Blood Is Dirt Read Online Free

child’s first day at school.
    The receptionist told me that Heike had left the office, and the blood tests hadn’t come through.
    I sat in the dark and listened to the radio playing Africando from the tailor’s shack across the street until it seemed like the time to close up for the night and get down to the Hotel du Lac to see if Napier was in pieces yet and needed gluing.
    It was a thick, hot night and the stench in the stairwell from the overflowing septic tank added a ripeness that had the mosquitoes dancing for blood. I hacked through it and folded myself into my battered Peugeot estate which was so old and decrepit that I’d quite often been mistaken for a bush taxi on the open road.
    The mopeds were out in force and their blue exhaust had been changed into a sickly orange by the streetlighting. People were sitting on the first-floor verandah of the redecorated La Caravelle café. They were drinking and trying to stay alive in the small pockets of air still available. Some Lebanese lads with baseball caps on back to front hung over the balcony rail looking at a couple of policemen wrestling with a Nigerian street hawker. A huge diesel locomotive, pushing a line of open wagons, honked and grumbled between the stationary cars and trucks on its way across the lagoon. I turned left, overtook it without disappearing into the usual two-foot-deep Peugeot trap, and crossed the lagoon. The day-glo sign of the Hotel du Lac was easily visible from the bridge, as was the scaffolding on its side. I turned right past the Hotel Pacific, which seemed a long way from home, and parked up behind the hotel. The mosquitoes were screaming out here and I was all over myself like a flea-ridden dog.
    I walked by the pool and down the steps to the well-lit bar in the front. There were hunched people in there and a po-faced barman scraping foam off the
pressions
with a throat spatula.
    â€˜Looking for me?’ asked Napier, jiggling something amber in my face from his side-saddle position on his bar stool. He nearly launched himself on to the floor and was only saved by the boniness of his elbow on the lip of the bar.
    â€˜This isn’t one of my usual haunts.’
    â€˜You’re a drinking man then?’
    â€˜It has been known.’
    â€˜What’ll it be?’
    â€˜A beer.’
    â€˜One of these to chase?’
    â€˜I’ve never said no.’
    The barman settled the drinks and I backed up on to a stool. A woman eyed us coolly from the other side of the bar.
    â€˜I told her to fuck off before she even got her bum up on the stool,’ said Napier.
    â€˜You’re learning, but it pays to be polite here. It’s the French in them.’
    â€˜Couldn’t get any life into the old boy even if I wanted to.’
    â€˜Anxious,’ I said, and we drank.
    â€˜No,’ said Napier, squeezing his lips with his fist. ‘Fucking petrified.’
    â€˜Petrified?’
    â€œSwat I said.’
    â€˜Have you heard something?’
    â€˜What’s it to you?’
    â€˜I’m sitting next to you in a bar. That’s what people do. Tell each other what’s on their minds.’
    â€˜What’s on your mind?’
    â€˜Money. I want to make some.’
    â€˜Out of me?’
    â€˜If there’s any to be made.’
    â€˜Do you mind getting killed?’
    â€˜It’s not high on my list of goals.’
    â€˜You have goals?’
    â€˜No, it was just something to say.’
    â€˜I had goals,’ he said, sniffing at his Scotch and then taking a pull of beer.
    â€˜What happened?’
    â€˜I scored too many in my own net.’
    â€˜Don’t get maudlin on me, Napier.’
    â€˜I thought we could say what was on our minds.’
    â€˜You cheated. You were going to tell me why you were petrified. You lost some money. That’s worrying but it doesn’t make you scared. You asked me if I minded getting killed. Who’s going to kill me