Spiders.
Daddy-long-legs.
‘I spy with my little eye,’ says Treppie, suddenly here next to him. Lambert jumps. He sits up quickly, trying to hide the binoculars behind his back. But Treppie doesn’t want them. He’s sitting on a crate, holding his hands like binoculars in front of his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling.
‘The sky’s the limit,’ he says.
Then he takes away his hands.
‘And the heavens declare!’
‘Just don’t start with me now.’
‘I’m not starting with you.’ Treppie winks. ‘I’ve got a suggestion for you. Put on your shoes, and then bring those binoculars of yours. I’ve got the Klipdrift. We can tell Pop and them we’re just going for a spin to Brixton. Then I’ll take you on an outing. Then I’ll really show you something.’
‘Like what?’
‘Shit with what. If you’re scared, bring your gun.’ Treppie winks a double-wink at him. First with one eye and then the other.
Okay, so he knows, the bastard. Nothing to be done about it. And with all that Klipdrift in him, he’s capable of barging into places he doesn’t belong. Well, okay then, for just in case.
Lambert takes his belt from the steel cabinet and fastens it under his belly. He loads the gun. One bullet for every hole. Six of them. Then he puts the gun into his belt on one side. His binoculars dangle from his neck.
Treppie stands at the door, looking at him. He rocks slowly on his feet.
‘I’m ready if you’re ready.’
Treppie salutes. It’s weird, his fist makes a dull noise as he knocks it against his chest. With the other hand, he lifts the Klipdrift high into the air, and says:
‘It’s the knight of Triumph
Look, look, look over here
He can see around corners
And his barrel is loaded
But where, oh where is his Guinevere?’
Treppie mustn’t go and fuck with him now. He wants to know who this Guinevere is, but he decides to leave it. One thing at a time. He’s feeling a bit jittery about this outing.
Treppie doesn’t drive to Brixton. He drives down Long Street, with a smile on his face, till he gets to the gates of the other big Jo’burg dump, the one between West Park cemetery and the police flats. That building’s so high you can see it for miles around. It even flashes a red light on top to warn aeroplanes at night. From its windows you can see the dumps, the cemetery, and from Northcliff hill all the way to Florida, where the water-organ plays. On the other side it looks out over the northern suburbs, right up to the Sandton Sun, which shines like a bar of gold in the night, also with a light on top.
They climb over the high gate. Treppie walks in front between high piles of rubbish until they get to the back of the flats. The moon shines brightly all around them. A fucken weird place to visit at this time of night! He wonders what bee Treppie’s got in his bonnet. They walk past an old kaffir sitting next to his konka. The poor bastard must live here.
‘Evening, my masters,’ says the kaffir, taking off his hat.
‘Evening, chief,’ they say to him.
It takes a long time before they get to where Treppie wants to be — a big heap of stones.
Up here, Treppie points. ‘That’s it,’ he says when they get to the top.
Not rocks, Lambert sees, but stones. Smooth, shiny cut-offs from polished granite, the left-overs from West Park’s headstones. Lambert looks at the big block of flats. Then he looks around him. A person can see far from here.
‘Must be nice to live here, with a view like this. You can almost see the whole of Jo’burg.’
‘Oh yes, as long and as wide as God’s mercy.’
Lambert looks at Treppie. He’s full of tricks again. He was hitting the Klipdrift early tonight, even before Lambert went on patrol.
‘Yes,’ says Treppie when they both find seats on flat pieces of stone, ‘and if you ask me, they need it, too. Fucken heavenly garages full of mercy. With a view, for just in case. Not that it’ll help. A policeman’s eyes sit too closely together, like a baboon’s. He just looks straight in front of him. Never sees what’s under his nose.’
Treppie shows with his fingers and his nose how the baboon-policemen look out at the world. Then he takes a long sip from the Klipdrift bottle and passes it on.
They drink and then they look at the big block of flats in front of them, with all its little squares of light.
‘These people don’t even close their curtains.’
‘Why should they?’ says Treppie. ‘On this side it’s just dead bodies and the city’s rubbish. But us, we’re here now, we’re alive and we’ve got a gun. And binoculars.’
Only now does he click Treppie’s plan.
‘And a snort,’ Treppie says. He holds the bottle up high and says ‘Cheers!’ to the flats.
It’s funny to be so close. Pop always says the flats look like a honeycomb from a distance. That’s when they go for a drive and they come back on the Albertskroon side. Then Treppie always says: A honeycomb with no sweetness in it. It looks more like a mouth organ to him, Treppie says. Then everyone laughs and says, but it hasn’t got any music either.
Those are their jokes about the big block of police flats. They’re bored with it.
But this is a completely different story. Now the flats look like lots of little square movies, all running at the same time on a big screen.
‘So now,’ says Treppie, ‘pass me that mean machine of yours so I can find us a nice one. Take your pick. Comedy, thriller, action, romance. The works. What you in the mood for tonight, hey, Lambert?’
Treppie’s nice and greased, he thinks. He smiles. Never a dull moment when Treppie’s in a jolly mood.
‘Mmm,’ says Treppie, looking through the binoculars. ‘Just what I thought.’
He looks where Treppie’s looking, up and down with the binoculars. They’re in for fun and games, ’cause Treppie will make up all kinds of things about what he says he sees there. All you can really see are the insides of the bottom flats, and the ceilings and walls of the flats higher up. But let’s give Treppie a chance here.
Treppie drops the binoculars. He keeps quiet and looks around. The broken pieces of headstone look eerie. He drinks from the bottle and holds it up against the moonlight to check the level. Then he starts singing:
‘Oh sentinel on the ramparts
How endless seems the night
But now the dawn is blushing
And soon the morning will be glad and bright.’
‘Hey, come now, man!’ He presses Treppie on the shoulder. He must be careful now. He knows Treppie well. If he stays jolly on the Klipdrift, then he’ll go to bed in a jolly mood. But if he starts getting the blues now, he’ll just get more and more miserable as the night goes on. And then he’ll start spinning heavy shit about him, Lambert, and the rest of them. And then, later, everything will get completely out of control.
Lambert looks through the binoculars. Let him just find something to cheer Treppie up now, ’cause Treppie looks like he wants to start crying or something. He looks at the bottom windows. There’s a row of candles in one window, a woman holding up a piece of meat in another, and then there’s a dog with his feet up against the glass, trying to look out. No luck tonight. But Treppie’s too drunk to care. He hands him the binoculars.
‘Shame, the poor dogs!’ Treppie suddenly sticks his nose up into the air and lets out a long dog-cry. ‘Hoo-eee-a-a-hoo!’
His voice echoes against the high flats. A few dogs bark in the distance. Lambert feels a cold shiver run down his tail-end.
‘No, shuddup now, Treppie, if they catch us here, what’ll you say then?’
‘Then I’ll say you’re my guardian angel! Or my guide dog!’ Treppie laughs a drunk little laugh.