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A COST OF DECAYJohn MG Harvey“No jissis, please tell me it’s not him. Just fokkin’ tell me anything but thet.” “Where the hell is Denver?” Ricardo screamed, his frantic query falling on deaf ears as Boobs slid a little further down the wall. He had already polished off the last of the Hansa, but beer was having little effect. Not after so many days. All it could do now was tide him over between runs, although he was glad it had been Denver, and not him, who lost the last round of rock-paper-scissors and had to go. But now he was leaving him high and dry — or not, as the case may be. “Boobs. Hey Boobs!” A low groan hinted at recognition momentarily before tailing off, no doubt back into the sanctity of Boobs’s blissfully white-piped world. A place Ricardo yearned to return to, hence his angst. Jagged quart bottles were strewn everywhere, yet each contained only traces of what once was. “After how many trips to thet Jood on the corner to pawn kak, there has to be some fokkin’ doyle left.” Ricardo was contemplating whether he actually said these words, or merely thought them, when a stirring in the next room jolted him. “Jissis, girl, listening to Maggie now. Tannie’s hooked more buttons than the whole of the Cape Flats put together,” he remembered saying to tumultuous approval. But then she left, surprising the ouens a bit, because she could usually roll with the punches. That, and seldom was the time that she spurned the offer of free Mandies. Boobs’s cricket bat, the one Dean Laing signed for him when he went on that coaching course at the Wanderers as a laaitie, was propped up against the couch. For this Ricardo now reached as quietly as possible. What would the old man think, his son’s motor skills barely functioning through a clouded drug haze while he was fighting off potential intruders in one of Hillbrow’s most notorious drug dens? Would the cross around his neck, presented to him on the occasion of his confirmation and which he now clutched so fervently, finally offer the guidance and protection his father had promised it would all those years ago? Another delirious snigger from Boobs checked Ricardo back to the present. There was no sense in prolonging this any further. Sooner or later he was bound to happen upon assault in Hillbrow; the only contention was whether he would be the victim or perpetrator. Edging slowly, he quaffed another insipid breath, counted to five and sprang into the room, not caring whether the flaying bat met with flesh or the inanimate. “Waddiefok, man!” a blur howled as it performed a dramatic combat roll off the far side of the bed. Ricardo had the bat poised like a riled Cobra above his right shoulder, a squat baseball stance daring the evil thing to make a move. “Who the fok you? Huh?” “Moer men, Ricardo. It’s me.” The voice rising from beneath the bedside table was familiar but he wasn’t about to rely on that. “Jessie who?” “From 201. Jy weet? Denver’s friend. Wit de dreads.” Ricardo lowered his weapon, but not before he peered surreptitiously over the edge of the bed and saw the encrusted locks for himself. “Jissis, Jessie. When you come in?” he asked, offering a placatory hand as the terrified teen got up and attempted to dust dried bits of Two-Minute-Noodle from his jersey. Jessie ceased his picking and met Ricardo’s eyes, unable to conceal his bewilderment. “Jirre bra, I been here since Friday night. You smoked wit me two hours ago. And an hour before det. And like, every other fokkin’ hour before det one.” Ricardo looked quizzically at his addresser. There was no indication he was having him on, and anyway, Jessie was too fucked up for that. His idea of humour was watching Maggie’s dog Patience take a kak. The fateful realisation, the one every bona fide user detested more than anything else, began to scythe through the cobwebs. But no. Calling it quits … he couldn’t face that. Being a veggie with no teeth was still paradise as opposed to the hell of getting straight. That road was littered with demons. “Reverend Witbooi, so nice to see you again. And how’s little Ricardo?” “Always fine, Mrs Geswindt. We’re always fine.” No way was he going to entertain those memories. Jessie was still glued to him, that characteristic deadpan expression of which only he knew the source, searching for contact. “Hey,” Ricardo said at last, trying his best to regain whatever composure he had left, “you got any more?” “’Course man. Was jest gonna come call you for a pipe when you went fokkin’ bedonderd.” “Told youse. Fokkin’ creck was kak.” The Denver lecture was making him feel worse, if that was possible. He had had some pretty bad comedowns in his life, but this was new territory. And now he needed to take a piss, an effort that would definitely make him throw up again. Although, he thought, there would probably be nothing left, a handful of Shirley’s Flings the only solids he could remember passing down his neck. “Youse know, Ricardo, Em your bra, bra. Youse killing yourself like dis. Check me. Get my buzz and den chill. E-a-s-e into de next one, jy weet? Det’s de way to do it, bra.” Ricardo decided he would rather take his chances with the puking than listen to this. Slowing his breathing to quell the discomfort crawling over his body he got up, making sure to summon enough strength to give Denver a defiant finger. Poes that he was. When he came right, he would remember his gloating and there’d be hell to pay. But Denver merely responded with a whore’s cackle. “Ja, ja, ja Riccie. Miskien I cen go get youse another golfstick, huh?” Thankfully, his concentration was too centred on holding it in to care, but looking up, he saw the bathroom was already occupied. “Who the fok’s in there?” he managed to stammer. He could hear a whimpering, like Patience with the runs. But he could not decipher it. Out of sheer desperation Ricardo banged on the door, causing another few flakes of paint to rain down. When it suddenly swung open, revealing Shirley in nothing but a loosely-hanging bra and a naked Boobs huddled near the basin unsuccessfully trying to conceal a hard-on, Ricardo thought he was going to pass out. Shirley now had him by the crop of his T-shirt, fire jettisoning from her bloodshot eyes. Beads of urine trickled down his inner thigh. “Listen here, Ricardo. You hed your fokkin’ chance nou die dag. But you couldn’t fokkin’ get it up. Boobs cen. End of story. Now fok off.” The rejection, rejection, rejection ... “You’re an emberressment to your mother and me. How em I supposed to face my congregation after what you’ve done? I counsel Mrs Yearwood. I give her edvice about her daughter, but how cen I when my own son allows the devil to run through his veins?” Ricardo could actually hear the blood thudding in his ears. So much agony. He thought about just hanging it out the window — he’d seen Boobs do that on the sly — but Denver was still around. He would never let him live that down, especially since he paid half the rent. The only other available toilets were in the communal bathroom on the sixth floor, but that meant climbing a flight, which in turn meant the serious possibility of flaking out. Only losing consciousness anywhere in Hillbrow, even a few metres from your own flat, was akin to signing your own death warrant. He could always piss in the corridor, but then he ran the risk of one of the Nigerians down the hall finding him, and they were about as predictable as the crack they sold. Eventually resigning himself to the inevitable, he went back into the lounge and took Boobs’s bat in hand. That alone would set the Nigies off, but he felt safer nonetheless. “What heppened?” he muttered desperately before beginning his ascent, his mind clogged with Northern Cape junior science awards and the promise of bursaries to Pretoria Boys High. Every step he now took seemed like a metaphor for what his life had become — a horror suspended only by the relief of the next piss or pipe or hit. Down on his haunches, he leant on the bat as he reached the sixth floor stairwell. Like Kirsten taking a drink after notching up another test ton; only Ricardo was padding down with his free hand for the nip he was sure he kept. Shit weed, but beggars could not be choosers. The acridity of the smoke went straight for his nausea. As suspected, this met with nothing but a ferocious bout of dry heaving. Eventually regaining his breath and wiping away tears, he tried the closet door, but a stubborn lock soon put paid to that idea. Fortunately, he could see the bathroom light flickering halfway down the passage. As he drew nearer, literally praying to meet with some semblance of hygiene, he could hear a baby crying; not an uncommon occurrence in Langley Court by any stretch, but Ricardo couldn’t help noting an unusually high pitch to it. That, and it was incessant, with not even a few seconds’ break between as with a new-born. He was tempted to investigate (it seemed as though the screams came from the third door from the end) but the urge to piss was overwhelming. The bathroom floor was covered in pools of water, a vandalised basin the culprit. Ricardo slipped several times before getting to the urinal, soaking his clothes through. It was all worth it, though, as he freed those first few jets, celebrating the salvation by snaking figure eights every which way before he felt sick again. As he shook out the final few drops, the baby let out another piercing screech, so loud this time as to rattle those bathroom windows still intact. Ricardo decided he would take a look. It just wasn’t natural. Not that he knew what to do about it if it wasn’t, but some or other rudimentary impulse was compelling him. He could hear a man’s voice trying to placate the child, deep and purposeful, but with a strange urgency to its pronunciation. At first, Ricardo could not make out more than a few words; a lot of “ls”, like “lovey” and “love”. But as he snuck closer to the door, which was standing slightly ajar, the dialogue could be heard quite clearly in spite of the crying. “That’s my girl. Is it too hot, baby, or do you like the pain? ’Cause that’s what you’ve given me, bitch. Nothing but fucking pain.” And then a woman’s voice. “Ag, leave it now, Charles. Let’s go to Hugh’s place. I’m fucking sick of this flat.” “Fuck off, Miriam,” came his curt retort. “This little bitch has to know what she’s done to you and me. You’re too fucking soft, that’s your problem.” “Ja, ja, ja. I’m soft, so what? Come on now, I’ve got a client at six.” There was a pause. “Jesus, who do you think you are talking about a client? Some Sandton call-girl or something?” The man added a throaty laugh as homage to his joke. At this Ricardo inched his head around the door, too transfixed by what he heard to consider the dangers. Several lampshades threw light into the centre of the room, while a muted black-and-white television gave a strobe effect against the darkness of the perimeters. The woman was bending over a centrally situated coffee table, wearing a tight black dress that rode up her big white thighs and arse, revealing panties of an achromatic royal blue. To his mind, the scene looked to be nothing out of the ordinary save for the continual crying. Just another cash-strapped Hillbrow family getting through its doomed existence. Besides, it was not every day that he had the chance to gaze so lasciviously upon another man’s woman’s treasures for free. Her face certainly showed the signs of a hard life, but her arse looked to be the perfect product of tone and moisturiser. She was what he wanted in life, only he would have to slow down on the drugs a bit to be able to get it up again. Shirley was right about that. And then it happened. As easily as someone might take a breath, the man raised himself from the chair and with all his force brought his elbow down onto what lay on his flank, resurging again and repeating the motion. Three times. Four times. The woman began to scream, but not nearly so loudly as the infant. “Fuck, Charles, you psycho! Stop it! Fucking stop it! Aren’t the fucking cigarettes enough?” She had her arms clawing at his torso, trying in vain to restrain him from bludgeoning the baby further. Ricardo felt his mouth go dry and his heart shatter in the depths of his throat. He recognised the presence of the bat in his right hand and to a lesser extent what it could do to end this nightmare, but it might as well have been downstairs with Boobs. His legs were floating somewhere far below near the red lino of the passage, just like an acid trip or something, only of the worst kind. One of those “introspective” things he read about in Shirley’s People magazine. Ecstacy. It had been a long time since he’d had it, but with the mandrax buzz still lingering it was pure joy. A sensation he could almost wrap himself up in like a sleeping bag. Denver and Boobs laughed at something or other before the conversation moved to whether the female newsreader on the TV was worth a naai. Ricardo felt a brief tinge of jealousy that they were still able to think of pussy in this state and he not. Then again, he thought, pussy couldn’t hold a candle to euphoria. Denver and Boobs just hadn’t come to realise the truth yet. “Em telling youse, bra. Stukkie’s got fake tits.” “Nah, you talking kak, men. S’ real, det.” Ricardo grinned at the banter between these, the best friends anybody could have. God, they were like family. No, not like. Were. Just as he was about to close his eyes to consume the ethereal shapes dancing behind his lids, he was roused by a sudden shouting. Shirley. “Jissis, are you guys watching dis?” “Huh?” said Boobs lazily. “De news, men. SABC3.” “What youse think, bra?” answered Denver this time, nodding towards the TV. But his jaw dropped when he saw what it was Shirley was so hysterical about. “Well don’t jest stand dere, bitch! Turn it up, for fok’s sake,” he demanded, the realisation of what the panning shot depicted rapidly hitting home. Shirley obliged immediately for once, prompting Ricardo to sit up as well. Gauteng police spokesmen said several similar incidents of child abuse had been reported in the building in 2002, but none quite so vicious as this latest attack. Doctors said the three-month-old baby was in a critical but stable condition at Johannesburg Hospital. She had sustained several fractured ribs in addition to the breaks to her to arms and legs. “Got any whisky, Boobs?” Ricardo asked, ignoring the attention his friend was giving to the TV. “Em relly keen for some.” Boobs stared. “Jissis, Ricardo. Can’t you see det’s our building? On de TV.” A smile broke across Ricardo’s face. He knew all too well Boobs’s predilection for playing the fool on pills. “Kak men. You jest fokking with me.” But Boobs was motionless, his eyes fixed on the insert. Playfully, Ricardo gave an appeasing sigh and turned to face the box to validate the fact he was obviously too sharp for them. The blood drained from his body. Police have issued a warrant for the arrest of this man, Charles Dieter Clarke... The sketched face of the devil lit up the screen and looked directly into Ricardo’s soul. … He is about thirty-two years old and of medium build. Police are also looking for his partner, 39-year-old Miriam Drewitt. It is unclear at this stage whether Miss Drewitt is the mother of the baby. Anyone with information can contact investigating officer Sergeant Gerhard .... “Fok, Ricardo. Are youse alright, men? Ricardo. Fok, help me get him up. What’s wrong, men?” A quivering apparition, like something that had once been a person, hugged its knees to its chest. “No jissis, please tell me it’s not him. Just fokkin’ tell me anything but thet.”
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