I stop dead. God knows, I don’t deserve those words. I never did, but I’ll be damned if I don’t own them. Pain and joy are inseparable. It simultaneously hurts like a motherfucker and makes my chest swell. I feel like the adolescent I never got to be, falling in love for the first time. The sequence is wrong, falling in love after already loving her, but it’s right for us. I lusted after her from the word go and loved her from the minute she took a bullet out of my shoulder. Already then, I knew she was made for me. I knew she was mine. I made that vow to her the first time I owned her body. When I said she was mine, I promised to be hers, and I take my promises seriously. I take them to my grave.
I also promised her I’d never remove the necklace she gave me. I want her to know she can believe in me, always trust me, because I never break my word. It’s vital she knows this, because she’ll need to hold onto that knowledge when the months grow into years and the memory of our love wears thin. Time does what time does. It fades memories. When she wakes up one morning and has difficulty recalling my face, this knowledge will see her through. When she wonders if I still love her, she’ll only have to remember I’ve always been a man of my word.
Peters stops talking. He gives me a nudge, moving me forward. It’s now or never. Pretending to scratch an itch, I slip the top button of the jumpsuit through the buttonhole and brush the edge aside. The Nyaminyami tattoo sits in the center of my breastbone. It’s a crude piece of art made with a pin and the ink of a felt tip pen, objects I borrowed from Peters and used during his visit.
Her eyes flare, letting me know she’s seen what I wanted her to. The brown of her irises glisten like gemstones, but she’s brave. She holds in her tears and gives me a smile. It’s the smile I hold onto when the guard takes my arm and leads me through the door. When it shuts on her face, I tattoo the way she looked today, free and alive, in my heart.
Fuck me if it wasn’t all worth it.
Chapter 20
Cas
I will not stand by and watch Ian go to prison, not for my sake. I love that man too much. Mouthing the words isn’t enough. I want one more chance to tell him how I feel to his face. Right and wrong don’t matter, not to my heart. I deserve one more chance. As does he. If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t be in handcuffs and shackles. If my heart weren’t weak, if I ran faster, if I made it to the helicopter, if Ian didn’t give away his identity by getting shot, if he never saw me… If, if, if… All because of me.
Fuck.
I kick the chair in my hotel room.
Double fuck.
That hurts like a bitch.
I hop around on one foot, tearing off the wig and throwing it against the wall.
Hairpins drop to the floor as I rip the net from my hair, hopping to the window. The street is busy. Vendors sell newspapers and fake brand products at the traffic light. A woman with a boy in hand stops to buy a Phantom ski mask. The boy fits it while the woman pays the vendor. The mask has holes cut out for the eyes and a triangular, plastic nozzle with ventilation holes for breathing that fits over the nose and mouth. It’s a cheap imitation and for sale everywhere. Some entrepreneur was clever enough to cash in on the hype sweeping through the county with the trial in session. Every kid who’s at an age of playing cops and robbers wants a mask. Even some adults are wearing them, mostly the Phantom fans gathering outside the courthouse every morning and afternoon to catch a glimpse of Ian as the police escort him to and from the building.
A few geeky guys with masks in their hands walk up the street from the direction of the court. Two girls follow, still wearing their masks. They’re both dressed in orange jumpsuits with the top buttons undone, showing ample cleavage. Ian has always had a big following, but never as many lovesick fangirls as now.
What is it about him that makes them desire a criminal? It’s not only his handsome face and strong body. It’s more than the rebellious haircut—which they’ve sadly shaven in prison—and his tattoos. It’s the way in which he carries himself. It’s his sense of humor and his self-confidence. It’s the way he never loses his cool in court and how respectfully he addresses the prosecutor, no matter how bitchy she is toward him. It’s an inborn knowledge, a female sixth sense. Every woman has it instinctively. It’s that vibe Ian gives off. We all feel it, that Ian is a man who makes his woman his queen. There’s nothing he won’t do for her. He’d go to any lengths to protect her. He told me so on the night he made me drive Mint’s Porsche, and the fact that he’s behind bars and in chains is proof he meant every word.
Biting my nail, I stare at the group of men and women until they disappear into a clothing store. The mannequin outside the entrance is dressed in an orange jumpsuit sporting one of those imitation Phantom masks. Some people find the disguises selling like hotcakes infuriating while those who have joined the bandwagon declare them uplifting. There hasn’t been such a spirit among the masses since the year South Africa won the Rugby World Cup.
Why do the masses support a thief? Because he’s handsome, funny, and polite. Because they’re angry and disillusioned with corruption. Because next to Ian, Wolfe looked evil. Because Ian is clever and cunning, unfairly likeable, and easy to admire.
I abandon the view to go through the bar fridge. It’s almost empty. After bundling my hair under a cap, I go downstairs and walk to the corner store where I buy fruit and bread. On the way back, I stop at the clothing store. The orange of the jumpsuit is so bright it hurts to look at. Is that why they make the prisoners wear this color? It stands out like a sore thumb. You can definitely not disappear into the background wearing that color.
I rub the fabric between my fingers. It’s thin and feels like parachute material. According to the price tags, both the mask and the jumpsuit are dirt cheap. No wonder everyone can afford to buy the disguise.
That’s when it hits me. My plan.
It’s not sophisticated, but like my dad used to say, the best solutions aren’t the most complicated ones. They’re the ones that stare you in the face, the ones you often overlook because they’re so obvious.
“Do you mind if I take a photo?” I ask the vendor who’s leaning in the door, smoking a cigarette.
He flicks the cigarette in the mannequin’s direction. “Knock yourself out.”
I take a photo with my phone and rush back to my room. Inside, I drop my shopping bag on the floor without bothering to unpack it and curl up on the armchair by the window with my phone. It only takes a few swipes to create a fake account. Accessing the Phantom fan site, I upload the photo under my false name. When I’m done, I call Damian.
His tone is cautious. “Tell me you’re calling from Namibia.”
“Is the line secure?”
“Of course.”
“I need to see you.”
He sighs. “So much for hoping for a postcard from Windhoek.”
“Where is a safe place to meet?”
“What is this about, Cas?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. I need Leon to be there too.”
“Hold on,” he says in a deep voice that sounds too much like Ian’s. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not talking on the phone. Give me a time and a place.”