The Down Days

by Ilze Hugo

  “Pleased to meet you,” said the Mouse, holding out one arm while stepping back into his shack. “Come in, come in. I’ll brew us some tea and we can get down to business.”

  The Mouse wasn’t much of a decorator. Inside there was a chair, a sofa, a few large plastic bins, and one trestle table with three computer towers on it with their innards showing. The sound of humming, spinning, whirring, and clicking. A few big screens. Piles of hard drives everywhere. A two-plate stove on an orange crate. In one corner, a half-dead potted plant. A pink-haired teenager in gumboots, with a skateboard lying at her feet, was sitting in one corner, stuffing hard drives into a backpack.

  “Now, remember what I told you,” Mickey said to the kid, while wagging one finger. “They’re eggs, man, eggs. So no slamming the pack down on the ground or swinging it or accidentally bashing it against anything. You break another one and I’m docking your pay, you hear?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the kid.

  “Here’s the address list. Now scram.”

  The kid slung the backpack across her shoulders, picked up the skateboard, and made for the door.

  The Mouse was floating around in the cramped space like Muhammad Ali. “Don’t just stand there,” he said. “Sit, people, sit.”

  The sin-eater slid his bulk onto the battered sofa and Sans opted for the chair while the bald man put a kettle on the two-plate stove and dialed the knob to the max.

  “So how long have you been living down here, Mickey?” asked the sin-eater.

  “A few months now, Fred, my man. Nice and quiet here. Nice and quiet. Only place I can hear myself think, you know? When the rain gets real bad, it floods and I have to move out for a few days, but mostly it’s all good. I have these nifty waterproof plastic containers for all my equipment, so it works out.”

  The sin-eater turned towards Sans. “Mickey’s my cousin, on my mother’s side. He used to be in the family business. Was bleddie good at it, too, better than me, I daresay. But he gave it up for this fake medpass and data running business. Heaven knows why.”

  “You still carrying a grudge about that, Fred, my man?”

  “Ag, it’s not that, neef. I just don’t get it, is all.”

  “I’ve told you already. How many times have I told you? Having a direct line to every dead person from here to Nairobi just gets to be too much. I’m not an extrovert like you, Frederik. I need my space. And these buggers keep calling and calling and they don’t leave voicemail, you know. It’s just all day, every day, around-the-clock moaning—on and on it goes. When’s a man supposed to get some sleep? No, I’d rather stay down here where it’s nice and quiet—or quieter—than up there with all those nagging souls to contend with.”

  “Fair enough, neef. Fair enough.”

  “Anyway, moving on . . . What brings you down here, neef?”

  “We need a new medpass, Mickey. A good one. Not like that rubbish you tried to load off on me last time.”

  “Hey! That was top of the line!”

  “Just messing with you, neef. It wasn’t bad.”

  “Always the comedian, aren’t you? Do you have photos?”

  Sans dug in his pocket and pulled out the envelope of ID photos the fat man had made him take before they went missioning through roaches and crabs and shit knew what else was hiding in the dark corners of this damn shack. Mickey might have been a legend, but if Sans had to be honest, this place was giving him the creeps.

  “This one has to be a diamond, Mickey,” the sin-eater said.

  “Sho,” said Mickey.

  “What’s a diamond?” said Sans.

  “A diamond pass. You know, for the diamonds: the top of the top of the top of the crust. The inner circle inside the inner circle. They get issued these VIP medpasses so they don’t have to bother with the daily postbox screenings—can just check in once a month. It’s kind of an under-the-table thing. No one’s supposed to know about it. If the public found out, they would be pretty pissed. Anyway, it helps okes like you who don’t want to go for weekly checks.”

  “What happens when my month is up?”

  “Then you’re on your own, boet. But that’s still weeks away, so cheer up.”

  The bald man reached for three mugs and lined them up next to the two-plate stove. He fished some tea bags from a tin, poured in the water. “There you go, son,” he said, handing Sans a mug with YOU CAN’T SCARE ME, I SELL INSURANCE printed on the front.

  “So. When do you need it by? The pass?” he continued, fondling his mug like a puppy.

  “By the next med cannon.”

  “What?” he scowled. “Have you lost the plot?”

  “Please, Mickey,” said the sin-eater. “Call it a family favor.”

  The bald man’s glare softened. “Well, I suppose I could—” Then his head cocked and his face flat-out flipped.

  The mug dropped. Tea and shards of patterned porcelain painted the floor. “Hey! No passengers!”

  “Neef?”

  “There!” said Mickey, his trigger finger raking the air. “Right behind him! Out! Get it out of here!”

  Sans spun around in the direction of the pointing digit. Behind him was nothing but furniture and thin air.

  “Don’t you see it? Don’t you see it? Right there. A bloody passenger. Sitting on my favorite chair, nogal.”

  “Sorry, neef. Can’t see it. What does it want?”

  “Do I look like a donnerse fortune-teller? I think you guys should leave. All three of you. I need a lie-down.”

  “But what about the—” the fat man started. “Sans here . . .”

  “I know where he lives. I know where everyone lives. One of my guys will deliver. Now please go.”

  “Sorry about this, neef,” said the sin-eater, backing out of the door. “I really didn’t know he had a passenger. Didn’t see it myself, no.”

  “Yes, whatever. I need to lie down. Speak later. There’s the door. And please, please, please . . . make sure the passenger goes with you.”

  They were stomping back through the wet tunnel the way they’d come, the sin-eater muttering under his breath, swinging the flashlight.

  “Wait up,” Sans said. “What the fuck just happened? What was that about a passenger?”

  The fat man stopped. He leaned against the wall and Sans watched the roach paintline make a detour around his shoulders. Sans wanted to throw up. His head was pounding. What was he doing here, underground in a sewer, with this basket case?

  “Sometimes, for some reason or another, the ancestors or some random lost soul who doesn’t want to move on attaches itself to a breathing body—either just as a way of stealing breaths from them in an attempt to glow stronger or, other times, they stick around or come back from the dead, so to speak, to deliver a message. We call them passengers, in the business.”

  “But there was no one there.” Sans tried to balance on one leg, scratching at the other with his sopping Nike, sure he’d felt something disgusting on his shin. “There was no one there, right?”

  “Yes, well. Mickey sure thought he saw something.”

  “And you? What about you? You’re supposed to be the damn ghostbuster, aren’t you? Why didn’t you see anything? Or did you? What’s going on? Are you bullshitting me, because if you’re bullshitting me—”

  “I’m not. And I didn’t see the passenger, per se. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know yet, boet. I’m guessing it’s your girl he saw. But I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to think. Sleep on it, maybe. Talk to some people.”

  The sin-eater pushed himself off the wall, sending roaches scuttling every which way, and started walking again. Sans could see the end of the tunnel. The light at the end of the tunnel—yeah, right. No light here. All he could make out in the distance was the ladder they’d climbed down, getting him precisely nowhere but deeper in the shit. “Hey. What about the money?”

  “What money?”

&n
bsp; “You said you could help me find my lost cash.”

  The sin-eater cleared his throat. The flashlight flickered, went out, then on again. “That part might have been a bit of an embellishment, if I have to be honest. I’ve been trying to branch out. Those new Ugandan healers have service lists the length of my arm. It’s hard to compete.”

  “So it’s a scam? You’re a bloody scam artist.” Sans felt very tired. He needed a drink.

  “No, oh no. Well, not entirely. I did read this book recently.”

  Here we go again. “What book?”

  “Traditional Healing for Beginners by Dr. S.C.H.J.K. Odoki.”

  “And what did it say?”

  The sin-eater fumbled around in his jacket pocket and took out an egg-shaped envelope. “Here. Put this in a pot on your windowsill. Burn it. And your lost money will find its way back to you. Easy-peasy.”

  Later that night, as he was lying in bed, snatches of car guard Pavarotti drifting in through the open window where the stinking piece of bush the fat man had given him in the envelope stood burning on the sill, Sans thought about everything the guy had said. Which was a lot, and most of it probably bullshit. Had he turned into some kind of modern-day Nostradamus overnight? Someone who caught glimpses of the past and the present all rolled into one, everything overlapping in one confusing jumble, and got weird nonsensical messages from ghosts? Or was the answer simpler? Did the hallucinations come with being infected? Was he really infected?

  Was the Laughter working away at turning his brain to mush?

  That was what had happened to his mother in the end. The virus was like one big blender that liquefied everything. Turned her insides into a gloopy, watery soup that poured out of every orifice. Sans hadn’t been there himself to see it happen; he’d stopped talking to her by then, but that’s how the nurse with the messy ponytail had explained it afterwards. There he was, clutching a bunch of Blushing Brides to his chest—his mother’s favorite—when the nurse told him. That he was too late. That his mother was already dead. Her bones disintegrated and her organs liquefied like a magician’s trick. Maybe he should write a book: The Disappearing Woman or The Vanishing Mother or The Prodigal Son Returns Too Late.

  If it were true. If the fat man was right. If he was sick. Then any decent human being would have given themselves up to the Veeps around about now. Rather than run the risk of going all Typhoid Mary, infecting people everywhere he went with every touch, every breath.

  Sure, he’d never been Boy Scout material, but he’d also never had anyone’s death on his hands. But the stories you heard about those places, the quarantine camps nobody ever seemed to come back from, scared him shitless. And besides, he was wearing protection, right? It’s not like he was going about breathing naked air down people’s necks, and touching them left, right, and center. Was he ready to be a martyr? Do the right thing? Probably not.

  No. He’d wait a while, scope this thing out. Maybe he wasn’t even sick. Just crazy. People went crazy all the time. Like his mother did, long before the sickness punched in her number. Stripping naked in airport waiting lounges, busting out Britney Spears’s “Baby One More Time” to the gawping crowd like the whole world was nothing but a huge joke. Or ranting to anyone who wanted or didn’t want to hear about how Sans was nothing but a throwaway runt. How she’d only ordered him from that place in Paarl because her ovaries had dried up. But no, that was his mother. Not him. Fuck that. He wasn’t sick or crazy. He just wasn’t. He’d rather be a psychic than a joke.

  THURSDAY

  - 41 - THE DAILY TRUTH

  SAY BOO?

  By Lawyer Tshabalala

  Is Sick City turning into Spook City? asks Lawyer Tshabalala

  Seen any ghosts lately? You’re not alone. Our lines at the Truth have been abuzz with people calling in to report sightings of the spectral kind.

  “What we seem to be witnessing is some sort of unprecedented paranormal explosion. I don’t quite know what to make of it,” said Sick City sin-eater/ghostbuster Fred Mostert. “But by the looks of it, we are headed for a disaster of biblical proportions. Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria. Who knows what’s coming next. Best lock your doors, be vigilant, and phone me at 078 555 5679 if you need any assistance of the spectral kind.”

  What’s going on, folks? Is the Apocalypse on our doorstep? Is this some kind of Halloween flash mob or a practical joke? No, my dear readers, my guess is the answer is much simpler—that this whole ghost business is connected to the postbox med scandal I told you about earlier this week. Surprise, surprise: looks like it’s not just figurative anymore, folks—the government is now also literally making us crazy. Don’t know about you, but I’m inclined to think enough is enough. The guys up top have been lying to us for far too long. Let’s step up and rise up, people. Put an end to the lies, the control, and the tyranny! Or we could just stay home and keep watching TV. Tough choice, I say, tough choice . . .

  - 42 - SANS

  Sans was snoring. Until the phone rang, and spoilt a perfectly uneventful blackout. Typical. The thing never seemed to have a signal unless he didn’t want it to. He held his breath, squinted at the screen. The caller ID said it was Tiger, from the Forensic Pathology Lab in Salt River. He exhaled. Picked up.

  “Howzit, broe.”

  “Tiger! Long time, no hear, man. Chopped some locks for me again, have you?”

  “Nah, my broe, I’m not calling about ponies today.”

  “What, then?”

  “Jy sien, Sans, die ding staan, so: I’ve got one of yours here on the slab. Was doing my rounds today and I recognized the laaitie.”

  “Which one?”

  “Sorry to say, but it’s little Lucky.”

  “Lucky? You sure?”

  “Is true, my broe. Ek spelie met iemand anders se ma se trane nie. He’s got that tjappie on his shoulder of that stukkie from Dragon Ball Z.”

  “Android 18.”

  “Ja, that’s it. That’s the one. Anyhow. He’s been cold since Monday already. Shot in the head by some gangster in Bree Street. Nearby that therapy bar where they all mos wear fancy dress and moer each other to yesterday and back. Died instantly. Poor laaitie, couldn’t have known what hit him.”

  Lucky? Lucky dead? So the little rat hadn’t jumped ship.

  “Then the dead collector’s van that was supposed to bring him here got stolen by some muthi-jackers and the cops only managed to track down what was left of him now.”

  The money. What about the money.

  “You there, broe?”

  “I’m here. When they brought him in, did he have a backpack with him by any chance?”

  “Not when he got to me, no. Just the clothes on his back, is all. Listen, I’m going to need you to come around to identify him. Just a formality. There’s no one else, far as I know.”

  “Yeah, okay, okay. I’ll come. But—”

  “Anyway, broe. Laat my hake vlam vat. Salute.”

  - 43 - LUCKY

  The thing about death is you hardly ever see it coming. Lucky sure didn’t. On the day his namesake ran out, Lucky was on his way to Bree Street to make the Monday drop. He was on the roof of this abandoned office block doing a quick check for bars on his cell (hoping for a text from this girl he was into) when he realized his backpack was half-zipped. A crisp R200 note was sticking out through the grinning zip like an orange mug-me flag. He tried to close it, but the zip was stuck. Lucky was pulling at it like a maniac when these two guys appeared at the top of the stairs. One of them had a brown paper bag in his hands. “Hand it over, Denny,” said the other man. “No more screwing around.” At first, this dude, Denny, looked like he was going to hand over the bag, but then he made a run for it.

  Shouting. A scuffle. A shot.

  Death was quick. A sweet release. So quick, in fact, that Lucky didn’t feel a thing. One moment he was tugging at the zip, then the bag ripped wide open, and the next thing there was this light. This beautiful, beautiful blinding-wh
ite light. Lucky’s whole being was begging him to walk towards it. And he almost did. But Lucky was a busy guy. He didn’t have time for pretty lights. Major was waiting for the money at the convent and Sans would be heavy pissed if he didn’t rock up. So he did what any sensible guy in his position would do and said screw you to the pretty light. Next thing he knew he was walking past that new therapy bar—the one he’d been dying to check out—then meeting Piper and smoking that pipe, remembering zero about any lights. Except for a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that something wasn’t quite right.

  He only figured it out later. Much later than most. And, by then, he was already totally toast.

  - 44 - FAITH

  Faith stuck her hand in front of her mouth and stifled a yawn. The sun was still painting with pink, but the square was already a heaving quilt threaded with bodies and colors and square-shaped stalls. Ash was a Bicycle geisha, a fan of red-and-blue cards blotting out the bottom of his face.

  Bicycle cards. She’d read an article about them once. During World War Two, the United States Playing Card Company made special 007-style ones that you could soak in water and peel in two. At the back of both halves there’d be a map. When you peeled and put together the whole pack, you’d have one helluva large map—of a top-secret escape route out of a German POW camp.

  An escape route. She wouldn’t mind one about now. Out of this city, out of this case, and out of the churning maelstrom that was her head.

  She was leaning against the church wall, reading the Truth. Pony Boy was AWOL again. She wondered if he’d gotten his head troubles sorted out.

  One of the card-playing dead collectors was moaning about his morning pickup: “We were picking up a grinner from this big-ass pad in Higgovale, right. The family had hired this pissy little death midwife to mop up their grief and she was totally getting in my face. Saying I was rushing the job, not showing enough respect. And I was thinking to myself—does this fancy bitch even know what a quota is? Let her try to do our job for a minute, and she’d totally freakin’ freak, right?”