Bad Habits Die Hard (3) "Great. I owe you two big time," she said and closed the door. After she had closed the door, the older janitor, Johan, looked at the younger one, Michael, and said, "You know, this isn’t the first time tenants have acted like this". "Really?" Michael asked as he chucked the rubbish into the bag Johan held open. "Nope. About ten years ago we had this real pervert living here. Now he liked to peep at women getting dressed- the younger the better, if you know what I mean," Johan said. "Bastard," Michael said, putting the last of the rubbish into the bag. "Yeah, he was. Anyways, turns out this building has been around for ages. We’re talking over a hundred here," Johan said. "Whoa. That old, huh?" "Yupp. Not only old, but also full of little passages and tunnels". "What do you mean?" "I mean," Johan said, putting his hand on the modern wall, "this is new. But on the other side- on the side of the bedroom, it’s not. And just behind the built-in cupboards, there aint no new fancy wall. Only a thin layer of bricks and plaster". "Hey? You telling me that if I got into these tunnels, that I only had to break through the plaster and the wooden cupboard- and I could walk into any flat?" "That’s what I’m telling you," Johan said and patted him on the back, "Only, I didn’t tell you, if you know what I mean?" "Oh yeah. For sure!" Michael winked at him. The two men left for the next floor. Christine smoked five spliffs in two hours, then spent the rest of the day eating and vomiting. For most of the day she sat on the floor of the lounge, alongside the double sofa, with her legs folded and her back resting against the single sofa. Huffing and puffing, enjoying each pull as though she was sampling wine rather than doing drugs. At first her head spun a little- and she remembers giggling as well, but just after the fourth one the nauseating feeling set in; she only smoked the fifth one in the hope that it would make her feel better. By nightfall she had started to return to normal. Normal enough, that is, to spot the note left on her bedroom door. Before seeing the note, though, she started by flushing the remainder of the weed down the toilet. After that she cleaned the lounge, vacuuming each spot three times. Then she went downstairs to the shop next to their building and bought four air-fresheners. Steve wouldn’t be too suspicious- she knew how much he liked a clean flat. After returning with the fresheners she placed all four- all of them lavender, her favourite- around the lounge and kitchen. Then she sat down and took a short breather as the nausea returned. When it had gone, she walked through to her room. The note was pinned to her door, and read: I’ve got something special to give you! She wasn’t scared this time; after all, Kurt had been in the flat earlier. But two thoughts jumped into her mind. She thought back to the morning, when she and Steve had found the first note. Kurt phoned right after she picked up the note. How did he know when to phone, she wondered. Pure luck? Maybe, but she also couldn’t remember telling him when her birthday was. That was, she presumed, what he meant by ‘something special’. Yet she was sure she hadn’t told him. Steve was the only person who knew- and he also knew that she wanted to pretend as though it wasn’t her birthday. No, she had to pretend it wasn’t her birthday. She looked at the clock: it was quarter to eight. Steve would be home in half an hour, so she walked through to the kitchen and started to make some his favourite spaghetti. Steve arrived home at half past eight. "Not a second early, not a second late. That’s my man!" "Hello honey," he greeted her as he walked in. She remained behind the kitchen table, keeping her anxious eyes fixed on him. He walked in and put his briefcase down on the double sofa, then stopped and sniffed the air. Christine’s heart thudded once in her chest, but settled down as he said, "Hmm, lavender. I like it," he walked towards her and she met him on the other side of the table. The two hugged, Christine grabbing hold of his muscular body and holding him longer than normal. "Whoa," he laughed, hugging her back, "What did I do to deserve this special hug?" "Nothing. I just feel good. That’s all," she said and showed him his meal. "Ahh," he said and picked up his plate, "Special hug. Special food. Hey, something’s brewing here- I know you too well" "Do you now?" she smiled and scuffed up his hair, "Eat up babe. I need to talk to you when you’re finished" "About tomorrow?" "Yeah," she sighed. Steve finished his meal, then made two cups of coffee and joined her on the double sofa. Christine sat facing him, with her legs folded and her back against the armrest. "So," he started off, "I know you don’t wanna do anything tomorrow, but, well, can I at least make you a breakfast?" he asked, stroking her leg with his left hand. "Uh-huh. No babe," she said, shaking her head from side to side "But it’s our first birthday together- and I know you had a bad experience a while back- you told me. But can’t we at least try with something small, like a breakfast?" She heard the words and lowered her head, looking down at the sofa and keeping her eyes closed for a while. She had to stop herself from screaming at Steve; that’s how angry she was at that moment. Bad experience? It’s more than a bad experience, she thought to herself. But it wouldn’t be fair to Steve if she started shouting at him, not if he didn’t know exactly what had happened that night. She would tell him. Right now. "Babe," she said, looking up and taking his hand. His touch was warm and soft. Her hands started to sweat slightly as she spoke, "I’ve never told anyone what happened that night. But I want to tell you". "Honey, if you don’t feel right, then d-" "Steve," she squeezed his hand, "I need to talk about it. Especially now, with this time of the year and with that asshole," she pointed her head at Kurt’s room, "Just listen. And let me talk. Okay?" "Okay" "Well," she breathed in a deep breath and exhaled, "Where to start. Huh," she laughed once, "I’m not even sure if I can do this- but I know I have to try," she said and moved closer to him. He brought his other hand to her and she grabbed hold of it, squeezing it softly. "I told you that I had problems with my dad?" "Right". "Well, it was more than just problems" "What do you mean?" "My dad tried to kill me," she said, looking into his eyes. Steve squeezed her hands, sat up straight and asked, "Hey?" "Let me start at the beginning. Right at the beginning, before I was even born. I think that’s when it all started to go wrong for dad," she nodded once, "Dad joined the army just after he married my mom. From what mom told me, he was one of the best, and in no time he made it into the elite forces- what were they called?" she bit on her lip, trying to think of the name. "Reccies?" Steve said, referring to the South African equivalent of the Green Berets or the SAS. "Yeah," she nodded, "that’s the one. Anyway, what happened to him on some of his missions- I don’t know. But I know that when I turned nine, he had to be discharged from the army" "Why?" "Dad had started running gambling nights at the camps. You see, my father loved the exciting life- that’s why he wanted to be in the elite forces- not because he loved the army. And, of course, those above him would have nothing to do with his gambling. Then one day his senior officer- the guy who was trying to stop dad’s gambling nights, was found dead. His throat had been slit open". "Jeez," Steve said, raising his eyebrows. "They couldn’t pin it on dad. But other things happened. Things we never heard of. All I know is that on my ninth birthday dad showed up dressed in his army uniform and with his bag chucked over his shoulder, and said ‘honey, I’m home’- that’s the one thing I remember about dad," she said, "he had a weird sense of humour". She continued, "Then the trouble started. Dad had nightmares every night. I remember hearing him scream- and not just any scream, a blood-curdling wholehearted cry for help. Hell," she shook her head, "Those screams alone gave me nightmares. I shudder when I think what he must have seen- or done. What made him act the way he did. Anyway, I don’t know when he started doing drugs, but soon after he did the nightmares stopped. And that was that- he was hooked. I heard mom and dad argue the one night, and he said he had a choice: either he could have nightmares, or he could do drugs. He chose drugs, obviously, and pretty soon our money ran out. But dad was too resourceful to let a small thing like money stand in his way. So he started selling the stuff" Steve took Christine’s hand and kissed it gently, then she continued, "Dad gave new meaning to the phrase ‘beat the competition’. All four rival pushers were found beaten to death, almost beyond recognition. Not just killed- but mauled, like an animal would its prey. I remembered seeing dad laugh when he read about it in the newspapers. Apparently he’d beaten the one guy so badly the guy’s ribcage had turned to mush. Broken into little splinters. The other guy’s left side of his face had caved in- like it had been sucked in," she said and closed her eyes for a second. Steve put his arms around her and hugged her. She did not cry, though. "Then," she continued, "that fateful night arrived. My eleventh birthday," she shifted her gaze to the floor, as though she was watching a movie of that night. "I was in the lounge, opening my present from mom, when dad came in said he had a gift for me. He opened his hand, and inside, wrapped in white paper with a bow around it, was the first spliff I ever saw in my life. ‘Take it, sweetie,’ he said to me, ‘it’s candy for the brain’. That’s when mom came in," she said and stopped. She kept her gaze on the floor, but now tears rolled down her soft cheeks. "Jesus, Steve," she said and looked at him, "How was mom supposed to know he was high? How she supposed to know that he was about to start a bad trip- that in the following minutes he would see us as the enemy? His fucked mind believed the nightmares would only stop once he killed us," she paused for a while, wiping the tears from her face and sniffling once. "Mom chased me into my room, told me she loved me, and that everything was gonna be alright. But that I shouldn’t open the door- no matter what" Christine’s gaze returned to the floor, back to the mental movie. "That’s when the sounds started. Crashing and banging and thudding. Dad shouting, mom screaming. Then I heard a sound I didn’t recognize. A soft sound, like someone slamming meat down on a floor. It was the sound of dad beating mom. Beating her as if she was the cause of his nightmares. The reason why he suffered the way he did," she stopped as more tears rolled down her face. Steve leant over to hug her, but she backed away and said, "I’m fine," holding her hand up in the air as well. "After that there was a short silence. I could hear dad talking, though. Saying things to mom. Giving her orders. Telling her what to tell me. He came to my door and banged on it. He said, ‘Sugar…daddy only wants to give you his present. That’s all’. When I didn’t reply I heard him drag mom to the door. That’s when I heard mom beg, saying, ‘ I’m begging you, Neil, leave her alone…I’m begging you’." Christine wiped the tears away. "The three words that Kurt used," Steve said, realizing why she had cowered in the corner. "Yeah. And the only reason I didn’t knee him into tomorrow," she said, sniffling again. "Then he started banging on the door again," she continued, "banging hard and loud, screaming at me to open up. That if I did, he would give me my present and everything would be alright. I never heard mom’s voice," she said and looked at Steve. Her brown eyes were full of tears, her cheeks already flooded by them. "I never heard her, because the bastard had already killed her…he was using her head to bang on the door" she said and bowed her head. "What? You mean you’re the kid from t-" Steve sat up straight. "Father head bangs on door- that’s me," she interrupted him, "I still can’t believe the papers were allowed to print a headline like that. And if I had been old enough, I would have sued them and closed them down. But all my family was dead- besides dad, and he sent the papers a letter telling them how much he liked their witty humour. Uhhhg. I hate him so much, Steve," she said and covered her eyes with her hands. Steve remained shell-shocked alongside of her. He had no idea she was the kid from that famous incident twelve years before. An incident that set the whole country talking. "I thought you were taken into some relocation program?" he asked. "I was. But when dad escaped, I ran as well. I knew that if I stayed with them dad would use his friends to track me. No, I was better off on my own, I figured. Away from any tails. So I came here, to Durban, and I changed my hair to this brown," she said, touching her shoulder length hair. "From what?" "I used to have long blonde hair. But that changed along with my surname and name. No longer was I called Louise Jones, but Christine Smith". "Neil Jones," Steve said, "That’s your dad’s name, isn’t it?" "The one and only. May he rot in hell" Steve and Christine spent the night on the couch. After she finished telling him her story, she snuggled up on his chest and fell asleep. Not wanting to disturb her, he fetched a blanket and slept with her. She hadn’t told him of the notes or about her clothes being swapped around. She hadn’t told him of the final note, the one warning her of the following day. She hadn’t told him for the same reason she hadn’t phoned him earlier: she was tired of being scared. She needed to face Kurt alone. Just to prove to herself that she wasn’t a whimpering coward. Steve awoke in the morning and left for work without waking her up. When he got up, she snuggled up on her elbow- and at first he had wanted to wake her, but then he remembered the conversation from the night before and how clear she had made herself. He left without making breakfast; deciding against it, just in case he disturbed her. No, he would pop down to the local shop and buy something. He kissed her once on the cheek and left. He had no idea that the kiss would be the last one ever. Christine awoke at midday. Outside the weather was humid but overcast. The news had predicted strong showers for later that evening, with the rainy conditions carrying over into the weekend. The day felt as surreal as her previous birthdays had. She kept on looking over at the phone, expecting it to ring, expecting her mom or aunt to be the caller. And they would wish her happy birthday and sing to her, just as they did on TV. Those thoughts only lasted for a few seconds, though, before the cold reality sunk in. She had no family. At least, none that she wanted to receive a phone call from. After eating breakfast she walked to the storage cupboard and took out her painting board and paints. That’s where she wanted to spent the rest of the day- lost in her own world, where she had no time to let memories ruin her day. There were no notes the rest of the day. No surprise changing of clothes. No phone calls. Nothing. Only Christine alone in the flat, lost in her imagination, spending her time the way she wanted. Steve was due to work late that evening. Around three o’clock, though, he received a phone call. "Hello, Steve Longworth here. How may I help you?" "Steve?" "Yes. Who’s this?" "I’m a friend of Kurt’s," the caller said. "I’m sorry, I can’t hear you". "I said I’m a friend of Kurt’s," the man said louder. "Kurt? Where is he? I need to ta-" "Listen. I phoning because I think Kurt might be planning something today. I’m not sure…but, he’s been on drugs the last few day. And, well, he said he had some business to take care of, then he left" "Hey? What business?" "Look, I have to go. I just thought I’d warn you," the caller said and put the phone down. Steve kept the phone to his ear for another second, then put it back on the receiver. Strange call, he thought. But it didn’t bother him too much and got back to work. Joe Wiggit’s trembling hands put the phone down. "Was that alright, Neil?" he asked. Neil Jones stood with a 9mm pistol pushed against Joe’s head and said, "Ain’t gonna win you any Oscars, Joe, but it’ll do" The slender, dark-haired Neil kept the gun pointed at Joe’s head, though, his blue eyes staring into the side of Joe’s sweaty face. Joe swallowed once and- keeping his hands in the air- asked, "So…can I go then?" Neil sniffed once and paused. His unshaven, scarred face contrasted the rest of his normal appearance; he looked like your regular kind of guy- black hair, blue eyes, medium build, and faded blue jeans and white shirt. But there was a look in Neil’s eyes that Joe had never seen before. It was that look that made Joe tremble- not the pistol. Neil could, after all, kill Joe with his bare hands. He didn’t need a pistol. In fact, if Joe had to choose, he would’ve gladly accepted a bullet in the back of the head rather than having his bones broken. "Yeah," Neil said, sniffing again, "You’re free to go" Joe’s body slumped as he heard those words and he closed his eyes for a second. Fool, Neil thought, he believes me. He actually believes me. BANG! The bullet ripped through Joe’s brain before he could even open his eyes. Who knows, perhaps Joe didn’t believe him. Maybe he closed his eyes to pray for his soul, not to thank God for sparing him. Neil stood beside the body and waited for the itching to start. Sure enough, within a few minutes his left cheek started to tingle. After putting put the gun away, he scratched the scar. He always used his right hand for that; he had let his fingernails grow longer on that hand because he felt it relieved the itch quicker. It also drew blood sooner. Now, as the blood trickled off his face, he went over his plan of action; it was time to end his nightmares. For once and all.
Copyright © 2001 David Rama |