Payback - A Cape Town thriller (22 page)

They sat on a tartan blanket among the Sunday concert crowd at Kirstenbosch Gardens: Mace, Oumou, Treasure, Pylon, the girls, Christa and Pumla, reading books. The hell was it with kids, Mace wondered, that they did so much reading? He stretched out, his head against Oumou’s thigh, his bare feet nudging at his daughter, irritating her. Christa smacked at his ankles, not breaking her concentration, not using any force, more as if she were brushing off an insect.

‘Mace,’ said Oumou, ‘leave her’ - also telling him in French to stop annoying the girl.

About them the crowd had thickened, not a patch of lawn
visible
beneath the blankets and the cotton throws. People snacking on picnics, quaffing down wine like it was an obligation in the city of the grape. Oumou and Treasure drinking sparkling from
long-stem
glasses, Mace and Pylon tooting beer.

‘So what d’you think, Oumou?’ said Treasure, ‘about their taking a weekend away.’

‘It’s business,’ said Pylon, his voice high in protest.

‘You said. Like you’re going to go somewhere in a plane if it’s business? Mace does the flying.’

‘Protecting the high ‘n mighty,’ said Pylon. ‘That’s what we do.’

‘Both of you, over a weekend?

‘I think it’s alright,’ said Oumou. She glanced down at Mace, smiling.

‘There’s a festival on,’ said Treasure. ‘They’re going to party.’

‘In Luanda?’ said Mace. ‘I don’t think so. I could think of better places.’

‘A festival?’ said Oumou.

But Mace didn’t get a chance to explain as the Blues Broers in dark suits and shades drifted onto the stage: base guitarist Big Rob in a floppy hat, the Doc with his pork-pie; Big Rob going into a harp conversation with Albert Frost’s lead guitar, Agent Orange bringing up the keyboard with a riff that had Mace gazing out across the sunlit suburbs towards the cooling towers and the urban sprawl beyond, high burnished windows in the office blocks.

There were risks, he knew, about this sort of deal. There always were. But if it came off and no reason why it shouldn’t, they’d be home and dry. Not bond-free perhaps, but getting there. The world beginning to look a decidedly less scary place. Mace shifted against Oumou, excited at the possibilities.

At the movement Oumou ran her palm over his short hair, put fingers onto his scalp and massaged. Mace closed his eyes, brought his attention back to the song Agent Orange sang about a guy taking a train ride, coming to the end of his journey, entering a dark railway station in a distant city. Feeling a stranger where everyone else was at home. Been a long time since he’d had those sorts of feelings, Mace realised. Which was the way he preferred it these days: the family man.

At the end of the song Oumou bent down to him and said, ‘What is this festival?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mace, sitting up. ‘Not a clue.’

Above the applause, Treasure said, ‘Any other time they could choose, they choose one with a festival.’

‘Wasn’t our choice,’ said Pylon. ‘That’s when the client’s got his meetings. What can we do?’

‘You jealous, Treasure?’ said Mace. ‘The two boys out having some fun.’

Oumou smiled at the tease.

Treasure said, ‘He could be at home helping me in the garden.’

Mace wasn’t sure if she was serious or not. From the look on Pylon’s face could tell he wasn’t either.

The band went into a run of songs back to back that had the audience on its feet jiving to the music like cultists at some summer rite. Mace hoisted up his daughter and Christa slung her arms around his neck and Oumou’s and they balanced her between them, her legs dangling, a rhythm in her body even so.

When the band was through Mace went off in search of Cokes for the girls. Left Oumou and Treasure stretched out on the blanket, Pylon with his eyes closed. Probably dreaming of money, Mace reckoned. He wandered down the lawns to the café, the gardens in shadow and the mountain dark behind. Everywhere people enjoying the twilight and the warm air.

On the bridge over a stream, someone touched his arm from behind and he glanced back to find the ice eyes of Sheemina
February
glinting at him.

‘Enjoy the concert?’ she said.

Mace nodded. ‘What d’you want?’ Keeping his voice tight, noticing the white top giving a glimpse of the rise of her breasts, her left hand buried in her jacket pocket.

‘Just to tell you how much I’m enjoying your old house. Home.’ She corrected. ‘It has a sense of peace. Despite what happened.’

‘Aren’t you the lucky one,’ said Mace, turning away. Then came back at her. ‘One thing… One thing I can’t figure out.’

She raised her eyebrows, quizzical, amused. ‘That is?’

‘What sort of kicks you get out of this?’

‘Kicks?’ She laughed. ‘It’s not about kicks. It’s about right and wrong, justice. That’s why I’m a lawyer.’

‘I’d call it stalking,’ said Mace. ‘Perverted. I heard it’s what you do.’

She stiffened, her ice eyes came on him. ‘Ask yourself that question, who’s the pervert? Who is guilty?’ And as quickly smiled. ‘Our family man Mace Bishop. The loving father. The loving husband. Don’t fool yourself.’

 She raised her right hand, waved with her fingers, leaving Mace watching her walk away. His eyes on her arse in the tight jeans, what was visible below the jacket.

Screw you, Mace thought. Screw you for buggering up my day.

Monday morning Mace and Pylon were on Dunkley Square for an early cappuccino. Relaxed in the shade of an umbrella, the heat already oppressive. Along the mountain-top, a wisp of cloud suggested a breeze over False Bay but in the city the air was unmoving, faintly petrol-fumed.

Mace said, ‘So we’re in the clear with the girls?’

Pylon folded his newspaper, put it aside. ‘Treasure wanted more info. Like who’s this guy he needs two bodyguards? I told her that’s confidential. Can’t give his name. Can’t give the name of his company. She looks at me like who’m I trying to kid, so I go, honest believe me this is a fine arrangement. Good money for just standing around. She says the guy must be paranoid he wants both of us. I say, that’s right, he’s neurotic, never looks you in the eye, always glancing over his shoulder. Now he’s having to visit Angola. Then she comes at me, so it’s going to be dangerous? What can I say? I’m in the corner. I have to answer. Sure, I say, it’s dangerous, I won’t lie to you. But no more dangerous than here, if you keep your eyes open. I don’t want you to go, she says. I have to babe, I tell her. It’s business. For three days she doesn’t speak to me. Even yesterday, when we left for the concert, she wasn’t speaking to me.’

The coffees came, Pylon paid.

‘Oumou didn’t give you any shit?’

‘Nothing. Told me to be careful, that’s all.’

‘Maybe you’re a better liar than me.’

Mace grinned. ‘First thing this deal’s going to sort out for me is my bond. Get the bank off my back.’

Pylon spooned up foam. ‘Sure sure. They’ll love your diamonds.’

‘Inter account transaction,’ said Mace. ‘I’ve lined it up.’

Pylon looked dubious. ‘Already. A dealer?’

‘Your investment analyst, that’s what he does, isn’t it?’

‘Wait, wait, wait. You’re going to my investment analyst?’

‘Sure. You swear by him.’ Mace fished for his cellphone in his chinos. It vibrated, pulsed with light, gave a ringtone like a frog. The name on the screen was Gonsalves.

‘Here’s a strange one,’ he said, connecting to the cop. ‘Long time, captain,’ he said.

‘Absolutely,’ said Gonsalves without wasting a beat, saying, ‘I’ve got something here you’re not gonna like. Two bodies. Been dead maybe all weekend. The renting agent, guy called Dave
Cruikshank
, says he knows you, says you were providing protection services. Maybe you’d like to see how effective you’ve been?’

‘We’re there,’ said Mace. He thumbed off the cop, gave Pylon a baleful stare.

‘What’s it?’

‘A stuff-up,’ said Mace. ‘The Italian homos are dead.’

Dave Cruikshank stood at the gate outside the police tape.

‘Not the sort of scene that’s going to boost your enterprise, my son,’ he said as Mace and Pylon flashed company ID at the duty officers. ‘One bloke’s sitting there minus his willy.’

‘You find them, Dave?’ asked Mace.

‘Came round to check everything’s hunky-dory, like you
probably
were going to do eventually, walked right in. Front gate unlatched, front door locked but you go round the side the sliding door onto the pool’s open wide.’

Mace looked over at the house, Captain Gonsalves watching them, his jaws chewing the cud.

‘Anyone could’ve walked in. Know what I’m saying. Come in off the street at any time.’ Dave’s lips glistened with gloating.

‘Thanks for calling us first.’ Mace started after Pylon down the gravel path.

‘It’s a cop job,’ said Dave, ‘you’re supposed to prevent this sort of thing, my son.’

Mace gave him the finger. ‘Oi,’ Dave called out, ‘give my best to the missus.’

As they approached, Gonsalves held up a business card with the name Complete Security embossed on it in gold, beneath that the strap line: Your safety is our concern. Then the names Mace Bishop and Pylon Buso in black, and landline and cellphone numbers. ‘Found this on the coffee table, where you might have left it,’ he said. ‘Don’t you guys check on your clients at all?’ He moved a plug of tobacco from one cheek to the other.

‘They got armed response for that,’ said Pylon. ‘We look like armed response?’

Gonsalves shrugged. ‘Doesn’t concern me. Still your clients. Like to tell me what you know?’

They followed him into the house, Pylon summarising: they’d picked them up from the airport, brought them here, unloaded their suitcases, told them call any time of day or night they felt concerned.

‘That’s the deal?’ said Gonsalves. ‘Any time they want you?’

‘That’s it,’ said Pylon. ‘People employ us for out and about. They’re sitting in their houses, they feel safe. Got panic buttons on the walls, maybe even strapped to their wrists.’

‘Makes you wonder why they come here?’

‘’Cos it’s safe,’ said Pylon.

They were stopped before the body of a man tied to a dining room chair, his mouth taped up. A bullet wound in the centre of his forehead.

‘This your client?’ said Gonsalves.

‘The German one,’ said Mace. ‘Name of Dieter Dreske. Made all the bookings in the name of Camillo Medardo, his partner. We figured them for old queens. The Italian being some big deal in Milan fashion.’

They went through to the bedroom.

‘Save me Jesus!’ said Pylon, moving behind the corpse so he didn’t have to see the bloody crotch.

‘My thoughts,’ said Gonsalves. He pointed at the dead man. ‘You would say this is the Eyetie?’

‘It is,’ said Mace. ‘Bit of rough trade going on here, possibly.’

‘You’re telling me or you’re asking me?’ said Gonsalves.

‘Either.’ Mace glanced round the room, noted the
narrow-bladed
boning knife on a bedside table, the cheque book, and the white smear Pylon pointed at on the dressing table’s glass top. ‘Coke?’

‘Most probably,’ said Pylon. To Gonsalves he said, ‘The woman killed too?’

Gonsalves said, ‘What woman?’

‘We picked up three of them,’ said Pylon. ‘The deal was for the two gays, we took the woman for maybe a niece. A last minute addition. We had to hire a minibus. This happens more’n you’d believe. We go out with one car, except we need two ‘cos the party’s doubled.’

‘There is no woman,’ said Gonsalves.

Mace and Pylon exchanged glances. Mace thinking, oh really?

‘No trace of a woman,’ said Gonsalves. ‘Only suitcases here’ve got men’s things.’

Mace thought, that so? Ran through some scenarios: she did it, she was in on it, she’d been kidnapped. Whichever way, the shooting was spot-on accurate so probably not the niece. Didn’t disqualify option two but his gut favoured a kidnapping.

Gonsalves said, ‘How about talking to the face artist.’

Mace said, sure.

Pylon said, ‘Long legs, helluva arse. Very J-Lo.’

Gonsalves stared him out, chewing vigorously until Pylon turned away. The three men walked back to the patio. One empty glass, two flutes still with champagne on the table, the level of the Moët slightly under half.

‘Seems to have started merrily enough,’ said Mace.

Gonsalves spat the tobacco plug into his hand, tossed it into a bed of roses. ‘Any idea what a penis costs nowadays?’

‘About a hundred bucks,’ Pylon said. ‘But if this was for muti they’d have taken both. I’d reckon it’s about something else.’

‘Any opinions, Mr Bishop?’

Mace shook his head. ‘You’re the detective.’

‘Bloody wonderful job, hey.’ Gonsalves took out a cigarette, started stripping off the paper.

A week later the case was nowhere, except an international
sensation
. Cops had had radio time on the talk shows, identikits in the dailies, not one response. ‘Maybe you should of kept your eyes off her arse and on her face,’ Gonsalves told Mace when he phoned for an update. ‘We could of got a better likeness then.’ Mace let it go, the identikit was as good as identikits got.

What the cops did know was her name: Vittoria Corombona. A US citizen, address in New York, no one home. Immigration confirmed her entry at Cape Town International. No exit from any border post. Gonsalves also had some weird story from the polizia or carabiniere or whatever they were called that Medardo was paying the goose, Mace smiled at the word, thinking he hadn’t heard it since he was at school, to have his baby. This nugget from the Milan housekeeper.

‘Unbelievable,’ Gonsalves said, ‘an old poofter wanting a baby the traditional way. But there you were, you had money you could buy anything. So hardly likely she was going to shoot him then, was it? Those sorts of deals you had to take to full term or you didn’t get paid.’

This was true, Mace agreed.

In between, Mace had to pacify Mo Siq getting ratty about was the deal on or off.

‘I need lead time, my friend,’ he told Mace. Mace clicked him to the speakerphone for Pylon’s benefit. ‘This doesn’t happen overnight.’

‘We’re still on for three, four weeks’ time.’

‘That’s my point,’ said Mo. ‘Three weeks, four weeks when? What date? What day? Know what I’m saying? It’s got to be exact. There’s sorting time, loading time, hours on the road, transference shore to ship. We’re not playing bush games here. Real world, guys. Real time. Countdowns. Precision. Yeah. A closed loop, everybody on the information. What you’ve got to give me is when and where. When you’ve got to give me this is soonest. Like end of business today.’

‘We’re arranging logistics,’ said Pylon.

‘Well arrange faster.’ A pause. ‘And what’s the deal with
payment
. You’ve got clarity there yet?’

‘Same as we agreed.’

‘That’s a shit story, Mace. Where’s the money, my friend? We’re not talking trust and warm feelings here. We’re talking money. Understand?’

‘Nothing’s changed,’ said Mace. ‘The deal’s as it was.’

‘Jesus,’ Mo hissed. ‘You guys’ - and hung up.

Mace and Pylon shrugged at one another.

‘Man has a point,’ said Pylon. ‘Dates would be nice.’

But when Mace called her, Isabella wasn’t committing. ‘What’s the saying? Hang loose, Macey. Chill. We’re getting there.’

‘Getting where? Bloody hell, Bella, I’ve got to book cargo space. I’ve got a man getting jumpy.’

‘See you in New York,’ she said, blowing him transatlantic kisses.

Pylon wasn’t impressed. ‘That woman plays cat games with you,’ he said. ‘All these years ‘n she’s still got you by the balls.’

‘Leave it,’ said Mace.

‘Are you screwing her again?’

‘Short answer. No.’

Pylon snorted. ‘I believe you, bru. I told the story to a thousand others, they mightn’t.’

After Christmas, on the day Mace was to fly to New York to set up a surgical safari, Pylon said he had the diamond problem sorted out.

‘Just like that?’ said Mace. ‘Didn’t know you were working on it.’

‘I wasn’t. Not particularly. And not sorted out, exactly.’

‘Make sense,’ said Mace.

‘Half an hour ago,’ said Pylon, ‘I got a call from my cousin. Big businessman, used to work for De Beers. His son was hijacked. Handed over an Audi TT at the Claremont traffic lights.’

‘Eina!’

What happened, Pylon said, was the jackers put a gun in the boy’s face, pulled him out of the car with some force. The boy was unhurt, jittery, though. Long and short of it was the cousin phoned a friend who phoned a friend who came back with the chopshop address of where the Audi TT was being made over in the township. Terrible mistake, apologies, no hard feelings. What the cousin wanted was for Pylon to go with the boy to collect the car. The boy had never set foot in a township, the boy was shit scared of townships.

‘I said, no problem. Do a man like Stones a favour, is a pleasure.’

Mace laughed. ‘Stones?’

‘Previously known as. Goes by his initials these days, AC. AC Mkize.’

‘You kept him quiet.’

‘I’m connected,’ said Pylon. ‘A network where you wouldn’t believe.’

They took the big Merc and a nine mil each, Pylon driving. First stop was to collect the boy from a palace in Bishop’s Court. On the way Mace said, ‘So who’s AC?’

Pylon said, ‘Like I said, a businessman.’

‘Ex-De Beers, you also said.’

‘Sure.’

‘A black chappie in De Beers! How’d a black man get into De Beers?’

Pylon made a clucking sound which Mace knew meant he was weighing up the pros and cons of how much to tell. Eventually said, ‘Once he was a trader. Before he got in with De Beers, he worked for a Chinese.’

‘There’s a thing,’ said Mace.

‘Starting out as a fahfee runner for the Chinese,’ said Pylon, ‘doing a couple of streets in the Joburg worker suburbs. This little kid, the aunties loved him. Gave him sweets and Cokes with their bets.’

‘I’ve heard of fahfee,’ said Mace.

‘The way it works,’ said Pylon, ‘is you bet on your dreams. You dream about a monkey, you play two. A horse is twenty-two. Up to thirty-five. Fahfee, it’s more Joburg and Durban, than Cape Town, wherever there’s lots of Chinese. Probably start in Cape Town now with all the chinks moving in. Those days it was illegal ‘cos it was gambling, like playing roulette.

‘What AC’s job was was to run down the lanes collecting all the bets, the numbers people were playing. Thing about fahfee is everyone does it on trust. The white aunties trust the black runner to take their money to the Chinese, like they trust the Chinese to pull a number and pay up on it. Then everyone trusts the black runner’s going to take the winnings back to the winners. Lots of room for someone wanting to make a break. Except the Chinese is smart. He’s got plenty of AC-type runners so no one’s carrying big money, a couple of hundred maybe, not enough to run off with. I mean you can but three days later you’re dead. Not a wise move. The point about fahfee is that it’s lots of little bets. Nobody’s
betting
much, nobody’s winning much but there’s a lot of money coming in.

‘AC keeps his nose clean. The Chinese likes him. Upgrades him to a bigger game where the stakes are high. Serious players. Serious money. AC handles it. Then the Chinese shows him some stones. Starts to tell him about various kinds of stones, which ones are valuable, how to look at a diamond, what makes one better than another. AC could do this. Like as a lightie he could glance at a stone, weigh it in his hand, take a closer look through the Chinese’s magnifying glass and tell you how much a jeweller would tell you.

‘The Chinese is a sharp man. When all the brothers are picking up our hardware to fight the good fight, the Chinese has got AC in Berkley, some place like that, studying rocks. Geology. He comes back graduated, the Chinese says to him no more IDB, get a job at De Beers. They see a black man walk in with these qualifications, this know-how, they’re going to show you the fast track: big salary, share options, BMW cars, low-interest housing loans,
expenses-paid
holidays. Go there. AC does. Which is why we’re driving to Bishop’s Court.’

‘And the Chinese?’

‘Dead now,’ said Pylon. ‘He kept dealing ‘n AC let him. That’s when they set up a process of fencing illicit stones. Keep a handle on things.’

Pylon turned right off Edinburgh Drive at the traffic lights into Upper Bishop’s Court, the mountain green in the morning light, going third right into Forest and up to Dunkeld, Mace wondering what people did in mansions. Like did they sleep in different rooms every night? You looked at these places there had to be six, seven bedrooms probably all en-suite before you got to counting sitting and dining rooms. All set in gardens that’d need full-time attention. Tennis courts, swimming pools, three garages, serious money.

They went right into Dunkeld, cruised slowly under the trees to a pair of wrought-iron gates between two columns, statues of lions at the base of each column. Mace whistled as the gates swung open on a cobbled drive curving to a mansion with a columned portico. This man was on his way to being an icon, Pylon said. Up there with the Ramaphosas, Motsepes, Sexwales, fronting the black empowerment deals. Rolling in it.

Aren’t they all, thought Mace. The old soldiers.

Pylon saying, talk was he’d even become a Freemason to put a crack in the white brotherhood. On the portico stood AC and his son. The boy was about eighteen, just old enough to get his
driving
licence. Geared up hip-hop. His father suited.

Pylon introduced Mace, AC shaking his hand Western-style only. No one introduced the boy.

‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ said AC. ‘The man has apologised. He gives you any trouble let me know.’ AC going back into the house even before Pylon had the car in gear.

The boy said nothing on the way out. Neither did Mace and Pylon, Pylon driving the N2 without hurry, the traffic dense past the cooling towers, easing after the airport. Mace sat at an angle in the passenger seat staring at the shacklands teetering on the dunes down to the concrete fence that bordered the highway. Here and there the palisades were smashed through for herders to drive their goats and cattle onto the good grazing along the road verge. The boy was wired into a Discman, a tinny rap audible to Mace and Pylon.

Pylon took the Khayelitsha exit ramp, deciding what he’d do for the boy was give him a tour: breezeblock houses, pot-holed roads, electricity wires sandbagged across the streets, filth and dead dogs everywhere. Down to the market, trolleys of tripe, stalls of goats’ heads. The boy wasn’t listening to his rap anymore.

Pylon switched off the air conditioner, slid down all the windows to a heavy smell of fried onions and meat. The throughways were narrow here, more lanes than streets, people having to back up against the stalls as the Merc crawled along.

Pylon stopped at a woman braaiing chicken bits on a brazier, ordered a mixed KFC short tub of wings and feet. The boy said, no thanks, but Pylon kept the tub held over the seat until the boy took a wing. In Xhosa he said, you’re going to insult her if you don’t take one but the boy didn’t seem to understand. To the woman Pylon said, city boys only eat from Woolworths, and the woman laughed uproariously. Pylon bit into a foot, tearing at the toughness. When the boy asked what he should do with the bone, Pylon said throw it out the window.

The house was a double storey in a street of government
twenty-by
-twenties: metal window frames, walls needing plaster. A bright patch of green lawn with a child’s swing on it, a sprinkler going. Major gangster, said Pylon. Drugs, cars, protection, pirate videos and CDs, even a bit of small-arms trading. Major taxi owner too. Mace noticed two men standing in the yard of the house opposite. Three down the street; two others back a bit making snazzy moves with a soccer ball.

Pylon stopped behind a van with tinted windows, the word Sanctus writ large across the back. He cut the engine. In the silence Mace heard what sounded like church singing. Choirs. The music was turned down, a tall guy with a six-pack stomach, wearing only shorts, a flap of jackal skin hanging in the front, appeared in the house’s doorway.

Pylon pressed the window down. ‘Heita.’

‘Chief,’ the man said, not moving from the front door.

Pylon gave him some lip in Xhosa about buggering up big time in hijacking the boykie of such a main man brother.

The man grinned, said, You’re about to fill an order, you’re not too bothered about the supplier.

Pylon laughed. Turned to the boy. ‘You catch any of that?’

The boy shook his head.

‘Too bad.’ Pylon opened his door. ‘Okay, let’s get this over.’ He and Mace got out but the boy stayed put. Pylon ducked back in. ‘Out, boetie. Showtime.’ The boy looked terrified, all the same did as he was told.

‘Where’s the car?’ Pylon asked.

The man indicated a garage across the street, said, ‘Who’s the mlungu, chief? Cop or what?’

‘My partner,’ said Pylon.

Mace caught the mlungu bit, but kept zipped. The young men with the football had edged closer, ditto the three down the street, ditto the two opposite, now lounging at the street gate.

‘Hey, chief,’ the man said in English, pointing at Mace. ‘You guys fucked up hey!’ He displayed a mouth studded with gold teeth.

Mace said, ‘How’s that?’

‘Letting the girl take out the homosexuals.’

Mace said to Pylon, ‘What’s he on about?’

Pylon shrugged. ‘Who’s this, Oupa?’

The man switched back to Xhosa told Pylon they were stupids, moegoes, like the cops. This woman that killed the Italians was living it up in the city, swinging through the nightclubs. He’d seen her. Her and her boyfriend. Yankee doodles. He laughed. Hell, what sort of bodyguards were they. Bloody useless. Just like the cops.

‘Which clubs?’ asked Pylon.

The man waved his arms, told him to go hamba, fuck off and do his own work. Followed this with a stream of invective about the state of the world.

Pylon let him finish. ‘Where the car keys Oupa?’

Oupa K threw them into the street.

Mace said to the boy. ‘Go pick them up. Get the car out the garage. Stick behind us.’

The boy glanced at the groups of men, closer now.

Mace said, ‘Come, china, let’s move it.’

The boy went round the Merc into the street and picked up the keys. He stood hesitant, the ball players jogging, flicking the ball between them. One called to him, lined up a shot and kicked, the ball catching the boy hard in the stomach. He bent double, staggered, the men laughing as the ball rolled towards Mace. He trapped it under his foot.

Pylon said, ‘Don’t do this.’

‘Come, come,’ the guy who’d kicked shouted, ‘kick, man.’

And Mace did, lifting the ball over their heads.