by Ilze Hugo
What’s wrong with you, Faith? she chided herself. Not only was she hanging out with schizophrenic ghostbusters and hipster sangomas, but she was seeing things, crazy things, unbearable things, that according to said ghostbuster and sangoma weren’t real. Even though it felt real. Unbearably real. And to make matters worse, now she was making lame jokes about superheroes? No. No more. Pull yourself together. Get a handle on things.
She stroked the little vial in her pocket with her thumb. Thing was, it all started with the case, didn’t it? This case. It was driving her crazy. It was too close to home. Too close to Then. It was breaking down her walls. Time to brick them up again. Time to see the girl.
* * *
She arrived at the pink row house. Pressed her knuckles against the rotten door. The groove was still there. But she didn’t wonder about it anymore. She didn’t care. Her own skinny groove had worn away. Time for her had folded back in on itself. She didn’t know anymore where Now began and Then ended. And whether that even mattered much.
Tomorrow opened the door. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you, texting you.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“With what? Did you find Elliot?”
“I’m sorry, Tomorrow. That’s what I’ve came to tell you. I can’t work on your case anymore.”
The girl looked like she was about to throw up. “What do you mean? Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“You still think I made the whole thing up, don’t you? What about the convent? The nun? You said she was kidnapping kids. You said you were following a lead.”
“I was.”
A woman was approaching the gate. Her body bent, her jowls elastic, her head shaking slightly as she walked. “Tomorrow! How are you, my angel?”
“Good, auntie. I’m great. Do you need something?”
“A cup of milk, man. Please.”
“Sure. Give me a minute.” Tomorrow turned, disappearing behind the rotten door. The woman stayed put. One veined arm leaning against the gate.
“Nice weather,” said Faith as the old woman speared her eyes with hers.
“I know who you are. I’ve seen you,” said the woman.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re the one who comes for us. When it’s our time to go, you come to take us to the other side. But not me, you hear? Not me. I’m not going, no sirree. So, don’t come knocking on my door when the times comes, ’cause I won’t go, okay?”
Tomorrow appeared at the door holding a jam jar filled with milk. “Here you go, auntie.”
“Thanks, my angel. You take care now.” The old woman placed the jar inside the cloth bag tied to her crutch, then turned to face Faith again. “And you. Don’t you even think about it, Grim,” she said, wagging one bony, liver-specked finger. “When it’s time, my Alfie has promised to burn me up on the braai and scatter my ashes beneath the floorboards. There’s no way you Grims are taking me back to the Flats. I’m never going back there, you hear me? Never. Over my dead body.” Then she hobbled across the road.
Tomorrow sat on the candy-pink steps. Faith followed suit.
“I’m sorry. The whole thing is crazy. You know it is. Deep down. I mean, ghost trafficking?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“It’s not that. You’ve seen what they’re saying in the paper, on the radio—it’s the postboxes making us all crazy. There are no such things as ghosts. Only grief.” A moth was crawling over the step. For a moment, its soft gray body quivered and shook, as if someone had just walked over its tiny moth-sized grave. Then it righted itself and, as if nothing had happened, continued on.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“No. Maybe not. But this case, it’s eating me up. I’m not the right person to help you right now—help anyone—I’ve got my own ghosts to deal with. If it helps at all, I went to this sangoma whose ancestors seem to say that Elliot’s ghost is at the hair cult. I don’t know if it’s true or if she was conning me, but if you want to go that route, I can give you the number of a guy, a ghostbuster, who knows about the case and might be able to help. But I think . . . I mean, whichever way you cut it, Elliot’s already dead, right? And you’re not. You’re still ticking. Grief . . . it holds you back, Tomorrow. Even if he’s real and not just something your head made up to get a handle on things, even if you find him—he’s going to hold you back. Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t choose that road. ’Cause you’re not going to like what you find at the end of it. Trust me, I know.”
The moth was playing dead now. The girl studied the tiny gray beast for a moment, then said: “Thanks for the fancy speech.” Just that.
* * *
There was a pebble stuck inside Faith’s sneaker and she was fishing it out with her car keys, so her back was bent beneath the wheel when she heard a knock on the window. Tomorrow. Her face flat. All the emotion she’d seen there, minutes earlier, smoothed out.
“Ask you a favor?”
“I guess.”
“Can I get a lift to the market? I’m out of kerosene.”
“Yes. Hop in.”
“Thanks. You should check your back tire, though. I’m no expert but it looks kind of flat.”
“Dammit. Okay. Be right back.” She checked the left side first—the side facing Tomorrow’s house. But the tire seemed fine. “I don’t see anything,” she called out to the girl, who had already climbed into the passenger side. “Other side,” the girl called back.
She walked around, checked that side, too—nothing.
“Looks good to me,” she said when she got back into the van.
“My mistake, sorry. I told you I’m no expert. It just looked weird, is all.”
“No problem.” Faith started the engine and they drove on without talking. The quiet unnerved her. She’d never been good with uncomfortable silences. Especially not this one. There was too much unsaid between them and it was digging a chasm between their seats. Faith was teetering on the edge of it, in danger of tipping in. A person could get lost in chasms like these. Lose your mind, even.
“So, is Tomorrow your real name?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Just making conversation.”
“It’s not. It’s a nickname. I mean, who goes by their real name these days? It’s Persephone, before you ask. Persephone Pretorius. Daughter of Zeus, queen of the underworld and all that. My parents weren’t really into all that Greek stuff, they just thought it sounded cool or something. Anyway, can we just drive, please? I don’t feel like talking.”
So Faith put the radio on and tuned the channel to Cape Chat. The DJ was talking about all the postboxes that had been blown up. That the whole city was going up in smoke. All these people started calling in, cashing in their two cents: “What’s up with this Lawyer guy and his gossip rag stirring up these rumors, all this trouble?” one caller was saying. “Why can’t he just keep his mouth shut and let us get on with our lives? This isn’t a TV show. It’s real life. Things just happen. There’s no grand conspiracy under every bliksemse rock and there’s no point in thinking like that if you want to survive. Thanks to him we’ve now got hooligans running around burning down the whole bleddie city. And to what end, I say? To what end?”
Faith reached for the radio, switched it off, and focused on the road instead. Next to her, Persephone Pretorius, the queen of the underworld, crossed her arms and twisted her head to lean against the rolled-up window.
- 74 - SANS
The two men were walking arm in arm. Just two lovers enjoying a morning stroll through this sick, sick city, nothing to see here, folks.
But what if someone looked closer? Would they notice the stiff gait of the man on the left, the one with the limp, and the way he kept clenching his fists? Or the revolver-shaped bulge where the second man had his hand tucked underneath the first man’s jacket?
A convoy of trees were waving their arms in the air like they just didn’t care on
either side of the skinny lane through which the two walked—a line of ancient sentries sent as seeds on ships when the city was still virginal, and left here to shoot up into these tall tales. Leftovers from history, a tunnel to funnel the lonely on their way to everywhere.
Up ahead of our pseudo-lovers a protest was brewing. The crowd was a wave, thick and full and angry. Sans skimmed the placards floating above the tsunami roaring their way. “No more going postal.” “My body, my choice.” “Stop the shots.” “No more lies!” “Postboxes are toxic!” “Say no to medical tyranny!” “Stop driving us mad!” “Citizens should call the shots.” He was biding his time, readying himself to make a run for it into the swell. But Blue must have been brighter than he looked.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said, tightening the grip on Sans’s arm. “This isn’t some B-grade Hollywood thriller. I have a real gun pointed at your back with real bullets in it.”
The man adjusted the shoulder strap of the sports bag, which now held the book, gripped Sans’s arm tighter, and ruddered him to the outer edges of the crowd. “So, this book. I’m not buying it. You got any way to prove it’s the real deal? That the cure part is not some story? Some bullshit fairy tale?”
“Not exactly, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I looked it up online.”
“And?”
“There’s a website. On the deep web. A kind of online version of The Truth. Anyway, there’s this whole section about supposed cures. The book is one of them.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing.”
“Yes. But there’s a lot of people in this city who buy into it, who treat the Truth like it’s fact. And many of these same people would spend a mad amount of cash to get their hands on that book.”
As the protest washed over them, Blue increased his grip on Sans, digging the gun deeper into the small of his back, and for a few minutes, things got so loud Blue’s voice was drowned out completely. The roar was everything. It was all there was. The roar was the word. And the word was truth. Then the flow ebbed and the roar subsided and the world became quiet again. And all that was left was the trees and the road and one man plugging a gun into another man’s back like a docked cable trying to charge.
“This whole thing better not be some kind of escape ploy, son,” said Blue, quickening his pace.
“It’s not.”
“For your sake, I hope that’s the truth.”
They reached Blue’s car, a rusted, busted, yellow Volkswagen Golf. Blue ordered Sans to get in, got in himself, and then tossed the backpack onto the backseat. Then he stuck the key into the ignition and flicked his wrist. The engine spluttered, spluttered, groaned.
Sans shifted in his seat, turned his head to eye the backpack. If he stuck his arm behind him he could just about reach the bag. He thought about grabbing it and making a lunge for it before the car picked up too much speed, then decided against it. Better to wait it out for now. Wait for Blue to relax his guard, then jump out at a stop sign, grab the backpack, make a run for it. So he bided his time, kept his eye on the road.
Blue cricked his neck, took his mask off, tossing it onto the backseat.
“Say,” said Sans. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to infect you? I mean, you know about the fake medpass. It doesn’t faze you one bit?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t believe in it.”
“Believe in what?”
“The Laughter, of course. The whole thing is just a big old population control experiment by Western imperialists who are lining the pockets of our government to turn a blind eye.”
“That’s crazy. Don’t you see what’s happening all around you? What about the deaths? The bodies? How do you explain those away? Wait, let me guess: the postboxes. You’re one of those sickos who think the postboxes are the cause of the whole damn epidemic?”
“Don’t act like you don’t believe it. The evidence is all there, son. You did the right thing getting that fake pass. It might extend your life a bit. That is, if I don’t kill you first,” said Blue, tapping his gun against the steering wheel.
Sans kept his mouth shut. Watched the road. All along the pavement trash cans had been upturned, all sorts of crap littering the road, some of the shop windows were smashed—the protesters had already been this way today.
Time had spun a cracked web across the windshield, fracturing the scene outside into a million splintered pieces. Maybe it was the adrenaline playing tricks with his brain, but it seemed like the cracked glass was a kaleidoscope reflecting an endless variety of patterns and actualities. Hope. It gave him hope.
He was studying the cracked windshield like it was some kind of oracle, like the glass could see his future, tell him tales, when something moved in the corner of his vision. A white flag was blowing across the black tar, as if the road itself was surrendering to the yellow Golf. The blue of the sky made the white of the flag appear even whiter. Blindingly white.
No. Hold on.
Not a flag.
A person, a woman, running across the tar—red hair (bad dye job), bare legs, white billowing dress. Two Veeps on horseback charging after.
The flag turned her neck back, her red hair whipped across her face. The horses were almost on top of her now. On top of them. Blue slammed on the brakes. The car spun and spun and screeched, narrowly missing one of the horses as it came to a stop with a jolt and a shudder. Blue’s head hit the steering wheel with a thud. The horse reared upwards, shucking its rider off onto the car, his helmet plowing through the windshield. Sans pushed his arm back; he could feel the bag on the seat behind him. He pulled it towards him. Then his fingers found the door handle.
Later, he would lie awake, wondering about the girl in the white dress. What her story was. But at that precise moment he was only thinking one thing. One single word was blasting across his brain in red neon strobing lights. Run.
- 75 - FAITH
After dropping Tomorrow at the market, she sat in the van, just watching the world go by. There was another protest marching past. But this crowd was angrier, more alive. Placards and fists were bobbing up and down like pistons in a big breathing, steaming machine—some kind of organic automaton of rage. For a second, she thought she caught a glimpse of Sans, limping along through the pulsating mass.
She waited for the protesters to pass, got out of the car, and stepped through the gate that led into the Company’s Garden. Maybe it was the time of day, or maybe it was the protests that had scared everyone off, but the grand old garden was strangely quiet. Near the old pear tree, a smattering of geese were pecking for worms. She bent down beside them and sat on the soft grass. Her thoughts lingered back to Tomorrow. The wall. She’d felt like a real jerk, leaving the girl in the lurch like that, but sometimes you had to look after yourself, too. She pulled her hand out of her pocket, looked at the little glass bottle nestled in her palm, all covered in dirty, sweaty thumbprints. The bottle would have to go. She would have to let it go. But not now. Not yet. She had other things to do right now. Other things like . . .
She took the notebook out of her bag to take a crack at the code again. She was sure about the first line: I am a child of faith. But the rest was still gibberish:
WCBOEPOWRPEGDLGGVGDIRRMQVIRDIPDSWYYGXXFOKPOEROWRYJAYRDSHCXGCISSWEWXSRURMGQCLYRSOLYAKEGFKFMEXWYYCXSSQLRYILDVSCXWYYUSXFGLYDMZOPGOZCDSZOQWQVCKXCCXYXHKYWRSQNYVRKRRVMDOWUYVIGLYDJMVPMGWFOVCYRRRIQOTYQIQSWKIVCMSPNXMISSOZCBCRRMLQQWFMQSSLCLYFIPOZCKPCNXMWIYLSSDXFOPYEKFDIPSLMZIRRMQNMYBCUSPJLIQEJDSGGORRDSCHTJKMLDSWYYKIZGCMMXWMXXFSWNYMLDELNAFKXGLIJSITOXFOCAYYJNQCKRDYVWYYPGSPVHRYQWQVCKXPOKPOXWYYKEWRERBOVQDELNXFKXGMELXSRKXROWRPSPOZCBCQSREVIDKGRGVGDXCXHMGRFOVCKWWYYWYYPCIJPAGVPMPGMEVQOYLNIPCXYXHRRIMZEOEILKXSBIMPELIZGCMMXELNXFKXGKQYDXFOQCBGWYJCKGFCMERXYXHAKRMXPWRETOJYSXFDLYDAFKXGCICSWPSKFDFSDMRBYQDXFKXGDAGVPFOPNNSUSXFSXURERISSGMJVYQOMRKWWYYRRMLUFCCXZEXNBEWLIDYVCISSNIASTFOVRRIPOWRISSRETOXMDEIOEKYQCXXRYLCVTWYYPCIJPXFOCMEREVEBITCBWCZLMXIGCCMEVYXGFYVWYYPGEWLEAUCMERCOHFOVFOPNSRERIPGMJVLCVTWYYRYVCWIKLIPGLMISSBIYVPWKVCLCRRIRS
QCISSBIYNXFSWQRIUSPJRETOEJBIYNCMZILOHNKRBYVYCFMHWMZPCKWCPSPKPJYYPCEIOWKKOCREQDIUSXFKPJWCFOEPDELXEBOOMXMLQL
The line at the top of the page was the key to the rest of the text. She could feel it. But it didn’t work if you used it as is. It had to be some kind of riddle. I am a child of faith.
She stuck the sharp end of her pencil into the soft grass where it rested like a flag, stretched her legs out, and rolled her neck. Think, Faith, think . . .
A young mother walked past, pushing her baby in a yellow pram, singing while she walked. “Utata uJacob, Utata uJacob, Usalele, Usalele . . .”
Father Jacob, Father Jacob . . . She used to sing like that to Jacob when he was little. It was the only way she could get him to go to sleep.
I am a child of faith. I am a child of Faith.
Jacob. A silly idea, but it niggled, and it grew. Until it was all she could think about. It wouldn’t work. Of course it wouldn’t. She was just projecting again. Her wall was crumbling, making it hard for her to think straight. But she wasn’t ready to text Ash and apologize for pulling a disappearing act, wasn’t ready to step back into real life. Wasn’t ready to let go. She gripped the little glass bottle tighter. She’d stay here a little longer. On this patch of quiet, soft earth. This little oasis in the eye of her storm. Jacob. She’d try the cipher key. She’d try it first. Then, maybe after that, she’d try to let go.
Time ticked on, while her shadow shortened. And under the nib of her pencil, the cipher transformed—first into letters, then into words. Until she had a whole page of sentences, strung along like a road. A map into someone else’s brain. But even though the words were written in English, the map didn’t make any sense:
My dearest Faith,
I write this letter to you in the greatest of confidence. You may not know me, but I know much about you. Enough to entrust you with what I believe to be my greatest and most important life’s work. What follows here on these pages is my record to you—everything my visions have revealed to me about the Laughter. I hope this diary will be sufficient to explain to you my visions on this point and what I believe they could mean for your world. To my great regret, you must understand that I cannot attest for every single fact written down here (as you yourself will of course understand the opaque nature of any vision, and that I am at the mercy of each sight and can only have faith that what I see is right)—but I trust that it will help.
