For Alice

Author's note: This story is set in the city of Johannesburg, South Africa. The "rand" is the South African currency.

When I round the corner out of 1st Avenue the first thing I see, as always, is that dent in the lamppost and that crack in the graffiti wall next to the police station. Some young punk has decorated that crack to look like a bleeding wound. When will they ever fix it?
         The sun is setting behind me and, as I straighten into 7th Street, I’m blinded for a second by the burst of light in my rear view mirror. But it passes, as always, and I’m cruising downhill towards Rats, expecting him to be there, waiting for his hand to wave me down as he steps out of the small bar at exactly 18H32.          18H32.

This backseat always smells like cigarette ash and spilt beer, which, I guess, is normal for a taxi that usually works the more social route. 7th Street, Old Melville; a testament to how a micro-economy can be maintained on student loans and the credit card deficits of young professionals. My own meagre contribution, as always, only consists of the twenty-five rand it takes to buy one single Johnny Walker Black, on the rocks, and tip the waitress. Then the seventy-five rand taxi fare to get to that place in Fairlands, to that place with the bed, to that bed…
         The waitress as Rats didn’t wear that ring tonight. She always wears that ring, the silver one, the one with the black crosses engraved on it. I wonder what happened. I can’t remember when she first wore it, I’m not sure if she wore it before that day. I guess I didn’t take much notice. Nobody ever does, except now, now after everything that has happened. I’ll ask her about the ring tomorrow night. What’s her name again? Doesn’t she wear a nametag?

When he got inside he just stated his home address, as if I don’t know it already, and then moved over to the right-hand side of the backseat. Nobody except him ever does this. He also never shows a glimmer of recognition when he sees me, not a greeting or a smile or even just a nod. I do have other regulars and they always do something, but not this guy. He always seems off somewhere else, somewhere better.
         Now we are travelling down Beyers Naude, and the traffic lights at the Thomas Bowler t-junction are coming up. I maintain my speed, knowing full well that I will definitely, as always, get the red light.
         But I keep going; hoping that today will be different, that my last fare of the day will not be marred by torture. Tonight I will go home to my smiling Alice and hand her the flowers I sometimes get from the street vendor on the last corner of my day. I will tell her that I love her, that I want her to be my wife. Tonight…
         The traffic lights blink suddenly and then glare angry red at my approaching taxi. I don’t slam the brakes; merely press the pedal more firmly than usual and bring the car to a quick but smooth stop. A lot of people ram the first available foot onto the brakes and then cling for dear life to the steering wheel, hoping that their passengers were expecting this. But I never overreact, not anymore, not since that day, so long ago, that I killed the fiancé of the man who is sitting behind me, so deep in thought.

The driver stops too quickly at the traffic lights next to the graveyard and I grip the inside door handle to keep myself from sliding into the front passenger seat. I’m not quite sure why he always approaches these lights in such haste. Every day, without fail, he charges up to these lights and then has to stop in such an unprofessional manner. I think I asked him once why he does this and he mumbled something about wanting to get home to his woman. Can’t remember her name.
         Through the pine trees I can’t see anybody in the graveyard where they buried my smiling Alice. I haven’t been to her grave in a while, I don’t think, but Mother always goes on weekends. She was in such a habit of visiting Dad’s grave that when Alice was killed, by that driver in Melville, and we buried her here, Mother just assumed that the grave would be her responsibility. I don’t really mind, because I don’t usually go too often. It is just not healthy to personify a slab of granite or marble into a loved one.
         I put my left hand in the lining pocket inside my jacket and find a note of some kind. The piece of paper is scented with a woman’s perfume, but smelling it doesn’t remind me of anybody. It reads: “call me” and then a cell phone number follows. There isn’t a date written on the note but the paper isn’t crumpled so I guess I could’ve gotten it tonight.
         I must not have been paying attention, too busy waiting for the time, 18H32. That was the time that I stepped outside of Rats that evening, so long ago, and watched my Alice die. She was crossing the road, coming to meet my for a drink before we would go to her parents’ place to make some more wedding arrangements. The lady from the printing shop was bringing some samples because we hadn’t decided on the cards yet and the invitations needed to be sent by the following week.
         Alice walked out from between two parked cars and this taxi just came out of nowhere. It did try to stop but went into a skid and hit her. The taxi sped off and left her dead in the road. No good-byes or last words, she died instantly with a three-week-old baby inside her. I didn’t know that until the autopsy results were released.

These lights always take ages to change. I can see him in the backseat, looking at the graveyard, pensive, silent.
         That day always comes to mind when we wait at these lights. I was cruising down 7th Street, much like I do these days, and suddenly this woman just came out of nowhere from behind a parked minibus. I slammed on the brakes but I was right on top of her. A delivery truck had left an oil patch in the road and I skidded another meter or so before the car stopped. I hit her just below the knees; she fell forward and thumped her head on my bonnet. Then she sort of got up, took one step towards the curb and collapsed, just like that. The autopsy report blamed an aneurysm.
         To this day I don’t know why I panicked and drove off. Nobody remembered my licence plate number and I hadn’t yet checked in with dispatch about going to Melville, so there was no evidence linking me to the accident. The taxi is a standard yellow cab and it all happened so fast that none of the bystanders remembered the company name. The police did call our dispatch to check if any of the company cars were in that area, but because nobody was supposed to be there, the cops didn’t even come to check our cars. Not that they would have found anything. My bonnet only had a slight dent, which I fixed myself, and there was now blood on the front of the car.
         When I read about the accident in the paper I considered turning myself in. In the end it just didn’t seem worth it to destroy more lives. I went to the funeral and saw her fiancé. He had the expression of a man who had nothing left to offer the world around him. Not even a different mask to wear. He still has that same expression.
         Then came the day that I stopped avoiding Melville. I drove down 7th Street, confident that someone would recognise the taxi, but nobody did. I kept going back there, wanting to be caught, wishing that I could tell the secret that even my Alice didn’t know about. A month passed and I stopped expecting the passing constables to wave me down, pistols drawn.
         It was just about that time that I first picked him up. He was standing next to the spot where she had died, outside Rats, in the same way I saw him standing next to her grave. He wore that same nothing expression and didn’t even look at me when I asked him where to go. I have been paying penance to this man for longer than I want to remember and still he is none the wiser.
         He always sits in that same spot, staring at the graveyard, so silent you would think he is already dead. I think it is the silence I can’t stand, because it is the silence that protect my lie, that keeps me coming back, thinking tomorrow I will tell him what I did. I’ll tell him that I also grieve for his woman and their baby. I’ll tell him that I too have an Alice and that I cannot marry her because I took that exact thing from him. I’ll tell him that he may take my life if it would help him move on. If it would help him call that waitress that wave him off these days, if only he would notice her. I’ll tell him…
         The lights finally change and I pull away, another opportunity wasted. Because if I ever do spill my terrible secret, it has to be there, at those lights, in front of that graveyard, it just has to be.
         The rest of the drive will be over in the blink of an eye, just like any other fare. Concentrate on the road; avoid the minibus taxis and commuters next to the mall in Cresta. Take a left down Pendoring and make your way to Fairlands. Drop him off at his home, take his seventy-five rand, and keep six rands change. Watch him walk up the drive, pensive, silent, just not there.
         Tomorrow I will tell him and then I’ll be free…

I walk up the drive to the front door of this place. I let myself in and go to the kitchen to feed the cat. It purrs and rubs itself against my leg. It never did that while Alice was still alive so I don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t exist. In the bedroom I stop at the portrait that I drew of her on our first weekend away, careful not to look at that bed. She was so beautiful.
         Under the portrait is a small, half circle shaped table. I light the candle on it and turn off the lights before I undress. The candlelight causes shadows to flicker around her features and distort her smile.
         Standing naked in front of the picture I remove the sheath with the dagger from the small of my back. I always strap it there so that I can constantly feel it, be aware of what it represents. The blade is exactly twenty centimetres in length. That is exactly what it would take to stab through the seat of a standard yellow taxi and puncture the lungs of the driver.
         When tomorrow comes I won’t waste another opportunity at those lights. Because if I ever do spill his blood, it has to be there, at those lights, in front of that graveyard, it just has to be.
         Tomorrow I will kill him and then I’ll be free…