Apocalypse Now Now (4 page)

‘Well, you’re a lot braver than me,’ the Kid says as he rubs his sleeve across his nose. ‘Anwar terrifies me.’

There are bigger, stronger and more violent kids at Westridge but Anwar is by far the scariest. There is something about his unpredictability and his enjoyment of others’ suffering that strikes a chord of fear in everyone, even me if I’m honest about it. Which I never am.

‘He’s OK,’ I say. ‘Besides, aren’t all bullies supposed to be cowards inside?’

‘Only on TV,’ Zikhona says, smacking her meaty fist into her palm.

I leave Zikhona and the Inhalant Kid discussing Anwar and walk slowly with Kyle toward the edge of the Sprawl.

‘What the hell was that in class?’ he whispers as we cross the tar. ‘English devils? Sieners? You practising to impress Dirkie?’ He pulls his phone from his pocket, taps on it quickly and then reads from the screen. ‘It says “Siener – an Afrikaner prophet or religious figure. A seer.” What the fuck, Bax?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, rubbing my forehead tiredly. ‘It just hasn’t been a good day so far.’

‘Well, if you ever want to, you know, talk about shit, I’m here,’ he says.

‘Thanks,’ I say with a small smile.

‘Good luck with Anwar,’ he says as we reach the edge of the tarmac. ‘We’re the serious underdogs in this, Bax, so be careful.’

‘I don’t need luck,’ I say, turning to face him and forcing a grin onto my face. ‘I have a plan.’

A lesson I learnt early on is that it often pays to be the underdog. I remember watching the school judo championships when I was very young. Seeing a kid who was not only big and stocky for his age but who had honed his judo skills to perfection. He was a white-pyjama-suited whirling dervish of death, dealing out throws, trips and choke-holds.

By some glitch in the system he had paired up to fight a far smaller kid in the opening round. His opponent was much
younger than him, as well as being a tiny, pasty specimen. It was like watching a maggot fighting a rhino beetle.

The bigger kid grinned, but I knew then that he had already lost the fight. There was no winning outcome for the rhino beetle. If he won the match he would be forced to beat up a little kid. If he lost he’d be the guy that lost to the maggot.

The match started and the maggot proved to be much more capable than one would expect. He wrapped his legs around the rhino beetle’s neck and squeezed for all he was worth. The rhino beetle did exactly what he was trained to do in these circumstances. He picked the little kid up and slammed him to the mat.

The booing and jeering from the ground was instantaneous. After all, the narrative was clear: big bully picks on the weak, nerdy kid. Every high-school TV show, movie and mini-series contained this premise exactly and the crowd responded accordingly.

The rhino beetle had to fight cautiously, defensively, never being too aggressive or too dominant in case the crowd turned on him. The maggot was in his element and piled on the pressure until the rhino beetle simply couldn’t take it any more and gave in to what was a fairly weak submission. It was a mind game and the rhino beetle lost. I credit that maggot with teaching me my first lessons about the politics of the playground.

I look up as I walk through the Sprawl and see that the sky’s disease has relented to allow patches of albino through the greyness. That would be a good omen. If I believed in omens. Superstition is for the feeble-minded. So are thoughts of fratricide, but as I see Rafe peeking over the wrought-iron school fence, I’m sorely tempted.

‘What are you doing here?’ I hiss, looking quickly around to make sure nobody can see us. This is not what I need right now.

Rafe goes to the special needs school two blocks away but I’d banned him from ever coming to visit me at lunch break. The fact
that I have a retard brother is not exactly a secret but I’d prefer not to be seen hanging out with him at lunch break.

‘What are you doing here?’ I repeat.

He lifts a thick book and shows me a picture of a tall man with a huge beard leading Boer commandos across a burning plain like he’s some kind of khaki-clad Gandalf.

‘Great. Today’s little bit of history brought to us by my cognitively challenged brother. Seriously, Rafe, what the fuck are you doing? It’s your fault I’m having these dreams. You’re always shoving this stuff in my face, always trying to make me read this stupid historical bullshit. Well, congratulations, you’ve infiltrated my subconscious. It’s your fault I’m blurting out bits of Afrikaans in class.’

He looks at me like I’m a raving idiot and then turns and walks slowly away.

‘Right,’ I mutter as I stalk off. ‘
I’m
the idiot.’

I get to the edge of the lower sports field. In the corner is a spot where the iron fence has been bent to form a doorway to the outside world. I look around quickly and then duck through the hole. I skirt the alley next to the bridge that connects the surrounding residential area to the highway and walk quickly to a series of derelict rooms that used to be a Freemason Lodge. This is Central, the NTK base of operations. I knock and pull a face at the creepy carved Masonic eye that watches me from above the door as I wait. The door opens a crack.

‘Wassup, Russ?’ I say conversationally, mostly because I know it’ll piss him off. He joined the NTK because he wants respect, but he gets none from Anwar and he damn well isn’t getting any from me.

‘Zevcenko,’ he says. I nod, smile and wait. He wants me to ask to come in and thus to acknowledge his role as gatekeeper. I don’t because he knows why I’m here and he won’t dare keep Anwar waiting. I begin to whistle and tap my foot. He panics and opens the door like the minion that he is. Pawns are so predictable.

The NTK rank and file are sprawled on couches eating takeaways and smoking
tik
from light-bulbs that they’ve stolen from teachers’ cars. They look up as I walk through, following me with their bloodshot and dangerous eyes. Musty Masonic banners hang from the peeling walls to which the NTK have added their own artwork – thousands of scrawled tags, centrefolds from substandard porn mags and two cheap katanas from a Chinese shop which they’ve hung crossed on the wall. Classy.

Russell leads me through a doorway to the back room. It’s large and curved, almost circular, and has a black-and-purple decaying pulpit that commands the centre of the room. The Masons must have used this room to sacrifice babies or something. No wonder Anwar likes it so much. I can’t help but notice a small keypad on the far wall, probably a safe where the NTK keep their profits.

Anwar and Toby are seated on a low, dusty couch in the centre of the room watching a younger kid have his shoulder tattooed. The dog tattoos are a sign of initiation into the gang, a mark of achievement for successfully passing the violent rituals of membership, the bare-fist fights with gangs from other schools, the housebreakings and the weird sexual rites of passage.

Anwar is tall and gaunt. He has a missing tooth and a lazy eye, both of which accentuate the rabidness that he emanates. He is shirtless and the handle of a gun juts from the waistband of his regulation grey school pants. I knew that Anwar’s older brother was connected to a notorious Cape Flats gang and the NTK couriered drugs for him into the suburbs. I didn’t know that the NTK actually had guns at Central.

I swallow hard and pull my eyes away from the gun, focusing on the tattoo artist, an old guy with prison ink covering most of his body. He works methodically with a school compass and blue ink from a pen to render the crude drawing of a dog on the clavicle of the NTK’s newest initiate. The kid doesn’t flinch and
Anwar nods approvingly. I wait while the old inker does his work. Finally the tattoos are done and the artist grunts and shuffles out the door. Anwar says a few words to his new minion and then waves his hand and the kid leaves too.

Anwar and Toby stare at me like vultures at roadkill. ‘Baxter,’ Anwar says, geturing for me to sit on one of the lumpy chairs arranged in front of the couch of power. I sit and force my body to remain relaxed. ‘You have two minutes,’ Anwar says.

I pull a folder from my bag and offer it to him. This treaty is what I’ve been working toward since I started the Spider, a subtle and nuanced blueprint for the future political landscape of the school. ‘Why are we working against each other?’ is the question it asks. Instead we can use our various competencies for the good of us all. The possible alliance with Dirkie Venter is the beginning. With Dirkie’s contacts the Westridge business community could expand into other schools. We would be the United States of Schoolyard Contraband. Each gang had its place. Working together there was nothing we couldn’t achieve. I would inspire the gangs of Westridge to take responsibility for their future. I’m like Oprah. If Oprah had weird glasses and sold porn.

Anwar takes the treaty and motions for Toby to follow him to the NTK war table. Toby gets up slowly and grins at me as he walks to the table. Anwar opens the folder and spreads the pages across the table. I bite furtively at one of my nails as they look at it, conferring in low voices. Finally Anwar straightens up and turns to look at me with a smile on his face.

‘Baxter,’ Anwar says. I allow myself a moment of smugness. Apparently even Anwar’s warmongering mind can see the logic. ‘You know I’ve always respected the Spider,’ he continues quietly. This isn’t at all true. In our earlier days, the NTK had threatened and harassed us until we had imposed porn sanctions on their members. ‘But this plan is an insult.’ He says the words with such venom that my smugness scuttles away like vermin.
I struggle to control myself. ‘Just take some time to think about it,’ I say. ‘You might be strong enough to crush the Form but the resulting fallout will benefit none of us.’

‘The NTK are not weak, power-brokering scavengers,’ he shouts, grabbing the handle of his gun and pulling it from his waistband. I’m tempted to grab my bag and run but I know Anwar would enjoy that way too much. Instead I rise slowly. I pull my bag onto my shoulders and meet Anwar’s eyes. ‘Then I wish you the best of luck, Warlord,’ I say with all the coldness I can muster. In a way I actually mean it. Luck is all that’s going to save any of us now.

I light a cigarette and lean against the old oak tree in the northeast corner of the Sprawl. It’s the sacred, spiritual symbol of Westridge, the symbol on our school blazers and the essence of our school motto, ‘From the roots to the sky’. I look up at the cloud and breathe out a long coil of smoke. Things with Anwar hadn’t gone well but I still have a chance with Dirkie. If I can get him on board I can use that as leverage with the gangs. If Denton agrees perhaps Anwar will see the light.

A battered white van coasts down the road next to the school and parks next to the gates. Dirkie gets out and climbs over the iron railing then walks quickly to where I’m standing.

‘My brothers are in the van with crowbars,’ Dirkie says in his thick Afrikaans accent that makes him sound like he’s speaking with a mouthful of cacti. ‘Any trouble and they’ll join us.’

‘I’m alone,’ I say, holding up my hands defensively. ‘Besides, I’m a businessman not a fighter.’

‘Sometimes you can’t be one without the other,’ Dirkie says with a scowl.

I light another cigarette and offer him one. He accepts and tucks it behind his ear. Sporting blond hair shaped by a ragged, pudding-bowl haircut, a tight black WWE T-shirt and a single gold hoop earring that dangles from his left lobe, Dirkie looks like he should be flipping burgers at McDonald’s. Instead he’s running the biggest schoolyard syndicate in the Western Cape.

‘Which makes easy business opportunities all the more attractive when they come our way,’ I say.

Dirkie grunts and turns to unzip his fly, relieving himself on the big oak tree as he speaks. ‘You Englishmen are so full of shit. The South African English are a rootless, bastard race. The Afrikaans have a culture, a tradition; what do the South African English have?’

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It’s a miracle we’ve even survived this long.’ Dirkie laughs as he zips up his fly. He wipes his hands on his pants and then pulls the cigarette out from behind his ear. I light it for him.

‘We’ll supply the merchandise, you market and distribute it in the Northern Suburbs and we split the profits,’ I say.

Dirkie takes a drag of the cigarette and looks at me. ‘What’s the split?’

This is the most dangerous part of the negotiation. The production cost of the porn we’ll be giving him is virtually nothing. He shoulders all the risk and the cost of marketing. Of course I don’t tell him this.

‘Seventy–thirty,’ I say.

Dirkie smiles. ‘Just like the English, always thinking we’re backward, inbred farmers.’ His smile fades. ‘Fifty–fifty.’

I purse my lips. ‘Sixty–forty is really the lowest I can go.’

‘You’re taking me for a
poes
,
Engelsman
.’

I sigh theatrically. ‘The rest of the Spider are not going to like this,’ I say. ‘But OK. Fifty–fifty.’ There is a long pause while Dirkie
thinks and then finally he nods his head and extends his hand. We shake.

We smoke in silence for a while and I let my thoughts drift back to the events of the day.