Apocalypse Now Now (18 page)

We pull up next to an ugly grey warehouse and Ronin kills the headlights. An old drunk wanders down the road, stopping near the Cortina to take a leak, before disappearing into the darkness.

We step out into the pools of murky light on the pavement. Ronin nods to the gaudy facade of a club about a hundred metres away on the other side of the road. I can see two large bouncers outside. ‘OK, sparky, I’m not going to bullshit you,’ he says. ‘If we step foot in that club, there’s a pretty good chance that we’re both dead.’ He breathes in deeply through his nose, holds it for a couple of seconds and then lets the air out with a whoosh. ‘Either we can go in there and try to find the glowing man and probably get killed. Or we can go home, I’ll give you back your money and you forget that your girlfriend ever existed.’

‘We go in,’ I say decisively.

He looks at me intently. ‘I must admit, I wouldn’t have pegged you as the knight-in-shining-armour type.’

‘I’m not.’

He nods. ‘I get ya. Who can understand the cruel commands of the heart, eh?’

‘Yeah, something like that.’

He flexes his fists and rolls his neck from side to side. ‘I had a girl once. We were going to get married and everything.’

‘What happened?’

‘I stood her up at the altar and she’s been trying to kill me ever since.’

‘Brilliant,’ I say. ‘Now I know who to come to for relationship advice.’

‘Stupid thing is, I really loved her.’

‘So why’d you stand her up then?’ I say.

Ronin stretches his arms above him and in the half-light he looks like some kind of demented Viking praying to Odin. ‘It may be difficult to believe but I’ve got a lot of baggage,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I think I can believe it.’

He takes another breath, looks up at the sky and lets it out into the night air. He pounds himself a couple of times on the chest, slaps his cheeks, and then hands me his keys. ‘Well, if we’re going to do this I’m going to need what’s in the trunk,’ he says. I grab the keys and walk around to open the Cortina’s trunk. It’s a mess but I quickly isolate what Ronin wants from the jumble. Although I could be wrong, I’m pretty sure the Hawaiian boardshorts, the copy of
Eat, Pray, Love
and the cheese grater are not what Ronin’s after. Which leaves a bandolier of shotgun shells and a short, brutal sword in a red scabbard.

I grab them both, slam the trunk shut and take them back to the bounty hunter. He takes off his coat and straps the bandolier across his chest, then pulls the sword from its scabbard and cuts the air a couple of times.

‘This is Hagaz,’ Ronin says as if he’s introducing me to an old friend.

‘Do you name all your weapons?’ I say.

‘Only the ones that have killed beings with higher-order brain function,’ he says. Strangely, that makes me feel better. He slides
the weapon back into its scabbard, straps it around his waist and pulls his coat back on. He reaches into his mojo bag and takes out what looks like a weird green root with little black veins beneath the surface.

He breaks a piece off and puts it into his mouth. ‘Eat this,’ he says, pulling a face as he chews.

I take the green thing in my fingers. ‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Urfrog,’ he says. ‘It’ll help if the Anansi get too friendly.’

‘Frog?’ I say. ‘No thanks.’

‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘It tastes bad but it’s better than the alternative.’

I sniff it and then place it gingerly in my mouth. It tastes dry and old, like some kind of weird fungus. I close my eyes and chew until I can swallow it. Ronin offers me a sip from his hip flask and I take a gulp and wince at the sharp, medicinal taste. He takes a couple of sips, breathes in deeply again, and then he nods to me and starts to walk toward the entrance of the Flesh Palace. As we get closer I can see that the bouncers are well over six foot and immaculately dressed in black tuxedos. Their faces are jagged and uneven, the skin the grey and purple of Table Mountain, and greenish fungi juts from their heads like samurai topknots. One carries a huge, grisly halberd and a katana protrudes from a sheath on the back of the other.

‘Golems,’ Ronin whispers to me. ‘They’re new. The Queen must have access to a high-level sangoma to animate these bad boys.’

‘What do we do?’ I whisper.

‘Don’t worry, they’re mostly for show. You usually have to answer some dumb question and they’ll let you in. The punters love it, think it’s hilarious.’

The golems loom over us, their eyes black with a rainbow sheen like an oil spill. The Roman numeral I is set in gold into the forehead of the one with the halberd, and II into the forehead of the other.

‘What is the name of the Flesh Palace’s most popular performer?’ II says, his voice like the sound of rocks being crushed.

‘John Smith,’ Ronin says.

‘Incorrect,’ II says.

‘The
Queen
herself invited us.’ Despite the obvious attempt at diplomacy, he says ‘Queen’ like he’s talking about a particularly virulent STD. ‘You’re not going to stop one of her guests from entering, are you?’

‘Answer?’ the golem repeats.

‘I think we’ve come to the wrong place,’ Ronin says. ‘We’ll just stop hassling you and leave.’

‘Incorrect,’ I intones. ‘You have one more guess.’ II draws the blade from the sheath on his back. ‘Answer or die,’ I says.

My mind kicks into action. The two most successful Flesh Palace franchises are
Tokoloshe Money Shot
and
Legless Legolas
. It’s possible that Legless Legolas, the elven amputee, is the most popular, but I don’t think so. His popularity pales in comparison to the manky, grey-haired tokoloshe with the big belly and an even bigger … well, it can only be him.

‘Rumpelforeskin,’ I say confidently.

‘Correct,’ I rumbles. ‘You may enter.’

Inside, the place is a frenzy of flesh and fluid. Heavily tattooed waitresses push through the crowd with trays of drinks, one of them with a long, reptilian tail jutting from the back of skintight PVC pants.

We walk past the stage where naked women gyrate on poles for squat, bearded men. ‘Dwarven Legionnaires,’ Ronin murmurs as we pass them. ‘Don’t stare. They’ve killed people for less.’

I look down as we pass them, which gives me a good view of the grungy wooden floor. Judging by the dark red stains, beer isn’t the only thing that regularly gets spilled in this place. Topless dancers with suspiciously pointy ears proposition us and Ronin grins and winks at them.

‘A double Devil’s Tail,’ Ronin says as he gets to the bar. ‘With extra Devil.’ The bartender is the most beautiful transsexual I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen many. Especially ones with wings. She has blue-black skin, platinum-blonde hair and large white eyes that have no pupils or irises. A red latex dress sticks to her skin and a long string of pearls hangs between small breasts. Large white angelic wings are folded neatly behind her and they flutter gently as she gives us a jaw-dropping smile.

‘Katinka,’ Ronin says.

‘Jackie boy,’ she replies in a husky voice. ‘Have you decided to end it all? Death by the Anansi Queen?’

‘Is that any kind of greeting for an old friend?’

She smiles and leans over the bar to kiss him on the cheek.

‘How’s the hormone treatment coming, darlin’?’ Ronin says.

She sighs and cups her small breasts in her hands. ‘Expensive, Jackie. Dwarven doctors are a bunch of bloodsucking cunts at the best of times. When it comes to cases like mine … well.’

‘Dwarves are not really known for their tolerance of the transgendered,’ Ronin says. ‘Can’t you just, you know …?’

‘Illusion,’ Katinka says dismissively. ‘I use it when I have to. But it’s not just the looks, you know? Beneath it all I still have to look at myself in the mirror in the mornings. So it’s the goddamn dwarves, they’re the best with hormones. Luckily they’ll forget their allegiance to the dogma of the One Mountain God if you flash enough cash in front of their fat little noses,’ Katinka says and then spits on the ground. ‘A curse on their whole inbred race.’ She puts a hand in front of her mouth and breathes in deeply. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘That was unladylike.’

‘Never been fond of dwarves myself,’ Ronin says. ‘Well, besides Baresh.’

‘He was different,’ Katinka says softly. She pats Ronin gently on the shoulder and then turns her strange white eyes on me.

‘Are you … an angel?’ I blurt out. Smooth, Zevcenko. Really smooth.

Katinka laughs throatily. ‘Many of my clients think so, sugar, but technically I’m an Osira.’

‘The Osiraii are like African Valkyrie,’ Ronin says. ‘Tasked with fetching the souls of fallen warriors.’

‘Mucho-butch,’ Katinka says, looking down at her blood-red nails. ‘No task for a lady.’

‘The Osiraii are all women,’ Ronin explains. ‘They keep a few males around for mating purposes, but the rest …’ He draws a line across his throat with his finger.

‘They kill them?’ I say.

Katinka shrugs. ‘Why do the religious do anything? Part of the mythology. It has something to do with the female Mantis and her mating habits. The Flock says that the males are blessed and are sung onto the other side.’

‘By the Singer of Souls,’ I blurt out again. I’m on a roll in the not-thinking-before-you-speak department tonight.

‘You
are
a smarty-pants,’ Katinka says, raising her eyebrows. ‘Osiraii legends say that he was put in place to guard the gateways of space and time, that he is both the spirit of a place and a manifestation of its mythology.’ She shrugs. ‘Anyways, that shit is way too woo-woo for me. I’m more a sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll kinda girl. My mother and sisters sheltered me and pretended I was a girl to the Flock. First opportunity I got the hell out of Dodge and created a life where I live by my rules.’

‘These days Tinks is a body entrepreneur,’ Ronin says.

‘That’s what I love about you, Jackie,’ she says, patting his cheek. ‘Always tactful. Yes, when I’m not tending bar, I’m a working girl and my warriors are those slain by nine to fives and bitter wives. Although admittedly my methods are a little different.’ She takes the cigarette Jackie offers her.

‘Methods?’ I say.

She smiles and raises her little finger, and my mind explodes with scenes of orgies, bodies writhing together in a rhythmic concerto of flesh, lust and bodily fluids.

In an instant I’m back and gripping the bar with both my hands and shaking my head slowly as the last of the sinful memories drain from my mind.

‘What was that?’ I say.

‘The Osiraii are master illusionists,’ Ronin says with a grin. ‘Who needs the Internet when you’ve got Tinks?’

Katinka laughs. ‘Well, I’ll try to take that as a compliment, Jackie-O,’ she says. ‘But what about you, candy cane?’ She eyes me up and down, her mouth curving in a smile as Jackie lights her cigarette for her. ‘What battles are you fighting?’

‘My girlfriend,’ I say. ‘She’s missing.’

‘Oh, they all are, honey,’ she says, tapping her chest. ‘Emotionally distant. Empty inside.’

‘No, I mean she’s really gone. Like as in disappeared, vanished.’

‘Well, then you’re lucky,’ she says. ‘All you need to do is find her.’

Ronin is looking around the club uneasily. ‘Tinks, we need some intel.’

‘Of course, Jackie,’ she says. ‘Anything for you, sugar.’

‘Thing is, we’re looking for a glowing man,’ he says. ‘An Obambo.’

Katinka nods. ‘One of the strangest men I’ve ever had.’

‘You had sex with him?’ I say.

‘Well, let’s just say we didn’t sit and play sudoku all night, sweetness,’ she says. ‘But it might have been better if we had. He was an actor in one of the Flesh Palace films. One night he came to my room to talk. And, well, one thing led to another. But he was distracted and kept talking about his dead wife and kid. It’s a bit of a slap in the face for a lady with my considerable skills.’

‘Where can we find him?’ I say.

‘That’s where you’re out of luck, boys. A while back the Queen took an unnatural interest in him. Haven’t seen him since.’

‘An unnatural interest,’ Ronin says. ‘That’s the only kind of interest she has. How is Her Majesty?’ Ronin says.

Katinka shrugs and blows a delicate smoke ring. ‘The usual; cruel, ambitious, horny.’

‘Think you can get us an audience?’

‘I don’t think you need to worry about that,’ Katinka says, nodding to something behind us.

We turn to see four guys approaching us. Their skin is slightly grey and mottled, and they smell like an old cat lady’s flat. ‘Her Majesty wishes to see you,’ one of them says in a slow, drawling monotone.

Ronin nods. ‘Lead the way, spiderman.’

It’s only when they turn that I see the distended, bulbous arachnid bodies jutting from the backs of their necks, black but coloured with sickly yellows and bright warning reds.

‘Stop staring,’ Ronin whispers in my ear. ‘Nobody ever said they were pretty.’ He downs his drink. ‘Come on. I’d hate to keep
Her Majesty
waiting.’

Katinka reaches across the bar and grabs Ronin’s arm. ‘Try not to become a fallen warrior, OK, Jackie boy?’

Jackie laughs. ‘She can’t still hold a grudge, can she?’

The title of Siener is most often associated with Niklaas van Rensburg, adviser to the Boer general Koos de la Rey and mystic, whom many Afrikaners believe had the power of prophecy and far-sight. Lesser known is Dawid van Rensburg, Niklaas’s younger brother, who was also rumoured to be born with a special sensitivity that some believed was a gift from God to help the Boer nation in their struggle against the English.

In contrast to Niklaas’s strict spiritual moralism, Dawid grew into a rather eccentric and antisocial man. He left home at a young age, and travelled widely in and around South Africa, eventually returning to his people many years later with a child in tow. He never told anyone who the mother of his beloved daughter was. The few accounts of her describe her as a pretty, dark-haired child. Niklaas had already established himself as a Siener and welcomed Dawid back with open arms, but it soon became apparent that Dawid had travelled a very different path to his brother.