The Antique Shop - Part 3

I can’t go back the way I came. That shopkeeper is probably standing outside his store with a sawn-off and begging me to return to the scene of the crime. He’s probably fantasising about the look my face will make as the bore thuds into my torso, narrowly missing the stolen pieces which he’ll carefully pry out of my lifeless hands, clean up, and sell to the buyers already waiting in his store. As a final humiliation, my bladder will empty itself. I shiver as I think about facing that evil bastard again. I make a quick vow to never enter another second-hand store again, antique or otherwise.
I decide to hole up somewhere, which essentially means going back to my flat and trying to figure out what to do next. At this stage the most attractive option is to throw away these damn antiques and brain myself until I forget about the whole incident. When I peek out into Long Street again the foot traffic is thinning, which means I’ll be easily spotted, my mind screams.
I hide the antiques under my shirt and hope no one will notice the odd bulges and my guilty expression. I turn left into Long Street, away from my would-be murderer with the itchy trigger finger and walk quickly, avoiding the impulse to run. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and it’s all I can do to not turn around and scan the faces behind me for the one that will scream and shout…
– That’s him there!
– Someone stop him!
– He’s getting away!
My heart freezes, but before I can tell my jellied legs to start running someone slams into me and sprawls to the floor. I stumble but stay on my feet, and turn around just as four guys scoot around me and dive onto the hapless guy before he can get up. A wave of relief washes over me instantly, but the joy breaks as I see the first blow landed. One guy has wrestled a handbag from the guy on the floor and the other three hold him down, one sitting on his back with his right leg twisted behind him, one holding his arms and the other his neck. He doesn’t seem to be struggling, but that doesn’t stop the guy holding his neck from punching him in the mouth. The guy who’s just taken the handbag from him kicks him in the ribs and he cries out. I wince at the dull thud it makes. It’s the same noise that bullet made when my dad shot a baboon on his farm – to this day I can hear the wheeze from its ruined throat as it gasped for air which bubbled through the blood in its lungs before my brother shot it in the head with a pistol.
– See what you get, ey?
– Hold his arm tighter bru!
– He’s not going anywhere.
– Hey, someone call a cop.
– Ugh, I’ve got his blood on my shirt. YOU TRYING TO GIVE ME AIDS?!
– Where’s your Mandela to protect you?
Everyone in the street has stopped what they’re doing and watch the man get the crap beaten out of him. It really is this thief’s unlucky day. These guys have probably been looking for a good brawl for a few days and this guy came to them like a gift. All four are smiling sadistically. Back-sitter gives the man’s leg a sharp twist. Neck-holder lifts his head and bangs it hard into the pavement. Bag-holder spits on his head. Even if someone else there is as disgusted as I am, no one says or does anything. I’m about to say something when Back-sitter looks at me.
– Shot for stopping this black bastard. Thought he was gonna get away.
He smiles at me and I feel sick. Guilty. Party to the crime. I wonder if these guys would have beaten me as much if they’d caught me. I guess catching me wouldn’t have given an outlet to their latent racism. I turn around and my head feels light. I stumble through the gawking crowd – some are visibly repulsed, others entranced by the reality show they’ll talk about at braais and work for the next few weeks. I need to get out of here right now.
My car is only about 200 metres further down the road, but it feels like hours before I finally reach it. I’m not even inside before the car guard is hassling me for change. I’m not used to how aggressive Cape Town car guards are. In Durban they seem to be grateful for what they get, but down here they count your tip in front of you and tap on your window if they’re not happy. Giving these guys a tip feels like you’re handing over protection money to a mobster. I scratch around in my ashtray and groan – all I have is a couple of 5c pieces and a R1 coin. This guy is going to hate me. With him hovering next to me I can’t even process the events of the last hour. I put the antiques on the passenger seat and start the car. I want to tear off as soon as the coins land in this dude’s hands; before he can bang on my window and demand more. I wait for a gap in the traffic, throw the coins at the car guard and speed off before I can see his reaction.
The road is busy and I’m not too familiar with the route back to my flat yet, but I haven’t driven two kilometres before my hands start shaking and I pull over into a petrol station. Whenever I blink I can see the fear in that bag-snatcher’s eyes and the gleeful smiles of his attackers. But what scares me is that even though I feel sick, I’m still relieved that it was him and not me. It seems like this morning is all about being ashamed and powerless. I feel like such a tool. Not only did I not help that lady, I’m pretty sure that if I’d said something to those jocks other people would have backed me up and the guy would have been spared some broken ribs. I hate myself sometimes.
I take a deep breath and pull out onto the road again. What I wouldn’t do now for a strong cup of coffee and the tranquility of my bedroom back at home in Durban. I hate this city.

*This ball is gonna keep on rolling*
© William Edgcumbe