‘There’s a full-length documentary film on Lemmy of Mötorhead coming out soon,’ says Stevie. ‘A full-budget movie — it makes the other one look like a backyard job. They talk to all the big shots in it, the heavy dudes — all of them talking about Lemmy. Every last one of them. They show all his World War II memorabilia as well — everything there, apparently, mind-blowing, unbe-fucking-lievable.’
Then they watch Spinal Tap (which reduced Jack White to tears, probably because it gives metal a bad name). Karl laughs himself out of breath. (When last did he laugh like that?) The one guy wears a T-shirt with a white ribcage on it. The other guy has a blonde moustache that looks like a wig. It’s so out there! It’s so funny! The three guys are as thick as planks! But it’s regarded as a classic — bands often refer to it; everybody knows what a Spinal Tap moment is.
Afterwards they sit talking late into the night. They discuss their favourite line-ups. His most favourite line-up of Accept remains during the time of Balls to the Wall, says Karclass="underline" Dirkschneider, Hoffmann, Frank, Kaufmann, Baltes. Yep, says Stevie, 1984, fucking great line-up. They drink beer and they eat chips with grease spattering about all over the show (thinks Karl); later there is not a surface, side plate or glass without a grease smudge. And would you believe it, God’s truth, tonight he can cope with it. Now if that isn’t a fucking miracle. He laughs, he chats, he’s witty and exuberant, he handles the chips, he handles the greasy glass, he doesn’t even wipe his fingers properly. For one evening, one wonderful manic crazy evening he can cope: he’s doing oil!
But just before he cuts (late night, early morning), something suddenly occurs to him and he asks (hesitantly) whether one of them by any chance believes in an extra dimension, in cunning and demonic powers sort of operating in another sphere, in like a domain of demons. (He feels a bit of a prick asking this.)
Ian Bronkhorst just laughs. Stevie says: No shit man, what kind of crap is this now? Jakes says: For sure. Everything’s possible. What he experienced was something from another dimension. Whether it was in his head or out there, it was there, and it was evil, and it was wild. And it was touch-and-go or he went under and never came up again. So, he takes all possibilities into account; henceforth he keeps his eyes cast down and he makes himself small, so that no eye, evil or good, from whatever possible domain of demons or angels will ever again fix upon him.
Now all of a sudden he remembers, says Ian Bronkhorst, the Josias Brandt that Karl spoke about earlier, the guy was accused of something long ago — he can’t remember when — of some or other nasty thing: paedophilia or arson or crimen injuria or attempted abduction or something. He can’t remember any more.
Yes, says Jakes, but that was long ago. And there was insufficient evidence to make the charge stick.
Just what he wants to hear now, thinks Karl.
Before going to sleep, he quickly checks his messages. (Although something tells him he should rather not.) There is a text message from Josias Brandt. Your brother now takes to the streets at night. I can no longer assume responsibility for him. I’m warning you, there’s a shit storm coming.
*
Karl wakes up the next morning with a hangover. His leg is stiff and it aches. He’s had a restless night. Tossed and turned all night and had dreams of dogs. Struggled all night to keep Iggy just below the surface of his consciousness. Started counting in the early hours already to render the wrong numbers harmless. His first thought when he opened his eyes and came to his senses (realised where he was — in the shoddy hotel room) was that he and Iggy are in shit street.
He phones Josias Brandt. No reply. Not even a child picking up and breathing. He phones Hendrik. No reply. In this condition he’d better not get in touch with Juliana. She’d ask the obvious: why didn’t he get to Cape Town sooner? He feels alone and miserable. Nobody to turn to for support this morning. His heart no longer even feels as if it’s being squeezed in a bloody fist like the one on Accept’s record cover. His heart feels cold and bloodless; it hangs in his chest as heavily as a lead sinker. He crawls out of bed sluggishly. Sleeping on is out of the question, getting up and facing the day is equally impossible. He’s fucked up. He should have flown down. Why did he drive? Why did he dawdle so much? Why did he go and leave Iggy’s letters behind? Why is he such a wuss as to be tormented by numbers and by everything that burns his ass?
Juliana is right: he’s impossible to live with. No wonder she said he exhausts her, she no longer wants to have to take into account his constant battle to keep himself together — with his depressions and his ablutions and his number-obsessions, with his fussing and his finicking. They’ll meet again as soon as he takes charge of his neuroses and what have you. He can’t see that he’s ever going to do that. He’s trapped. He’s lost her; she was important to him. He’s fucked up.
And as for what extremes poor Iggy finds himself in at the moment, that he doesn’t even dare think about. He must phone the Joachim chap, beetroot claw and all, there’s no time now for getting the creeps and being put off by this and that. The man said he might be able to help Iggy. If anybody can still help him, he’s the man. He has the knowledge, he said. Whatever that may mean. It’s no use having reservations now — it’s late in the day, something has to happen in a hurry now.
He phones the guy. (Thank God he hasn’t gone and pissed away his number as well.) No reply. Just a strange soughing sound, as if the cell phone is out of action, and after a while the man’s voice — disembodied as if he’s talking from the realm of the dead. Karl leaves a message: Joachim must contact him as soon as possible about Ignatius, his brother.
*
Maria Volschenk tries in vain to get hold of Benjy to tell him about Jakobus’s proposal — he doesn’t answer his phone. She leaves messages, but he doesn’t return her calls. She can concentrate on nothing else. When she phones him, his cell phone makes a strange sound, a kind of unearthly whistling. She starts fearing the worst: his phone has been snatched from him, he’s been abducted, or even worse. Just when she’s ready to notify the police, beside herself with worry, Benjy phones. Where were you?! She asks. My phone fell into the toilet, he says. So what’s happened about the death threat now? she asks. No, that’s okay, he says, the situation’s like under control. What do you mean under control? she asks. Don’t worry, Ma, it’s okay, I’m actually fine. How can your life be threatened one day, and the next day you’re fine? she asks. Believe me, Ma, it can happen, he says. So, what about your business plan, you were going to show me the warehouse. That’s all sort of actually on ice, Ma, don’t worry. How is it possible for the situation to be resolved so quickly? she asks. Ma, don’t stress, there are ways and means. Ways and means to do what? (She can hear the rising pitch of her own voice.) Ways and means to actually like deal with the situation. And just what precisely is this situation? she asks; you’ve made me come here, Benjy, you made me believe that there’s some crisis or other. Now all of a sudden the crisis is resolved. Not resolved, Ma, he says, on ice. On ice, she says, means it’s still unresolved. You said there were people who wanted to wipe you out — now all of a sudden everything’s fine. Not fine, Ma, but actually like under control. Oh, she says, so you’ve arranged police protection? (Counter-productive, she knows, such a snide comment.) Benjy, she says (more conciliatory), you’ve made me come here, you gave me to understand there was a problem, the least you can do is to clarify exactly what’s going on. Ma, says Benjy, cool it. Sorry if I like made you panic. So what am I to do now, she asks, accept everything’s under control, on ice — failed venture, death threats — and go home? Ma, says Benjy. Suit yourself. I must go. Don’t worry, things are actually being like sorted out.