by Ilze Hugo
- 8 - TOMORROW
Tomorrow’s eyes scanned the stalls; her neck jerked left, right.
She spun around like a top.
Nothing.
A mistake.
It had to be.
Just a mistake.
“My brother. Did you see him?” The sugar vendor was too busy gossiping to hear her.
The room seemed to be swelling, the colors swimming together like wet paint. Surely there hadn’t been this many people here before? Where did they all come from? So many faces. All blank.
She started counting to calm herself. Just like her dad had taught her. One, two, three . . .
This wasn’t real. Wasn’t happening.
Four, five . . .
Her skull felt electric. Like she was swimming in a packet of popping candy.
Six, seven . . .
Her chest a voodoo doll—something there stabbed, stabbed, stabbed. Wasn’t she too young to have a heart attack?
Eight, nine . . .
Her legs. She noticed they were running. Running on autopilot.
Ten.
“Hey!” shouted the vendor, noticing her at last. But Tomorrow’s ears were tuned to another frequency.
Rounding a corner, she tripped over a black pug. The little dog yelped and its owner yelled at her, but she didn’t look back. Her legs were the only part of her body that seemed to be working right. So she kept running. Room after room. Underneath dangling skeletons. Past giant squids and strange nameless creatures with dead eyes made of glass. She kept running. Kept running. Didn’t dare think.
When she couldn’t find Elliot between the stalls, she headed towards the door. The broken EXIT sign had long since lost its glow, but the letters still led the way and all she could do was follow.
As she reached the threshold, a hand grabbed her shirt from behind.
“Gotcha!” The hand’s owner was wearing a red beret, a basketball shirt, and a pair of dirty Nikes. The other hand held a chain that was, quite disturbingly, attached to a very alive, mercifully muzzled hyena.
“Hey! Watch it!” she started, then registered her fingers still clutching the sugar. “No. No. It’s not what you think! I mean, I wasn’t stealing. I . . . My brother . . . he’s gone.”
The security guard bent down, put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Okay, okay, slow down. Try to breathe. Tell me what the problem is.”
He tugged at the chain in his fist and the hyena bared its teeth.
Tomorrow’s whole body recoiled.
“Don’t mind Jamis. He only bites on command. So if you tell the truth, everything will turn out just fine. But if you lie, Jamis won’t be smiling so nicely anymore.”
The girl batted at the wayward curls hijacking her eyes. She knew it would be useless to run. So she forced her voice to be as steady as possible. “My brother. He was in the trolley. He’s only a baby. Someone—someone must have taken him. Please.”
The security guard’s face softened. He held out his hand for the sugar and she gave it to him. “Let’s return this and then we can go to the control room. They still have some cameras there. We can see if we can find something on the security feeds. If you’re lying to me, I’ll be able to see that on there, too. Come, Jamis.”
Inside the small room it smelled like incense and stale smoke. The guard, who said his name was Ateri, replayed the footage on a black-and-white screen while the hyena lay on the cement floor, its head resting on its inwardly folded paws. The angle of the camera was wrong, so they couldn’t make out much, but it did show a woman with long hair hovering near Tomorrow’s trolley, then her body, or the back of it, making its way to the door. The woman kind of maybe looked like the same one who’d patted Elliot’s head earlier, but Tomorrow couldn’t be sure.
“So what now?” she asked the security guard, her voice small.
“We call the police. Don’t know what good that will do, but I can get fired if I don’t follow the rules.”
Tomorrow’s body crumpled inwards like a crushed paper cup. She could feel the guard watching her. “Your parents. Where are they?” he asked.
She kept her eyes on the floor.
“Relax,” the guard tried again. “I’m not the Veeps. I just work here. You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m trying to help.”
Of course you’d say that, the girl thought. But she kept her mouth shut.
“They’re dea—I mean, succumbed? Your mother and father?”
Her mouth stayed shut, but her eyes looked up. Kind eyes, she thought to herself. He had kind eyes. That had to count for something, right?
“I’ve lost some, too,” the guard said, taking the eye contact as confirmation. “I know what it’s like.”
“I . . . I’m all he’s got.”
“When did it happen? Your parents. When did they succumb?”
“Three months ago. But we’re doing really well, we are. I had . . . I have a job. I’m taking care of my brother just fine. We don’t need anyone.”
The guard leaned over, touched her shoulder. “Listen, I get it. I don’t trust the men upstairs, either. Who does? I mean, I’ve heard about those new state-run orphanages, too, putting kids into abandoned buildings like pilchards and throwing away the key. Not enough staff, not enough food to go around—sure doesn’t sound like somewhere I’d want my girl locked up. But we have to phone the police. Besides, maybe those dogs can tug on their government leashes and do something good for a change, find him.”
The hyena licked his stubby paws.
“I could leave, before they arrive. You could tell them everything.”
“But how would they contact you if they found him?”
The room was quiet for a while. Jamis sighed and rolled onto his side.
“Hey, what if I had a guardian?”
“Sure, but how—”
Tomorrow shot up from the chair. The thin plastic legs buckled under the force of the sudden movement. It toppled over and clattered onto the floor, causing Jamis to sit up and giggle. The sound made her throat clog up and her runaway heart lose the plot. It was the sound of death itself. But she tried her best to brush the fear away. “Can you give me fifteen minutes?” she asked.
Outside in the street she found a car guard leaning against the wall. “Hey, brother, you haven’t seen anyone come past with a kid in their arms in the last while, have you?”
“Don’t think so, girly. It’s been quiet all morning. Why?”
“Slow day?”
“Jissis. You have no idea,” said the car guard. “What with the fuel shortages, the price of petrol, and everyone dying all over the place, it’s like no one drives anymore. Look at these wrecks.”
“Tell me about it.”
“My motjie says I’m being an idiot, that I should hang up my yellow vest and go into the blood-hawking business. But I’ve never had a head for sales, you know, and I’ve been working this same corner for ten years now. It’s my life. Other guys just do it for the cash, but I’ve come to love this spot. And I’m good at it. Jirre, I’ve got a smile like the grille of a newly polished Ferrari, makes the customers feel all nice and happy. And my eyes, they’re like a hawk’s. I can spot a screwdriver or a crowbar from here to Grassy Park. It’s a calling. The yellow vest is my life. You can’t give up a calling like that just because business is drying up. No. You lift up your chin and keep at it. So I stand here, come rain or shine or this blerrie mal wind. When money gets short, I grease my lungs with some karate water and I bring on the Pavarotti for small change. But I keep standing here. Seven days a week. Stand here and they will come. That’s what I always say to myself. Stand here and they will come.”
“I feel for you. These are dark days for sure. Hey, maybe I can help. Want to make some easy money? All you have to do is pretend to be my dad for a while.”
Briefing the car guard, whose name was Johannes, took less than fifteen minutes. Tomorrow didn’t want to waste any more time—Elliot could be halfway across the city by now.
She got back to the room with Johannes in tow. Ateri was drinking the last dregs of a Coke, slurping at the straw, while the hyena lay on the floor, watching cartoons on an ancient iPad.
“You can call the cops now,” she said.
They sat. They waited. Watched TV with the mottled beast. Johannes was starting to get antsy.
“Think about the extra cash,” the girl reminded him. “You’ve already waited this long. Don’t say no to some extra change in your pocket now. You told me yourself the pickings are slim and you need the money. Besides, this is such an easy way to make it.”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to get into trouble.”
“It’s just a bit of acting. It’s not against the law. Did Idris Elba get thrown in jail for kicking butt in that new Star Wars flick? No, he didn’t. He got paid lots of dollars, didn’t he?”
“It’s not quite the same bag of chips, is it? This is Sick City. Not some galaxy far, far away.”
“Sure it is. Sure it is. Hey, just stay a few minutes longer. Please. I’ll make it worth your while. Promise.”
So Johannes stayed. And three whole hours later, the cops came. Well, one of them anyway. A cutout cliché of a cop with a broom of a moustache that poked out above his government-issue mask, the space between his eyebrows lined with several thick exclamation marks. The moustache looked pretty freaked to see a hyena in the room. But he tried to keep cool.
There were only two chairs in the tiny office, and Tomorrow and Johannes were sitting on them, so the moustache took a seat on the edge of the desk that was farthest from Jamis while the hulking security guard leaned against the wall.
“Terrible weather we’re having today,” said the moustache.
“Sure,” said the security guard. “The wind’s being a real howler.”
Neither Tomorrow nor Johannes said anything. The car guard was sweating with stage fright. He looked like he was about to pass out. The hyena kept his eyes on the ancient iPad.
“So, Mr. Pretorius . . .”
Tomorrow squeezed Johannes’s hand in what she hoped was encouragement. She needed this guy to stay calm. Play his part. Elliot was out there, scared, alone.
She and Elliot had been glued at the hip since their mother succumbed. This was the longest they’d been apart, ever, and her whole body was aching for him.
“Mr. Pretorius,” the moustache tried again. “I was asking you a question.”
“Huh?”
“My dad’s hard of hearing. Lost his hearing in one eardrum during a march pre-1994. One of the boere fired a gun too close to his ear. Been a bit deaf since.” Her real dad’s story—she’d read somewhere that the best way to lie was by telling half-truths.
“I see. And where is your wife today, Mr. Pretorius?”
“Uh, she—”
“What does it matter? We have to find Elliot. My baby brother is God knows where with whomever doing God knows whatever to him and we are standing here chatting about the weather.”
“Yes, yes, miss. I understand your concern, but this is procedure. We have to follow procedure, you see, and—”
For the first time in her life, Tomorrow felt like punching someone. “Look around you, dammit! She’s dead. His wife’s dead. Like everyone else in this stupid city.”
The moustache kept his eyes on Johannes like Tomorrow was invisible, a ghost. “Your son. What is his name again?”
“Andre. His name’s Andre.”
“Elliot,” Tomorrow corrected him. “Elliot Pretorius. Andre is his nickname.”
“That’s an odd nickname, isn’t it?”
At his post against the wall, the security guard shifted uncomfortably. “How about this weather?” he said. But no one heard him.
“So what?” said Tomorrow. “What if it’s an odd nickname? What’s it to you?”
Moustache crossed his legs. The trickle above his brows deepened into a raging river. “Miss, would you mind giving your dad and me some time to chat without interrupting? This is a conversation for grown-ups.”
Tomorrow’s eyes spat fire.
“So, Mr. Pretorius,” the moustache continued, “where were you when your son was allegedly taken?”
“Allegedly? What do you mean allegedly?” said Tomorrow.
Moustache didn’t bat a lid. Just kept his eyes glued on fake dad’s.
“I was outside,” said fake dad.
“He was waiting for me,” said Tomorrow. “He doesn’t like to shop. Crowds make him claustrophobic.”
“Mr. Pretorius?”
“What she said.”
“I see,” said the moustache and scribbled something in his notebook. “So why didn’t you see the woman exiting the building, then?”
“I—”
“Where were you standing exactly, Mr. Pretorius?”
“He was in the street. He was waiting for us outside on the pavement in Victoria Street.”
“Ah. So the alleged suspect fled along Government Avenue.”
“Not necessarily. My dad, he’s not very observant. He daydreams. They could have walked right past him and he wouldn’t have noticed a thing.”
The exclamation marks on the cop’s brow deepened.
“I see. Anything else? Do you have a description of the woman?”
“She had red hair, I think,” said Tomorrow. “Bright bottle red.”
“You think?”
“No . . . I know. I’m sure of it. She had bright red hair. Yes.” The woman from the footage has to be the same woman who bent down to coo at Elliot. They looked so alike. Yes. She was almost, just about, a hundred percent sure of it.
“We have some security footage of the incident, but it doesn’t reveal much. I can show it to you if you like,” said the security guard.
“That would be great, thanks. But let’s wait until after my interview with Mr. Pretorius. Anything else?”
No one in the room that smelt of sweat now said anything. Johannes kept his eyes on the ground.
“Well, we’ll need a recent photo,” said the moustache.
“I have one on my phone. I can forward it to you.” Tomorrow saw her brother’s brown curls in her mind’s eye, phantom-felt his cheek resting against her collarbone. It took everything she had not to bawl.
“And a contact number.”
“Here, you can have mine. Johannes, I mean Dad, works during the day. It’s better if you phone me.”
“I see. And what line of work are you in, Mr. Pretorius?”
“Why is that important?” said Tomorrow.
“Well, it is possible that the kidnapping could have been related to your line of business, Mr. Pretorius.”
She threw her hands up, clenched them, shook them like they were crawling with bugs. This was hopeless. The cop was an idiot.
“We can’t exclude any leads at this stage,” the moustache tried again. “So please, what do you do?”
“This is a waste of time. You’re wasting time.” She was ready to pounce now. Ready to tear that thick, fat moustache right off his fat face. The hyena lifted his chin, glared at the cop, gave a snigger. Moustache tried to act cool, but his hands were trembling.
“Calm down, daughter of mine. The man’s only trying to do his job,” said Johannes, falling into his role at last. “I’m a car guard, sir. Surely there isn’t a connection?”
“Probably not,” said the moustache. “But you can never be sure.”
“Of course. Any other questions, sir?”
“Not at this time.”
“When do you think you’ll have something? Find Elliot?” Tomorrow tried her best to keep her voice calm. Feign some respect.
Moustache didn’t look at her. Kept his eyes on her fake dad as he spoke. “Well, we’re understaffed at the moment, as you well know. And kidnapping isn’t a priority matter anymore. As you might understand, a healthy city is paramount in the current political climate, and catching defectors takes up most of our resources at present. But we’ll do our best.�
��
“Your best? Your best!” She was readying to pounce again, but the car guard jumped the gun.
“Thank you. Please excuse my meisiekind. We appreciate all your help.”
* * *
When the moustache was done, and her fake dad had been given a talking-to, Tomorrow found the bathroom, entered the cubicle, and vomited. She had paid Johannes with her mother’s wedding ring. He wasn’t too happy about it—he was expecting cash. But it was real gold and she was sure that he could pawn it somewhere.
Her stomach empty, she slid down onto the floor, legs hugging her chin. She was trying, she really was, but she couldn’t keep up the act anymore. Be strong, she told herself. Don’t be a baby, don’t break down now. Don’t . . .
- 9 - SANS
She was lying on his bed, her virgin hair slung across the pillow, the tips plunging off the edge of the bed like a thousand tiny anchors. Sans couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Hair of this quality, color, and length was the stuff of fairy tales. Thick, strong strands that cascaded down to her hips and seemed to change color—from black to blue to indigo, purple, gray, and back to black. He watched, mesmerized, each unicorn strand worth a rand—a new phone or a pair of sneakers. He had a rule about not eating where you’re sleeping, but he’d never been more tempted to break it. His fingers were aching for a cut.
He was sitting there, pondering the gleaming glory all spread out on his pillow, limp and vulnerable, when the city’s daily med cannon rang through the corridors, announcing the time at 12:00 p.m. sharp. In the old days, pre-Laughter, the city’s big noon kaboom was nothing more than a cute colonial curio from a time when cannons were used to signal the time to the ships in the bay. Now it was a signal of a different kind. Sans headed into the hallway where a few other residents were already lined up, thumbs at the ready in front of the red machine.
When the Down Days first came knocking, the government relied on cell phone apps for med screenings. But the apps were too easily hacked, generators were in short supply, and daily load-shedding meant the average guy on the street’s phone was always out of juice. So these clunky machines—dubbed postboxes by their users—popped up all over the city.
