28 Boys Read online

  “I clean up things for a big company.” He doesn’t look like a cleaner as I look at the fancy shoes and dress shirt.

  “Nee, rerig?” No, really? I take a bite out of the roll we just bought, and the taste of my youth assaults me like a punch in the gut. The memories of real food are so vivid as I swallow.

  “Let’s get to my car and we can catch up, Frankie.”

  I walk a little way with him to a parking garage, where we climb the stairs to the second floor and he opens a black car that looks way too fancy for a cleaner, or a gangster. I open the passenger door after he gets in, and he glares at me. I wait for him to start the car, but he doesn’t.

  I glance around the interior and see binoculars and cameras.

  “Wat doen jy, Eiran, rerig? Is jy ’n spy?” What do you do, really, Eiran? Are you a spy?

  “I clean up dead bodies, mostly ones killed by that girl you can see through the window across there. She’s my boss. Well, one of my bosses.”

  I take a second to look and contemplate what he is saying. “How did you get out and land up doing this?” I finish my lunch and crumple up the paper in my fist.

  “I kidnapped her and she nearly killed me, it was die or become hers. She paid them her ransom and a fee to keep me.” He says it all so matter of fact, but it sounds like a bad joke.

  “Became hers?” His tone changed when he says those words.

  “I belong to her. I love her.” He looks at me with a serious frown when he says it.

  “So why are you spying on her during lunch if you’re in love?” I am so confused, twelve years is a long time to be missing, and everything is so different.

  “You wouldn’t understand, Frankie. Do you want a job? I’m hiring on my team. If you want to make good money, tell me, and you’re in. You are mos family.” You are, of course, family.

  I contemplate his offer. What else am I going to do? Just be a gangster? I don’t want that life. I am too old.

  “Ja, why not? Will the Agt’s be upset?” Yes, why not. Will the Eight’s be upset? I need to know if this is a legitimate way out of the gang.

  “I can keep you safe up to a point. I work with the company that owns most of their streets.” I nod, still horribly confused by the things he says, and watch the girl whom he cannot tear his eyes away from - even when he talks to me. “Fine, let’s go to the office and get you set up, you can train with me this next week.”

  Just like that I have a job with an old friend. A new devil.

  4

  Engela

  even angels get tired and scared

  After a twelve hour shift at the check-in counter I am beat, my feet are aching, and all I want is to get home. To shower, eat, and sleep.

  I stand on the corner waiting for the bus to pick me up. It should be here soon, but one can never tell whether or not they’ll be on time. I hug my handbag close to my chest when I see some young boys milling about. I don’t trust them. I have been robbed too many times.

  I see a man walking up and am immediately uneasy. I have been taught - and learned the hard way - that everyone is dangerous. Especially men. I stand right on the curb so I can run if I have to.

  The rumble of the approaching bus makes me feel a little better. I stand ready to get on, to grab a seat right in front near the driver. It’s the safest spot on the bus. I am jumpy and have the sick feeling that it is dangerous out tonight.

  The bus grumbles to a halt in front of me and the doors squeak open. I am the first to step on and claim the front seat right behind the driver, who nods in greeting. I hold my purse on my lap and wait for everyone to get on the bus. This driver doesn’t wait long, he likes to get going fast.

  When you catch the bus for long enough you get to know which drivers are which, this is not one who dawdles. Just as I know he is ready to go, someone sits right beside me. The bus is almost empty and I feel the fear grip and strangle me.

  “Naand, Engela.” Evening, Engela.

  Francis; it’s only him. Not that that’s a good thing, but it could have been something – or someone – much worse.

  “Naand, Francis.” Evening Francis. I greet, and glance up at him for a second.

  He still looks the same – well, his face does. He leans back in the seat and closes his eyes.

  Sleeping on the bus isn’t safe. He is an idiot. You only do that once. I shake my head silently and look out the front windscreen as we drive towards the hell we call home.

  The bus ride is quiet. No one makes catcalls, or bothers me, with this ex-prison gangster by my side; this might not be all that bad. If Francis didn’t kill my brother I might consider liking him, maybe be his friend.

  The man asleep next to me, covered in prison signs and snoring a little, is a murderer. Unlike my mother I won’t just forget that fact. The streetlights flick past as the driver speeds along, he is reckless weaving in and out of traffic like he has no one on board at all. Our lives don’t matter to him, we are just a job, a shitty job he clearly hates.

  The brakes squeal when he slams on anchors to avoid a crash. Francis flies forward, almost hitting his head on the bar that separates us from the driver. He is angry and has words with the driver, who looks afraid and starts driving a bit slower.

  I shake my head and look out the window next to me.

  The littered streets shining in the dim streetlights come alive at night, in a different way, a bad way.

  When the bus comes to its normal screeching halt at the bus stop three blocks away from home, I stand up, hug my bag close to me, and get ready to power walk home before anything bad can happen to me. My little boy will be fast asleep by now and my dinner cold on the table.

  Ma will be sitting at the table watching. The simple comfort of knowing exactly what is waiting for me calms my thrashing heart, and I step off the bus and dart away.

  The bus stop is dangerous at night.

  I feel someone behind me. My brain knows it’s Francis, but I am still afraid, even of him, so I walk faster. My work shoes are hurting my feet at this pace, they cut and dig into my feet. I don’t care. I just want to be safe inside my house.

  The sound of his footsteps gets closer and closer, and my breaths get shorter and shorter. I am unfit, and there is no way I could outrun him. I saw those arms, and know he is built like a Ratel IFV and could catch me if he wanted to.

  “Engela, wag.” Engela, wait. He calls out just behind me.

  I don’t want to stop and wait for a murderer in the dark. Even an idiot would know that’s a simple idea. “Ek wag nie, Francis. Ek will net huis toe gaan. Los my uit.” I am not waiting, Francis. I just want to go home. Leave me alone.

  I hope he does just leave me alone. My hope dissipates when I feel his large hand on my shoulder.

  “Dis nie veilig nie. Ek sal saam met jou loop. Engela, meisies behoort nie die tyd van die aand op die straat nie.” It’s not safe. I will walk with you. Engela, girls don’t belong on the streets at this time of night.

  He sounds concerned for my safety. “Ek is nie jou meisje nie, Francis, los my net uit. Ek loop elke aand huis toe and ek lewe nog.” I am not your girl, Francis, just leave me alone. I walk home every night and I am still alive. I don’t want to be near him.

  “Fok, ek sal net agter jou loop dan. Bladdy stubborn vrou.” Fuck, then I will just walk behind you. Damn stubborn woman.

  He does just that, follows two steps behind me all the way home, and I have never felt so unsafe on my trip home - ever. I clutch my handbag tighter, with my heart pounding against my ribcage.

  I secretly wish this man was still behind bars. I have no idea how he managed to get out, but I hate that he is here. I walk as fast as these stupid shoes let me, and as we get to our street I sense him as he disappears into his home.

  Letting out a sigh of relief I walk through the broken front gate and scratch for my house keys in my bag. I lock the door behind me and walk in as quietly as I can, not wanting to wake little Dan at this hour. I need a bit of sleep before I h
ave to be mommy. Ma is at the kitchen table and my dinner is waiting under a tea towel for me to heat it up, only tonight there is another plate.

  “Hoekom eet jy nie, Ma? Jy’t geweet ek gaan so laat wees.” Why didn’t you eat, Ma? You knew I would be late.

  She shouldn’t have waited for me to eat, it’s really late.

  “Dis vir Francis, vat dit vir hom asseblief. Ek sal joune nou warm maak.” That’s for Francis, take it over to him please. I’ll warm yours up so long.

  She cannot be serious.

  “Why are we giving him our food, Ma?” I am so angry at how easily she has forgotten that he killed my brother.

  “Hy is ’n mens, dis hoekom.” He is a person, that’s why.

  I am too tired to argue with her about it, so grab the plate and slam the front door, forgetting about the baby in my moment of irritation. I stomp all the way there and don’t bother to knock, I just shove his shitty broken door open. It’s dark in his house. No lights are on. I suspect they haven’t paid their electricity in years.

  A candle flickers at the kitchen table where he sits. The soft glow illuminates his face and the light makes him look as evil as I know he is. His head is down with those dark eyes closed, his hand firmly gripped around the gun that rests on the table.

  If the devil was a human I suspect this is exactly how he would look; beautifully dark. I swallow the dryness in my mouth and let out a small cough, alerting him to my presence.

  “Ek weet dis jy, Engela.” I know it’s you, Engela, he says, with his eyes still closed.

  “Ma het kos gestuur, bring net die bord terug.” Ma sent dinner, just bring the plate back.

  I turn and walk away. I am not going to be near him any more than I have to be.

  “Dankie, Engela.” Thank you Engela, he calls after me when I am almost at the door.

  “Dit was nie ek nie, sê dankie vir Ma as jy die bord terug vat.” It wasn’t me, thank Ma when you return the plate.

  I eat my dinner in silence, ignoring Ma while she stares aimlessly out at the street. I am starving, and the fact that my meal was shared with him makes my blood boil. I wash my plate and put it away, before I go and have a bath. Ma turns the geyser off to save electricity, so I know the water will be slightly warm, or cold.

  I just want to go to bed.

  Danial wakes at around two-thirty in the morning. I get up and give him a bottle and try settle him to sleep. His teeth are giving him a hard time and he won’t go back down without a fight.

  Car lights across the street draw my attention, and I pull my curtains just enough to see. I spy a ghost. I am sure of it.

  Eiran!

  I thought he was dead?

  I heard he was stabbed and cut up by some girl he kidnapped. I have not seen him in many years. I truly believed he was dead. Why is he back here? And why is he with Francis?

  They were friends, but Eiran was far worse than Francis. He was a vrot rotten apple. I watch the two of them shake hands, and he gets back into a fancy car. Francis walks around and his eyes meet mine for a second. I drop the curtain quickly.

  I shouldn’t be looking at them and I know it. I pick the niggling baby up and lie down with him on my chest. Dan falls asleep and I lie here awake, wondering how bad whatever is going on across the street really is? I know if I even try put his sleeping little body in his own bed he will wake up, so I try to get comfortable and close my eyes, but all I can see is Francis in the candlelight. And I feel sick.

  I must have dozed off eventually because the little finger in my eyeball wakes me and it’s light out already. I am not on shift again until 14h00 this afternoon, so I can relax a bit if I can sort him out.

  I shuffle to the kitchen with him on my hip; he is laughing and giggling as if he didn’t keep me up half the night. I plop him in his feeding chair while I make him some porridge. His little dimples remind me that there are things in life to smile about. I might not have wanted to be a teen mom, but I wouldn’t swap my son for anything.

  In between making airplane noises while feeding Dan his strawberry flavored porridge, I hear a car pull up across the road. There are very few people with cars in this neighborhood, so when you hear one that isn’t a taxi or a bus, you look. I turn so I can see out of the front window.

  I can only see the trunk of the same car from last night, and Francis’s back as he opens his front door. He looks even dirtier than before as he closes himself in. I turn back to my little boy, who now has both hands in his bowl, feeding himself because I looked away for a minute.

  “Sies seun.” Gross boy. He just laughs harder and continues to make a mess.

  I pick my mommy battles in life and decide to let him make a mess. I will give him a good bath just now. I have the feeling that Eiran’s return will only bring trouble.

  Although he looks like he is on the straight and narrow, I know better than to believe a boy from these streets could ever be. Twenty-eight boys, they are all destined for one thing, and that’s to die.

  I can only hope my son will be saved from that legacy. I will do everything I can to take him away from here.

  Danial is in the bath, splashing and laughing at me pulling faces, when I hear someone knocking at the front door. Ma is still asleep or she would have yelled that she is getting it.

  I grab a towel and lift the baby out of the water, and he starts the screaming that follows every bath. I can feel the water soaking my pajama top through the towel as I walk as fast as I can to the front door. I can’t think who the hell would be here this early in the day. Ma appears behind me in her dressing gown as I try look through the peephole in the door.

  It’s so dirty that I cannot see anything, so I crack the door open an inch and look around to see who it is, half expecting the police since I wasn’t expecting any visitors, and Ma never gets any.

  I am faced with Francis holding his dinner plate. He has showered and put clean clothes on. I see the goosebumps on his arms from the cold shower. I know there is no power - so no hot water either. I unhook the door chain and open the door.

  “Môre Engela, ek het die bord terug gebring.” Morning Engela, I brought the plate back.

  He holds it out to me, but I cannot take it while hanging onto the wriggling, crying baby. I step aside so Ma, who is now hovering behind me, can accept it from him.

  “Hello, Tannie. Baie dankie vir die kos, ek waardeer dit.” Hello Auntie. Thank you very much for the food, I really appreciate it, he says, and starts to walk away.

  “Kom in Francis, ek gaan koffie en ontbyt maak. Gaan sit sommer in die kombuis.” Come in Francis, I am about to make coffee and breakfast, go sit in the kitchen so long.

  Ma opens the door wide for him, and I want to slam it in his face.

  The screaming baby gives me a reason to leave, to finish his bath and get myself dressed.

  I can’t believe she just invited him into our home.

  5

  Francis

  feeds his soul

  The auntie across the road invites me in. Not only has she fed me every night since I arrived back, she now opens up her door and offers me warm coffee and breakfast. I am secretly glad I showered and changed, as horrible as the cold shower was.

  Unsure if it is rude to stay, or rude to go, I choose to stay because the promise of a warm coffee and breakfast is too good to turn down. I need to sort out the electricity situation at my house, but not today. I am tired, this job isn’t going to be as easy as Eiran made it sound.

  Their house is clean and doesn’t stink inside like mine does. I don’t know how I am going to get twelve years of stench out of it. I know where the kitchen is as I visited here many times when I was a kid. The kitchen looks the same, just everything is older now. The linoleum floors are marked and scratched where the faded blue chairs have been pushed in and out for years.

  The kettle is boiling. Steam clouds the window that faces my house as it bellows out of the spout. There are old pots and pans stacked next to the stove, and I see bread and eg
gs waiting on the counter next to the ancient stove.

  A creep of guilt climbs up my spine. I killed her son and here she is feeding me. Some days I feel bad for the things I have done, and other times I hardly think of them at all. I can’t change them, so try not let them into my head at all.

  Auntie makes coffee while I sit in silence at the kitchen table, a place of fellowship, friendship, and heartbreak in this home. I can hear Engela laughing and the belly giggles of the baby coming from the passage.

  “Melk en suiker?” Milk and sugar? she asks me, the aroma of coffee filling the room. It’s just instant coffee, but it smells like a million bucks to me.

  “Nee dankie, Tannie, net so is reg.” No thanks, Auntie, just like that is fine, I answer, and she passes me a cup of black gold.

  I am humbled by this woman. Her forgiveness is too good to be true as she carries on cooking, like I am just part of the family sitting here in her kitchen.

  “Eet jy eiers, Francis?” Do you eat eggs, Francis?

  “Ek eet enige iets, Tannie. Mens kry nie baie keuse binne nie.” I eat anything, Auntie. We didn’t get much choice inside.

  Her eyes turn sad as she nods at me with a pained smile, and cracks the eggs into a bowl to scramble. I watch her adding milk and salt to them while she beats them with an old hand mixer.

  It reminds me of my Ma and how hard she tried. I was her pride and joy, but I was never going to succeed. No. I was destined to be a number; my father was inside and I was always going to follow him there. Boys here don’t get a choice, it’s survive or die, and for most it’s die - trying to survive.

  The loud sizzle as the egg is poured into the hot pan brings me back to reality, and I don’t think I can do this. He was my friend.

  “Tannie, ek dink dit beter ek gaan.” Auntie, I think it’s better if I go.