Apocalypse Now Now (29 page)

The next morning – at least I think it’s the morning – I’m taken to an interview room. It’s cold and sterile like everything else in this place. The orderly makes me sit at a steel table and is about to chain my hands behind my back when Basson enters with a cup of coffee in one hand and his briefcase under his other arm.

‘No, there’s no need for that.’ He looks at me. ‘Is there, Baxter?’

‘No,’ I croak.

He smiles and sits down across the table from me before producing a newspaper from his briefcase. He pushes it, a
Sunday Times
, across the table to me. ‘THE FACE OF A TEENAGE SERIAL KILLER’ the headline reads and beneath it there’s a picture of me. I scan the article. It’s not very complimentary. ‘We tried to delay this,’ he says. ‘But it was inevitable. I’m going to testify in your defence,’ he continues. ‘But you need to cooperate with me as much as possible.’

I nod.

‘Have you seen Ronin again?’ Basson asks.

I nod again.

‘And what was it that he said to you?’

‘That you’ve got me on drugs that are messing with my head. That you used the same on him on the Border. That you’re Mirth, the head of MK6,’ I say, slightly embarrassed.

Basson holds his hands up and twiddles his fingers like he’s a stage magician doing a trick. He chuckles. ‘I apologise, Baxter, I don’t mean to make fun of you. But it just sounds so ludicrous.’

I’ll be honest, it does sound insane. Baxter Zevcenko, the teenage Machiavelli who went trawling though Cape Town’s supernatural underworld in a search of his girlfriend. How adventurous, how noble, how lame.

‘My daughter says this supernatural stuff is very in vogue at the moment,’ Basson says. ‘Vampires, werewolves and wizards. It’s unsurprising that it was incorporated into your personal mythology. If Blackblood visits you again, you must tell me right away,’ Basson’s face locks into a rigor mortis smile. ‘Ronin,’ he corrects quickly. ‘If Ronin visits you again.’

My mouth is dry. I roll my tongue along the inside of my lips. ‘What did you call him the first time?’ I say.

‘It’s just psychiatry-speak,’ Basson says carefully.

Blackblood. Somehow I doubt I’d find that in any psychiatry manual.

Basson’s eyes search mine. I maintain a blank look. The doctor’s eyes crinkle at the edges with a look of understanding. He knows that I know that he knows that … well.

BizBax:
Are we in agreement that something is gravely amiss?

MetroBax:
Agreed.

‘Let’s cut the crap,’ I say.

‘So, are we going to let go of these delusions?’ he says.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘As soon as you tell me where Ronin is.’

Basson smiles ruefully. ‘One small mistake. Still, I’m impressed that you picked up on it. I’ve seen soldiers completely insensible on the amount of Dimurasane I’m giving you.’

‘What does it do?’ I say, struggling with the fog around my head.

‘It reduces resistance, increases compliance, makes everything seem unreal.’

‘Sounds about right,’ I say, blinking my eyes. ‘Why not just kill me?’

He smiles again. The kindly doctor routine has been dropped. Basson is gone completely and only Mirth remains.

‘You’re my great-great-grandson,’ he says. ‘You know that, perhaps? I’m not quite sure what level your gifts are now at, but I intend to find out.’

The dream about the girl becomes sharp and clear in my mind. My great-great-grandmother. ‘How did you do that?’ I say. ‘And why?’

He lets out a long shrill giggle and holds up two fingers. ‘Two vehicles, two prisons. Individually more powerful than any technology. But together – oh, together.’ He wraps those two fingers around each other. ‘You cannot even imagine the power. Time and space melt away into insignificance.’ He smiles at me. ‘I’m no dictator, Baxter. That would be beneath me. I could be that with just the power of one of the vehicles, the one that my heritage and talents allow me to control.’

He scoots his chair forward until he’s sitting right in front of me. ‘I’m an explorer, a navigator. With the power of both together I could touch the edge of the known universe.’

He shakes his head and gives a little giggle. ‘No, no, I’m being modest. I could go beyond the known universe. I could go to ANY universe.’

‘And you thought, “Hey, let’s screw a young girl while I’m at it”?’

‘Oh, yes, your great-great-grandmother. I took no pleasure other than the thrill of scientific achievement from that,’ he says.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘And you read
Playboy
for the articles.’

‘I need the perception of the Sieners and the hardiness of the Murder in one body,’ he says. ‘Your body, I’m afraid.’

He looks at me like a child looking at a new puppy. ‘I waited,’ he said. ‘Looking for the signs that someone in your bloodline would awaken to the gift of the Sieners. I made a pact with the Crows to keep your genetic line unsullied –’

‘That’s why you had Grandpa Zev’s princess murdered,’ I say.

‘Ah, yes. She was of elven stock,’ he says. ‘Thoroughly unsuited to my purposes. We steered your grandmother toward him. Your father made an acceptable choice and so no intervention was necessary. Then you and your brother appeared and I saw the gift begin to blossom in both of you. I’ve watched you for a long time,’ he says. ‘And I’ve become more and more excited that you might be the one.’

‘And here I am,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Here you are, with your powers growing but not yet fully realised.’ He giggles and raises a hand lazily. The chubby orderly appears. ‘I must admit I’m glad this charade has come to an end.’ The orderly hands him a syringe. I yank at my handcuffs but they just bite deeper into my wrists, causing a thin trickle of blood to drip down onto the floor.

‘Psychosis is a terrible thing,’ Mirth says.

‘You would know,’ I spit out.

He holds a syringe in front of my face. It is filled with a radiant liquid. ‘Your Obambo friend was very generous with his donation,’ he says.

‘You killed him?’ I say. The orderly wraps a thick arm around my neck and holds me in place.

‘He’s not dead,’ Mirth says with a little laugh. ‘Yet.’ He slides the needle into my arm and pushes the plunger.

Deep fault lines of pain open up in my skull and dark, blotchy spots begin to swirl in front of my eyes. A worm pushes through my brain and begins gnawing at the space between my eyes, trying to get out. The brainworm begins to chew through my grey matter and I scream as it erupts in my skull. It’s not a worm at all; it’s an eye on a thick cartilaginous stalk. Awareness cleaves through existence. I can see. Everywhere. With my eye I travel the facility. I see rooms filled with horror; people being experimented on, things in various stages of transformation.

The walls of this facility can’t contain me. My mind roars into the night sky like a dragon searching for prey. It curls around the mountain, stalking, swirling, whipping in a never-ending frenzy of perception. The blanket of lights spreads out below me. In its streets, businesses, shops, brothels, restaurants, flats, houses, churches, mosques, yoga studios, crack dens, student digs, old-age homes, taverns, spaza shops and shebeens.

I can see the throbbing pulse of beliefs, ideologies, secrets, desires, memories and ambitions like halos around the ant-like people. They flow together like some giant four-year-old has poured food colouring onto an ant farm and is watching the colours mingle.

My mind races up toward Devil’s Peak and blasts through the cloud covering. All around it’s misty and silent; a dense fog bank that has rolled in from the sea. Gradually the mist begins to part like theatre curtains to reveal a man quietly packing his pipe on a flat circular disc that is floating in a black sea of nothingness. He’s huge and gangly. An old wide-brimmed hat perches on top of his thick green creeper-like hair which winds and curls its way down to the floor. A mushroom grows from his forehead like a bulbous third eye and his shaggy, decomposing hands are covered in moss and lichen.

He looks up at me and his eyes are serene and terrible. ‘Radial foguzzy serenth,’ he says, his voice warbling as he speaks, slow as erosion and warm and loamy as decaying plant matter, and it feels like a radio is being tuned in my cerebral cortex. He shakes his ancient head and dirt falls to the floor. ‘I haven’t spoken in a hundred and fifty years,’ he says finally, revealing a black tongue that’s covered with toadstools.

‘Are you the Devil?’ I say in awe.

At that he laughs, a deep rumbling boom that shakes my bones. ‘I am Van Hunks who still smokes with the Devil. I am Hoerikwaggo, the mountain in the sea. I am Adamastor and I am the spirit of the Mother City. I am the Singer of Souls. I believe we have met before, although perhaps not in this form.’ He smiles and lights his pipe.

‘You?’ I say, remembering the one-eyed guitar player at the canal.

‘Two Sieners climb the mountain of time to meet me. They cannot see each other but I speak to them both.’

‘You?’ I say. Luamita’s necklace had allowed me to escape the magistrate house easily. I’d simply concentrated, let my mind become still and then focused on a form that would help me to get away. I became a sailor; a thick-necked, hairy man with dark hair and a beard. It had been so very, very strange to be a man that I had just stood there for a moment marvelling at the dense, sturdy and sweaty form I had assumed.

Luamita had urged me to go, saying that the magic worked only for a short time. We had walked quickly through the streets together, people ignoring my rough appearance and shrinking away from Luamita’s. We’d made our way onto the mountain, struggling up the haphazard path until we’d found a copse where I could return my own shape.

Back in my smaller, more frail form the going was even harder but I was used to walking for hours in the veld and I didn’t mind. Because I was free. Free from that terrible man and his evil plans. Luamita led, showing me the way through the thick underbrush until we reached a cave. ‘We can rest here,’ she said and led me into the darkness.

‘Big Ones!’ came a joyful squeal in Afrikaans from inside the cave and I was startled to be confronted by a boy, or, rather, half a boy. The other half of him consisted of the hindquarters of a springbok. He cantered up and down excitedly and gave Luamita an enthusiastic hug. ‘This is the boy,’ Luamita said with a smile.

‘You don’t have a name?’ I said, shaking his small hand. He shook his head and looked very forlorn.

‘I’ll call you Klipspringer,’ I said, smiling. ‘That’s what my father called me and you look like you’re very good at climbing.’

‘Exceptionallygoodthankyou,’ he said proudly, jutting out his chest. ‘CanIhavemypendantback?’

‘Thank you,’ I said, returning it to him. ‘You have helped me more than you can know.’

‘I always help Sieners,’ he said with a grin. I thought of the boy with spectacles from my dreams. So alone and afraid sometimes. ‘If you ever meet a Siener boy with spectacles will you help him?’

He nodded. ‘Yesladyyes.’

Luamita had urged us to continue and, saying our goodbyes to Klipspringer, we’d carried on up through the mountains, eventually reaching a cave where her family stayed. Seeing four of the glowing people without any of the concealment that Luamita was forced to use was astounding. It was like being a planet caught between numerous suns. After introducing ourselves we’d decided that there was no time to waste. I’d consumed the last of the liquid in my bottle and, once again, the world had ignited.

‘I am the gateway between worlds. It is to me you come to speak to those that are distant from you in space or time.’ Van Hunks folds his large hands into gestures that look like rock ’n’ roll horns and I feel something like a swirling vortex in my forehead. It spins faster and faster like a star imploding. My vision blurs and when I open my eyes I am staring at a beautiful girl. The girl of my dreams. Literally.

We’re standing on the disc but the Singer of Souls is nowhere in sight.

‘Hello,’ I say awkwardly. Damn, she is very, very pretty. For a great-great-grandmother, I mean.

‘Hello,’ she says with a thick Afrikaans accent.