Stop. He looked back one more time and saw a woman standing at the edge of a window. She had straight, blonde hair and was wearing large glasses. Older than him, though not by much. Standing stock still. Staring at him. He greeted her with a nod and then ran to the next wall.
One more yard, and he’d be able to see down the next intersection.
Now. Moses sprinted as fast as he could. As fast as he still could after all the previous running. The shooting started up again as he made a beeline for the next wall, dove across, and crouched down on the other side. He had no idea how far away the bullets were flying, but he was close enough to feel panicked.
Calmly inhale. Exhale. In. Out. Stay down for just a few more seconds, then take the next step. The gunfire broke off again. This didn’t make him feel any better, though.
“Hey!” a voice called, one he knew all too well.
Shit, he thought and automatically rolled himself up tighter, one eye peeking over the top of the wall.
A figure came running up to the intersection, looked around and took off again, almost stumbling. Moses couldn’t believe it. The man looked like him. Okay, somewhat older. He was almost the same height, but the jeans he was wearing were the same shade as his. His yellow t-shirt was a few degrees darker, but was also tight-fitting. His hair wasn’t quite as bushy as his, but was still a typical afro. Moses saw the man running his way and had the feeling that he was looking into a mirror.
Behind him was the jackass from earlier. His nemesis. Club in the one hand, something else in the other. He was drawing closer.
“Hey!” he hollered again. And: “Stop, you bastard!”
Then, he himself stopped. And Moses could now see exactly what he had in his other hand. He threw his club aside and steadied the object in both hands. Aimed.
One second ticked by before he fired a shot.
The other man was almost up to his location. Moses saw him lurch, then fall. Less than two meters separated the man and himself. The white man’s steps came closer.
Moses flattened himself as much as possible against the wall. Be invisible. Don’t even breathe.
And then somewhere else, the great shootout began again.
Keep breathing.
85
The second reaction was a shot that penetrated the wardrobe door. Splinters rained down on Thembinkosi, and he tried to make himself even smaller.
The third reaction was massive gunfire. Everything blazing all at once. It was as if what had happened a moment before had just been a foretaste of what was coming. Hundreds of shooters were firing into the room. Make that thousands. The entire army and the police and all the security guards in the world, all together. Thembinkosi shut his eyes and thought about praying. But it didn’t work. He’d never learned how. Instead he scratched the wood behind him. Tears sprang to his eyes when he felt the response from the other side.
The maelstrom was heavy, but it didn’t last long. It broke off at some point, and he risked opening his eyes to look to the side. High Voice was lying on his back, bleeding. He’d been hit everywhere—head, torso, legs. Deep Voice was still concealed by the bed. Only his feet were visible. However, a pool of blood was gradually collecting on the floor beside him.
A shout from outside. “Slowly!” And: “Be careful!”
Thembinkosi was also being careful. Just don’t move.
“All clear?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Closer.”
“Yes, sir.” Two voices.
“Careful!”
“Yes, sir.” The same two voices.
The conversation was coming closer. Thembinkosi thought he could hear footsteps on the lawn. He had to swallow. Had a very bad feeling.
“Everything’s fine,” a voice spoke into the room. Couldn’t have meant the room itself.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Secure it.”
“Okay.”
Thembinkosi imagined himself growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared.
Metallic noises from outside. Click and clack. One safety, then another. Then it started. Thembinkosi didn’t close his eyes this time. The shots destroyed what still remained of the two men. The bed as well, the mattress. The shots buried themselves into the wardrobe, the walls, surely the hallway also. Something outside the room shattered. Devastation, Thembinkosi thought. Don’t just break, completely annihilate. A bullet landed right next to him, then another above him. He thought about Nozipho and how much he loved her.
Then it stopped.
“Everything’s secure?” From a distance outside the house.
“Completely secure.” From closer.
86
Moses waited. And thought about the blonde woman. She’d seen everything, too. The white man had… Moses was shaking.
The white man had shot him, Moses. That had been his intention.
He had to know what had happened. He slowly lifted his head. Used his arms. Peered over the short wall.
The other man was lying there. Moses looked at him and began to tremble even more. That was him lying there.
Maybe he was still alive. Moses shifted his gaze. The woman was gone. Maybe she was calling the police.
No, the police were already here. She didn’t need to call anyone. The white man was also gone.
The great shootout finally stopped again.
Moses stood up. Looked around one more time. He sprinted the few steps over to the man. Leaned down. Turned him over. Damp crotch. He was dead.
Turned him back over. Caught sight of the hole in the back of his head. The bullet had lodged itself there.
Moses began to cry. Who was this guy? Someone… some man… wrong place, wrong time… some black man, he thought, too. Some black man. He now caught sight of his shoes. Converse knockoffs, years of wear, tattered. The hole at the shoulder of his shirt. The rip in the seat of his jeans.
Some poor black man. Moses straightened up. He would avenge him.
87
“Completely secure.”
That’s what the voice had said.
Thembinkosi scratched on the wardrobe wall. At the same moment, Nozipho did the same from her side.
“Did anyone hear the other shot?” Outside.
“Shot?” A different voice.
“I did.” Another voice.
“No.” Numerous voices.
“Something happened.”
“Car backfire.”
“A shot. Unmistakable.”
How could a single shot be so important? he wondered. What could have possibly happened to make all this less important? Thembinkosi looked around. The attention outside was no longer focused on the room. He moved his head. Outside, footsteps moving away from them. Asphalt. High Voice was completely mangled. His clothes were barely recognizable. His head was a pulp, his arms which he had used to shield himself no longer had any attached muscles. All his blood had leaked out. And to think the media was locked in a debate about whether the South African police took their work seriously, he marveled.
“Yes, a shot.”
“But where?”
“Really?”
“Couldn’t have been a shot. Not on your life.”
“From over there.”
“…go over…”
Deep Voice hadn’t fared any better. His feet were gone, and his blood was now mingling with High Voice’s. Thembinkosi looked away.
The voices outside were fading away.
“Go search the house!” a male voice ordered.
“Yes, sir!” came the answer.