Markus: The early years

It’s mid day in the middle of the school break, and I’m sitting in a local fast food restaurant eating oily bacon and eggs. I’m alone; my table is probably the only one with a single occupant, fine by me. All of the others are host to smiling families enjoying a meal, Grandparents buying their children’s children all sorts of sugary things while telling stories drowned out by the ambient noise. It’s alright though, the kids don’t care. There are also teens out with their parents, glued to their cell phones as if it was the last lifeline to an otherwise dreary world. There’s also a middle aged couple eating in silence. The husband has a tattoo on his left forearm, looks like something a military man would get. This is just a guess though; he could’ve been a chef, a carpenter, a pilot perhaps... I wonder what people think of my appearance? I’m sure my long hair turns up the grandparents noses; I can just imagine how the conversation must be going one table across from mine. “Really Mildred, he looks like something out of a grunge band of the 90’s, Red Hot Nirvana Jam or whatever they were called, it’s a disgrace.” Funny, this Mildred and her friend look at me with eyes full of disapproval, but smile at the 5 year old who has a blonde Mohawk and words shaved into the hair on the side of his head, hypocrites. She probably disapproves of my cap on backwards, my obesity, my patchy beard. It’s all ok though, she needs to take a good long look at me, I’m sure that’ll help later on.

“All done boss, can I take your plate?” The waiter looks impatient, like I’ve stolen him away from important duties. Don’t worry bud, the lady at the cash register will still be there when you get back, flirt with her all you like when I’m gone. “Thank ye sir, I’d appreciate that I would.” The Irish accent flows thickly through my lips; I hope I haven’t overdone it. He finishes off with my table and returns with the bill, R46 for an oily breakfast and a tasteless cup of coffee, what a waste. I get up; sling my bag over my shoulder and head out, time to get this over with. As I walk to the entertainment section I pass maybe a hundred people, all busy being busy, rushing to one store or another. That’s it lady, run for those heels, they won’t wear themselves you know, and at R800 for the pair your husband’s credit card will suffice, he probably won’t even notice you bought them. Dirty stares float in my direction as I eye a group of teens walking past. Fifteen years old and she’s dressing like a whore already, so sad. Even worse, she doesn’t look out of place, she’s just one scantily clad teen amongst hundreds more, they might as well wear a jailbait since above their heads.
“Hi sir, may I take a moment of your time to explain the plight of the Children’s Hope AIDS orphanage?” “I’ve got a spare minute or two, go for it miss.” The Irish flowed from me as if I was born and raised in the heart of Dublin. Two minutes and a small donation later I detach myself from her and move on towards the ice rink, I wonder what she’ll say later? As expected there was a considerable line outside the rink, filtering in slowly as people chatted to their friends, it was nearly 1:30pm. Joining the queue I tried to eavesdrop on the conversations around me, as expected they were filled with much of the same. Who was dating who, who slept with who, which vulgarity best described this teacher and that parent. I slid my earphones in and started up Tuesdays Gone, a Metallica cover of the Lynyrd Skynyrd classic. Train roll on, blur out the sound of this filth.

I’m at the front of the queue, the cashier looks bored out of his skull, the last thing he felt like doing was checking another teen into the rink, he had done over three hundred so far and the rink was almost at capacity, most of the people behind me would be disappointed, the lucky ones. “R45 for the ticket, an extra R20 if you need to hire skates.” He managed to get out before a huge yawn which summed up much of his day. “So R65 total then?” I said a little too loudly, wanting as many people to hear the Irish in my voice. “Give me a sec.” I stuck a hand into my backpack...

“He just shot the cashier”, she sobbed, “right between the eyes! He put a hand inside his backpack, it looked like he was rummaging round for his wallet, I didn’t expect to see the gun.” Her boyfriend, a typical 17 year old in a vest and track pants with one leg pulled up to the knee, spiked hair and bloated muscles that gave away the use of steroid held her close. “It was a 9mm handgun, looked like a Beretta, you know the one Bruce Willis used in Die hard?” His voice was shaky and broke numerous times during his statement, guess the steroids didn’t help when he was shaking like a scared little girl. “It was like a movie, I didn’t believe it was happening till I was pushed to the floor!”, another girl told the police. “We were just here for some fun, we saw this greasy guy in front of us but didn’t pay attention to him till he threw that bag of his down the stairs and shot the cashier, then he ran into the ice rink and started firing at like everyone. We got up and ran as fast as we could!” The group of friends all nodded in agreement, some through tears, others through blank stares, they were in shock, but who could blame them. A rattled looking old woman managed to get out, “I saw everyone running out of the ice rink crowding around the door, it’s such a small exit and so many people were trying to get out, then...” ”Then there was this explosion, bodies went flying everywhere, it must’ve been in the backpack he dropped at the stairs, he wanted to kill as many as possible, that greasy bastard...” With that the old man comforted his wife as they left the officer. “This greasy guy, what did he look like?” was the question each officer asked the witnesses. “Tall, like 6’3, had a funny way of walking too.” “Long black hair, looked like he used a ton of wax in it. He also wore a plain black cap.” “Green eyes.” Whispered another teenage girl, “I’m sure of it, they were like light green, it’s how I remember so well cause they aren’t that common here.” “Kinda overweight, maybe 100kgs? I couldn’t guess closer than that, he wore long pants and a long sleeve shirt, weird for summer right?” Another man walked forward and claimed he was a witness and had a statement to give, he was accompanied to a bench by an officer with a notepad in hand. As they walked he saw the AID’s orphanage lady and heard her mention something about Irish, he let slip a small smile. “...and a beard, like slightly reddish brown you know, covered his whole face, he tipped me very well.” The waiter was there too, and for all his wild gesticulations he had a good memory, another small smile.

“Name? Contact number? Place of residence? Ok looks like we’ve got all we need, now your statement please sir.” Markus, the 6ft, 80kg clean shaven blonde looked at the officer through icy blue eyes and spoke clear English with just a hint of an Afrikaans accent, no doubt a local boy. “I remember him well, he bumped into me in the line and was quick to apologise. When he got to the front of the queue he reached into his back and pulled out a gun, I’m fairly certain it was a revolver...” The officer held up a hand, “Hang on Markus, we’ve got witnesses telling us it was a Glock, a Beretta, a Star 7.65mm and now you with a revolver, are you sure of what you saw?” Markus paused for a moment, “It could’ve been another gun” Markus admitted, “but if I was a betting man I’d go with a revolver, that’s what it looked like from where I was standing anyhow.” The police officer went back to his notes for a moment before continuing, “And where was that Markus, we can’t seem to see you on the CCTV camera’s.” Without breaking a sweat Markus knew he needed to make this as believable as possible, “I was at the trash can next to the pay phone, I was getting rid of some old tasteless gum when I heard the shot and turned round.” As if on cue, Markus offered the office some gum out of a half used pack to corroborate his story. The policed officer nodded, took the gum and continued, Markus let slip a small sigh of relief. He had known from his previous visits that the location he just described was a blind spot between two CCTV cameras; it also offered a front row seat to the events earlier, the perfect alibi spot. “Thanks for your help Markus, if we need any more info from you we’ll be in touch.” A firm handshake and the officer was gone, off to take another statement, or eat a donut possibly, Markus didn’t care.

He made his way back to his car, the final part of the plan completed. Between his false account of the gun as well as those of the ignorant kids, the police would be looked for every gun in the country besides his filed and sprayed Sig Sauer. Once at his car, Markus checked round before opening the boot of his A3. A greasy wig, black cap, padding, spare clothes, shoes with extremely thick soles, a box of green contact lenses and a portable shaver greeted him. He smiled. The disguise had cost him next to nothing, the bits and pieces acquired along his road trip from the cost to the capital of Johannesburg, no one would link their purchase to this massacre, not for a long time at least. Markus closed the boot and drove off some way till he approached a skip bin outside a house in a nearby neighbourhood. He had already prepared the skip the night before with enough homemade “napalm” to burn for hours, perhaps days, destroying everything inside the bin. As he loaded the contents of his A3’s boot into the bin, he couldn’t help but wonder how it could have been so easy? With that thought filling his mind, he tossed a lit match into the skip and watched the flames slowly spread. He stood there a while until the intensity of the heat became unbearable. Then, confident that all evidence was completely destroyed he got in his car and left. He would sleep well that night; it had been a long day. For the families of the 205 people he killed however, things would be different.