Apocalypse Now Now (37 page)

‘You’re not making any sense,’ Kyle says, his eyes wide and teary. ‘You want to be some kind of martyr? What will that achieve?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, looking at him. ‘Maybe it’ll make me feel better about the shit I’ve done. Maybe it’ll stop you guys from having totally fucked-up lives. Maybe I’ll feel like the kind of guy that Esmé deserves and not some fucking science-fictional time-travel-spawned half Crow bastard child. Shit, maybe it’ll make me feel that Tomas’s death wasn’t totally and utterly meaningless.’

‘Yeah and maybe it’ll do absolutely none of those things,’ Kyle says sullenly.

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘But where I’m at at the moment I have to give it a try. You’ve always been there for me and I’m asking one last thing from you. Let it burn.’

‘You remember that time when we were little kids and you convinced me to eat a cockroach?’ he says.

‘Yeah,’ I say with a laugh.

‘This is worse than that. But, Bax, I trust you. I always have. And if this is what you need to do then I’m with you all the way. No matter what a dumbshit, Darwin-award-winning, Kardashian-level, Ben Affleck-in-
Gigli
, written-in-Comic-Sans-font idea this is.’

I smile. ‘Thanks, man, that means a lot.’

The rest of the week is chaos. Lockers are searched. DVDs, hard drives and cellphones filled with porn are found. Kids squeal like
little pigs and the Spider is immediately implicated. All of us are called into the headmaster’s office but I request a private emergency meeting with the Bearded One.

He ushers me into his office, his face red and grave. ‘This err umm is very serious, Baxter,’ he says. I nod. I know what kind of trouble I’m in. But it’s time for one last manipulation.

‘I umm ahhh never expected this from you,’ he says. ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘First of all, I’m not apologising. I merely provided a product for which there was a demand.’

‘I’ve seen some of your product,’ the Bearded One says. ‘It is disgusting.’

I shrug. ‘One man’s art is another man’s moral panic.’

The Bearded One slams his hand down on the table. I’ve never seen him this angry. Which is exactly where I want him. ‘You are going to tell me everything about you and your accomplices’ little business,’ he says. He raises a finger to point at me. ‘I’m warning you, Zevcenko.’

I smile. Compared to Mirth and the giant crows, bearded headmasters are pretty low on the list of things to be afraid of. ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m not. It’s me and only me. Everybody else that has participated is merely a pawn in my game.’

‘Everybody involved needs to face the consequences,’ he says.

I lean back in the chair. ‘Think about it,’ I say. ‘Either the press will report that Westridge is running rampant with knifemen and porn syndicates. Or that one rogue pupil is responsible for it all.’

‘You’ll take responsibility for everything? Even the stabbing?’ he says suspiciously.

I shrug. ‘I have a motive. Anwar was a threat to my business.’

He rubs his beard thoughtfully. ‘You realise that your punishment will be far more severe if you insist on maintaining that you’re the only one responsible.’ I nod. ‘Normally I wouldn’t do something like this,’ he says. ‘But we have to think of the future of Westridge.’

Weapons chemists, headmasters; they’re all the same. Once you isolate their core motivations you’re halfway there.

I’m expelled with criminal charges pending. I burst out laughing when my lawyer suggests that I might be able to plead temporary insanity. I make a call to Tone and he says he may be able to get me off the attempted murder charge if I agree to enrolling in a school sponsored by MK6. I tell him I’ll think about it.

My parents are predictably appalled. I’m subjected to several emotionally draining episodes where they beg me to tell them what they did wrong when I was a child. I’m unable to give them satisfactory answers. They’re horrified by my missing finger and begin to believe I’ve become involved in some kind of self-mutilation cult. They make an appointment for me with a psychiatrist. I promise myself that this time I’ll lie about everything.

In the days that follow, I seriously begin to regret my noble gesture. In my rush to prove to myself that I’m not inherently evil I may have gotten carried away. Being tried for attempted murder and distributing pornography to minors is no way to be repaid for saving the world. But like I said, the world is unfair. Those kids with dial-up Internet minds are going to become lawyers, politicians and doctors, and mediocrity will continue to rule the day. Perhaps being Supreme Leader wouldn’t have been so bad after all. Is it too late to change my mind?

But at least I have Esmé. That Saturday night, five days after Anwar was stabbed, she climbs up my drainpipe and slips into my room.

‘Thought it was the least I could do after you came to rescue me,’ she says as she flops down onto my bed and lights a cigarette. We lie back and stare up at the ceiling together.

‘I thought you’d dumped me,’ I say after a short silence.

‘If I dump you, I’ll tell you about it,’ she says. ‘And include a spreadsheet list of all the things you’ve done wrong.’

I laugh.

‘Can’t believe you thought I’d date a guy with a mullet,’ she says.

‘Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking,’ I say.

‘It’s weird to think that I was a zombie,’ she says. ‘I mean, I didn’t really feel anything. No emotions, no nothing.’

‘I know the feeling,’ I say with a laugh.

‘You’re not a zombie, Bax,’ she says. ‘You never were.’

‘I meant what I said back on the ship,’ I say. ‘The world is totally screwed. I may have saved it but nobody is going to thank me or reward me for that. I thought I’d feel some sense of satisfaction that I’d done the right thing. But I don’t really. Being a hero is pretty damn stupid.’

‘You came to get me,’ she says, looking into my eyes. ‘Bax, that means a lot.’ She pushes me down on the bed and straddles me. ‘You’re a knight in shining armour,’ she whispers into my ear.

‘Not even close,’ I murmur as she slides down my body.

Grandpa Zev’s funeral is at an old cemetery in Woodstock filled with rows of ancient, crumbling gravestones. Esmé comes with me. She wears a black dress and black sneakers and looks beautiful.

Grandpa Zev wasn’t religious so we have a humanist celebrant who seems somewhat at a loss as to what to say. Apparently without all the prayers and psalms there’s not a whole lot you can say about a death except that it happens and that it sucks.

The family takes turns to say a few awkward words about how great he was. My dad talks about going to rugby games with him when he was young. My mom reads something really New Agey about entering the light after a period of darkness. Uncle Rog prays for his father’s soul, which is nice in a twisted sort of way. I feel like I have to say something and I know exactly what I want to say.

‘My grandfather believed that there were giant crows out to get him,’ I start. There’s a sharp intake of breath from the family. Uncle Rog glowers at me. ‘But so what? There are people who believe much crazier things than he did.’ I give Uncle Rog a look.

‘Grandpa Zev taught me that sometimes things don’t work out the way you want them to and that instead of whining you’ve just got to suck it up and carry on. He taught me that if you love something you have to fight for it.’ I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a hip flask. ‘To Grandpa Zev and to the death of giant crows.’ I say and pour some gin onto his grave. ‘Bye, Grandpa,’ I whisper.

Esmé and I are walking back to the car when a blonde, middle-aged woman with a pug face intercepts us. She introduces herself as the head of Shady Pines, Grandpa Zev’s retirememt home.

‘I’m very sorry about your grandfather,’ she says in a drawling, nasal voice.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘Of all the things that were said I think he would have appreciated yours the most. He really was a very stubborn man,’ she says, twirling her finger in the string of pearls around her neck. ‘Very stubborn. Which is why I need to give you this.’ She hands me an old, leather-bound book and the photo of Klara, my great-grandmother. ‘It is our policy to give all personal effects to the deceased’s children. But he insisted that I give these to you myself. He said he’d come back to haunt me if I didn’t.’ She lets out a high-pitched, tinkling laugh. ‘And I kinda believe the old bastard would be stubborn enough to do it.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

Esmé and I walk up the small hill behind the cemetery and sit beneath an old, gnarled oak tree.

‘Read it,’ she says softly to me. I open the leather-bound book to the first page. It is written in Afrikaans but someone has lovingly translated each page into English with a soft pencil.

The Diary of Ester van Rensburg

Klara is born! A more beautiful and precious daughter I cannot imagine. It is hard to believe that such innocence could come from such a monster but perhaps that is the way of life. I have resolved never to tell her about her father. I shall say that he was a sailor and that he drowned at sea. It is better that way.

Living with Luamita’s family has been wonderful. Her father is named Tomas, as are all the males in their family, and he is a strong and gentle man. He tells the most beautiful stories about the history of the Obambo. Their scriptures say that they are destined to almost die out, but that their race will once again bloom like shining flowers on the face of the Earth. I hope it is so. They are too beautiful to disappear.

Sadly they cannot hide me forever. Luamita has helped me to find passage on a ship bound for Poland. I am terrified of leaving. This land is the only one I have ever known and I feel I will be leaving my father and all my ancestors behind. But for the sake of Klara, I must. I cannot risk having that evil man find us.

I think a lot about what has happened. Has it all been real? I think for the sake of my own sanity I must put it from my mind. I must live for Klara now. Oh, Klara. What will you become? I hope your life takes a different path to mine. I hope that you live a long and happy life. I hope that you will make my father proud.

I close the book and rub the dust from the picture of my grandfather’s mother. Klara. In the picture she is about my age, young and as beautiful as her mother. From what I know of her she did exactly what her mother wanted of her. She lived a long and happy life. I’m glad for that.

Rafe comes traipsing up the hill with a stupid grin on his face. ‘I’ll give you two some time together,’ Esmé says and walks down
through the cemetery, her fingers splayed and brushing over the tops of the gravestones.

Rafe sits down under the tree next to me.

‘I’m sorry about Mr Bobble,’ I say.

He looks at me and shrugs.

‘Thanks for helping me,’ I say.

‘OK,’ he mumbles. He scribbles something furiously on a piece of paper and hands it to me.
I want your PS3
, it says.

‘Screw you,’ I say and punch him on his shoulder and then pull him into an awkward hug. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever willingly hugged my brother and the experience is actually not that bad.

I phone Tone and tell him that I agree. I have a month’s break and then I’m going to be attending Hexpoort, a reformatory school that is actually a front for an MK6 training academy. It means I’m not going to go to jail but also that the rest of my schooling is going to be in the hands of sangomas. If I’m forced to play Quidditch, I swear, someone is going to get shot.