Burning Roses

Chapter One-3

IT WAS A SUNNY SATURDAY, early afternoon. We headed towards Pretoria Street, taking the scenic route that would lead us past the prostitutes and preachers who inhabited the back streets. We were both dressed in jeans and T-shirts, with our colours hung over our shoulders. No self-respecting headbanger would be caught dead without his colours, no matter what kind of weather. Hustlers and peddlers moved out of our way as we strolled down the middle of the street, daring any of them to confront these two long-haired, tattooed animals.

Starting off as a roadie, Ian had been in and out of bands for years, mostly as a bass player although he was also pretty handy with a microphone. He’d been kicked out of his previous band when he was arrested for possession of cocaine. But it had turned out to be speed, so he couldn’t be charged. His current band, Blood, would be playing that night at the Irish Club. Which left us six hours or so to kill.

“f**k it’s hot.”

The previous night’s festivities had left us with a slight thirst, and in no mood for wandering around in the African sunshine.

“Fancy a rest on that bench?”

This seemed like a reasonable suggestion. So we threw ourselves onto the concrete bench standing on a street corner. And it was comfortable. And refreshing. For at least ten seconds. Until we realized that the authorities, in their wisdom, had situated the bench next to a concrete dustbin. And that the locals had decided that this dustbin would better serve the community in the capacity of an open-air urinal.

Not having eaten for a few days, and with the world only now starting to recover from its morning spinning session, we decided to distance ourselves from the local amenities. But, at that precise moment, logic decided to do the same to us.

“Let’s take it with us.”

Ian looked serious as he said these words, but you could never tell. With both of us wearing shades, I might have missed the tell-tale glint of a light-hearted joke. So I fell for it.

“Alright. You grab that end.”

We managed to lift the slab of concrete, through sheer willpower, and shuffled off the edge of the pavement towards the shade of some nearby trees. But halfway across the road, our numbed nerve-endings came back to life and screamed “What the f**k are you doing???”

At which point we dropped the bench.

The shady trees beckoned persuasively, and we sat with our backs against their trunks, gazing wistfully at our bench as it stood lonely in the middle of the two-laned intersection. A car turned the corner, saw our bench, and swerved around it, with a screaming of brakes.

“Fancy a drink?”

Car number one had passed the test. It drove off warily.

“It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it?”

Car number two cruised over the hill, spotted our wayward furniture, and glided gracefully to one side, not even slowing to appreciate this modern artform. Philistines, obviously.

“What, for a beer?”

The third car was different. There was no screeching of brakes. No unappreciative swerving to one side. Instead, car number three drove right up to our masterpiece. Parked right in front of it.

“For f*****g stupid questions.”

And it just sat there.

Something about this didn’t feel quite right. As delighted as we were to see that some motorists could still appreciate a bit of hard work, we felt it was time to move on to bigger and better things. But as we got to our feet, three police cars rounded the corner, pulled up next to us, and discharged half a dozen of our favourite civil servants.

They surrounded us, hands on their holsters, but not yet drawing their weapons. They were ready for anything. Highly trained. Heavily armed. And thick as pigshit.

“What are you doing?”

This came from the largest of our new friends. He had sergeant stripes on his sleeve. I didn’t think they were quite as impressive as the dragons encircling my upper arms, but each to his own.

“We were just off to look for a drink,” Ian told him. “What’s it to you?”

“You don’t need a drink,” growled a uniform. “I know what you need.” This playmate had drawn his baton and waved it cheerily in our direction. There were some mutterings of assent from the rest of the pack.

It was a basic law of nature that uniformed officials the world over looked with contempt on those of us who dared to ignore mainstream society and its trends. But especially in South Africa. The fact that these two youngsters had decided to grow their hair, cover their arms in tattoos and walk around in public wearing ripped jeans and shirts bearing slogans that they would never understand, obviously upset their neat, tidy view of the universe. In reality, we weren’t trying to be different. We were actually just trying to fit in. But with our own people. A special breed.

Car number three had by now reversed up the street to join the other vehicles. Out climbed a coffin dodger in a long white coat, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

‘Why did you put that bench in the road?” asked our friend.

I looked at Ian. He looked at me.

“Did you put that bench there?” I asked him.

To my great relief, he shook his head. “f**k, no.”

The man in white had now reached our ensemble, and waved one of his stubby wrinkled fingers in our direction. His eyes were eggshells, about to pop out of their sockets and make a break for freedom.

“I saw you! I saw you put it there!”

Now this just blew us away. Us? Him?

“You what?”

“I saw you two put that bench there, in the road! Why did you do that?”

“Look, Doctor Constable,” I started patiently. “We were just sitting quietly under that tree, minding our own business. We saw you drive around that corner and park in front of that bench. You must have seen someone else.”

A couple more uniforms had now drawn their batons, and the rhythmic tapping of rubber on flesh was hardly a soothing beat. They seemed to be overcompensating for something.

White-coat’s eyes were rabid. He looked at me, looked at Ian, looked at the bench.

“Are you English?”

“Scottish, actually,” I corrected, so that they would know which embassy to contact in the event of any sudden international incidents.

“That explains it.”

And he turned away. He mumbled something to his pets, and they laughed, elbowed each other a bit, then climbed back into their meemaw cars and sped off. Without so much as an apology. And without moving the bench.

“Am I still tripping, or did that really just happen.”

“What?”

“Thought as much. Time for that drink.”