The Wall

87

“Completely secure.”

That’s what the voice had said.

Thembinkosi scratched on the wardrobe wall. At the same moment, Nozipho did the same from her side.

“Did anyone hear the other shot?” Outside.

“Shot?” A different voice.

“I did.” Another voice.

“No.” Numerous voices.

“Something happened.”

“Car backfire.”

“A shot. Unmistakable.”

How could a single shot be so important? he wondered. What could have possibly happened to make all this less important? Thembinkosi looked around. The attention outside was no longer focused on the room. He moved his head. Outside, footsteps moving away from them. Asphalt. High Voice was completely mangled. His clothes were barely recognizable. His head was a pulp, his arms which he had used to shield himself no longer had any attached muscles. All his blood had leaked out. And to think the media was locked in a debate about whether the South African police took their work seriously, he marveled.

“Yes, a shot.”

“But where?”

“Really?”

“Couldn’t have been a shot. Not on your life.”

“From over there.”

“…go over…”

Deep Voice hadn’t fared any better. His feet were gone, and his blood was now mingling with High Voice’s. Thembinkosi looked away.

The voices outside were fading away.

“Go search the house!” a male voice ordered.

“Yes, sir!” came the answer.

Thembinkosi again heard Nozipho’s scratching behind him.