screen.

“Munshi. What are you doing here? And don't give me that shit that you're committed to the job
crap.”
“No. actually I just got back. I need help.”

“Don't you have a husband? And a son? Or are you trying to avoid them. I do that, Fondness makes
the heart grow distant.”

“Excuse me?” Ayesha was confused. The malapropism was glaringly obvious.

“Oh whatever. You know what I mean.” said Dumza papering over his error. “Find anything out
about our dead lawyer?”

“That's why I'm here. I need your help. I need some search and seizure paperwork for our dead
lawyer.”

Dumza straightened up. “A dead lawyer? I doubt he will be filing application proceedings when he
finds out. You know. Because his dead.” Dumza laughed. He thought his joke was hilarious.

“It’s not that. I need to check everything. RICA and FICA records as well as some other things and I
don't want to be slowed down. So do you think I could get that paperwork?”

RICA was legislation passed which made it compulsory for all cellular phone users to be registered
on a single database. Name, copy of identity documents and proof of residence. It was meant as a
mechanism to prevent crime. Or so the story went. FICA was the same, except it concerned banking
mechanisms and the opening of bank accounts. The transaction history was massive source of
information, it gave investigators very important information on suspects, where they had been,
which venues they frequent , what they spend and where they spend it. The privacy laws around

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access to these databases made it necessary for law enforcement to obtain the correct paperwork
before proceeding to the treasure trove of information.
“Fine. But don't you think you should share some of your findings with me.” So I know what I'm
getting the papers for.”

Ayesha turned to leave. “As soon as you get my paperwork.” She said cheekily.

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Chapter 69

Ayesha slaved over the scribbled notes and open files. There was little she could do besides
formulate plans. The Department of Transport's record section would only be available from 9 the
next morning and God alone knew how long they would take. She needed to find out where
Vikhash Bhana lived. The little place he called home. People felt safe inside their homes. Their little
escape from the world, a sanctuary where they could unfurl .

But there was no record of his residential address, at least on his paperwork. Ayesha's phone rang.
She checked the caller ID.

“Hey baby.”

It was Aadil.

“I'm running a bit late. Yes. I can't leave right now. I'm sorry. Please tell me you understand. You
don't sound like it. I'll tell you as soon as I get home. I'm sorry. I love you?”

Aadil greeted her but there was no reciprocated, I love you. She could drop it all here, come back to
it in the morning, and get in early, dig away until she knew which direction she had to follow. But
she would be miserable sitting at home. It was an awful thing to say. She would feel like a fraud if
anyone called her a committed wife and mother right now, but being dishonest felt worse. She
would sit up the whole night fiddling with the pieces of the case in her head. Vikhash Bhana with
his office that was seldom used. Vikhash Bhana with the files, SAPS, OCB, Personnel, piled on his
desk.

Ayesha closed her eyes and her mind drifted in pictures to the raid. Sameer and her at the back of
the carrier with the vest wearing, helmet sporting officers, all of them stone faced cool on their way
to the target. Her mind drifted to the women, the way they had been found and the way they were
before the lights went out in Sinderella and the ensuing panic, the shouting and the screaming. The
old Russian. Vikhash.

Ayesha opened her eyes.

“How did he get there?”

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Chapter 70

Ayesha hopped around in one spot, rubbing her shoulders with one hand. Screw this global warming
thing she thought to herself. It was positively freezing. Ayesha was at the vehicle impound. The
impound had just become the recipient of a new collection of cars, courtesy of the OCB and SAPS
raids. The Police Vehicle Impound was a stretch of land which catered for the imprisonment of
vehicles. Row upon row of vehicles, some smashed, others in perfect working condition, others
abandoned. Each with painted numbers in yellow and white on their windscreens. File numbers and
case numbers.

A seven series BMW with smoky tinted windows pulled up. All the cars seized at Sinderella had
been accounted for. Cars matched to owners. The only one that was unaccounted for was a seven
year old BMW with fake number plates and registration that was still being traced through the
Department of Transport. There was more information needed from the Department of Transport,
Ayesha hoped that Dumza's stamp and paperwork would speed things up.

The blue overall wearing driver got out. He popped the keys to Ayesha.

“Sorry, are these the original keys?”

“Ja, why?”

“How did you get them?”

“Well your people gave us a box of car keys, told us to load all of the cars. They said they found
them like that at the raid.”

Ayesha thanked him and promised to have the vehicle back as soon as possible. She opened the
door and got in. The seat was quite far back. She was about to adjust it then she stopped. Bhana was
indeed quite tall. She pictured him sitting in the car. She looked over the dash. She opened the
glove compartment, there was a service manual that hadn't been filled in during the last three years.
There were several CDs. She had missed something. The plastic gooseneck. On the windscreen. She
stuck her head out of the driver's window. The guy that had brought out the car was already behind
his desk at the front office. Night duty was not so much for the general public, but police work
wasn't restricted to normal office hours. The thought made her think of her husband and son. There
was still a tiny claw of guilt scratching at the back of her mind, nagging, annoying. She got out of
the car and walked to the office. She knocked on the front door, and the man behind the desk, had
his back to the door with a magazine in his hand.

“Sorry to disturb you.”

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The man looked up smiled and gave his 100% ,undivided attention face. The one people make
where their eyes strain and they breathe through open mouths.

“No problem at all madam, what can I do for you?

“Its just I was looking for the car's GPS unit. I see a mounting on the windscreen.”

The man stood up and walked to the door. “The BMW? Mmm... Let me see.”

“Yeah the BMW” Ayesha said encouragingly.

“Oh yeah, we stripped all the cars. Anything of value and detachable was removed and taken in as
evidence. Things grow legs, even in police impounds.” he said jokingly.

Ayesha thanked him, handed him the keys and left to her own car. As she started up her car, the
picture of what she was planning was becoming clearer. It was after 10. Maybe she should phone
Aadil and tell him that he shouldn't wait up. She couldn't sleep now. She was close enough to be
able to taste it in her spit.

She put the heater up in the car. Next time she stayed late at work she would make sure she kept a
thicker coat with her. Maybe she should just leave one in the car.

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Chapter 71

Corn was on his bed. It had been a lonely time. He was kept on his own in a cell on a floor near the
warm basement. He received three meals a day, he had a TV mounted on the wall outside his cell.
He wished he smoked. Time seemed to drag on begrudgingly. There were hours of video footage to
go through and the last he had heard, they would let him know. For now he was safe in his cell. If
he wanted to, he could be charged and brought before a magistrate. He would be given bail but then
no one could guarantee his safety.

A guard walked in to start the new shift. Brown uniform neatly pressed. Hair closely cropped. He
introduced himself.

“Hey man. Sorry I'm late.” The exiting guard looked up from his seat, the uncomfortable wooden
chair behind the metal table. “Who you?”
“Sorry mate. Charles. Steyn.”

“What happened to Andries?”

“Can you believe it? Cut his hand with a biltong knife. Anyway they phoned me, from Corrections
and asked me to fill in.” he reached into his shirt pocket. “I suppose you'll need this.” he said
pulling out the sheet of paper signed by Dumza. The guard took it and read it.

“Err... Ok. Sure. Well I guess I better get home then. He should be quiet, lights out by 9 but since
he's the only one here you may as well leave the TV on. Breakfast will come through at 6, You can
verify the names and codes in the files. Anyway, nice meeting you and I hope you enjoy your
night.” The guard gathered up his packet with his lunchbox and his magazine and left. The new man
sat down and waited a few minutes. He checked his watch. He pulled out his phone and dialled.

“I'm in. Get around the front and wait. I'm on my way.” He picked up the keys and walked over to
Corn's cell to find Corn on his side on his bed.

“Oi, get up.”

Corn looked up from his bed. “Who are you?”

“The new guard. Now come with me.” The guard unlocked the cell door. Keys were kept on a big
ring like that showed in the movies. “Step forward.”

“Where are you taking me to?”

“Some place safer.”

“Why?” Corn was panicking. For almost two weeks he had been left to almost rot away in his cell.

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But he felt safe. But the man in front of him left him feeling uneasy.

“Look buddy, I don't make the rules, I get orders I carry them out. Now if you want to stay here,
that's your problem. But then we can't guarantee you'll be ok. It’s your choice. We need to move you
somewhere safer.”

There was no point forcing an issue. Corn would be dead within minutes. He preferred doing it
without Corn screaming. Corn looked around his cell. “My stuff?”

“Someone will bring that tomorrow. Right now we need to move you. Do you mind putting out
your hands please?”

Corn stuck his hand out, wrists together. The guard put the handcuffs on. He stepped out of the way.

“After you sir.”

Corn stepped forward with tentative steps. He walked in front of the guard, passing the two empty
cells on his row before the door. He didn't hear the rapid footsteps behind him. All he felt was the
hand cover his mouth and rip his head back. The first slice over his neck was almost painless. With
a sharp blade over tight skin, the result was too fast to register actual pain. The pain that was felt
was short lived as Corn's body dropped to the floor, the last thing he actually saw and registered was
the arterial spray of his own blood on the wall in front of him. Red lines running down the wall as
his throat leaked out the final drops of his life.

He heard the footsteps rush out. He felt his heavy lungs falter and he felt the nothing he was able to
do to could save his life. Not so much as a scream. He closed his eyes and finally and willingly let
go and drifted into the darkness.

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Chapter 72

Ayesha just left with two boxes on a pushcart as the IT guy arrived and walked into the evidence
room. She paid no more attention to him than she did any of her other colleagues.

She dragged the cart to her office where she managed to unpack the two boxes that had been
recovered from the car and from Bhana himself.

There was no GPS unit amongst the property listed. She checked the manifest. There was no GPS
unit listed. She scratched her head. She looked through the rest of the contents. A wallet with R300
in cash. There were no bank cards. In fact there was not even a store loyalty card. Who was
Vikhash Bhana?

Ayesha switched the phone on. She held in the rubber button at the top of the phone. The phone
flashed as it began booting up. Two options appeared on the screen. The first option was Phone and
GPS and the second option was GPS only. Most modern phones allowed users to maintain separate
functionality if they so chose, some allowed you to use your phone exclusively in MP3 mode, or
office mode while keeping the actual core function of the phone turned off.

Ayesha chose the first option. The phone asked for a pin and she knew it would be too good to be
true. She checked the box for a charger but there was none as she noticed the single green battery
bar flashing in the corner.

She chose the second option. It started loading the map before the phone cut off.

“Shit!'

She picked up the phone, slipped it into her pocket. There was someone she knew who would be
able to help her. Even bypass the pin code if she asked nicely.

***************

It had become a stereotype, but cellular phone shops in Laudium were more common than working
electrical lines. And everyone knew someone who knew the full potential of using and operating a
cellular phone. Illegal it might have been but, their services served a vital cog in the cellular phone
machine.

One particular entrepreneur was well known to Ayesha. Someone who had gone to Madressah with
Ayesha, who had secretly crushed on her all through high school until she graduated and joined law
enforcement. Then he avoided her. A man had to make a living and people enforcing the law, don't
understand that. Bilal Patel answered to a higher power.

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So when he answered his door after the incessant doorbell ringing, he was hardly in much of a
position to offer much resistance. He told Ayesha to follow him to his workshop downstairs in the
basement. Bilal was well known for his ability at unlocking and unblocking any phone and all
phones made. He knew how to find apparently lost phone numbers, pin and puk numbers.

Ayesha handed him the black, square phone.

“I need you to charge this up for me, and then I need you to unlock it.”

“I don't know. Erm... I need to go to the shop. I tell you what, leave it here Ayesha and when I
unlock it I'll phone you. Otherwise I must go down to the shop and it’s late and Fardila is sleeping
and the kids...” Ayesha raised her hand.

“Bilal, I know you have everything you need right here. Now, I need your help. Please. For an old
friend.”

“Ay, Ayesha, this is illegal, you know I keep away from it.”

“I also know that you charge R50 to unlock all phones. Now help me. Please. I need this and I can't
wait until the morning. Please Bilal.” Ayesha was single minded. She could have got the network
operators to process it. But she would have to have the right papers, she would have to wait for all
the protocol, and there was no way in which she could wait patiently for the case to unfold. That
was the reason she wasn't in her nice warm bed, only 5 minutes away right now, next to her warm
husband, because she wouldn't be able to sleep. She would be lying awake, staring at the ceiling
waiting, listening to every second ticking by, telling herself that she should have and could have
been doing other things.

Bilal, resigned, tired and wanting to get rid of her as fast as he could, stuck out his hand.

“Give it to me.”

Ayesha pulled out the phone and handed it to him.

“It’s dead, I switched it on and then it died on me. You think you can switch the GPS on and unlock
it for me? How quickly can you do that?”

“Whoa! Easy there.” Bilal said switching his desktop PC on and inspecting the phone. “I need a
charged phone to unlock it, and since the unlocking cable and the power cable plug in the same
place, I need two hours of solid charge before I unlock it.”

“I thought you pop in a data cable and the software pops up on the screen? And you can see the
code and everything.” Ayesha wanted him to hurry up.

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“This is not a movie. Things work on electricity, not magic.”

“Okay what do you have then. I'm desperate. Please, I don't have two hours.”

“Okay, Okay, just give me a chance to think. I can't think without my coffee.”

“I'll make it for you, just tell me where the kitchen is.”

“Relax. My wife catches you in the kitchen, she's going to throw toys.”

Ayesha was about to say something and stopped. She had nothing to say. Bilal knew he had to find a
cradle, charge the phone and unlock it using his computer. But he couldn't think now. He climbed
the stairs and went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee.

Ayesha checked her time. She should have been home, warm in bed wrapped in her loving
husband's arms.

Right now, she could have done with a cigarette.

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Chapter 73

Ayesha sat in the car, she'd watched the sun come up from inside her car, parked across the road
from Sameer Parker's house. She felt foolish. Her eagerness, tenacity some would have called it,
was a tool in cruel, cruel punchline.

After Bilal had unlocked the phone, hacked past the pin code, Ayesha had wished she could go back
in time and go home instead of the journey of the evening that had led her here. In a car, alone,
about to arrest her boss. She was over zealous, always diving in head first without thinking. The
words rang deja vu with her. A past voice having created that sequence of words. It didn't matter
who had said it, they rang true now.

Vikhash Bhana's cell phone carried more answers than questions she had. And as she had uncovered
aspects of his identity she knew what the truth was. Confirmation text messages from Sameer
Parker to the Lawyer on the movement of suspects and arrangements which coincided with their
deaths. Richard Smit's movements could have been tracked through these text messages. It was
beginning to look obvious.

Why hadn't she seen it? Why hadn't she acknowledged it? Was she blinded by some sense of
loyalty? Old Ayesha would have picked up on it from the time she walked into to the lawyer's
office.

The answers were clear, and combined with the files in the office she could fill in the rest. The
lawyer and Sameer had been working together. Why had Sameer shot Vikhash? She had sat in the
car for hours now, calming the reluctance in her voice. Waiting for a reasonable time. Buying time.
She could bring him in on her own. She lit another cigarette. She was smoking again. She had done
it quite unconsciously. She stopped at a petrol station convenience store, walked to the back where
the fridges were, pulled two cans of Redbull and as she was paying for it at the counter she asked
for a packet of 20's and a lighter. She looked at the lighter now, a single marijuana leaf on a pink
foil label.

She looked at the house. The street was quiet. Early morning sounds were different to the rest of the
day, the air smelled different. It was like the night's rest had rejuvenated and rehabilitated
everything just to be destroyed by the day ahead. The odd car drove past her. She checked her own
time. It was too early or too late to knock on the door. It was that awkward time. Some people were
awake, while some people were catching the last 30 minutes of sleep. Ayesha checked her gun. It
was fully loaded. She pulled out the clip, checked it, cocked it and put it back. She opened the glove
compartment and removed Bhana's phone. She was shocked, disgusted even, that she had to put it

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in there, away from her, as her mind came to terms with the reality. She could have waited, got all
the corresponding paperwork, supporting documents of evidence. Ayesha knew enough.

Sameer watched the morning breakfast show's early morning news. Corn Visagie was found dead
outside his cell. Stabbed to death is all that was said. Sameer wondered if the video footage was still
left. He sipped at his hot coffee. Black coffee. He preferred black coffee. Years of having only
coffee, no sugar or milk had built up a strong aversion to anything sweet or creamy in his coffee.

Khadija was sleeping in this morning. Sameer had insisted. She had waited on him hand and foot
since he had come home from the hospital. And the one thing he hated, was being waited on. It
made him feel helpless. The wound was almost painless when he moved. The stitches though were
still raw.

Sameer pushed thoughts of Vikhash from his mind. Even in his thoughts he wore the name that
Sameer had given to him. He stared into space, filling it with accessories from his mind, his mouth
open as he unconsciously slipped into the events of that last night. What choice did he have as he
tried to justify his actions. Every day, night and spare moment that he was not in control of his mind
and its legs, he would find it running towards the events of that night, replaying it, stopping, and
projecting every image in explicit detail, every smell, every feeling, every sound delivered by his
memory in crystal clear clarity. And everytime he concluded, there was no alternative to his actions.

He stood up from the table and took his side plate and coffee mug to the sink. He put it in the sink,
turned the tap on. Khadija always complained that it didn't take five minutes to wash your cup and
plate. That was when she was in a mood, which was seldom.

He soaped the scourer and looked out the window. He would be going back to work soon enough.
Well as soon as the charges were cleared. He wasn't sure if he wanted to go back. He felt hollow.
Empty. There was a definite absence of emotion towards the idea of going back to his job. The
evaluation committee would put it down to a traumatic experience, his lack of a coping
mechanisms, it was common amongst all policemen after a shooting, to feel empty, to pack up your
emotions and shove them into a dark corner.

The doorbell rang. The chime shook him out of his introspective day dream. He dried his hands and
checked the time on the wall mounted glass clock. It was just about 06.20. Who the hell could be at
the door at this time? A sudden rush of panic washed over him. Solonik's sons had escaped police
efforts. They had been spotted at the O.R. Tambo, the only evidence left behind was 20-odd barely
-able- to- speak- English, prospective brides. Sameer opened the kitchen drawer and removed a
small calibre pistol from the drawer. It was more for deterrent value than actual stopping power. He

247
removed the duct tape that had been used to hold it in place.

He checked the peep hole and felt a sense of sudden relief. He unlocked the door and opened it.

“You don't know how happy I am to see you standing there. Come in, Come in.” He said turning
from the door.

Ayesha came in, the little velcro clip of her hip holster loose over her gun. If he killed what she
suspected was an accomplice, he would have no problem killing her if she threatened him. She
wished she had phoned Dumza, told someone what she was about to do. But she didn't want to
make a spectacle of this, twenty men to bring him in. She reassured herself she could do it.

“Coffee?”

“Huh?” Ayesha was startled from her thoughts. She was looking around the house, a mixture of
appreciation for his house and her own professional interest, where he could possibly be hiding
guns, what would be a good place to provide cover and how he could escape.? It was an almost
unconscious exercise for her.

“Sure.” She said.

“So what brings you here so early? Is it the Corn incident? Dumza said he had you working on part
of the case.” Sameer's back was turned to Ayesha which gave his question the texture of shouting.

Ayesha pulled out her gun and aimed it.

“Sameer I want you to turn around. Please keep your hands where I can see them and turn around
slowly.” Ayesha's voice was calm as she instructed Sameer.

Sameer could feel the tone in her voice. It was cold. He raised his hands. And turned around slowly.
His gun was under his pyjama pants waistband.

“Ayesha, what's going on?” His voice was soft, cordial.

“You know what's going on Sameer. I found the lawyer's phone with the text messages from you.”

“What text messages?”

“Sam, don't play stupid. I found his office with all the files. My file. Now walk over to me slowly
and keep your hands where I can see you.” Ayesha kept her hand steady as she instructed Sameer.

“No.”

“That wasn't a request.”

“Or else what? You'll shoot me? I don't think so Ayesha. Its not who you are.”

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“Don't. Don't for one second think that you know who I am. How the fuck could you? I trusted
you!”

Ayesha was angry. The anger squeezed tears down her cheeks.

“How the fuck could you Sam? Did you lose your mind?” Ayesha asked.

“That's just it Ayesha. I had a moment of clarity. Recovering addicts have it, where the whole world
seems clear and they can see every puzzle piece and how everything fits together.” Sameer was
speaking in a soft tone. He was trying figure out a plan to escape. He was too far from her to lunge
at her and her arm was still fixed on him. A sudden movement and she would squeeze off a shot. He
needed to get her gun, tie her up and leave. He could do it. But he wasn't going to leave Kay behind.

“Killing people? You call that clarity? Damnit Sam do you know how crazy you sound?” Sameer
watched Ayesha's arm dip slightly. The muscles were getting tired. He was buying time. If he was
close enough he could grab her gun without a shot going off.

“Getting rid of the rubbish. That's all we were doing. Tell me how many times have you sat in a
courtroom and watched some guilty bastard walk out with the court's blessing. Huh? Lack of
evidence? Bail jumpers who never pitch up in court? Men and women die to bring these people to
justice only to watch their efforts pissed away by some stumbling bumbling Public Prosecutor.”

“That is not your job.”

“You're right. Absolutely right. It wasn't my job. But for how long could I go on ignoring my part.
How long could I go on sacrificing my life and my wife's life for what?”

Sameer walked in closer.

“And Vikhash? Your friend? You shot him.”

“Ebi. Ebrahim Docrat. That's his name. I had to. I thought if we did what we did he would
eventually get tired and give up his plans of revenge. But it drove him. Every one of those bastards
confessed to him. He was their lawyer. They trusted him. That was our plan. We never wanted them
in court.”

“What revenge?” Ayesha's arm dipped more. Sameer noticed. A sudden squeeze of the trigger and
the bullet's trajectory would probably hit him in the leg or miss. He inched closer to her.

“Ebi' was 21 and his wife had just left school. They were on honeymoon in Cape Town. One
morning she went out and never came back. Ebi found her in some KZN brothel 3 years later being
pimped out at R100 an hour. They rescued her and she died less than a year after that. His wife. I

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met him some years later, looking for the people responsible for kidnapping her. Its not that hard,
everyday people get transported from one end of South Africa to the other. Sold, pimped out,
murdered, its just another day in South Africa. He found a truck driver known for “transporting”
women around the country. After he attacked the driver, it went wrong. They were going to kill him.
I was working undercover, three years ago. As a trucker, bringing in stuff from the docks and
airport, liquor, animals, guns, whatever. The other truckers called and told me what they had found.

“What did you do?”

“I found a man looking for answers. So I killed the other truckers and took Ebie out. I trained him
so that he could pass for a lawyer. Admittedly it doesn't take much to get past a public prosecutor
these days. Bribe the right official, a file goes missing, evidence goes missing, argue the right way
and you can have a murderer on R1000 bail before your cup of coffee is cold.

“Why a lawyer?”

“Why not a lawyer? I wanted him as close to them as possible. Lawyers are the new priests. They
receive all our confessions. Slowly we built up his credibility. We let some guys free. I get a case
file misplaced, get some witnesses to forget to turn up. All of a sudden Ebie is a hero to the
criminals. You have a cop problem, call Ebi. How do you think we got our information? Huh? How
we knew where to look for people? Huh?”

Ayesha didn't know what to say. It was perversely logical. In an absurd world, it made perfect sense.
Vikhash and Sameer were taking out the trash. Their hate relationship built to get the lawyer deeper
in with the criminal world. And slowly but surely they would murder each criminal one at a time.

Ayesha might have taken her eyes of Sameer for only a second.

Sameer lunged at Ayesha. He knocked her to the floor. He straddled her as he struggled with her for
her firearm. She was surprisingly strong. He slapped her across the face. He didn't want to. Her
reaction to the slap loosened her grip on the gun.

He stood up very quickly. Ayesha noticed the patch of blood developing like a red spill on his T-
shirt.

“Up on your feet. Do it slowly and turn around.”

Ayesha complied. She was out of breath. Her face stung.

“You're going to shoot me too Sam?”

Ayesha felt the sharp jab of the gun in her back.

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“I will put a bullet in your back if I have to Ayesha. I don't want to. But I will do it if I have to.”

“Shouldn't be too difficult for you, I saw those files in in the lawyer's office. Some policemen on
your list.”

“Dirty cops Ayesha. I fucking hate dirty cops.”

“You're one of them now.”

“Don't compare me to them! Those bastards, those fuckers you call policemen, were dirty. They
sold out other cops. Information for money. You know how we found that out? The criminals Ebi
represented, sang like birds. Confessing all because they trusted him.”

Khadija came down the stairs and found her husband holding a woman with a gun in her back.

“Sameer? What's going on here?” Khadija was half asleep but stunned.

“Kay, please go upstairs and pack your bag. Go upstairs now and pack your bag we need to go.”

“Sameer, who is this woman?”

“No one Kay. Please just go upstairs.”

Khadija stood there stunned. She knew that her husband had ghosts from his past. It was the reason
for the guns around the house, the reason why he insisted she learn how to use and maintain a gun.
Just in case he told her.

“Khadija please don't go. Stay here. Sameer is going to kill me.” Ayesha pleaded. It was intentional.

Khadija's face twisted. The woman was pleading with her.

“He doesn't want you to see him do it. He doesn't want you to see what a monster he is.” Ayesha
sounded panicked. Sameer would be loathed to do anything in front of his wife. She felt the gun
press harder against her spine.

“Shut up!” Sameer pushed the gun into Ayesha. “ Kay don't listen to her. She's come here to kill me.
We need to get out now. Please go upstairs and pack a bag.”

“My name is Ayesha Munshi. I work with your husband. You can check my badge in my coat
pocket. Check for yourself.” Ayesha rattled off. She was doing everythinig to keep Khadija there.
Ayesha needed to think of a plan.

“Sameer who is this woman?” Khadija didn't move.

“Kay! Listen to me. Go upstairs now and get our things.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

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“I'm not going to kill her. I wouldn't kill her.”

“Because he murdered his friend Ebrahim Docrat.” Ayesha was grasping at options. She was
standing there and there was no way to move. Sameer had every capability of shooting her.

Sameer's gun dropped. Khadija asked who Ebrahim was. Those were the only words Ayesha
remembered. All she felt was the gun dropping from her back. Her first instinct was to throw her
elbow at the wound. Sameer dropped his gun as he curled over in pain. Ayesha used her knee to the
same wound sending Sameer to the ground.

She removed the gun from his waistband as she turned him over onto his stomach and bound his
hands with the cable ties she was carrying. Sameer was writhing in pain on the floor. Ayesha stood
up. She was breathing heavy. She held her gun out. Khadija had slumped to the floor crying.

Ayesha was trying to catch her breath as she pulled out her phone and phoned Dumza. Hopefully he
knew how best to handle things.

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Chapter 74

The deplorable conditions that women in the Sinderella raid and the subsequent raids found
themselves in started making headlines. Swopping one form of incarceration for another. Most were
illegal sex workers from other countries without any proof of nationality. In the inter-rim they were
housed at various camps for foreign nationals until they could be processed. They were numbers in
a system of numbers. Patricia waited patiently as lawyers and social workers interviewed her and
the other women. As they were fingerprinted, fed, clothed, interrogated and photographed. Patricia
was hollow. Her emotion was a distant voice she could barely hear. She answered questions. She
did as she was told. She waited. They said she would be going home. Just as soon as she was
processed.

Sameer Parker was arrested and charged for the murder of nine people, including the murders of
Green, Mulder, Aboobaker and Smit. He spent a week in hospital recovering, his wife was allowed
to visit him. He plead not guilty to charges of murder. He represented himself as he presented his
defence of the murder charges. He denied any wrong doing. He stated that his years of experience
in law enforcement has proved one thing, that the lives of police have no value judging by the
number of criminals walking out of court free. He had no regret and the Judge took his lack of
regret as a lack of remorse. The Judge further held that Sameer had knowingly manipulated the
fragile mental state of Ebrahim Docrat, also known as the lawyer, Vikhash Bhana. Sameer was the
public's hero and villain. Opinions were divided. Sameer's wife sat in court everyday, a tissue in one
hand, tears streaming down her face. She never took her eyes off her husband. She never left the
court, not until he was found guilty and taken down the stairs to the cells below the courtroom. She
sat there, crying quietly watching her husband being escorted down the stairs. He smiled at her as
his head disappeared below the courtroom.

Vikhash Bhana the lawyer, did not exist. He was merely a pawn in the game Sameer Parker was
playing, a disillusioned man, twisted by his own pain, Sameer Parker had befriended with very
specific intentions. Or so the news media reported it. Sameer had eventually murdered his supposed
friend and accomplice when Bhana started losing control. Vigilantism was always destined to be out
of control. And the public outcry was against the harsh sentence handed down to Parker.

There was no mention of how Sameer and why Sameer had rescued Ebrahim Docrat/Vikhash Bhana
and why he had set him up as a lawyer. The only focus was on the bitter man who was used as tool
for Sameer Parker's dangerous aims. The public at large were divided. The government was clear.
They couldn't be seen to be supporting vigilante initiatives.

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Sameer Parker was sentenced to a mandatory 25 years for the multiple murders he admitted to.
More years in jail than any of the men his raid had captured were sentenced to. Sameer gave
interviews from his cell calling the Criminal Justice system a shame. Calling for better working
conditions that would see improved conviction rates. It was a political football and for a while,
political figures rallied around him, but eventually, no one bothered listening to him anymore.
People switched off and Sameer Parker was just another cop figure who lost control.

Ayesha returned to the OCB. She took two weeks off to clear her mind. She underwent the
mandatory psychoanalysis. Dumza never told her the results and she never asked him either. It
didn't matter much to her what her colleagues thought of her. Some offered support and
congratulations while others said nothing. It was their right. She was done running and if she had
learnt anything, it was that there was nothing to be gained from trying to escape her choices in life.
She was glad she had done it on her own.

In a truck, its load bay filled with seated men and women, chattering children and two soldiers
dressed in brown uniforms, Patricia was on her way back to the South Africa – Zimbabwe border
post. The sun hung low in the sky. She was frightened and relieved. It would be some time till she
was happy. As the days added distance between the raid and where she found herself, Patricia found
herself feeling greater unease by the day. She had no explanation, no scenario she could give to her
family on her return, penniless, and without property. No bags, a few used clothes donated in a
plastic packet. There was her face, the peppering of pimples on her face as her body detoxified itself
from the diet of dirty drugs fed to her. There were the marks and bruises barely healing. She was
broken, inside and out. Her heart grew heavy. There were other women back at the centre, waiting
for someone to sign their lives into action. To be processed. Patricia felt a tear stream down her
cheek. The truck stopped and the guards got off. Her steps were heavy as she walked, hunched over
and she jumped off the back of the truck. She pulled out her papers, fresh crisp pages that had been
issued to her only the day before.

She looked across, as far as her eyes could see, she was home. The tears rolled down her cheeks.

---------The End---------

HHP

20 December 2009

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