“Do you still ask God for his guidance?”
Barnard earnestly nodded his massive head. “Every morning and night, Pastor.”
“Good. And he listens. I see his strength in you.”
“Thank you, Pastor.”
Lombard’s clawlike hands gripped the sofa as a tremor of agony racked his body. Sweat sprang from his forehead, and his eyes pulled shut like dusty drapes.
Barnard felt uncomfortable. Expressions of sympathy did not come naturally to him. “I shouldn’t be bothering Pastor.”
Lombard fought his way through the pain, then sighed and sat back. He opened his eyes and held up a shaking hand. “No. Please.” He sucked air. “Is there something worrying you, Rudi? You look preoccupied.”
Barnard shrugged. “I don’t want to burden the Pastor.”
“Speak to me, Rudi. If I can help in some small way…” Some color had crept back into his sunken cheeks.
“I’m facing a battle. Maybe the biggest that I have fought.”
“Can you put a face to your enemy?”
“Yes.”
“Then God will give you strength, Rudi. See this as an opportunity, a chance to walk through the fire. A gift from him.”
“I am trying.”
A manic glint had come into the eye of Lombard. “Your enemies are sinners, Brother Rudi. Just as that mountain is burning tonight, so will their souls be lost in a lake of fire. Those fires of hell will melt their very bones and their lungs. A terrible stench will arise from them. And this fire is a fire that will burn for all eternity.” He gasped for breath but would not surrender the imaginary pulpit. “But you, Rudi, will walk through the fire, and you will receive the Holy Spirit! I know; I have walked that path!”
Lombard stood. “Come, my son, kneel.”
Barnard wrestled his bulk from the chair; then he folded down on bended knee before the quivering man. He closed his eyes.
Lombard lifted his face to where he believed heaven to be, somewhere beyond the stained ceiling, and squeezed his eyes shut. He placed a trembling hand on Rudi Barnard’s forehead, and a torrent of glottal, unintelligible words flowed from his lips, growing ever more powerful and louder.
Barnard kneeled like a small boy as the gift of tongues rained down upon him.
Berenice September was in her living room, the TV mumbling in the background, some politician lying about crime statistics in South Africa. Juanita sat next to her on the sofa, crying softly. Berenice put her arms around her daughter, trying to find enough strength in herself to comfort her.
The front door opened and Donovan came in from working late shift at the Goodwood McDonald’s. He still had a McD’s shirt on and carried a bag of Big Macs and fries.
He stood looking at his mother and sister. “Mommy?”
Berenice looked up at him. “I found him.”
Donovan put the bag down on top of the TV. “Tell me.”
Berenice stood and kissed Juanita on the forehead. “Stay here. I need to talk to your brother.”
Juanita reached for her, clawing at her blouse, grabbing the fabric in her fingers. Berenice gently broke the girl’s grip. “You wait here, my baby. We won’t be long.”
Donovan followed her into the kitchen, and she told him as much as she could bear to repeat. He was eighteen, a man. He deserved to know the truth. Donovan stood, his face gray. All at once he was puking; half- digested Big Macs spewed into the kitchen sink. She came up behind him and wet a dish towel, wiped his mouth off while he got his breath back.
When he could speak, he looked her in the eye. “You’re sure it’s Ronnie?”
She nodded. “I’m sure.”
“And it was Gatsby? What did it?”
“That’s what they are saying, ja.”
Donovan nodded. Saying nothing. He was the quiet one, her oldest son. So quiet, sometimes, that it worried her.
“Donovan.”
He stared at nothing, trying to process what she had told him.
“Donovan, look at me.” His eyes found hers. “I want you to promise me that you aren’t going to do something stupid now. The police will sort this out.”
He spat into the sink. “The police. Fuck the police.” He never spoke like that. He rinsed his mouth, then turned to her. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“It’s okay. You’re a good boy. I just don’t want you getting into trouble.”
He nodded. She came up to him and put her arms around him. “Promise me, Donovan.”
He stared over her shoulder. “I promise, Ma.”
Benny Mongrel huddled against a wall with Bessie, trying to escape the southeaster. The builders had left a mound of sand uncovered, and the gale flung it up against the unfinished house. The dog wheezed and moaned, disturbed by the wind. Benny Mongreers. roked her coat. He could feel the grit sticking in the matted fur. Sniper Security treated their watchmen like animals and their dogs like shit. He didn’t know when last Bessie’s coat had seen water.
That’s the first thing he was going to do when he got her to his shack, put that tin tub out in the yard and fill it with water. Then he was going to take Sunlight soap and wash her. And if the knots refused to wash out, he would cut them out with his knife.
The wind drove Benny Mongrel crazy too. He had a cloth wrapped around his ears and mouth, but still the sand got in somehow.
He squatted, watching the flames dance on the mountain above him, acrid smoke and ashes raining down on him and Bessie. The helicopters were still at work, chattering overhead and dumping water into the mouth of the inferno.
It reminded him of being in Pollsmoor, when the mountain burned, and the inmates started pacing, restless, when even the old-timers who could endure anything started trying to bend the bars open with their hands.
A year ago, during the winds, an idiot, another Mongrel who was due for parole, had lost his mind and stolen food from Benny Mongrel’s bed. He had caught the man, and the other prisoners in the cell had waited for Benny Mongrel to say goodnight.
But Benny Mongrel ordered that the man be held down, and a towel was forced into his mouth to keep him quiet. Benny Mongrel then amputated the fingers of both of the man’s hands with his prison shank, a job that required time and strength. Benny Mongrel left him his thumbs. Blood spurted, and the man passed out from the pain.
One of the prisoners had a hot plate in the cell. Benny Mongrel had taken the bleeding stumps and cauterized them on the hot plate, and the smell of burning flesh mingled with the smell of smoke from the mountain fire.
In the morning the warders took the man to the prison hospital. He refused to say a word about who amputated his fingers. Within a week he was back in the cell, with bandages on his hands and a new nickname.
Fingers.
The men had asked Benny Mongrel why he left the man’s thumbs. So he can hitchhike home, he told them. They had laughed. He had not.
This fucken wind made men go mad.
Benny Mongrel heard the car engine. He knew it was the Jeep from next door and didn’t bother to get up. During a lull in the wind he caught the rattle of the American’s garage door rolling up; then he heard the car ease forward. Then the sound of metal scraping brick.
Bessie growled. Benny Mongrel stood and went to the edge of the balcony.
The American had driven into the wall and caught his right fender. He reversed and got out to have a look at the damage. He was drunk, and Benny Mongrel could hear him curse. He got back into the car and drove it into the garage, and the door came down.
