Apocalypse Now Now (9 page)

‘Nobody,’ I say. ‘Can I have my lighter back?’

‘You remind me of a girl I once met. On a battlefield long ago. Who are you praying to?’

‘I wasn’t praying,’ I say.

He takes a drag of the cigarette and plucks one of the strings on the guitar. It sends a discordant note jangling into the night. ‘You see down there?’ He waves the cigarette in a circle to indicate an area further downriver. The light from the coal burns a chaotic pattern on my retina. ‘That’s where two young men were stripped naked and executed by gangsters as part of an initiation.’ He takes another drag. ‘And further down a Congolese refugee hanged himself from a tree because he couldn’t get a passport. Strange fruit for motorists to gawk at on their morning commute. And the world forgets but this black river remembers and carries the memories. This is where the lost spirits of the dead come to cross. I am the singer of souls. I lay to rest the spirits of the dead and make sure their memories remain alive,’ he says softly, his milky eye rolling back in his head as if examining a part of his brain.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Does that pay well?’

He ignores me and begins to sing a wordless song, his voice low and guttural like the gurgling of one of the sewage pipes that empties into the dark water of the canal. The tone rises and falls and then he begins to chant:

‘
At the beginning of time two brothers, the Mantis and the Octopus, travelled the depths of space searching for a place to call their own. They came upon a planet, untouched and virgin and they each claimed it for themselves. In order to settle the dispute they had a contest. Whoever could give birth to the best creations would claim the world for their own
.’

He strums another chord as if to punctuate his words; a jangling, rattling exclamation mark hung behind the image of two ancient space gods having a turf war over Earth. I sit on my bike unable to move, his words painting a vivid picture in the dank air.

‘The Mantis went first and birthed the Watu Makule – the oldest
tribe – consisting of the little men, the shining ones, the pointed ears, the horned horses and all the wondrous creatures. The Octopus, looking upon the magnificent Watu Makule, knew he could not beat his brother. The Mantis took pity on him and offered a compromise. They would share the Earth and together they would create a new species, humans, to live together with them. They called them the Strange Ones because of their dual natures.

‘But the Mantis was tired after his works of creation and fell asleep. He slept for millennia and while he slept the Octopus conspired against him. He was still jealous of the Watu Makule and so alone he created the Feared Ones, black of feather and black of heart, born with the sole purpose of hunting the Watu Makule and killing them. And while the Mantis slept the Watu Makule were hunted, slaughtered, until they were forced to hide in the shadows. And they became known as the Hidden Ones, forever cowering in fear.

‘When the Mantis awoke he was so enraged at the genocide inflicted upon his creations that he attacked his brother and for millenia the gods fought so fiercely that their fighting began to threaten the very Earth they so coveted. To save themselves the Watu Makule and the Strange Ones united to trap their own Creators in living cages to stop them destroying the Earth.

‘But the Feared Ones missed their Creator, and so the story continues, with the Feared Ones forever hunting down the Watu Makule and seeking a way to release their Creator.
’

Abruptly he stops playing. ‘One day the gods will fight again and the world will be destroyed,’ he whispers. ‘You know this, because the eye remembers.’

The mention of the eye hits my nervous system like a well-aimed bullet. Abject fear opens the adrenalin gates and before I know what’s happening I’ve pushed off from the kerb and am pedalling hard away from the canal. I’m breathing raggedly and my forehead is throbbing with a now familiar pulse. The eye. I pull hard on the brakes and skid on a patch of gravel, the bike
sliding out from under me. I hit the ground hard and feel the sharp fiery pain of my hands sliding across the ground.

I get up and cycle back to the canal. This half-blind asshole is going to tell me what’s going on. ‘Hey!’ I shout into the canal. I stop my bike and throw it down onto the grass. ‘I’ve had enough, OK?’ I peer down in the darkness of the canal. There is no one there. No blind singer. No guitar. Just an empty paint can. I look up and down the canal. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ I say to the night, and at that moment I realise that my life is stretched like a rope tight across a gaping chasm and I can see the fibres beginning to fray and snap. I need help and I need it soon.

Dr Basson’s office is a twenty-minute ride from my house. I cycle through the morning traffic, through the taxi rank and up onto the main road, pumping the pedals of my bike ruthlessly. Sweat pours down my face and into my eyes and my forehead is throbbing. I’m on the verge of a migraine but I keep on pedalling. Skipping school and leaving the gangs to their own devices is bad for the Spider. But I have to. For the first time I feel like I’m starting to lose my handle on things.

I pull up outside the office block – all steel, glass and red face-brick. I chain my bike to a lamp post and enter through the glass sliding doors. The security guard, sinewy with a mullet and bad skin, looks me up and down as I comb my sweaty hair to one side and wipe my glasses with my sleeve.

‘Sign in,’ the guard grunts. I sign the book and take the lift up to the third floor. I walk quickly down until I find the door – an opaque glass door with ‘Dr Kobus Basson – Psychiatrist’ written on it in white type. I press the buzzer.

‘Yes?’ Basson says.

‘It’s Baxter,’ I answer.

There’s a short silence and then the door clicks open.

‘Welcome,’ Dr Basson says in his thin, eager voice. He is tall and emaciated, his nose narrow and hawk-like, his cheekbones jutting sharply from his face. His watery blue eyes look surprised, but he smiles and runs a scarred hand through his greasy, thinning hair which is tied with a rainbow scrunchie at the back of his head to form a little rat-tail.

He gestures for me to follow him into his consulting rooms. ‘Well, this is unexpected. Your next appointment isn’t until Wednesday.’

‘I think something’s wrong with me,’ I say.

He gives me a concerned look. ‘Well, then I’m glad you came,’ he says. ‘You’re in luck. I don’t have any appointments this morning. Would you like to talk?’

I nod quickly.

‘Coffee?’ he asks, limping over to an urn in the corner of the room.

‘Please,’ I say as I sit on the long leather couch next to his desk.

I sit and stare at the two photographs on the wall, something I always do when I come here. One is of Table Mountain, and the other of an old sea captain, grizzled and bad-tempered, a long red beard cascading down his chin.

On his desk there are two photo frames; one holding a picture of two men in military uniform, one turned so I can’t see what’s in it.

I bounce my feet irritably on the ground. There’s a stack of magazines next to me and I flick listlessly through a few of them while Basson meticulously makes two cups of coffee. He has a painfully slow coffee-making ritual and the waiting is making me doubt my reasons for coming here.

I’ve recently realised that my view of myself – that of the Machiavellian mastermind, unhindered by emotional ties and
attachments – is flawed. That’s bound to cause me anxiety, right?

My hypnogogic visions, the dreams about Boers and Mantises, are merely a biological reaction to stress; a kind of mental defragging process that has understandably been influenced by the historical stuff Rafe unrelentingly tries to shove down my throat.

And my experience with the old homeless guy last night? Well, that was confirmation bias. I’m looking for answers and I made his ravings fit my need for a narrative.

Basson shuffles over to give me my mug and then moves back to his desk where he lowers himself carefully into his chair.

‘I’m glad you came,’ he says. ‘But you’ve never really shown any enthusiasm for our sessions, so I admit I’m a little surprised.’

‘Esmé’s been kidnapped,’ I blurt out.

Basson raises his eyebrows. ‘My God. When?’

‘Two nights ago,’ I say. ‘The police think it might be the Mountain Killer.’

‘Oh, Baxter,’ Basson says. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you OK?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m … hearing things; voices.’

A pen materialises in his hand and he begins writing furiously, as if he’s possessed by some kind of creative spirit. ‘And what are these voices saying?’ he says.

‘They’re arguing,’ I reply ‘It’s like two parts of me are fighting each other.’

His writing becomes more furious, like he’s trying to capture the very essence of my problem in words. ‘Stress can have a very powerful effect on the mind. Having someone that you love put in harm’s way can be very stressful. You do love her, don’t you, Baxter?’

Crunch time. A direct question that I can’t avoid. Love. Thousands of songs, poems, books have been written about the disturbing quivering of internal organs in response to neuro-chemical stimuli. Is that what this feeling is? Inside I say yes.

Outside I say, ‘No. Yes. Maybe.’

He opens a desk drawer and pulls a brown folder from it. ‘I have some of your school reports here. They suggest you have a very high verbal and conceptual intelligence which is far beyond that of your peers. Like many intelligent people, however, your empathetic skills lag behind. And yet here you are expressing your love for a girl. Sometimes when you love someone you can accidentally hurt them. You didn’t hurt Esmé accidentally, did you?’

‘Fuck you,’ is my immediate response. Then, ‘You think I hurt Esmé too? Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you people?’

‘Do you ever have violent thoughts or dreams?’ he counters.

‘No,’ I say.

He shakes his head. ‘Baxter, if we’re going to work together you can’t lie to me.’

Since when are psychiatrists mind-readers? ‘OK, yes,’ I say. ‘I have strange dreams about Afrikaners and ox-wagons. Yes, I have violent dreams and thoughts. That doesn’t make me a goddamn serial killer.’

Basson nods. ‘Of course not. Tell me about these dreams,’ he continues. ‘I think they’re the key to the way you’re feeling.’

‘
I’VE DONE A
complete cost-benefit analysis,’ Kyle says. He’s wearing mirrored wrap-around sunglasses and a bright Hawaiian shirt, and together they make him look like an extra in the sci-fi remake of
Cocktail
. The rain of the past couple of days has transformed into stifling heat and we’re sitting slumped in lounge chairs next to my green, algae-infested pool.

Weeks ago we stole a garden gnome from the next-door neighbour’s garden, and today Kyle has set it up on the old, decaying diving board to throw stones at it. Kyle is a big fan of the small things in life.

‘Take a look, Bax,’ he says. ‘I think I’ve made a good case.’ He picks up a large shard of rock with one hand and gives me a page of writing with the other. He lobs the rock at the gnome but it misses by light years.

Kyle has terrible aim but does make a pretty good case for just leaving Esmé kidnapped:

‘Point 1: A steady girlfriend at sixteen increases your chances of ending up as one of those people who marry their high-school sweethearts and then realise in middle age that they’ve lived a miserable, stunted half-life.’ All too true. Have you seen some of those people? Missionary city.

‘Point 2: You could ride the sympathy wave indefinitely for maximum personal and organisational benefit.’ One thing I can say for Kyle: he speaks my language. A kidnapped girlfriend is right up there with cancer and autism as far as getting away with stuff goes. I could probably be dealing porn openly in religious studies class by the end of the month.

‘Both sound points,’ I say. And it’s true. Unfortunately they don’t take into account the alien love foetus that’s clawing inside my chest. So I decide to come out of the closet. If I can’t reveal my true nature to my best friend then I can’t reveal it to anyone. ‘Maybe some things can’t be decided by a cost-benefit analysis,’ I say. ‘Like love.’

Kyle stares at me. Then a big dumb grin spreads across his face. ‘I guess this is what you’d call a defining moment,’ he says.

‘I guess it is.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’ He nods at the pages in my hand. ‘I thought it was what you wanted.’

I sigh. ‘I thought so too. But what can I say? I love her.’

‘You’re a real boy, Pinocchio,’ he says in a high-pitched voice.

‘Piss off.’

‘Well, now we’ve established that you love her, what are we going to do?’

I reach into my pocket and hand him the tooth from Esmé’s room. He pushes his wrap-arounds up onto this head. ‘What in the name of Haile Selassie is that?’ he asks.

‘I found it in Esmé’s room. I think the kidnapper may have left it.’

‘It’s glowing,’ he murmurs as he turns it around between his fingers.

‘I know. How weird is that?’

‘What kind of tooth glows?’