The deserted alley was littered with broken glass bottles and the rolled-up foil of cigarette packets that were used as filters for bottleneck dagga pipes. The place had an evil smell and the old man shivered involuntarily in the bright morning sun. He half-turned to go, then whipped around completely at the sound of scuffling behind him, almost falling onto his face.

Five men were barring his way out of the alley. Young men …youthful, but carrying with them the unmistakable aura of evil. They did not say a word, did not even look at him, but he could read the menace in their stances.

One of them was rolling a filter for a dagga pipe, while another was cleaning the pipe. A third was mixing the dagga, and another, on his haunches, was crushing a mandrax tablet on a brick. The fifth was the most menacing. He had a long, thin-bladed knife in his right hand. He looked like a Rasta and his dreadlocks bobbed up and down as he danced to some make-believe music that was all in his mind.

The old man looked at them as fear tightened his chest, almost cutting off the air. He breathed through his nose, his lips grey with fear. Somewhere he had read that Rastafarians were peaceful people. He stepped up to the man with dreadlocks…

“Excuse me mister, but I’ve got to catch a train,” he said and tried to push past the man. The dreadlocked guy grabbed his tie and cut it off neatly under the knot with one swipe of the knife.

“Cool it popsie, the party has just started,” the man said hoarsely.

The others giggled … they were going to have some fun.

Fear! Mind-bending fear … the curse of the townships.

These kids are going to kill me in this filthy alley – the thought flashed through his mind. But the father straightened up, mentally deciding that he was not going to die, not here anyway.

He stood very still and watched the rag-tag bunch smoking their pipe, the sweet-and-sour smell of dagga mixed with mandrax nauseating him. Think … be true, be simple. Don’t try to run, be still, so that all action is harmonious, flowing, he coached himself.

Then he was there … the one with the hooded eyes. The Creep. He came padding towards them with an empty beer bottle in his hand, coming right up to them before they sensed his presence, but by then it was too late.

Without a word he smashed the dreadlocked guy against his ear with the bottle, the force of the blow flinging him amongst his cronies. He kicked one of them in the groin and then commenced beating them up, every blow a solid thud.

They scattered, shouting obscenities at him from a distance, leaving the battered and bleeding man with dreadlocks behind, his hair soaked in blood.

“Come on,” The Creep said, “let’s get out of here dad.” He led the way from the alley and into a side road. “OK, old man, why are you looking for me?” he asked.

“Well, first of all I wanted to thank you for saving my daughter’s life yesterday, and now I must thank you for saving mine. I’m sure they would have tried to kill me.”

The Creep’s lips moved to form a smile that never reached his eyes.

“You know old timer, there’s something about you that puzzles me … something different. I watched you yesterday, and I heard your laughter. It’s very seldom that I meet people who can still laugh at themselves. People …” he said with a faraway look in his eyes. “I’ve got no faith in people. I’ve got no use for them.”

The old man touched the tattoo – ‘Born to suffer’ – on the Creep’s hand. “Son, you are bitter,” he said.

***

Tell us what you think: Why doesn’t the Creep have any faith in other people? Why is he bitter?