Circus. Irma Venter
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Fey?” The voice on the other side of the door is deep, impatient. “We must speak to you urgently.”
Liesbet freezes in her tracks.
“Come, in heaven’s name,” I hiss.
The brass doorknob turns.
“It’s locked. Break it down,” the same voice says.
A hard jolt makes the door shudder in its frame.
Liesbet comes to life. She whirls round, grabs her handbag, runs for the outside door behind the curtain, hunting for her keys.
The vestry door splinters in the centre.
Liesbet pushes a key into the lock. Wrong one.
I turn, my back against hers, pistol in my hand.
She keeps fumbling, her breathing shallow and fast.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I pray softly.
Another violent blow against the door. “Reverend Fey, come now. Don’t be difficult,” says the man on the other side.
At last the right key. Liesbet unlocks the door, then the security door.
Behind us the door of the vestry caves in.
We run. Liesbet heads for the Renault.
“My car!” I say.
She swerves to follow me to the Hilux, raises the remote control. The gate slides open.
“Shaquel! Stop them!” a voice calls behind us.
I dig in my jacket pocket for the bakkie’s keys.
I look up to see a man come running through the gate. A tough, wiry man, with a tough, wiry face. A rat with a pistol in his hand and bright-orange takkies on his feet.
My eyes search up and down the street. Where is everybody? All the cars that were there a while ago have gone. The pavement is empty, except for an old black BMW 3 Series with shiny rims.
I swing round. Two men are approaching from the direction of the church, their weapons levelled at us. Where is the third man? I’m sure there were three inside the church.
I look back at the gate.
“Stop right there.” The rat raises his weapon.
I ignore him, shuffle backward to the Hilux, Liesbet by my side.
“Stop!” he says again. “I’ll fucking shoot you.”
“Watch it,” says the bigger man. “Don’t hurt the reverend.”
The rat motions with his pistol for me to step aside. “Get lost. Now.”
I ignore him again. Keep shuffling until my back is against the Hilux, Liesbet beside me.
Where can the other man be?
A noise startles me, makes me look back.
A man – the one I’ve been missing – jumps from the back of the bakkie, on top of me.
I go down. The Glock flies from my hand.
“Liesbet! Run!”
A fist slams into my ribs. Air explodes out of my lungs.
“I’ve got the reverend!” A man has Liesbet by the hair. She screams, fights against his grip. He drags her to the gate.
A foot connects with my side. I catch a fleeting glimpse of orange takkies.
“Shaquel!” the big man shouts. “Leave the stupid bitch and come! We’ve got what we came for!”
I try to get to my feet. The rat’s final kick lands in my stomach. I gasp for air. Fall back to the ground and watch as the takkies get into the BMW and drive away.
ADRIANA
1
Johannesburg, June 1988
“Addie, come on!” Sandra’s voice cuts shrilly through the dark.
“Shh,” I hiss. “You’ll wake my mom.”
Straddling the windowsill, I hitch up my black dress, swing my right leg over and slide down to the concrete path. Carefully I push my bedroom window shut.
I hurry across the ice-cold grass, shoes in hand. Tippy, the Du Toits’ pavement special, barks at me through the slack wire fence of the neighbouring house. Besides the yapping and the Ford Cortina’s hoarse idling, it’s surprisingly quiet for Jan Hofmeyer at ten-thirty in the evening.
“Shut up!” Sandra snarls at the dog.
I get into the back of the cream-coloured car. Peet flicks his cigarette butt through the window and gives me a smile. “Howzit? Your ma dossing?”
I nod. I don’t want to talk about her. She was discharged from Tara Psychiatric Hospital yesterday and is happy to be home.
My dad is home too, but in the garage, as usual. It’s his safe haven, the place he flees to when my mom finally manages to fall sleep. He’ll come to check that I’m in bed, then work in there till the early hours.
Or, if Peet is to be believed, spend his time paging through the latest girlie mag.
“Go,” I urge.
“You don’t feel like driving?” Peet asks.
There’s laughter in his voice. Last week I nearly took out a traffic light while he was teaching me to drive.
“Hilarious.”
Sandra leans back, squeezes my knee. “You okay? You look wasted.”
I do the laundry, cook and write exams. Where would I find time to sleep?
“Stop talking crap, let’s go!” I slip my stilettos on.
“Where to?” Peet asks as he pulls away.
“Roxy’s,” Sandra and I sing out together.
“That sleazy joint with the crappy music? Again?”
“It’s not sleazy,” I protest. “Besides, Daisy will get us in. Not all of us are eighteen, like you. And the brandy and Coke is cheap, remember?”
“Is she still teaching you her circus tricks?”
I keep silent. Next thing it’ll be all over school. And circus tricks can mean anything to schoolboys practically exhaling testosterone.
Peet drives with his right hand on the wheel and his left hand on the gear lever, just like his dad. He’s driving too fast. Modest homes flash past, then slightly bigger ones, until we reach the heart of the city with its tall grey blocks of flats and office buildings, the Hillbrow Tower keeping watch over the neon-lit, noisy streets.
I catch Peet’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “What’s bugging you?” I ask.
Sandra puts her hand on his thigh and speaks over her shoulder. “His dad wants him to join the police.”
“And you don’t want to?” I ask. “Might be better than the army.”
Peet gives an ugly laugh and lights a cigarette. His whole family smokes, so no one will know he’s been sneaking a cigarette in his dad’s car.
“That’s exactly what my dad says. The fight is no longer in Namibia or Angola, he says, it’s here. In the townships.” He draws deeply on the cigarette. “Fuck them all. My dad, the bloody government, the fucking ANC. They’re all arseholes.”
“You can always fail matric again,” Sandra suggests.
“No ways.” He laughs again, his mouth suddenly vulnerable. “All this shit, the riots, the bombs; it’s not going to stop in a year. It’ll take decades to clean up this mess.”
“Get out,”