What’s that noise?
It stirs me from my slumber. Here, noises are warnings in need of investigation. Often, it’s Miss Curious, my ginger cat, knocking things from the shelves to get my attention. Lifting my neck, still half asleep, I listen. The house holds its breath with me.
A scream splits the quiet air of the early morning.
I sit up in alarm.
My heart thumps so loud, I almost don’t hear the next one. I strain to make sure it’s not two cats in heat. A common occurrence with so many stray cats in our neighbourhood.
That’s a woman screaming. There’s a man. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but the tone stings. Like thorns when they hook into your skin.
My hockey stick catches my eye next to the bed. Her voice catches, followed by a loud thud, like a brick dropping amidst the man’s angrier voice. Her screech elongates, thins, filling my head and echoing there.
She sounds hurt. Like she’s being hurt.
Throwing the covers off, I grab the stick and run to my front door. Ear against the wood I try to make out the exact words. There’s aggressive tones. Wailing now.
I need to know what they’re saying. They could just be arguing. On a weekend flinging words and fists are as common here as coffee shops in Woodstock. Maybe they drank too much and now, walking home, emotions have escalated.
Rushing to my lounge in the front, back flat against the wall next to the window, I slide my hand under the curtain and open the window a sliver, as softly as I can.
It’s possible this is a ruse to get me to come outside and rob me. Or worse. I just opened a WhatsApp message earlier warning about someone screaming blue murder while another waits in the dark to trap you. The community page shares videos and voice notes where panic is disguised as caution.
But I can’t ignore the literal cry for help.
I can hear them clearly now.
Aggressive Male: “Come inside, Candice.”
Candice: “I want to go home. Leave me,” she cries.
It sounds like he’s pulling her. She must be resisting. He grunts and she screams again. Blood rushes everywhere in my body and I’m both frozen and hot. Surely he wouldn’t be hitting her in the road.
My tall horizontal wooden fence doesn’t allow me to see what’s happening on the other side. Unable to ignore her wails any longer, I close my eyes, take a breath, grip the hockey stick in my slick hands and march to my front door.
Unsure if I’m praying to God or asking for courage, I plead before turning the key. “Please don’t let them hurt me.”
Mid-turn I stop. Shit. Let me get my phone. Just in case I need to call someone. Or the police.
I run back to my room, unplug the phone from the charger and go back to saying a prayer before unlocking and stepping through the front door with my heart sitting in my throat.
Ignoring the tepid air against my bare legs and arms, I tip toe barefoot in my nighty to the front gate and peak through the spaces between the wooden slats.
There’s a woman on the floor, arm in the grip of a man in a bright orange sweater. He is dragging her. She’s trying to use her body weight to make it harder for him.
They’re in front of the metal sliding gate of my neighbour’s house across from me, on the left.
New neighbours. They moved in a few months ago. We smile at each other and wave when we drive past them if they’re outside. But we’ve never spoken. I don’t know their names.
This is the first time I’ve heard this happen though.
Is this a norm for this couple? Are they newly dating? What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
Her screams careen down the dark road. It fills the empty street, unable to snag on anything, obligated to return back to us. Their faces are hidden in the dark but I know that posture. Her arms are protecting her head. Her knees are drawn up close to her body. She’s bowed over, making herself as small as possible. His hand is tight around her upper arm, feet spread open wide. His chest heaves as he keeps commanding her to stop and come inside. She keeps saying no. His other hand fists at his side.
I watch in horror as he raises that closed fist.
Heat pulses through me, the hockey stick trembling in my tight grip.
From behind my gate, words whip out of my throat. “Jy jou naai, los daai vrou af!”
He stops. His head swivels side to side. Trying to see where the noise came from. I don’t know either. I’ve never used that word before.
Candice is wailing. “I want to go home. Just leave me.” She pulls her arm out his grip.
He’s still looking for me. His head turns side to side a few times and then he stares at Candice.
I’m breathing through my mouth, shallow and fast, praying he doesn’t hear me.
The air is thick with trepidation. It’s just us. The empty road, this angry man, a scared woman and me behind my wooden slat gate with shaking knees. He’s much bigger than me. Towers over Candice. If he walks towards me, I have time to run inside and slam the security gate closed. But I can’t freeze if he moves. I need to run. Immediately.
My eyes are on him, like a hawk. Waiting. Candice shuffles away. He notices. He moves to drag her back.
Without thinking, I shout. “Ek het jou gese, los daai vrou.”
I cover my mouth to stop warnings I can’t act on from sprouting.
He looks in my direction. He can’t know exactly which semi-detached house my voice is coming from. But now he has a clearer idea.
Staring in my general direction, he misses Candice making a move to stand. She falters on unsteady limbs.
He lunges for her.
I scream as loud as I can. “I’m calling the police.”
He stops mid grab.
“Candice?” I shout, trying to make my voice softer. “Can you sit by the red house?”
She immediately moves. His hand jerks towards her but he yanks it back. He growls her name. She jumps but doesn’t stop until she’s where I asked her to go. Through the slats, I see her sit down on the curb directly across from my gate. He starts to take a step.
Making my voice as hard as can, I warn him. “My broe. Hou op.”
Thankfully he stops. His voice is softer now as he says her name. It doesn’t make me feel better.
I take my phone out and google the police in my area. I can’t stand the thought of him hurting her but I can’t let her into my house.
I hit the call button and raise the phone to my ear. The line goes dead. The silence on the other end of the phone is another kind of violence. I try again, this time keeping the phone in front of me, with the screen and Candice in my view.
I think she can see the phone’s light in the dark. I think he can too.
He pleads. “Candice.”
Does he know I’m actually calling the police? It’s part of the deterrent arsenal here. The fake police call. He must suspect that I’m serious. At least he hasn’t moved. I dart my eyes up and down the road. No one else is outside. With all that noise. No one?
I suppose the WhatsApp warnings have worked, we’ve learnt to mind our own danger.
The call starts and then dies before it connects. Again. Shit. Now what.
I can’t let him know no one is answering the phone. I dial 10111 instead. The phone rings once and connects to an automatic message.
“Thank you for calling emergency. An operator will attend to your call as soon as possible.”
Candice says, “They calling the police.” She wraps her arms around her legs. Head dropping onto her knees.
Is she relieved or worried? I can’t tell. She sits just outside the streetlights glow.
“Candice.” This time there’s fear in his voice, like she had when she was screaming.
Candice looks over at him. “You know I have no one. That’s why you do this.”
“Just come inside.” Voice dripping in sweetness, laced with tones of begging.
But it’s not trustworthy.
Not after he was dragging her, armed his fist to beat her. I’ll never know if he’d have followed through, but it didn’t look like he was faking.
She points at his feet. “He picked up that brick to hit me with.”
He turns sharply and runs his hands through his hair. There’s a scraping noise catching his attention. Shit. Is someone else there?
My phone says, “Your call will be answered as soon as someone becomes available.”
I hear murmuring. Louder talking. And then I see a man in a dark sweater come out of the gate. Hands hanging loosely at his sides, he stands there. He doesn’t move closer to Candice. Or me.
“Candice?” His voice is kind.
She lifts her head to look at him. Her shoulders drop. She doesn’t flinch this time.
“An operator will attend to your call soon,” I tip the phone away from my ear.
I don’t think he knows I’m here. Orange sweater guy is nowhere to be seen now. The dark sweater guy seems older. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.
He asks, “Candice, come inside please?”
Just like that.
Candice starts getting up. I want to scream at her no! Don’t go back in there. But who am I to dictate to her what to do? Maybe she’s thinking that the trouble this has caused is not worth it. Maybe she thinks that if she goes now while this guy is here, he’ll protect her.
He didn’t protect her when she was screaming her head off. Where was he then? Just lamming inside the house, listening? If he knows her, how could he ignore her like that? It was obvious she was getting hurt. I could hear her pain from the back of my house. How did he ignore her right there by him?
Maybe this is their norm. Maybe that’s why the black sweater guy didn’t interfere. Maybe we all have screams we pretend not to hear.
Candice reaches the new guy and she walks into their property. No coercion.
A voice comes on the phone, “Hello, emergency services.”
The gate screeches closed behind them. Their heads disappear into the darkness like smoke. The echoes of her screams have long left the road, but I can still hear her plea in my mind.
“Hello, how can I help you?”
I disconnect the call. They’ll only send a van if there’s blood or threat of bodily harm. There are worse emergencies in the Cape Flats, a women going back to an abusive partner is not high on that list.
I turn around woodenly, step into my house like a sleepwalker, closing the gate, then the door. The key stays in the lock.
On the couch I grip the hockey stick with one hand, my phone with the other. Every creak sounds like footsteps. Every echo carries her screams back to me, thin as a ghost.
The darkness outside presses against my aloneness. The phone illuminated my location. I sink deeper into the couch. This wouldn’t be the first time a man punishes for interfering.
If he could do that to a woman he loves – what could he do to me?
I skrik when my cat jumps into my lap, rubbing her face against mine. My heart still racing, I stroke her between the eyes – more for me than for her.
It’s just me and Miss Curious in this house. Us against the world.
It’s a pity Miss Curiosity can’t call the police.
Then again, if a cat called, maybe they’d come faster.
That’s too unusual to ignore.