Bradley was gasping for breath, his lungs feeling as if they were about to burst. He cursed with feeling.

“I should have kept up with my exercises. I’m running for my life, and I can’t even breathe properly!” he chided himself mentally, using the F-word freely.

He had stopped for a much-needed breather beside a house facing Athall Walk, one of the many roads meandering through the suburb. Hanover Park was known for its extremely high levels of crime and criminal elements, but many innocent residents had no other option but to call the cesspit their home. Bradley was not one of these innocents. He belonged to one of the most violent gangs in the suburb, the Hard Livings gang.

Suddenly, two shots rang out loudly and clearly, startling Bradley from his hiding place. A piece of concrete spat away from the side wall of the house, revealing just how close to being shot Bradley had come. He found a new burst of energy and sprinted back into the warren of lanes leading further into the dark interior of the township.

“He’s here! Guys, the rat is running towards Downberg Road!” someone screamed out. Bradley grinned wickedly as he instantly ran in the opposite direction. Mountview High School was just around the corner, and Bradley knew it could provide him with suitable sanctuary until the heat had died off. Another few explosive shots shattered the midnight air, but they were all coming from far behind him now.

“Thanks, Dean,” Bradley thought, grateful that his friend had misled his pursuers. He needed to get into hiding soon if he wanted to survive the hunt for him. He knew his only hope lay in reaching his target: the Imam’s house. As he dashed stealthily but speedily from one dark corner to a shadowy doorway to a deserted back yard, he kept his ears perked for signs that his pursuers might be closing in on him.

The suburb was deserted, as residents knew to remain indoors when gun shots reverberated during the night. Bradley sprinted past the Civic Centre, heading for the day hospital situated opposite the bus terminal. From there, he ran past the Full Gospel Church of God until he reached Athry Walk, which ran behind the high school. Eight minutes after Dean’s false announcement, Bradley had reached the back fence of the school. Nimble as any alley cat, he scaled the wire fence without any difficulty. He had done this countless times before; he was intimately familiar with the school grounds and knew where he could hide until the furore had died down. It was crucial for him to reach the clergyman’s house if he hoped to see the light of the next day.

Fingers was furious. His wrath was so great that he had started to froth slightly at the mouth, like some rabid dog. He knew that to many of his enemies he was exactly that: a crazed animal instead of a man. He actively worked on enforcing that image by being ruthless, unpredictable and lethally insane. To calm himself and get the unfortunate tic in his left cheek under control, he screamed for his right-hand man, Tiny. His lieutenant was anything but small; he was a giant monster.

“Tiny!” Fingers bellowed again, sounding like a madman about to kill everybody in sight. The other gang members waiting outside his chamber were all walking on eggs already, but when they heard the insanity in his voice, a few of them wisely left the house to await orders outside. They knew Fingers’ outbursts often ended up in collateral damage for innocent bystanders.

Before Fingers could call Tiny again, the misnamed thug appeared. His massive body completely filled the doorway. His muscles had muscles; he was also as ugly as sin. When he was but a young boy of nine, his father’s violent pit bull had thought it a good idea to take a bite out of the child’s right cheek. Consequently, his disfigured face sealed his fate in life. Tiny, who was known then as Malcolm, knew his path had been set for him. With a single-minded attitude that bordered on obsession, he had determined to become so powerful, so muscular, that no animal or human would ever again dare to attack him. In the process, he lost his innocence, his childhood and his soul. His father’s gang boss couldn’t wait to get the boy working for him.

“Boss?” was all Tiny said. He hated having to speak. The pit bull had not only ripped away his cheek; it had also taken part of his tongue. Tiny had struggled valiantly to regain his full faculty of speech, but he ended up sounding barely intelligible. As one of the gang members had cruelly told Tiny once: “Damn, you sound like a retard on steroids!” Said gang member died mere seconds after his thoughtless comment, choked to death by Tiny. Nobody had felt the need to intervene.

“I want that traitor caught and brought to me before the athaan goes off!” Fingers instructed. Of course, he used the F-word a number of times in his short sentence. Tiny knew the call to prayer would be made within two hours, enough time for him and his crew to track down and catch Bradley.

“Sure, Boss,” Tiny managed. Then he steeled himself to ask a question. “Dead or alive?”

Fingers knew Tiny wasn’t being disrespectful in his manner of speech, but he suddenly felt like punching the big buffoon to let off some of his rage. He knew though that he would most likely be hurt in the attempt. Hitting Tiny would be like knocking your fists into a concrete wall.

“I want the son of a bitch alive!” Fingers screamed. “But that don’t mean you can’t have some fun with him. I don’t need him to be in one piece. I just need him alive,” Fingers clarified, many F-bombs littering his declaration. Tiny gave an extremely disturbing smile; it not only emphasized his grotesque scar, but it also revealed the utter evil behind the man’s eyes.

“Alive, but broken,” Tiny stated wittily, pleasantly surprising Fingers. The gang leader laughed wickedly, his rodent-like features scrunching up in pleasure, making him look uglier than usual.

“Exactly! Now move it and bring that son of a whore to me!” Fingers instructed. As Tiny left, Fingers went to the bathroom to take ablutions for the early morning prayers. He decided to read the Qur’an to soothe his anger. Not for a single second did it ever cross the thug’s mind that his lifestyle was completely abhorrent to his religion. His arrogance and power as a gang lord had long ago destroyed his fear of God.

Fingers’ wife, Wasiela, was busy preparing food in the kitchen. She and the rest of the household were all up; nobody dared sleep when Fingers was on the rampage. Wasiela dreaded the fate that awaited Bradley, but she had long ago learned to turn a blind eye to her husband’s doings. It allowed her to sleep soundly, with a conscience unbothered by recriminations and guilt.

Imam Ridhwaan, fondly known as just Imam to everyone in Hanover Park, had a residence at the end opposite to Fingers’ domain, in Ambrose Crescent, which ran parallel with Turfhall Road. While Fingers and his Hard Livings gang controlled the entire north and east ends of the township, the west was miraculously free of the strict hold of the gangsters. Or maybe it was because of the concerted efforts of Imam and his followers that the area enjoyed some freedom from gang rule. Nevertheless, the violence was a constant reality that every single day threatened to spill over into their area.

The Imam was awake, having been awoken by the repeated gun shots earlier in the morning. He knew what it signalled.

“That boy is in trouble, Gouwa,” he said to his wife. “He’s being hunted, and I can’t even go out to look for him,” he ended in a frustrated tone.

“Don’t you dare, Waanie!” Gouwa was quick to say. “You stay inside where it’s safe. Bradley knows to come here, doesn’t he, so why do you need to go out there?” she asked, wringing her hands in anxiety.

“Yes, he’s probably trying to get to me, but those gangsters … they’ll leave no corner or hiding place unchecked. They probably know all his hiding places,” he continued, pacing the length of his tiny lounge, “and if he’s stupid enough to take refuge in one of his spots, he’s sure to be caught,” he lamented. “Oh Allah, bring the boy safely to me, please,” he implored his Creator.

“Daddy,” Haroon, his eldest son, said, “he’ll get to us. Somebody must’ve heard that he’s decided to turn witness against Fingers, and that person probably told Fingers,” he guessed. “If they are out hunting for Bradley, isn’t that a good thing?” he asked his father.

“Yes, you’re right, Haroon. I should have thought of that myself,” the Imam conceded. “It means Bradley was warned in time that Fingers knew about his decision, so he had time to run for his life,” the Imam added.

“Now he just needs to get to us,” Haroon said. “I’ll call Detective Andile, ask him to get here as quickly as he can,” Haroon informed his dad and went to his room to get his cell phone to make the call.

“I just hope he won’t be too late,” the Imam prayed, his heart heavy with foreboding.

The boys’ toilet area of the school was situated at the back of one of the block of classrooms, and Bradley had often used this place as a hiding spot, mostly because it was poorly lit. In addition, it was remarkably easy to gain access to the toilets. Bradley had sequestered himself in the cubicle furthest from the toilet entrance. He was puffing desperately on a joint as he relived his time in the gang. He had the unusual habit of talking to himself in whispers whenever he found himself in a volatile situation. This did not go over well at all with his mates, especially when they were waiting in ambush for enemy gang members, but they had tolerated it for the sole reason that Bradley was one of the earliest gang recruits. He had been initiated into the gang at the tender age of twelve, five months before he would become a teenager.

Sitting on the toilet seat and taking long, slow puffs of the dagga joint, Bradley recalled his initiation rite. He was unaware that he was trembling like a thinly dressed person caught out in a blizzard.

“Was supposed to be just a simple mugging,” he now spoke to himself, “but the stupid bastard fought me for his laptop. I didn’t mean to stab him, but once I started, I just couldn’t stop myself!” he complained, using the F-word liberally. He stared aghast at his shaking hands, as if he could once again see them awash in the blood of the young man he had attacked. Taking a few more drags on the joint, Bradley continued his soliloquy.

“That was only the start. After that: other murders, muggings, theft, burglaries. The worst: the rapes. God help me, I enjoyed some of it, but most of the times I was just following Fingers’ command, wasn’t I?” he tried to reason with himself to assuage the compounded guilt. “Wasn’t I?” he asked himself again in a plaintive tone before he lapsed into silence.

Tiny had made straight for the school, for he knew the pig would run to hide in his favourite hole. “Dumb f –,” he thought to himself. Using hand signals, he dispersed the six gangsters he had brought with him. They were his crew and knew his signals as if he were speaking verbally to them. They obeyed him instantly, moving off silently to their indicated search areas.

“You can hide in your stinking hole, rat,” Tiny thought maliciously, “but once my men find you, I’m gonna have some fun first before I take what’s left of you back to the boss.”

Tiny licked his sausage thick lips in gleeful anticipation as he used his switchblade to scrape imaginary dirt from under his finger nails. Most prominent in his mind was the delirious anticipation to cut Bradley, and to cut him good. He suddenly recalled a conversation which he had overhead between some of his men a very long time ago. The unexpected surfacing of the memory sent thrills through his brawny frame.

“Everybody who knows Tiny knows of his sick love of using his knife in creative ways on his victims,” Koppe had said to his audience of ten gangsters, F-bombs peppering his speech. The thugs had been huddled around an open drum fire in the back yard of Fingers’ drug house. “Not many of them bitches ever survived his ministrations,” he had continued, eliciting raucous laughter from the gangsters.

“Do you know what Tiny’s nickname is as an inside joke?” Pung, another gangster, had asked. “Get this,” he had said with great relish, “we call him Fillet Mignon ’cause of his love of flaying the skin off his victims.” Surprisingly, he had pronounced the name correctly, saying ‘fil-lay’ and not ‘fill-lit’ as is commonly pronounced. The gangsters had found it highly amusing.

Tiny burned with the unholy desire to strip Bradley’s skin off him inch by inch, to hear him howl in pain and misery. His fingers twitched sadistically in anticipation.

“Traitor, your mom won’t recognise your stinking body once I’m done with you,” Tiny thought ominously.

Bradley sat bolt upright when he heard the squeak of the toilet door as someone pushed it open. His heart rate accelerated alarmingly, but he dared not make a sound. He held his breath, kept as still as a petrified statue, eyes spread wide in fear, seeming to protrude unnaturally from their sockets.

“Bradley? You here?” the intruder queried.

Heaving a tremendous sigh of relief, Bradley said, “Back here, in the last stall.” He had recognised the voice of his eleven-year-old brother, Alistair.

Stepping out of the stall, Bradley hurried over to Alistair who was still standing at the entrance to the toilets. As he walked towards his brother, Bradley asked in fury and concern, “What the hell are you doing here, man? Why aren’t you at home?”

That’s when he noticed the gun in Alistair’s hand. It was pointed right at his heart.

“Alistair, what the f – are you doing?” he asked, confused and alarmed.

“I’m sorry, Bradley,” his little brother said. His tone was not apologetic at all though; he sounded deathly cold and strangely detached. “You made your choice to leave the gang. Well, I’ve made mine to join them,” Alistair revealed in a voice devoid of emotion.

Bradley stared at the stranger facing him, and his heart broke when the horrible truth hit him.

“God, no! Alistair, not you!” he exclaimed in disbelief and remorse.

“What choice do I have, brother? How else will we survive here?” Alistair asked calmly.

He shot Bradley twice in his heart, then emptied the gun on the inert body of his brother lying in a spreading pool of his own blood.

Four minutes later, Tiny found Alistair standing over Bradley’s corpse. Alistair was still mechanically pulling the trigger, the click-click-click of the empty gun echoing hollowly in the toilet reeking with the stench of gunpowder, urine and coppery blood.

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