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In the shadows of the tube station wall I can see them lurking.
There are about six of them: children. No more than ten years of
age or thereabouts. They have chosen their positions well, just
out of the range of the station cameras, under the lip of the station
overhang, where the high street station cameras cannot reach. I
process all of this information just as I walk into their trap,
caught out by a quirk of architecture and my own absent-minded strolling.
“Just keep walking Gov,” says an unnervingly young-sounding
old voice as two of them fall in alongside me, their faces obscured
and voices muffled by the hoodies they wear pulled right forward
over their faces. I look rapidly over my shoulder, but there are
two more behind me and I can see something gleaming brightly in
their little fists in the dull street light’s glow. The one
who spoke chuckles dryly as I look back ahead of me at the three
more of the group that have taken up position, two ahead to close
the box, and one on point about 100 meters further ahead.
“Take it nice and easy like, we won’t hurt you,”
the Hoody voice speaks again, “Just nice and easy up into
the park here and then you can go n your way.”
Checking their height and the voice, I mentally confirm that the
hoody and tracksuit wearing people are no more than ten. They barely
reach my elbow, and with voices most certainly nowhere nearing breaking.
I have located the knives, or sharpened bicycle spokes, screwdrivers
and whatever else they clutch in their hands. They are playing this
nice and easy, but they know what they are doing, they have done
this more than once before, that’s for sure. Probably a hundred
times. Our little formation formed so fast I hardly even saw it,
the look out wasn’t even part of the group at the station
wall; he must have already been ahead, sweeping the path that we
are now taking.
While the two boys on either side take care not to look at me directly
at all, their hands with knives gripped tightly in them never leave
my side, hovering about 4 inches away from my sides, just behind
my arms. The two behind are no more than two steps behind and they
are watching me like a hawk. The escort pair up front are more casual,
but I can see there are keyed up and jumpy, just waiting for the
sound of the slightest thing going wrong behind them. And our sweeper
up ahead has so far shooed away an old homeless guy and a gang of
kids on bikes. This stretch of road is deserted. They know their
craft.
Despite my lush overcoat and briefcase however, I know they are
going to be very disappointed when we get into that park and they
demand my stuff. My pockets are entirely clean. I handed my travel
card to a pan-handler at the tube station exit. I paid for it with
exact change when I entered the tube system on Oxford road. I do
not even have a wallet in my pocket. The bulge in my left trouser
leg pocket, is a wadded up tourist guide, not a cell phone. My briefcase
may seem to be covered with expensive leather, but is in fact a
very old and solid steel framed piece of junk. The truth is, I have
no money, no valuables at all and these seven little criminals have
come here expecting a rich pay day, and I know they will not take
it lightly when they find it out.
For two weeks I have been commuting the route from Oxford road down
south to Brixton. It’s the ideal route really because the
previously run down area of Brixton is going though one of those
periods of what the Poms like to call gentrification. So, while
there are plenty of care-in-the-community mad people on the streets,
homeless clutching cans of super brew, and dope selling Rasta’s,
there is also a good proportion of upwardly mobile young people
who like the “edge” of the area, and who have bought
one and two bed roomed apartments set a little away from the main
tube station and are creating their vision of an ideal city life.
I look just like one of those. I have made sure of that. My training
may be from another time and another place, but my skills hold up.
My old handlers made very, very sure of that.
Setting up my character, I dropped my briefcase on the station floor
on the second day of my commute. A cellphone, calculator, phone
charger, note book, cheque book and lap-top computer all spilled
out. I hurriedly swept it all back into the case, and looked around
nervously. As I thought, there were a few kids hanging around the
photo booth and the newsstand watching. I straightened up, walked
past the two Bobbies with sniffer dogs, waiting patiently at the
entrance. Reviewing that memory, it is impossible to tell whether
any of these kids were there that day. Their faces remain totally
obscured.
Once outside the station, I walked back to the flat I was renting
in a pretty direct route, no deviation, not looking over my shoulder
once. But I kept my ears open and heard the footsteps tailing along
behind me. I wasn’t fooled by the gang of kids on bikes that
circled endlessly around the road, nor the skateboarder stunting
off the council estate steps. But I just walked, remembering everything.
Over the next two weeks I bought a paper, a week travels pass, took
some photo’s, bought lots of chocolate, stopped off at the
supermarket and bought 3 bags of groceries, all as close to the
tube as possible. The walk to the flat might have been short, but
it was uphill and carrying plenty of parcels was never pleasant.
I am patient, used to sitting in trees in the burning bush, in shallow
foxholes, in freezing cold and searing heat. I feel nothing. This
little expedition is simple by comparison.
I recall Steyn, my spotter and tracker from the bush war. My last
mental image of him is a black and white Photostat of an article
from the Times in London. They used an old picture from just after
we left what was then the SADF. He looked young and eager. But he
was dead. Killed in a mugging. The article seemed to imply that
it may well have been a gang of children. I was stumped. Steyn was
an assassin and killer, trained by one of the most lethal armies
in the world at the time. A reconnaissance soldier who had trained
US Navy Seals, British SAS and Israeli Mossad operatives. How could
he be dead at all after what we survived? I flew in the next
day.
We are approaching the gates to the park when I start talking, “So,
you boys work this patch quite a lot then?”
“Shut-up” growls Hoody back at me.
“You know I heard that there were gangs of feral children
around here when we bought,” I continue smoothly, “but
the police assured us that it was now under control.”
“Just shut the fuck up and keep walking,” the child
next to me growls, starting to sound a little rattled. By now we
are in the park and the street is out of sight, the tranquil stillness
a sudden contrast from the street noise. I judge my time and slow
my pace slightly, and my two escorts drift two paces ahead of me,
while the two behind me almost bump into me.
“In fact,” I say, “You look exactly like the kind
of child that is taking this city over.”
Before anyone can react further at all, I swing the briefcase back
fast, hitting my right rear escort in the balls with its sharp lower
edge. As he goes down I chop back with my left arm, smashing the
edge of my hand into the throat of the child behind me to the left.
They may be street smart, but they are just under-nourished council
estate children. They fall under my hands like wheat in a strong
wind. As the two crumple, my side-by side escorts realise how far
they have drifted and with the two front runners, turn and move
in towards me, weapons now openly bared. Swinging the briefcase
in an arc, flat side on, I hit the talking hoody so hard on the
side of the head that he flies into his mate and they go down in
a tangle. Stepping smartly up over them, I kick the right-hand charging
child in the balls and punch the left as his momentum carries him
into range.
With six of the gang down, the sweeper has disappeared from sight.
Five of the boys are totally immobile, one just too petrified to
move. Two are unconscious, two probably needing another half hour
to recover from their squashed testicles, they lie there, vomiting
quietly, too stunned to speak. I feel nothing for them. Again, my
handlers trained me well. But I search their tracksuits, pulling
their hoodies back to reveal their faces. The gang has done their
job all too well. The street remains deserted as I pull from their
pocket s profusion of cellphones, old wallets, loose cash, expired
travel cards, A-Z street guides and external hard drives. It is
only when I find the battered green and gold embossed South African
passport that I stop searching. I open it up and the face of Steyn
van Rensburg stress back at me. My best friend, bunk buddy and patrol
wing man from 32 Battalion.
I heft the passport in my hand. I walk up to the first kid; show
him the passport and the photo inside. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t
know what to expect. I makes sure they are all to some extent conscious
and show them all the passport. Their faces tell me what I need
to know. With six quick twist of the wrists, I snap all of their
necks and leave them lying in the gutter. Without a backward glance
I head off at a trot down the path to track the sweeper. I don’t
mind where he has gone, I was trained to track light footed animals
on dry sand and stone by a Bushmen elder and I can certainly follow
a nine-year-old punk in this concrete jungle. It’s child’s
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