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As soon as the draft horse led him deep enough within, Lightfoot pulled on the reins once more and the beast came to a halt, with one hoof on top of a skull. He readjusted the scarf around his nose and mouth, willing himself to take as shallow a breath as possible. The air in Cape Town may have smelled of fish, but here it smelt of death.
Lightfoot leapt from the cart and made his way behind it. This far into the cemetery, he didn’t need to worry about masking or burying the body. No authority or anyone of importance would dare step foot inside, more so because of the closure of Tana Baru due to supposed contamination. It was the ideal location to get rid of evidence, but not so much a place one would choose to be.
Grabbing Birdie by his muscular ankles, Lightfoot was able to yank the bastard to the muddy earth by pressing his foot against the cart. The sky behind the mighty Table Mountain began to pale which meant Helios had begun his rounds. Lightfoot had exactly one hour to return the horse and cart and meet his handler for their rendezvous.
He bade Asher farewell and good morning on his way out of the gates.
“Did you see Abrie deep in there?” Asher said with a laugh. Lightfoot shook his head. “He’s a rat the size of an infant. Legend has it, he scurried here from Lion’s Rump and made Tana Baru his home.”
Lightfoot sighed, before getting comfortable on the cart and riding off.
Chapter Three
Lightfoot arrived at the Perseverance Tavern on Buitenkant Street by the skin of his teeth, just as a sailor and his molly stumbled out of the alehouse and into the still quiet and dusty street. Lightfoot paused for a moment to inspect his reflection in a window beneath one of the lamps, and tidied himself up. He fastened the collar of his soiled shirt, fixed his necktie, buttoned up his cutaway and dusted off his trousers. He looked tired, but everything was as he remembered — manicured beard, strong eyebrows and oak eyes. His hair was a little mussed, but nothing a comb couldn’t settle.
Entering the Perseverance, Lightfoot was knocked by the coagulated stench of oily food and liquor. A large barman rested his elbows on the counter, keeping a distrusting eye on the ancient piano man who continued to tinkle the keys even though the tavern was basically empty. Three men lay passed out at a round table by one of the windows, an unfinished game of blackjack taking up space between them.
His shoes stuck to the boarded floor as he made his way toward the door at the back, which led to an alleyway behind the tavern.
There, a lone man smoked a clay pipe between wooden crates and rubble. “You’re one minute and forty-five seconds late, Lightfoot.”
“Apologies, Aqib. There were some unexpected mishaps along the way.”
Aqib shook his head and rested it against the wall of the tavern. “You killed Birdie Schalkwyk, didn’t you?”
Lightfoot shrugged, unsure how to attempt an answer as Aqib brushed ash off his thawb and loaded his clay pipe with more tobacco. “As I said, unexpected mishaps.” Without making his handler wait a moment more for the code, Lightfoot removed Birdie’s tattooed palm from the pocket of his cutaway and placed it on a wooden crate that sat between them. “Here’s the code. Mission accomplished, sir.”
Aqib lit the tobacco in his clay pipe and puffed. He looked down at what Lightfoot had just presented him with and ran a hand over his face. “Dear Lord, man. Show a little decorum, will you? What was wrong with memorising it?”
“I didn’t have the time, sir.” Lightfoot pointed his index finger in the direction he assumed he’d just come from. “Had to drop our friend off at Tana Baru on the way over.”
Aqib raised an eyebrow and brought the clay pipe to his lips. What was left of the moonlight turned his skin a midnight blue. “The cemetery? That’s rather bricky of you, considering the smallpox closures and all.”
“It would have been too risky dropping the sod off a pier. Besides…” Lightfoot grinned as he thought of Asher’s voice and eyes. “I have my contacts.”
Aqib scoffed, then lifted the thawb. He pulled a handkerchief out of the pants he wore underneath. With it, he picked up Birdie’s skin, folded it neatly, then placed it back into his pocket. “Don’t we all.”
They stood in silence as Aqib finished smoking the tobacco in his clay pipe and tapped it against the crate. Lightfoot allowed his handler time to put his pipe away before he launched into the same question he’d asked multiple times before. “When do I leave for Santorini?”
“Santorini is a bust,” Aqib said rather bluntly. “I’m still awaiting a debrief. In the meantime, I have a small job to keep you occupied, but only if you’re keen. My other agents are either too tender or far abroad to pick this one up.”
Lightfoot swallowed down his disappointment. He schooled his features to not let it show, though he could feel his jaw tense. “Is this a job for the October House?”
“Somewhat. More like a freelance gig for an old friend if I’m to be honest.”
Lightfoot clicked his tongue. “You must be half-rats. You know I don’t moonlight for anyone. My allegiance is with the October House. That’s all.”
“Draw a breath.” Aqib waved a hand in the space between them. “I’m not asking you to play traitor. I’m simply calling in a favour, is all.”
Lightfoot sighed. The knot at the back of his neck was aching again and it felt as though he had a nest of ants scurrying behind his eyes. He needed to sleep so he figured humouring his handler would be the best way to spearhead the conversation to its conclusion. “What’s the job?”
“It’s a quickie. In and out. All you need to do is attend a party and that’s that.” Aqib cleared his throat, then bent down and removed a leather docket from inside the crate. “What’s more, you’ll be one hundred pounds richer for it.”
Laughing, Lightfoot cocked his head to the side. Aqib couldn’t possibly expect him to believe what he’d just said. “Don’t sell me a dog, Aqib. One hundred pounds? I’m not wet behind the ears.”
“It’s the truth. Like I mentioned, the others I handle are either overseas or too young for something like this,” Aqib said, dropping the docket into Lightfoot’s hands when he refused to take it from him. “I need a professional.”
“Bull dust.”
