Chapter 4

Armitage drives her old Porsche along a dirt road while I try to log into GHOST – the Global and Home-based Occult and Supernatural Treasury – on my phone.

Our victim is a man called Jengo Dhlamini. Apparently, he’s been the local ramanga to a tribal chief out in the midlands for the past two years, and Armitage said the word like I should know what it means.

Which I don’t, but I’m not telling her that.

I stare out the window while I wait for a cell signal. Sugarcane rises to either side of us, green stalks vibrant against the blue sky. We leave a cloud of dust behind us as Armitage navigates the road, swearing furiously as she swerves from side to side in a futile attempt to avoid the massive potholes and tractor ruts in the hard-packed earth.

My phone whistles, informing me it’s managed to log into the database. I wipe the sweat from my brow – no air conditioner in this car – try to ignore my worsening headache, and type in the word RAMANGA.

An image appears. A pathetic-looking man, skinny, haunted. Something of the animal about him. I scroll down and browse through the entry.

Turns out a ramanga is a sort of low-key vampire. They’re known the world over, but here in Africa they generally work for the royal families out in the kraals. If the tribal leader gets cut, it’s the Ramanga’s job to lap up the blood so it doesn’t go to waste. If the Chief cut his hair, the Ramanga has to eat it. Toenail clippings? Down the hatch. A severed finger? Yum-yum.

They started out as ceremonial vampires. Just servants who used to make sure the royal offcuts didn’t fall into the wrong hands for use in black magic. But over the years, the ramanga tribe of vampires took over the position.

The local Chiefs seem to think having your own personal ramanga is a status symbol, but back in the city where the various tribes of vampires live, ramanga are considered the lowest of the low. Scavengers, really.

‘Who reported the murder?’ I ask.

‘Anonymous tip-off. Went to ORCU first. They want it themselves, but some lazy bugger in their outfit passed us the wink.’

‘Are ORCU there now?’

‘Probably. Pissing their scent all over the crime scene.’

Wonderful. There’s a seriously competitive vibe going on between ORCU and Delphic Division. Basically, what it boils down to is the fact that we’re cool, and they’re not. They hate us, but every single one of them is desperate to be called up to the Division.

I suppose they’ve got a right to be pissed off. We get all the real supernatural stuff while they’re stuck with muti murders and the like. They’re always trying to crack a real case before we do.

‘You know a ramanga is a vampire?’ I ask.

‘’Course I do. That reminds me. Better get on the horn to your boyfriend when we finish up at the scene.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

Armitage grins wickedly. ‘Well . . . BFFs is what I heard.’

She’s talking about Kincaid, King of the East Coast vampires. I helped him out a couple of years ago when an orisha from North Africa was trying to muscle in on his territory. Since then we’ve had an understanding. He doesn’t break the law in any overt manner, he feeds me any information he thinks I might find useful, and I let him know if any of our work turns vampire-related.

‘London and Kincaid, sitting in a tree,’ sings Armitage. ‘K-i-s-s-i-n-g.’

‘Oh my God. You are such a wrinkled little child.’

We carry on driving for another twenty minutes, going deeper and deeper into the sugarcane fields. My window is down and I can hear the dry stalks rustling in the warm breeze every time Armitage slows down to avoid another pothole. I close my eyes, feel the wind against my face. It’s peaceful.

I know it won’t last.

 

There’s a certain quaint image associated with the word kraal. It conjures up pictures of wattle and daub huts topped with thatched roofs. Of men dressed in animal skins, women grinding down mielie-meal. Kids running around with stray dogs. Dust and heat and sun.

The reality – at least here – is very different.

This kraal is more of a compound, completely surrounded by a ten-foot-high electric fence. We have to sign in, and the guard manning the boom takes note of Armitage’s licence plate as we drive past his little shed.

So those wattle and daub houses? Change them to white-painted houses with brick-walled gardens. Fine, the roofs are still thatch, but you’ll see thatched roofs no matter where you go in this country. Suburbs and villages alike.

There are about thirty houses in the compound. Most of them pretty small. But one dominates the rest. A double-storey structure with a landscaped garden and a sparkling blue swimming pool. That would be the Chief’s house.

Armitage ignores it completely and drives up the slope of a small hill that overlooks the little village. Police vans and unmarked cars are parked at the top of the hill, clustered around a tiny house like vultures around a body.

We park around the side of the house, far away from the other vehicles (Armitage is paranoid about getting her car scratched), and head towards the house. We’re not greeted by the Crime Scene Manager, something that immediately puts Armitage in a foul mood. She’s always quick to anger, but nothing gets her goat more than careless or stupid police.

There’s a box of blue paper suits on the doorstep. We put them on, then pull the paper slippers over our shoes.

Armitage pushes the door open with her arm, careful not to touch it with her fingers. I’m following right behind her as she strides into the house and surveys the open-plan lounge with rage.

‘And just what the actual fuck is going on here?’ she shouts.

Everyone in the lounge jumps. And there are a lot of them, (the reason for her rage).

‘This is a crime scene, not a bloody social club. Did none of you pass training? Or are you just so bloody stupid you don’t know how to act during a murder investigation? If you’re not out of here in three seconds I’m bringing you up on report. Actually – bugger it! I’m putting you all up on report anyway. Out!’

Armitage has a point. There are four uniformed officers, plus three plain-clothes, all of them standing around the lounge, staring down at the body of the ramanga. And not one of them is wearing protective clothing. Which means they’re dropping DNA all over the place. Hair, threads, footprints, you name it.

This crime scene is well and truly contaminated.

The uniformed officers scamper quickly out of the house, doing their best to avoid eye contact. But the ORCU guys just glance at their boss, Mark Anders, a prick of the highest order. He waits a while, then casually tilts his head, indicating they can leave. Only then do they make a move.

Anders stops before Armitage. Armitage isn’t tall. Plus, she’s pretty old, but she radiates . . . something that makes people not want to mess with her. Anders tries to stare her down.

Tries.

Anders looks away first, frowning and glancing around the room as if he has a choice in the matter. I grin at him. He says nothing, walks straight towards me as if expecting me to move. I don’t.

He tries to shove me out of his way with his shoulder. I’m a pretty big guy and I just shove back. He stumbles, hits the wall. Straightens and takes a threatening step towards me, his face flushed red.

I smile at him. ‘Come on then, prick. Have a go.’

He hesitates, then storms out, slamming the door behind him.

‘What an absolute cock,’ says Armitage. She pulls two pairs of gloves out of her pocket, passes one pair to me, then moves deeper into the house.

Probably pointless now, but I blow into the gloves to loosen them and put them on. Only then do I follow Armitage.

I look around. A small sitting area. A tatty lounge suite, holes covered over with grey duct tape. A breakfast bar to the right, three cupboards on the wall and a two-plate grill covered in grease and old food next to the sink. One door, leading into the bedroom.

And one very dead Jengo Dhlamini.

He’s lying on the floor next to the coffee table. Both his hands are resting in his chest. Literally in his chest, where a huge hole has been gouged out of him. There’s blood and meat on the couch. I glance over at the wall behind the couch. Pieces of flesh, major blood spatter. I follow the trickle of blood down and, sure enough, sitting on the floor, the actual heart. Whoever did this ripped out Jengo’s heart and flung it against the wall.

His head has also been removed. It’s sitting a few inches away, perched upright on its stump. The head is facing the body, the features stretched into a look of horror and pain.

Armitage leans down to study the corpse. I stay back, feeling my stomach lurching. Never really liked this part of the job. Plus I’ve got to contend with the magical hangover I’m currently experiencing.

‘Weapon?’ I ask.

‘Come and look.’

‘No thanks.’

She looks at me with amusement in her eyes. ‘Come on, you big jessie.’

‘I’m good.’

‘Well, to answer your question, it looks like whoever did this used their hands.’

‘Those are pretty strong hands.’

‘Agreed.’

‘And chance of fingerprints?’

Armitage straightens up and grins at me. ‘That’d be a first, eh? Fingerprints in the actual death wound. I doubt it, though.’ She takes her cigarettes out and is about to light one before she remembers she’s standing in a crime scene. She reluctantly puts them away again. ‘Doesn’t look like the place was turned over,’ she says, glancing around. ‘Check the bedroom.’

I open the only other door in the house. A small room. Curtains are drawn, casting everything in shadow. I pull them open, letting sunlight reluctantly pick out the old faded bedsheets, the painting above the bed, the stained yellow carpet.

I frown at the painting. It’s one of those kitsch ones from the seventies, a boy and a girl holding hands and walking away from the camera through a corridor of autumn trees.

This is something I come across again and again with vampires. They all have absolutely terrible taste. In decor, in clothes, in everything. It’s like they’re aliens who decide to fit in by watching television shows from the previous five decades and adopting bits and pieces at random.

I check the bedside table. Antacid tablets (Huh? He’s a vampire. What the hell does he need those for?), a pen, a pad of post-it notes, and a diary. I flip through the diary but there’s nothing of interest. I even run the pencil lightly over the pad to see if there are any impressions. Nothing.

I check under the bed. Dust. I lift the mattress up. Nothing. Not even any porn.

The cupboards: old clothes, nothing interesting at all.

I head back out to the lounge. ‘Anything?’

Armitage shakes her head and sighs. ‘Time to ask around the village.’

I groan. Door-to-door inquiries are the absolute worst. ‘Can’t we get the uniforms to do it?’

‘No. They’ll just balls it up.’

I sigh, open the front door—

—and find myself staring into the glaring yellow eyes of two seven feet tall . . . creatures. Man shaped. Lithe, ropey muscles, heads of dark skin with muzzles that are forced outward, skin pulled back in a snarl to reveal sharp canines.

It takes me a moment to figure out what they are. Bultungin – were-hyenas from East Africa.

I tell you, therianthropy gives me the creeps. Always has. Never mind your boring run-of-the mill werewolves. That’s the cliché now. Nowadays they all come out to play. Were-hyenas, were-cats, were-panthers, you name it.

The two standing before me don’t make any threatening moves, which is reassuring. I wonder if they’re humans changed to hyenas, or hyenas changed to humans. (Works both ways for Bultungin.)

In the background I see a fat man in bright bermuda shorts and a string vest sauntering up the path towards us. He’s talking on his cell phone, acting cool, like he’s too busy to even notice us. I know immediately he’s the Chief. Everyone who thinks they’ve got a lick of power has that same attitude. I’m more important than you.

He stops before us, but carries on chatting. ‘Uh-huh. Yes. No. Of course not, baby. Not to you.’ He listens a bit then breaks into a wheezy laugh. ‘Tonight, then. Looking forward to it.’

He hangs up and finally turns his attention to us. His eyes are bloodshot and jaundiced. An impressive feat. His stomach is so large it distorts the string around his belly. This is not a healthy man.

‘You are trespassing,’ he says.

Armitage holds out her identification. ‘Police. Major Armitage and Lieutenant Tau.’

I wave my warrant card, but the Chief barely glances at it.

‘You have no power here.’

I snort. ‘Don’t be stupid. What – you think this is a foreign embassy or something?’

The bultungin growl. I jerk my thumb at them. ‘And tell Thing 1 and Thing 2 to simmer down or I’ll have to neuter them. What are you doing with Bultungin anyway?

‘They are good bodyguards.’

‘Bullshit. They’re terrible bodyguards. They barely have two brain cells to bang together. Admit it. You think it gives you status, that’s why you have them.’

‘I do not think they give me status,’ says the Chief. ‘They do give me status.’

Annoying thing is, he’s probably right. People like him would be impressed by orisha acting as personal slaves.

I glance at Armitage. ‘Isn’t it against the Covenant or something?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not if they’re acting of their own free will.’

‘Whatever.’ I wave it away. ‘We want to know about Jengo Dhlamini.’

‘He is dead.’

‘Yeah, we got that, Sherlock. We want to know why.’

The Chief shrugs. ‘He was not a well-liked man. They never are, ramangas. People think of them as . . . unclean.’

‘So he had enemies?’ asks Armitage.

‘Many.’

‘Anyone specific?’ I ask. ‘Anyone threaten him recently?’

‘No. Not enemies like that. He stayed out of the way, and people stayed out of his way. I’ve no idea why he was killed. It is quite a pain, because now I have to apply to the vampires for a new ramanga, and it is quite a laborious process, let me tell you. So many forms to fill in. They do not like it when their ramanga are lost.’

I start to get even more annoyed. The Chief is trying to impress, letting it drop that he knows about Night and Day, about vampires and the like. I admit I’m curious. It’s not often civilians know about the behind-the-scenes stuff. But not curious enough to give him the satisfaction. He wants me to ask how he knows. Screw him.

‘He wasn’t lost,’ I say. ‘His chest was gouged out and his head ripped from his body.’

The Chief shrugs. ‘Same thing.’

I’m always suspicious when people don’t have a healthy fear of authority. You approach a normal member of the public, flash your badge, and they immediately think they’re guilty of something. Most of them trip over themselves to help.

Then you get those who actively antagonize you. The people trying to prove something. Either to their mates or themselves. Who try to act like they don’t give a crap who you are. They do, though. And all it takes is five minutes in handcuffs for them to start blubbing for their mummy.

But the absolute worst are the self-entitled. The rich. The powerful. Those with ‘friends’. Those who honestly couldn’t give a shit who you are. Who know they’re untouchable. People like the Chief here.

‘Just for the record,’ I ask. ‘Where were you last night?’

‘Me?’ he says with relish. ‘I was with my mistress. This is quite exciting. Am I a suspect? Are you going to take me “downtown”? What an interesting story for me to tell at my next dinner party.’ He holds out his hands, clasped together, waiting for the cuffs.

Armitage has watched this exchange while cleaning her nails with a small pocket knife. She finally straightens up and glances past the Chief. I follow her gaze and see a white van stopping at the bottom of the hill.

‘That will be Maddoc and Jaeger,’ she says.

Maddoc and Jaeger, Delphic Division’s very own orisha forensic pathologists. They’re sisters, and they . . . well no one really knows what they are. Not human, that’s for sure. Supernatural creatures that take an almost obscene delight in rummaging around inside corpses.

‘I’d advise you to clear the area, sir,’ Armitage says to the Chief. ‘It’s still an official crime scene, and if it’s tampered with I really will have to arrest you. You might think it’s all fun and games, but a night in the cells will soon change your mind.’

The Chief reluctantly stands aside. Armitage smiles brightly at him and heads down the path to have a few words with Maddoc and Jaeger. I stay by the door, arms folded, as they climb out the van. Maddoc is already wearing a pale blue paper suit and has her photographer’s bag slung over her shoulder. Her skin is as white as the first sheet of photocopy paper from a new ream. Same with her hair. Her eyes, however, are lemon yellow.

She climbs the path towards me, followed by Jaeger and Armitage. Jaeger is the complete opposite of Maddoc. Her skin is pitch black. Like new oil. And it has a sheen about it, making it look almost viscous. Her eyes are the same yellow as Maddoc’s. I don’t know what Armitage is saying to her, but she bares her teeth and looks in the direction of the Chief. I’m not sure if it’s a smile or a snarl.

The Chief notices this as well and steps into the shadow of his bodyguards. I don’t blame him. Jaeger is pretty terrifying.

Maddoc draws level with me and I nod respectfully. ‘Maddoc.’

‘London.’

She enters the house and puts her bag down carefully in the hall, squatting down to assemble her lenses and equipment. Then she takes some paper overshoes from her bag and slips them on, finally pulling a mask over her mouth to complete the incredibly fetching ensemble of crime scene respondents everywhere.

Jaeger draws level and grins at me. ‘Hey, lover boy,’ she says.

I flush with embarrassment. I don’t know why, but Jaeger always makes me feel like a teenager. She and Maddoc have never told us what they are, but I suspect they’re some form of succubus.

She cackles, showing her white, serrated teeth, and lunges past me, forcing the Chief and his were-hyenas to stumble back a step.

‘You three, fuck off,’ she says. ‘I don’t want dog hair on my crime scene.’

I grin as the Chief hastily makes his way back down the path, his bodyguards following behind.

‘What are you laughing at? I meant you as well. Who was the FOA?’

FOA – First Officer Attending. I shrug. ‘Not sure. But you’re going to have a long afternoon of it. ORCU and uniform were traipsing around the scene without any protective gear.’

She swears loudly. I pull my notebook out and jot down the names of the officers that I recognized. I tear the page out and hand it over.

‘There are a couple of names I’m not sure of. And I’ve no idea what time they got here.’

She takes the paper and pins it to the clipboard where she keeps her crime scene log. She’ll fill in the details later and most likely contact all the cops to get DNA samples from them.

If this all sounds surprisingly boring and mundane for a supernatural police force, it is. But that’s just the first phase of crime scene processing in the Division. Once Maddoc and Jaeger have gone through the physical evidence, they’ll sweep the area for shinecraft and aether disturbances. By end of the day tomorrow we should have a pretty good idea of exactly what went down here.

In the meantime, it’s left to me and Armitage to do the legwork.

You’d be surprised how many cases are solved just by talking to neighbours, writing everything down, and joining the dots. Making connections between seemingly disparate bits of information.

Oh, Jimmy Connors always walked the same way home? Everyone knew that? Thank you ma’am. Oh, Mr Smith left the pub early that night? And he never does that? What time? 11:30 on the dot? How do you know that sir? Because Jimmy Connors leaves the same time every night and he’d just stepped out the door. Thank you very much, sir.

It’s all disappointingly . . . normal. But it’s how most crimes are solved. Because here’s the thing. Most criminals are pretty fucking stupid. They’re not Professor Moriarty or Hannibal Lector. They make stupid, pathetic mistakes that get them caught, mistakes that could easily have been avoided if they’d only stopped to think. Some bury the body in their back garden. Others are witnessed buying twenty kilograms of lime at the local hardware store. Others kill after having a huge argument with someone. An argument twenty people witnessed.

Call it what you want. Heat of the moment. Momentary madness. I call it the human condition – stupid to the last man. Or woman.

In this case, though, nobody has any information for us. We spend the next two hours doing door-to-door, questioning anyone who will talk to us. But nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything.

And nobody is sorry the poor bastard is dead. He wasn’t well-liked, our victim.

Which makes our job a whole helluva a lot harder.

Sometime after two in the afternoon, Armitage calls it a day. We leave Jaeger and Maddoc to do their thing and head back to home base, but not before I buzz the Chief’s intercom system.

‘Yes?’ It’s the Chief. He sounds drunk.

‘Detective Tau here. I notice you have CCTV cameras mounted above your gates.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like a copy of the feed. The past forty-eight hours should do. Take it up to the ramanga’s house and hand it over to one of our pathologists, OK?’

A pause.

‘OK? Otherwise, they’ll have to come knocking on your door.’

‘Fine.’

 

The sky is the colour of faded nicotine.

The clouds have turned purple and grey, week-old bruises that stain and bleed into the jaundiced sky. It’s like I’m looking at everything through tinted glasses, the world around me leeched of its normal vibrancy and tinged the colour of old bone.

I stare absently at the clouds, wondering if we’re going to get stuck on the freeway when the storm hits. I hope not. At this time of the afternoon, the traffic will be bumper to bumper. Plus, the first hint of rain and South African drivers become possessed by stupid.

I’m still staring at the sky when I notice a vague shape taking form. It takes a while for it to register because it’s so far away, nothing more than a tiny dot against the sallow sky. But it gets bigger. Closer.

I frown. Some sort of bird? I definitely see wings flapping. But it’s huge. It can’t be a bird.

It’s—

‘Pull over,’ I say urgently.

Armitage doesn’t ask questions. She steers the car to the side of the road and switches the engine off. Her hand moves to her hip, touches the butt of her police-issue berretta.

‘What is it?’

‘Trouble.’

I push the door open. Climb out the car. The afternoon heat crawls across my skin, stifling, oppressive. The threat of rain is heavy in the air. I wince and squint up into the sky. The figure is much closer now, soaring towards us much like Superman does in the movies.

That is, if Superman happened to be seven feet tall with wings.

The angel plummets straight towards the ground. At the last moment it flares its wings wide and stops abruptly, pulling sharply up and bobbing in the air.

The figure blocks out the sun, a silhouette of holy fury. It hangs there for a moment, watching us, then descends to the ground, slow-flapping wings raising a cloud of dust.

I wait, my heart hammering. What to do? I’m not going to attack another angel. Two in as many days is a bit much, even for me. My fingers are clasping and unclasping. I’m itching to grab my wand, but I don’t. I’m not very good with it and I barely survived a fight against a demented angel that was spaced out and high. I wouldn’t stand a chance here.

Unlike yesterday, this angel looks exactly how you imagine an angel to look. A face like a cold statue, hard lines and smooth skin. Curly hair that falls to his shoulders (it looks like a he, but it’s hard to tell with angels). As he walks towards us his wings fold down around him, draping over his shoulders and changing, forming into a dark brown trench coat.

Neat trick.

I resist the urge to take a step back, something I’m pretty fucking proud of. An angel is a pretty scary figure.

I raise my hands in the air. ‘In the immortal words of one of our forgotten, modern-day poets – “It wasn’t me”.’

The angel stops walking and folds his arms. ‘What wasn’t you?’

‘Uh . . . whatever. Anything. Nothing. What is this anyway?’

Yeah. Cocky denial may not be the best route. Babbling confusion might be better.

I hear a match scraping to life, turn to see Armitage lighting a cigarette as she squints up at the angel. She’s not looking very impressed.

‘Do you know who I am?’ says the angel.

‘The Easter bunny?’ I say.

‘I am Michael, Lord of the Archangels. Prince of the Heavenly Hosts. I am the Angel of Deliverance. My name is a battle cry. My wrath is the wrath of God. I am the Archistrategos. I am the defeater of the Dragon.’ He sighs and looks around, frowning at the sky. ‘And I fucking hate it here.’ He turns back at us. ‘It’s the heat, you know? Reminds me of you-know-where.’

‘Texas?’ I say. ‘Australia?’ Michael stares at me. ‘Sorry. I get snarky when I’m nervous. Not that I’m nervous. Why would I be?’

‘Yeah, why would you be?’ asks Armitage, amused.

‘Shut up, Armitage. So, why are you here? If you hate it so much, I mean?’

I tense, waiting for him to bring up the angel at Addingtons. Not that he has any moral high ground to stand on. One of his own was buying kids and snorting their souls. But still, you have to be careful how you handle these guys.

Michael sighs. ‘You must stop pursuing this inquiry.’

I pause, the words of denial and righteous indignation dying on my lips.

‘What inquiry?’ asks Armitage.

‘This death. The ramanga. I will find the perpetrator. I will punish him. This is not for you to deal with. If you continue on this course, you might be in danger.’

Armitage blows a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘Sorry, pet, was that a threat?’

A pained look flashes across Michael’s face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Believe me, you would know if I was threatening you. But there are . . . things going on here—’

‘What things?’

‘Delicate things. Things you are in danger of getting caught up in.’

‘We’re already caught up in it,’ I say.

‘Then extricate yourself. I do not want to have to come back here again. If I do I might have to peel your skin from your body and dip you in vinegar.’

I blink.

‘That was a threat,’ says Michael kindly. ‘In case you didn’t catch it.’

‘No, no. I caught it all right.’

‘Good. I do not wish to see either of you again. Good day.’

The trench coat unfurls over his shoulders, spreading out to either side to form Michael’s wings. He flaps them a few times, rising up into the sky. He stares at us the whole time he does this. Then, when he is about thirty feet up, he turns and puts on a burst of speed, disappearing into the liver-bruised clouds.

There is a deafening crack of thunder and the storm hits.

Armitage tuts and shakes her head. ‘Bloody angels.’

 

It’s already four in the afternoon by the time we get back to the Division, so I spend the last hour starting my report into the ramanga’s death and typing up the first few statements from those we interviewed. (If you don’t like paperwork, don’t become a cop. We spend about seventy per cent of our time filling out expense reports, balancing personnel budgets, filing crime reports, and typing out interviews that we already have on tape and video.)

I stop as soon as the clock strikes five. We’ve been told that there’s no overtime any more, so it’s pointless carrying on. I shut down my computer and lean back in my chair, stretching.

I glance across at Parker. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘Nothing much. Dinner and some TV. You?’

‘I need a drink. A few drinks.’

Parker makes a face. ‘The Cellar?’

I nod. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against that place.’

‘It’s so . . .’

‘Down to earth?’

‘. . . Disgusting. The place is a dive.’

I shrug. She’s right, but I know the owner and he lets me run a tab till payday, which is a huge plus in my books. He also makes the best club sandwich in town. Sweet chilli sauce, chicken, bacon . . . my mouth’s watering just thinking about it.

I get to my feet grab my keys. ‘See you tomorrow then. Same time, same place—’

‘Same shit.’

‘You got it.’

 

Back at the flat and I can feel the stiffness creeping up on me. My joints ache, and my muscles are seizing up. The magical hangover has been with me all day, but this is my body reacting to the battering it took yesterday. Walking around at the kraal staved off the pain, but it’s coming on hard now, armed with heavy bats and crowbars. The wards the dog applied saved my bones from breaking and my insides from spilling inconveniently out my mouth, but the beating still had an effect.

‘Honey, I’m home,’ I call out as I enter the flat.

‘Did you get my sherry?’

I hold up the brown bottle. ‘Is that all you can say? We don’t talk any more. I feel like you don’t even care about me.’

‘Pour the booze and I’ll listen to you whine about your day all you like.’

‘God, it’s like I’m a kid again. You even sound like my ma. Same throaty growl.’

I pour the entire bottle of sherry into the dog’s huge bowl.

‘So how was your day?’ I ask.

‘Epic. I watched movies and licked my balls. You?’

‘A ramanga was murdered out in the boondocks. Been out there all day cooking in the heat.’

‘Lovely. Now we’re all caught up, let’s have some silence. I need to drink.’

I leave him to his afternoon tipple, grab a beer from the fridge, and head into the bathroom to run a bath. Steaming hot and filled with all that relaxation shit Becca used to buy. I have no idea if it will help, but it can’t hurt.

I wince as I strip off my clothes and slowly lower myself into the scalding water, sinking down until only my head is exposed.

I close my eyes and drift as the steam and heat attempt to relax my muscles. My thoughts float to Becca, drawn towards her by the scents floating around me.

Maybe I should call her.

Then again, why bother? She’s made it clear on numerous occasions she wants nothing to do with me. I can’t blame her, either.

So, no. No phone calls. The past is in the past. Leave it there. At least until I have something concrete to tell her. Something to put her mind at rest. One way or another.

The best thing for me to do is to give the dog my mobile phone, head down to the Cellar, get drunk, talk crap with anyone who will listen, come home, try (and fail) to get my phone back to drunk text Becca, then fall into bed and wake up tomorrow with a natural hangover so bad it will make demons weep.

I soak for another half hour and finish my beer, then heave myself out of the tub. I choose a Dolce & Gabbana suit, leaving the jacket in the closet. (Too hot.) I pick a white Veneta shirt with pink pinstripes, a grey waistcoat and a dark grey tie. I slip my phone into a zip-lock bag and toss it onto the dog’s chair.

‘Going out. Getting drunk.’

He opens one eye. ‘Don’t ask for it back.’

‘That’s the whole point.’

‘What if it rings?’

‘Take a message.’

‘I’m not your secretary.’

‘Ignore it, then.’

I grab my wallet, my keys, and I head out into the summer evening to get spectacularly wasted.