Last Train to Retreat by Gustav Preller

National Championship cup for the light heavyweight division, and like a curved mirror it reflected the ‘God Warrior’ tattoo on his forearm and the
Braveheart
sword below it. The trophy made him feel good but the tattoo didn’t. He had wanted to remove it after striking his alliance with the Gnome but had kept it for the good PR. The reality was that the Gnome had superseded God – a human G-force supplanting the divine G-force. He stared at his reflected image, the young face with eyes that had become old long before their time, the raised, ropey scars on his right upper cheek and left chin – cuts left unstitched – the T-shirt bulging around his neck and shoulders.
    •
     
    Hannibal couldn’t go to sleep after Curly had gone. Too many things were whirling through his mind. In the lounge he put on a Hong Kong triad movie. He had a whole rack of DVDs that included the entire
Young and Dangerous
and
A Better Tomorrow
series
, Sworn Brothers, The Mission,
and
Century of the Dragon.
The mix of bullets and bodies in slow motion, the blood, money, smart clothes and cars always mesmerised him. Hard eyes, dangling cigarettes, jade rings and Rolexes, piles of chips on baize counters, brotherhood, loyalty – Hannibal could feel himself slipping away. He imagined himself with wavy black hair instead of the brown stubble he’d been born with and had dyed to resemble a harvested, cropped mealie field. He is the Red Pole in the movie – a rank accorded to top triad fighters – fearsome warriors with absolute loyalty to their Dragon Heads, who decimate rival gangs with guns, meat cleavers, baseball bats, and chains if there’s any threat to their turf. He has lost his black heart to a beautiful woman but keeps his true identity from her, fearing he might lose her. Her brother, a gang member who has become disillusioned, finally tells her who and what her lover really is. Devastated, she enters the nunnery at the Chi Lin Buddhist monastery in Diamond Hill – more beautiful than ever but lost to him forever.
    Hannibal switched off the DVD, too distraught to see it through to the end. He took out the picture of Chantal he always kept in his wallet. Long flowing hair, steady but soulful eyes, gentle yet so passionate – how long had it been? His God had been a fierce one, a warrior; her love, gentle and like balsam.
    He savoured what had happened just a few days ago. The house recently acquired by the Gnome for the purpose of producing more crystal meth happened to be close to where Chantal and her family lived. Hannibal knew they were still there because late one afternoon while he was fitting the cylinders, gas tank, and burner to heat up and shape glass
lollies,
he had suddenly glimpsed her through the window walking in the direction of Darwin Court. He had stood there with a thudding heart, fighting the impulse to run after her and shout her name. The moment came and went like a swooping swallow but he knew that fate had thrown him another chance. He felt sure she couldn’t have married otherwise she wouldn’t still be in Lavender Hill. He had to think more this time, feel less. There was still her brother, Zane. For the first time in many years Hannibal was pleased that he had held off – revenge too early would have destroyed this chance with Chantal. In any case, her brother never had what it took to be part of his
kring,
the inner circle of the Evangelicals. Killing him would have been like clubbing a young seal. After all this time Hannibal felt a little sorry for the boy he had tried to mould into a man. The trouble was how could he respect someone he felt sorry for, an
oraait kak vedala
laaitie
– a boy who was always fighting with himself?

Eleven
    A s Zane helped the girl out of the train at Wynberg station, she spoke for the first time, ‘
Los my, djy, ek loep self
.’ Then she saw the guard waiting at the rear. ‘
Laat hom dink ek’s dronk
,’ she whispered hanging onto Zane pretending she was drunk. In