Blood Rose

by Margie Orford

  Clare turned her attention to the images in front of her. They were eerie; the body huddled like any child escaping on the finite flight of a swing. The image nudged a buried memory. The tug of that weightless second at the top of the arc before the free fall of return; the solemn face of Clare’s twin sister, watching her swing up higher, higher, higher. Away from her. Until Constance could stand it no longer and caught the swing, tumbling Clare out, dissolving Clare’s rage with tears. Their father had removed the swing after that. To keep Clare safe, is how he had explained it. Clare and her older sister Julia had seethed, knowing that the real reason was to keep Constance calm. Clare felt for the forgotten scar on her elbow. The smooth ridge of skin was still there.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Clare had not heard Riedwaan return. He put his hand on her arm, drawing her back into the present.

  ‘This tyre swing. We had one when we were children. I loved it. It made me feel free.’ She turned to face him. ‘How are things with Yasmin?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Riedwaan. ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Shazia?’

  A shadow crossed Riedwaan’s face at the mention of his estranged wife. He shrugged and did not meet Clare’s gaze. ‘The same.’ He picked up the crime-scene pictures. ‘What do you think of this?’

  ‘So spiteful to kill a child on a swing,’ said Clare, leaving the painful subject of Riedwaan’s broken family.

  ‘It looks like he was killed elsewhere; no blood in situ.’ Riedwaan’s attention was focused back on the soluble problem in front of him. ‘He was dead a good couple of days before he was dumped at the school. Maybe kept out beyond the fog belt, in the heat. The body was starting to smell bad,’ said Riedwaan, scanning through the faxed notes.

  ‘Why in a playground?’ mused Clare.

  ‘That’s the thing with nuts. It makes no sense unless you get inside their heads. Why put him on show a couple of days after he’s dead? What were they doing together all that time?’

  ‘The other two, were they also found near schools?’

  ‘No. Tamar has linked them because they were all head-shot wounds, same calibre gun. Intermediate range and similar victim profile. Ligatures or remnants of ligatures. And the timing, too – looks to her like there’s a pattern. A killing, then a cooling-off period.’

  ‘You think you have me stitched up then?’ Clare asked. The image of the dead boy had sapped the tentative spring sun of warmth, but she could not be sure that he was the source of her unease. She packed away the photographs and ushered Riedwaan to the front door.

  ‘Come on, Clare. You’re not going to say no. I’ll be there next week, when Phiri gets the paperwork done.’ Riedwaan, as usual, was reluctant to leave.

  ‘I must phone Constance first,’ said Clare, distracted. On the far side of the bay was a ribbon of white beach and beyond that the mountains, softened by distance. Clare imagined the road she would have taken up to Namaqualand, to see her twin. She felt the old tug deep within her. ‘Tell her I’m not coming.’

  ‘You and your twin,’ Riedwaan sighed. ‘I watch you, but don’t ask me how your minds work.’

  ‘It’s one mind,’ said Clare, ‘divided in two.’

  She closed the front door behind him and walked through her apartment, picking up clothes, CDs and books that Riedwaan had discarded. Before she realised what she was doing, she had bundled his things into a bag. She dropped it at the front door, feeling lighter. The thought of a working journey felt good, right; this holiday idea, going to stay in the middle of nowhere with Constance, had not. Two birds with one stone, you could say. Clare took a deep breath, releasing the tension in her neck, and went to phone her twin.

  As she dialled she pictured Constance as if she were with her. The hip-length curtain of dark hair; the shoulder blades and angular hips jutting against the seamless white she always wore over her scarred body. Clare let the phone ring three times. She put it down. Redialled. Another three rings. She hated these subterfuges, this pandering to a neurosis so deep it had worked into the marrow of her sister’s existence. And her own, she thought, irritation and hopeless love welling up together.

  ‘Constance,’ said Clare, envisaging her twin in the dim farmhouse of their childhood.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Her twin’s voice had the same soughing as wind in pine trees. You had to lean in to her to hear her. Which meant that when she spoke, which was rarely, everyone stopped, leaned in close, listened.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Clare.

  ‘You aren’t coming.’ Constance laughed, a silvery peal. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to call.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Constance. Something came up. A work thing. I have to go.’

  ‘The dead boys.’ Constance said it simply, a statement of fact.

  ‘How did you know?’ Clare’s skin crawled.

  ‘Television. We pick up the Namibian broadcasts here sometimes. I saw a snippet about a boy on a swing in a school in a desert. I thought, she’ll go to him, instead of coming here to me.’ The mocking, musical laugh again. ‘I thought, he’s waiting there for Clare.’

  seven

  Early the next morning, Riedwaan picked up the picture on Clare’s hall table. The mom-dad-me-and-my-dog drawing, a gift to her from her little niece. He was overwhelmed with longing for his own child. Yasmin. His daughter. The undoing of his heart and his career. When she had been kidnapped, the husk of his desiccated marriage had blown apart, and he had signed the emigration papers that allowed Shazia to take Yasmin to Canada. Yasmin used to draw him pictures like the one before him now, but the drawings she sent from her new country were less exuberant. She had told him proudly that she could colour inside the lines now. Shazia would like that: getting Yasmin to stay within the lines. Riedwaan unlocked Clare’s front door. That’s what he liked about Clare, her disregard for limits.

  It was cold on the street, and his breath misted and hung on the dawn air as he hefted Clare’s suitcase into his old Mazda. The boot was temperamental and had been since a drunk in a Porsche had rear-ended him. As he slammed the boot, he felt cold metal against his carotid artery, warm breath on the back of his neck. Fury whipped him around, his fingers gripping the wrist, twisting hard. It felt wrong. Plump. Soft.

  ‘Still fast, Captain.’ A giggle, not a grunt. ‘That Bo-Kaap skollie in you.’

  ‘Rita.’ Riedwaan dropped her wrist, angry, out of breath. ‘You’ll get shot doing that.’

  She laughed again. ‘You trained me, Captain. But I’m younger and faster, so watch your back. Is Clare upstairs?’

  ‘She’s there. Go up, it’s open.’

  Sergeant Rita Mkhize sauntered to the front gate. Riedwaan knew, without rancour, that she would out-captain him soon. That was how things worked now.

  ‘I’m here, Clare,’ Rita called through the intercom. ‘Sorry to be late.’

  Clare met her halfway down the stairs. ‘Here are the keys. Fritz’s food is where it always is. The vet’s number is on the fridge. I made a bed for you in the spare room.’ She gave Rita the keys and a thick envelope. ‘Those are the things that Fritz likes. I thought it might be useful. Don’t tell Riedwaan about it.’

  ‘It’s our secret, but you’ll owe me big time,’ said Rita, keeping a straight face. She handed Clare a much thinner folder.

  ‘I’ve put together everything that Captain Damases sent for you.’

  ‘Brilliant, Rita,’ said Clare, flicking through the file. ‘Use my car if you want to.’

  ‘I’ll walk,’ said Rita, picking up the cat and following Clare to the gate. ‘The station’s three blocks. It’ll be a pleasure not being shot at coming to work. I’ve had enough of this taxi war.’

  ‘Thanks for taking care of Fritz for me,’ said Clare. ‘She’s not as fierce as she looks.’

  ‘Don’t believe her. Look at this.’ Riedwaan showed Rita a scabbed scratch on the back of his hand.

  ‘He teased her,’ said Clare.

  ‘I’m sure he did,’ said Rita, stro
king the cat purring in her arms. ‘Don’t let him tease you.’

  ‘Get in,’ said Riedwaan. Aeroplanes always made him irritable. Clare let her hair swing forward to hide her smile as she slammed the door shut. ‘It’s international, so you need some time.’

  Clare put her hand on Riedwaan’s knee, moving it up his thigh. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ she said, her breath warm in his ear.

  ‘Hey, let me drive,’ he said, smiling. ‘You’ll make me have an accident if you do that.’

  Riedwaan drove along the elevated highway that cordoned off the city from the harbour. The lanes were already clogged, and overloaded taxis weaved between the cars as they raced into the city. Clare checked her face in the mottled mirror dangling from the sun visor.

  ‘Have you got a comb in here?’ she asked, opening the cubbyhole.

  Riedwaan stretched across to close it. ‘Leave that,’ he said, swerving to avoid two schoolboys dashing across the highway.

  A torch, a bar of mint chocolate, bills, letters, a map and a comb spilled onto the floor.

  ‘Are you planning to live in your car while I’m away?’ Clare asked. She bent down to pick up the scattered papers. ‘When last did you do any admin? Rates. Water. Electricity. Telkom. Insurance.’ She smoothed out the papers on her lap. She bent down to retrieve the last one, swearing as she bumped her head on the dashboard. A scrap of lilac paper fell out from between the stapled sheets. The childish script caught her eye, and she read, almost without thinking:

  Hey Dad this is Yasmin. Can’t wait 2CU2. Mom got me new shoos. It is cold here when it is hot where you live. They look nice on my feet and we put paint on our nails. Red color.

  CU soon. I u daddy.

  Ps the tooth faree fairy gave me six dollars.

  Clare looked at Riedwaan. His profile had set. A muscle on the underside of his jaw jumped. She smoothed the piece of white paper that had held Yasmin’s handmade card and stared down at the unfamiliar handwriting. This time she read deliberately:

  Riedwaan

  It looks like we will both come. I’m not sure if this is the best thing for me (or for you), but I think we have to try to work out how to move on. We arrive on the 13th. Friday. I’m not sure if it will be lucky or unlucky. Your mother has all the details. I hope this works. I’m tired of waiting. I need a decision

  Shazia

  Clare folded the letter and put it back into the cubbyhole. The comb lay forgotten on her lap. She opened the window, the air cooling her hot face.

  ‘You weren’t meant to read those,’ said Riedwaan.

  ‘You didn’t tell me she was coming.’

  ‘I did tell you Yasmin might come.’ Riedwaan knew he was clutching at straws.

  Clare turned to him, anger flaring from the spark of hurt. ‘I’m glad that you’ll see your daughter,’ she said, teeth clenched, voice low. ‘But you didn’t tell me they were both coming.’

  ‘I only knew for sure a few days ago.’

  A truck hurtled past on the inside lane, hooting. Riedwaan swerved again.

  ‘A few days?’ said Clare. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’

  ‘I thought you’d be angry.’

  ‘I am angry.’

  Riedwaan took the off-ramp to the airport. ‘Shazia and I have a child together. We’ve been married for twelve years. I have to talk to her to sort things out.’

  ‘I know.’ Clare looked out of the window, dashing the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘But you should’ve told me.’

  ‘You’d still have been upset,’ said Riedwaan.

  ‘I’d have been able to make a choice then.’

  ‘Let me explain.’

  ‘No! You had your chance. Just drop me and go.’

  There was a steel edge to Clare’s voice. The armour she used to protect herself from feeling too much moved along familiar grooves to protect the vulnerability she had risked with Riedwaan. His separation was too recent and his ties to his family were too strong. It was her fault for letting him insinuate himself into her life, her heart. She was as angry with herself for letting it happen as she was with him for doing it.

  Riedwaan ignored her and parked the Mazda. ‘Talk to me, Clare.’ He switched off the ignition and turned to face her.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About all of this.’

  ‘Why didn’t you think of that before, genius?’ Clare opened the door.

  Riedwaan got out too, waving away the porter. ‘I can explain.’

  ‘You’ve had weeks to explain,’ said Clare. ‘Yesterday, when Yasmin called. Perfect opportunity to explain. Not telling me is worse than lying to me.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’ Riedwaan put his hands on her arms.

  ‘It was complicated,’ said Clare, shrugging him off. ‘Now it’s simple.’

  ‘It’s hard to talk to you about this, Clare,’ said Riedwaan. ‘It’s hard for me to tell you anything. I don’t know what you think. What you feel. What you want.’

  The blinds came down over the hurt in Clare’s eyes. ‘There’s a bag of your things at the front door,’ she said. ‘Fetch it from Rita.’

  ‘Clare, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’ll be simpler professionally.’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ said Riedwaan.

  ‘About the case. This subject is closed.’ Clare touched his cheek, back in control, fingers cool, more dismissive than a slammed door. She strode towards the international departures terminal and into the embrace of the automatic doors.

  ‘Fuck it,’ Riedwaan said and went back to his car.

  He threaded through the cars offloading passengers at domestic departures and joined the sluggish flow of traffic making its way into town.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said again as the traffic gridlocked on the Eastern Boulevard.

  eight

  Clare handed over her ticket and passport, submitting to the pat-down when the security machine beeped.

  ‘Your bra,’ smiled the woman who searched her. ‘The under-wire always sets this thing off. But what can you do? We all need a bit of lift.’

  ‘Don’t we just,’ said Clare.

  The morning mist was still wreathed across the Cape Flats, stranding Table Mountain and the leafy suburbs that clung to its base, but as the plane headed north, trees, fields, roads, towns, then villages, fell away and the land became drier, stripped of any vegetation except the hardiest plants. Clare opened the file that Rita Mkhize had put together. Precise notes in convent-school cursive. A plastic sleeve for expenses and petty-cash slips. A list of contact numbers. Empty file dividers for the postmortem report, forensic analysis, ballistics report, and Clare’s profile. Anticipation tingled up her spine.

  Tamar Damases had e-mailed an aerial photograph of Walvis Bay. It showed a marshy river delta south of the port. Extending northwards was a slender sand peninsula that protected the lagoon and the harbour. At the tip of this encircling arm was Pelican Point, around which the calmed Atlantic tides swirled into the bay. The little town squatted behind the harbour. It was a bleak place, pushed closer to oblivion by the collapsing fishing industry. The town had ceased to grow as planned, so the school where the body had been found was right on the edge of the town, a bulwark against the red dunes that marched northwards until the dry Kuiseb River halted them.

  A lonely place to live and an even lonelier place to die.

  Clare looked at the photographs Tamar had taken of the dead boy. Kaiser Apollis might have been fourteen, but he was so under-nourished that it was hard to view him as anything but the child he had been. The thin arms were clasped around the angled knees, the arms and legs shielding the stilled heart. Slender ankles disappeared into too-large takkies. Even in the grainy low-res prints, Clare could make out Nike’s expensive swoosh. The forehead rested on the knees, and the back of his skull was missing. The autopsy was scheduled for the next day. Then the pathologist’s knife would peel open any secrets hidden in the body of this dead child.

  Clare closed the
file and rested her forehead against the window as the plane started its descent. To the west, the surf-white beach corralled the red dunes. Beyond it stretched the restless Atlantic. The sun, angled low, revealed the Namib Desert’s wind-sculpted dunes, dotted with tiny impoverished settlements. Every now and then, Clare glimpsed a flash of a corrugated-iron roof or the flurry of a flock of goats browsing on the acacias growing along the subterranean Kuiseb River bank – evidence of sparse human habitation. Walvis Bay, blanketed in fog, was invisible.

  Clare let her thoughts drift back to Riedwaan. Her anger had burnt itself out, but it had left cold ash in its wake instead of calm. She missed him with an acuteness that hurt. Who would have thought?

  ‘Thirty days.’ The bulky customs official dropped Clare’s immigration form into an untidy box at her feet. An unexpected smile dimpled her round cheeks as she handed back the stamped passport. ‘Captain Damases told us to expect you.’

  Tamar was waiting at the arrivals terminal when Clare exited. Her heart-shaped face was as beautiful as Clare remembered, but the tiny waist was hidden by a pregnancy that seemed ominously close to term.

  Tamar’s green eyes lit up with recognition. ‘Let me help you.’ She reached for Clare’s suitcase.

  ‘You’re not carrying anything,’ Clare protested. ‘You look as if I should drive you straight to hospital.’

  ‘It’s just because I’m so short that I look huge,’ laughed Tamar. ‘I’m glad you could come.’

  Tamar led Clare to a white Isuzu double cab. An officer was leaning against it, smoking. His black shirt stretched tight across a muscular chest. His hair was cropped close, giving his handsome face a hard look.

  ‘Sergeant Kevin van Wyk,’ said Tamar, ‘this is Dr Clare Hart.’

  ‘Welcome.’ The man shook Clare’s hand but made no move to help her load her suitcase.

  As they exited the airport, Van Wyk turned the radio up just loud enough to make conversation an effort. Clare took Tamar Damases’s cue and watched the desert slip past in silence, wondering how much had changed since her previous visit.