William Oosthuizen

William Oosthuizen was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, and currently lives in Hout Bay, Cape Town. He is a corporate lawyer. His interests include photography and backpacking. He says of ‘The Ticket’: ‘As I started writing late in life, I thought a good way to create a writing discipline would be to enter a few writing competitions. Knowing that if I were shortlisted JM Coetzee would then be reading my story was both daunting and thrilling in equal measure.

The Ticket

Jerome January and his little brother Lloyd could finally look forward to life.

Sunday morning: they were behind the fish market, shielded from the wind and casual onlookers by a stack of wooden palettes piled carelessly against the wall, Jerome sitting on an upturned crate, Lloyd’s wheelchair pulled up close to his side.

Jerome’s head hurt; when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

– Read the numbers again. Slowly this time.

Jerome stared at the slip of paper, touched each number with a fingertip, his lips moving, silently repeating the numbers as Lloyd called them from the sheet of newspaper.

Three, fifteen, twenty, thirty-seven …

Jerome balled his fist and punched the air.

– We did her; the mother’s in the bag. Even with a three-way split, we’re right up there.

He leaned forward, jabbed Lloyd on the shoulder, playfully, just a nudge.

– We’re in the money, Lo; we’re out of here as soon as I cash her.

Lloyd couldn’t stop smiling; they were rich, they could go live in a white neighbourhood where gunshots didn’t wake you in the middle of the night, where the rubbish bags didn’t spill out onto the pavements. And he would get a new wheelchair, one that worked with batteries. He looked at Jerome.

– When?

– When what?

– When do you cash the ticket?

Jerome slipped the ticket into his pocket. He couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes.

– Soon.

Hell, what had he been thinking, buying lottery tickets?

Leaning against the wall, he held up his hand for Lloyd to be quiet. He had to find someone he could trust. He blinked against the harsh sunlight, then looked at Lloyd. His head hurt worse than before and he had trouble focussing his left eye.

– Who do we know? An adult we can trust?

– Why?

– To cash the ticket for us, Lo; that’s why. Now think, who do we know?

Lloyd swung the wheelchair around to face his brother, his useless legs swinging with the sideways motion.

– What about Auntie …

Jerome shook his head. No. Auntie would take the money. Auntie would get drunk with that no-good boyfriend of hers Johnny bloody Carstens and then praise God for sending her the cash for bringing up her sister’s children. He and Lloyd would never see any of it.

– Who else?

Lloyd hunched his shoulders. Jerome felt a surge of anger, and then forced himself to relax. He slipped a cigarette from his breast pocket, one he had nabbed from Auntie’s pack the previous evening, and held a match to its tip. After taking a couple of puffs, he again looked at his younger brother.

– Come on, Lloyd, think, we need to find someone we can trust.

– But I don’t know any adults like that.

Jerome rubbed his hand across his short frizzy hair, and then spoke slowly.

– If I think of all the adults I know … people I can trust … He swore softly.

– I can’t think of a single son-of-a-bitch.

And then Lloyd asked the question Jerome was trying not to think about.

– Anyway, why would anyone help us? You would have to share …

A sharp pain shot through Jerome’s head, right behind his eyes. He flinched.

– No sharing, this money’s ours. Nobody gets a cent of it.

He grabbed his brother’s shoulder, shook him, fingers digging into the bony arm.

– Listen to me, Lo, this is our money, nobody else gets any of it, and don’t you dare tell anyone about it. People will kill us to get this ticket. Do you understand me? Do you?

Lloyd’s eyes were wide as he nodded once, twice, his fingers gripping the armrests of the wheelchair.

By nightfall the streets and bars of Manenberg were abuzz, people were telling each other the news.

– The winning ticket, it’s from here, someone bought the ticket in Manenberg.

– Where?

– Paper didn’t say, only it was sold in Manenberg.

And people started regarding each other with suspicion.

It was dusk outside when Jerome walked in on Johnny Carstens and Auntie, working their way through a half-jack of brandy, sitting at the table in the small kitchen, air dense with cigarette smoke. Auntie gestured towards a greasy takeout box on the table.

– Some chicken left, and chips.

Jerome shook his head.

– I’m not hungry.

He turned left down the narrow passage, pushed open the door to the bedroom he and Lloyd shared with Auntie’s four children. He dropped his backpack on the floor and stretched out on his bunk, legs slumped across the mattress.

Lloyd looked up as Jerome entered, dropped the book he was reading onto his lap.

– So you got a plan?

Jerome shook his head.

– Not yet. I’m still thinking. I need time …

He turned on his bunk and drew his legs up to his chin, eyes trying to focus on a dirt smear on the wall a few inches from his face, trying not to think of himself as Jerome January, piss-poor coloured boy from the Cape Flats. Christ, all he wanted was enough money to escape, to get Lloyd out of the cesspool that was the Cape Flats. But even that seemed to be too much to ask.

Tuesday night, and his world threatened sudden collapse. Auntie was waiting for him when he stepped through the small garden gate, her bulk filling the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe, her right hand clutching a half-empty quart bottle of beer.

– Where the hell you been, I’ve been waiting for you?

– Sorry Auntie, I had to get …

– Inside!

He slipped past her, making for the passage, but Johnny Carstens was there, blocking his way, his voice thick from the drink.

– We need to talk to you, Jerome.

His heart started to pound. What was this? Had Lloyd spilled the secret?

– Sit down and listen.

He sat down opposite Johnny Carstens, his right side to the door. He braced his feet on the floor, touched his elbows to the surface of the table. He could run if he had to, they were too old and drunk to stop him. But it was no use; he couldn’t leave Lloyd behind.

Auntie was talking, her voice slurred.

– Today I was in old Jamal’s Bazaar, looking for something, and guess what? He asks me if I won the lottery. No, I tell him, I never play; my luck doesn’t run that way. So what does he say?

She took a swig of beer and looked at Jerome. He met her gaze, knowing what was coming. There was nothing he could do.

– Jamal says, ‘that’s funny’. I asked him how ‘funny’? He says, ‘but Jerome buys a ticket for you every Saturday’. So now I am totally confused; I ask him what he means? And you know what he says? He says he can’t sell tickets to children, but Jerome always tells him ‘it’s for Auntie’ and that’s why he’s been selling you tickets for more than a year now.

Jerome shrugged.

– So?

Auntie’s eyes narrowed.

– So I want to see the ticket you bought last Saturday.

Jerome forced a laugh.

– So that’s what this is about, you think …

He forced another laugh, started to get up from the table. Johnny’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder, pushing him down into his seat.

– Not so fast. Auntie asked you for the ticket.

Jerome shrugged again.

– I threw it away; it was rubbish, not a winning ticket. Johnny Carstens rubbed his upper lip with a forefinger, his head moving from side to side. Then he looked at Auntie.

– I told you that’s what he would say.

She slid her beer bottle onto the table, covered a burp with limp fingers.

– You’re lying, Jerome. I can tell when you lie.

– I swear, Auntie, why would I lie? What could I do with a winning ticket? Nobody will cash a ticket for a child. If I had the ticket I would come to you, won’t I? How else would I cash it?

The adults stared at him for a long moment before glancing at each other. Jerome sensed he had scored a point, perhaps enough to escape for now. He slowly pushed back his chair, and this time Johnny Carstens let him get up. As he squeezed past Auntie into the passage, he knew that they would be watching him from now on. This thing was too big for them to just let go.

Lying in bed that night, blanket pulled up to his chin, Jerome sifted through his options, but still he could see no clear way out of this mess. They couldn’t make a run for it; by disappearing, he and Lloyd would be telling them what they wanted to know. Auntie would send Johnny Carstens to go looking for them, and then?

He banged his head against the wall. Fool. What was he thinking, running away? Was he going mad? How does one run away pushing your brother in a wheelchair?

The pain in his neck brought him out of a deep slumber. He opened his eyes wide. By the light of the crescent moon he could make out the outline of the man bent over him. Even before the man spoke, he knew who it was. He could smell him, the brandy on his breath, the motor oil on his hands and clothes: Johnny Carstens.

– Don’t move.

As the sharp tip of the knife broke through his skin, Jerome stifled a cry.

Johnny hissed.

– The ticket, you little bastard. I want the ticket.

Jerome managed a whisper.

– Uncle … I … please …

There was a call from the kitchen. The pressure of the knife eased, and then it was gone. Johnny leaned into his face, and beyond the man’s bulk Jerome saw his backpack’s contents dumped on the floor.

– I’ll be watching you, Jerome. Don’t think I won’t.

He had one year. That’s what the rules on the back of the ticket told him.

No prize claims will be considered unless this ticket is presented within twelve months of the draw …

But he knew he couldn’t wait that long. He and Lloyd had to get their hands on the money, get the hell out of Manenberg, get away from Johnny and Auntie before it was too late.

Early morning, and he was adding a spoonful of powdered coffee to his mug of hot water when Auntie walked into the kitchen. He couldn’t meet her tired eyes.

– Morning, Auntie.

– Jerome.

She moved slowly, deliberately, the studied movements of someone who was getting ready to face the day. Then she stopped what she was doing, leaned against the table.

– Jerome, you listen to me.

– Yes, Auntie?

– If you have the ticket …

– But, Auntie, I told …

– Quiet, boy. What I was saying, if you have the ticket, we need the money, times are hard, you know that. So …

He looked at her for a long moment, and then shook his head.

– Auntie, I told you, if I had the ticket, I would give it to you, you know that.

He gulped down his coffee and slipped out the back door.

A week later and he was still no closer to solving his problem. The short list of names he had written in the back of his exercise book was crossed off one by one as he thought it over carefully: none of these adults could be trusted.

On his way to Auntie’s house he crossed the stretch of open field. Picking up a handful of rocks, he aimed at the empty bottles scattered around, felt his anger rising every time glass shattered. This wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right.

He thought of tearing up the ticket just to make this terrible thing go away. Then he could stop thinking about the prize money, get on with his life; he could make another plan, one that worked. But he knew he could never destroy the ticket. He had to look out for Lloyd. If anything happened to him, Auntie would send Lloyd to some children’s home. Nobody wanted to look after a cripple, not even your own sister’s flesh and blood. But with the money Lloyd would be okay, if ever something should happen to his big brother.

On Sunday Pastor Hendricks, fat shiny face beaming from the pulpit, offered forgiveness to the sinner who had played the lottery.

– God made the flesh and knows the weakness of the flesh.

But forgiveness always comes at a price, and this time was no different: the sinner should account to his church for one-tenth of the prize money.

– The Lord demands his share, it is written in the Holy Scriptures. The Pastor had urged the sinner to come forward, had pledged absolute confidentiality; no one need ever know who committed the grave sin of buying a lottery ticket.

As Jerome listened to people recounting the Pastor’s words, he sensed a back door creaking open, just a crack, and the narrow strip of light beckoned him closer.

Jerome leaned against the doorway of the bedroom and glanced down the passage before he turned to face his younger brother.

– I’ve got a plan.

Lloyd looked up at Jerome.

– Tell me.

Jerome pulled the door shut and sat down on the bunk next to Lloyd.

– It will cost us, but we have no choice. It’s like this …

They were at the door of the small rectory at the back of the church, Jerome dressed in blue jeans and a red T-shirt, Lloyd slumped in his wheelchair, fingers gripping its worn rubber wheels. Jerome looked down at his brother.

– Ready?

Lloyd nodded.

– Ready.

– Then let’s do it.

He reached out, knocked on the door, once, twice, then stepped back and waited. When nothing happened for a minute, he knocked again. This time a muffled voice called from inside.

– Coming.

The door opened and they were face to face with Pastor Hendricks.

– Do I know you boys?

Jerome smiled, nudged the wheelchair forward.

– Can we come in, Uncle?

The fat man eyed them suspiciously.

– Now why would I let you in?

Jerome held up his hands, palms open.

– We have some good news.

The fat man frowned, hesitated for a long moment, and then stepped aside, not bothering to help Jerome as he struggled to get the wheelchair across the threshold.

They were in a small sitting room, with two worn couches leaving barely enough space for the wheelchair. Jerome perched on the armrest of a couch, his hand resting on the back of the wheelchair.

Pastor Hendricks flopped down on the other couch, facing the boys.

– So what’s this good news?

Jerome looked around, gathering his thoughts, noticing the threadbare carpet, the water-stained ceiling. It was as he had suspected; Pastor Hendricks didn’t have money to throw around. He couldn’t be earning much working for a church on the Cape Flats.

– You said that you wanted the lottery winner to give some of the money to the church.

Pastor Hendricks leaned forward in his seat.

– That’s right. But how …

Lloyd interrupted him.

– We need your help.

The fat man’s gaze shifted to the boy in the wheelchair, and the light from the small window touched his eyes.

My help? You’d better tell me what you want.

– We have the ticket.

Jerome reached into his shirt pocket, and then let his hand drop to his side. Let the fat man believe the ticket was in there.

– You have the ticket?

Jerome nodded.

– But we need an adult to cash it for us. Someone we can trust. The Pastor’s face was now grave.

– If you have the ticket … I can help you, yes … you can trust me, I’m a man of God.

Jerome smiled.

– That’s why we’re here. You’re the only one we can trust. And … He paused, and then tapped two fingers against his breast pocket.

– You’ll get a share.

He could see the Pastor was almost hooked. His tongue darted, touching dry lips, and his hands were moving, fingers rubbing together. Jerome watched Pastor Hendricks carefully.

– If you help us, we’ll give you fifty thousand of the money. As he expected, greed took over. The fat man sat forward, his eyes shining.

– But only fifty …

Jerome held up his hand.

– If you’re not interested …

– Oh, but I am, it’s just …

– Fifty, that’s your share.

Pastor Hendricks slumped back against the couch.

– Very well, I will help you. Now where’s the ticket?

He held out his hand, eyes moving from Jerome to Lloyd and back to the bigger boy.

Jerome shook his head.

– Not yet. We’ll talk again.

Pastor Hendricks closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was weary.

– Who else knows about this?

Jerome shrugged.

– Nobody, only us two. And now you.

Pastor Hendricks nodded.

– We must keep it that way. Nobody must know, not even your parents.

Jerome waved a hand, dismissing the warning.

– We have no parents.

Pastor Hendricks didn’t seem to hear him.

– Yes, you did the right thing, coming to me.

Jerome gripped the back of the wheelchair.

– And uncle? Don’t try to cheat us.

– Cheat you? Why, I am a man of …

– Because if you do, we will tell everybody that you pulled down my brother’s pants and touched him, and then you pulled down your own pants, and the things you forced us to do.

Pastor Hendricks’ face flushed red. He struggled from the recesses of the couch.

– What the hell are you talking about, you little swine!

– Sorry, uncle, but that’s how it is. If you cheat us, we’ll tell stories about you.

The fat man looked at him incredulously, and then started to laugh.

– Oh, you clever little tramp. You are so clever.

Jerome waited for the man to calm down.

– So, uncle, do we have a deal?

When Pastor Hendricks nodded, the rolls of fat shook around his chin.

They were sitting in their usual spot, behind the fish market, Jerome smoking a cigarette, Lloyd looking at him.

– So now what?

Jerome exhaled a cloud of smoke.

– Hendricks is greedy, and he thinks we trust him. He thinks we’re stupid.

– Do you?

– Do I what?

– Trust him?

Jerome laughed, shaking his head.

– He’ll cross us as soon as anyone else.

A car honked loudly, and Lloyd wheeled his chair around to look out to the street.

– Now what?

– We’ll talk later. I have to think some more.

The house was quiet when he got home that afternoon. He stepped into the house, called his brother’s name. There was no answer. He called again, and then moved down the passage to their room.

– Lloyd?

His brother was curled up on his bunk, his useless legs pulled up to his chest, his shoulders shaking. Jerome knelt down next to the bunk, reached out and turned Lloyd’s head.

– What’s this? Why you crying?

Lloyd tried to turn his head away, but Jerome held him fast.

– Talk to me, Lloyd.

The smaller boy sobbed, tried to catch his breath. He wiped at his nose with his sleeve, and then pushed himself upright, facing Jerome.

– I’m sorry, Jerome, I didn’t want to, I tried. But he forced me. Jerome took a step back, looked down on his brother.

– What the hell you talking about?

– Johnny, he forced me.

– He forced you how?

– He hurt me until I told him about the ticket.

– You told him?

– I’m sorry, Jerome …

– Jerome hit his fist against the wall.

– Shit!

– And he told me to give you a message.

– What?

– He told me to tell you that he’ll keep hurting me until you bring him the ticket, that …

The younger boy started to cry again.

– What? What else?

– That he’ll kill me if you don’t bring him the ticket. Jerome swore loudly.

– And Auntie?

– She was there the whole time, watching and listening. Jerome looked around.

– Come, we have to get away from here.

Lloyd shook his head.

– It’s no use. Johnny took my wheelchair. He said to tell you there was no running away anywhere.

Their progress was slow, with Lloyd on his back, his arms on Jerome’s shoulders, his hands locked around his brother’s neck.

Jerome’s shuffling trot had soon turned to a steady walk; even with his useless legs, Lloyd was a heavy burden.

People were giving them surprised looks as they passed them on the street, but Jerome ignored them, all the time speaking softly to his brother, murmuring the words over and over again.

– Just hang on, Lo, just hang on.

He banged on the door with his fist, waited a few seconds, then banged again, and when Pastor Hendricks opened the door to the rectory, Jerome stumbled inside. Lloyd slipped from his back onto the floor and Jerome stood panting, bent over, hands on his knees, ignoring the fat man’s protests. Then he straightened, reached for Lloyd and dragged him onto the couch.

– Sorry, uncle, but we need to stay here for a short while. Pastor Hendricks eyed him speculatively, and then glanced at the crippled boy on his couch.

– Where’s his wheelchair?

Jerome shrugged.

– It’s a long story.

He pushed the netted curtain aside, looked out the window towards the street.

– We’ll stay here until the ticket is cashed, then we go.

For a long moment the fat man seemed to consider this, and then he held out his hand.

– The ticket?

Jerome shook his head.

– Tomorrow, we go together, you and me, and then we’ll cash her.

They slept in the small living room, one to a couch, each covered by a thin blanket Pastor Hendricks had produced from a battered chest before he retired to his even smaller bedroom. His parting words had been a warning.

– Just until we cash the ticket, then I want you boys out of here. I don’t like this one bit.

Jerome hadn’t bothered to answer, had simply pulled the blanket tighter over his head, shutting out the world.

Jerome woke early the next morning as Pastor Hendricks slipped out the front door. He turned his head to look at Lloyd, but his brother was still sleeping, his body curled up against the backrest of the couch, only the top of his head showing from under the blanket. Jerome fingered his breast pocket, and then smoothed it flat, feeling the ticket below the thin material.

Today was the day. They had run out of choices, he had to trust the fat man; their time had run out. They would go to the cash-in place together; he would stick to the Pastor’s side the whole time, not letting him out of his sight. Then he would come back for Lloyd. That was all he could think of doing.

But when Pastor Hendricks re-entered the house twenty minutes later, he could see from the fat man’s face that he had other trouble.

Pastor’s Hendricks’ eyes were filled with fear, his hands were trembling.

– I want you boys out of here, now!

Jerome took a step across the room, shielding Lloyd from the bulk of the fat man.

– What’s this, uncle, what’s the matter?

The fat man took a deep breath.

– It’s all over the place, you have the winning ticket, there are packs of men hunting for you right now, and you know what they’ll do to get their hands on that kind of money, these men are animals …

Jerome felt the pain shoot up behind his left eye, blurring his vision. He gripped his brother’s bony shoulder, and then spoke slowly.

– How do they know?

– Last night … this is what the woman at the shop told me … last night, Johnny Carstens got drunk, and then started bragging about being rich, about you having his ticket, how he’s going to get it from you and cash in. Now everybody knows, and they are all looking for you.

Jerome saw it then: he was fair game. Yesterday he had run away from Johnny Carstens, today there were hundreds of him, faceless men chasing the same prize, men who would gladly cut his throat for the ticket and then quietly disappear.

– You have to leave, if they know you are here, they’ll kill me too, you must go …

– But, uncle, we’re going to cash the ticket, I’ll give you more, you can have half …

The fat man’s voice became shrill.

– I don’t want any of your money, just go!

He took a step towards the door, flung it open.

– Leave, or I’ll call the police.

Jerome shook his head.

– How can you, uncle, you said so yourself, and you’re a man of God …

– God didn’t ask you to play the lottery; God isn’t going to protect me against killers, just go!

– Please, uncle, we’ll go, but give us until dark. And please, will you pray for us?

Pastor Hendricks closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he again looked at Jerome, the boy thought he looked calmer.

– As soon as it’s dark, you leave, both of you.

He thought nothing of it when Pastor Hendricks left his house, returning only much later, carrying a brown paper bag. But afterwards he knew he should have paid better heed, for even a man of God suffers from the weakness of the flesh.

It was barely dark when Pastor Hendricks opened the door.

– Go now, it’s time.

Jerome slipped out, scrambled for the side street, kept to spots of darkness, stepped into shadows every time a car passed, pushed up against walls, trying to hide the bulk of his brother on his back.

… they are all looking for you … you know what they’ll do to get their hands on that kind of money, these men are animals …

He could feel it: someone was watching them, tracking their progress. There were eyes on them.

A few minutes later, and he saw it: the dark outline of a car keeping pace with them, its headlights off, the driver navigating by a thin slice of moon. Then he thought of Pastor Hendricks, and the brown paper bag he had carried when he had returned to his house at dusk, and it all made terrible sense to him.

He kept stumbling forward, thinking only of their destination: if they could make it to the station, just to the station. But they had three more blocks to cover, with Lloyd deadweight on his back.

He heard the faint sound of a radio playing a hip-hop tune, the roar of the car engine, and then voices.

– Cut them off before the next street.

– Over there.

– Now!

The car pulled up ahead of them, jumped the pavement, and two men stepped out, blocking their way. Jerome turned around and started to run, hitching Lloyd higher up on his back, lurching towards a side street, towards the safety of darkness, but he knew they would never make it.

And when he thought about it afterwards, he could swear that he had heard the sound of the shot only after the invisible force propelled him forward, the force that knocked him down onto the pavement, the force that sent Lloyd’s body flying, crashing his crippled body against a concrete road marker. He lay stunned for a moment, and then crawled on his hands and knees towards his little brother, shouting his name. But Lloyd didn’t answer; his broken body was still, a dark spot forming on his lower back. Then Jerome understood: the shot that had been fired had hit Lloyd; his brother had been his shield. He screamed then, a high and terrible sound, his mouth open, his head flung back.

The two men were slowly making their way towards their prey. Jerome watched them approach, his lips moving soundlessly, his breath coming in short bursts. Then he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out the ticket, and with deft fingers ripped it to shreds.

He was on his knees then, raising his hands as he let the scraps of paper fall, watched as the broken pieces of a dream drifted towards his brother’s body like soft rain.