The Lazarus Effect

by H. J Golakai

  23

  The wall ran into Marieke Venter. Hard.

  At twenty-two, Marieke knew there were many perfectly innocent sayings that had lost meaning, thanks to society’s perversion. ‘We’re just friends’, for instance. She and Ryan from the garage were ‘just friends’, although very little of what they did together could be qualified as friendship, much less innocent.

  ‘Walking into a wall’ was another example. Lots of people, through their own clumsiness, walked into walls. Accidents happened. She was making a conscious choice that she wasn’t having her ass kicked by her own brother, but rather that one of the four walls of the house they shared had chosen to forcefully run into her. By tomorrow, she would have come up with a better excuse for her swollen face.

  Ashwin rammed into her from behind, using the full weight of his body to shove hers into the cold cement. Marieke choked on a scream, her jaw crunching into the wall. She tried to wriggle and felt something hard, probably his knee, digging into the small of her back.

  ‘Ashwin, please …’ she moaned, gulping down the bloody saliva pooling near a loose tooth. ‘Please, I didn’t tell her anything!’

  He laughed in her ear. There was no alcohol on his breath, and Marieke’s heart sank. Ashwin sober was a lot more dangerous.

  ‘Lying bitch,’ he growled, striking her head with the flat of his hand.

  Ten minutes earlier, he had walked in on her having supper. The look on his face had made her mouth go dry. He knows about Ryan, her first thought had been. The rule was never mess with other employees, although she suspected Ashwin meant for her never to get involved with any man at all.

  When he’d asked what she’d done over lunch that afternoon, she’d known that he knew. Pieter must’ve told him. She’d forgotten to cover her tracks by telling Pieter to forget Miss Johnson completely.

  She had opened her mouth to lie and he had slapped her so hard the chair had almost toppled. She had grabbed the table to steady herself. Ashwin had made a grab for her, too. At first she’d thought he was reaching out to help, that his anger had immediately dissolved and he’d come to his senses.

  But he’d gripped her by the shirt and dragged her to her feet, shaking her and shouting. What the fuck did she say to the journalist? How dare she talk to the press about their private family business? Marieke had started to cry, blubbering that she hadn’t said anything and Voinjama Johnson wasn’t from the press, she worked for a fashion magazine. Ashwin had shaken her harder and she’d spilled: they’d met for lunch, she was trying to help him, to make sure it was absolutely clear he hadn’t done anything wrong to Jacqui.

  His irises had turned to chips of dirty ice at the mention of that name. ‘You made it worse!’ he’d bellowed, and slapped her again. Marieke had screamed as she had gone down, her chin connecting with the edge of the couch, cutting her cries short. She had rolled onto the floor, dizzy and panting as the warm taste of iron had rushed onto her tongue.

  Someone had banged on the front door, one of the neighbours. A woman’s voice had shouted a frightened question and Ashwin had scuttled to the door and locked it. He had stridden back and yanked Marieke up, demanding to know what else her stupid mouth had said. Marieke had known he only wanted to know one thing. But never in a thousand hells would she admit to sharing his private shame, to confessing to another soul about the rape in police custody that was still eating him up inside.

  ‘You lying bitch.’ Ashwin’s voice clogged with tears. His body shook with sobs and he put his cheek against the back of her head, disappointed at what she had made him do. ‘You women are all the same, all lying bitches.’

  Ashwin crushed the back of her neck with his forearm. Marieke gurgled and writhed against the wall as her head started to balloon, her vision blossoming red. The last thing she heard before she slumped out of consciousness was Ashwin’s voice telling her over and over again that she was the bitch. Women were the bitches, not him – never, ever him.

  24

  ‘It was for tik,’ Chlöe said sagely. ‘The light bulb that street kid took. You hear about these addicts breaking into houses and not stealing anything but bulbs. They smoke tik out of them.’

  ‘Oh, wow. That’s news to me,’ Vee said, rolling her eyes.

  Chlöe pursed her lips.

  ‘Oh, come off it, Bishop. Every journalist in the Western Cape has covered some story or other on meth and street junkies. Where to get it, how they cut it, how they use it. Hell, for one assignment this lady of publicly traded pleasures …’

  ‘A what now?’ Chlöe frowned.

  ‘A public woman. Dammit, Princess Di – a prostitute. She described, graphically, how they insert crystals up the brown corridors of their clients to get them off. Please don’t make me explain–’

  ‘I get it, I get it, stop,’ Chlöe said quickly. ‘I just thought, erroneously I now see, that you didn’t get why the kid did it. You’ve been staring into space since you told the story. It’s creepy.’

  Vee left the window and eased into her swivel chair. The office was shrinking; that was creepy. They’d been going at it since morning and nothing was tying up.

  Like where Philemon Mtetwa fitted in, for instance. Vee knew there had to be more going on under the gloss of nouveau riche entrepreneurship, so she took it upon herself to root around in his backyard. Zilch. Nothing germane anyway, though some of it would’ve made riveting headlines elsewhere. Investment-wise, Mtetwa dabbled in shades of grey closer to black, not to mention a few women his wife wouldn’t be overjoyed to learn about. The climb to the top was steep, and victors seldom made it purely on talent, resolve and integrity. Mtetwa was no exception. For their purposes, they had nothing.

  One small detail stood out, though. Eight years ago, Mtetwa had undergone a major cardiac operation at the then Claremont Life and Medicare Clinic. During the same period, one Sean Fourie had been at the butt end of the national transplant registry. Strangely enough, his name had shot to the top during the months preceding his death. Philemon Mtetwa had a revamped heart that was clearly thumping fit. Ian Fourie was an excellent cardiologist whose clients included some of the richest men in the country. It was hardly a huge leap.

  ‘I’m saying it is a leap,’ Chlöe said.

  ‘It’s too much of a coincidence to be nothing. You’re new at this. Don’t dismiss what’s right under your nose because it looks easy. Oftentimes the thing we think happened, is the thing that happened. This shows that the WI isn’t the only link between these two, and by this afternoon we’ll have proof.’

  At that very moment, The Guy was skulking through cyberland, hacking through walls with his prying, nimble phalanges. Getting into the WI’s old patient records would be like picking his teeth. It wouldn’t be long before he emailed scans of Mtetwa’s medical file from 2002, detailing everything from which drug regimen he’d been on to how many times a day he’d squatted over the toilet.

  ‘I bet you eight years ago Ian was Mtetwa’s doctor, and he probably made the diagnosis that saved his life. Working that kinda magic can buy a lot of gratitude,’ said Vee. She recalled Rosie’s words to the effect that her father only had time to spare on rich, diseased old men. Someone that dedicated was bound to have buddies with clout.

  ‘How could a man who gets handed a new lease on life stand by and do nothing a year later when he hears your son is terminal and desperately needs a transplant? That he has to wait his turn on some list with a thousand other nobodies? Mtetwa’s got the power to bump a kid to the top of a registry.’

  ‘Fine, let’s say I buy that.’ Chlöe spread her palms, and Vee noticed they were covered to the wrists in inky scribbles, personal notes she’d been taking all day. Vee warmed with pride. Her protégé was turning into a real newswoman. ‘Let’s say Ian and Mtetwa have more than a business relationship. If he owes Ian a debt of gratitude, then yes, making some calls would be a great way to pay it back. But Sean got a match before his spot on the registry even came into play, so that’s a grand ges
ture totally wasted. And, more importantly, what does it matter? If these two men were playing ‘scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’, what does it have to do with Jacqui?’

  Vee rubbed her temples hard, trying to defy anatomical barriers and massage her overheated brain. ‘All right, I haven’t thought that far yet. But I know whatever the Fouries needed to do to keep their boy alive, they did. And it ties in with Jacqui’s disappearance.’ For heaven’s sake, Carina, the embodiment of feminism and modern education, sacrificed her pride and approached the mistress for help. ‘It all comes back to Sean one way or the other. We just need to find the connection.’

  She scrawled on the list on the wall-mounted chalkboard: find the connection. Medical connection number one: find Rachelle Duthie. The nurse’s involvement with Sean’s therapy had been key. She was still practising and living in the city, but they hadn’t fixed a time to speak with her. Vee tossed the stub of blue chalk, noting a few other points were yet to be crossed off. Why the hell couldn’t anyone locate Bronwyn Abrams, for a start?

  Chlöe licked melted chocolate off a KitKat wrapper. ‘Why d’you keep pushing the Ian angle? Arrogant, career-advancing jerk he may be, but Jacqui was still his child. Kids drive parents crazy all the time, but you gotta be one hell of a psychopath to actually kill them.’

  Vee nodded grudgingly. ‘He knows something, though,’ she muttered. Ian had the most powerful hand, and that spelled motive. The rest were a pack of scrambling jokers in comparison.

  ‘I’m liking Ashwin for this, big time,’ Chlöe went on. ‘As you said, the most obvious scenario tends to be the truth. He has a violent history and sounds immature. I say Jacqui tried to end it one final time, they had a huge argument and things got out of hand. Accidents like that happen every day.’ She shook her head, eyes adrift. ‘Women are evil, twisted sirens. They love you one minute and then flip their shit, blame you for it and crush you like a cockroach.’

  Vee cocked her head.

  ‘Ahem. Crime of passion is what I’m getting at.’

  ‘Where did it take place? Yes, the mechanics saw them get into it at the garage on the day she disappeared, but they also saw her leave. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to go ballistic in broad daylight in front of half a dozen witnesses.’

  ‘He was stupid enough to slap her around in public before, so methinks that makes him contender number one for murder.’ Chlöe puffed her cheeks. ‘Let’s say she left and he followed her. He followed her by car, they made nice, she got in … they fight again, and this time he kills her.’

  ‘What did he do with the body, Bishop? A human body doesn’t just vanish. The police searched his car and house; they practically went up his butt crack with a microscope.’ Vee flinched. ‘Poor choice of words.’

  ‘You think?’ Chlöe sniggered. ‘Okay, maybe he didn’t kill her right away. Say he held her captive for a few days, just to scare her. But after the hell he’d been through with the police, and with the whole community ready to torch him with no proof, he started blaming Jacqui for everything and snapped. Or maybe he meant to let her go, but by then it had got so out of control that he had to keep her quiet.’

  ‘And maybe he smuggled her through the Underground Railroad and set her free in Canada. That’s too many maybes, Chlöe.’ Vee plonked back down and put her feet up on the desk. No matter which way she squirmed, the twinge in her lower back wasn’t letting up. They’d been at it for too long; they needed a recess. ‘Ashwin doesn’t have the smarts to’ve kept a mami peppe like Jacqui hostage for long, especially not with all those eyes on his every move. Somebody would’ve noticed a false move.’

  The cobalt blue of Chlöe’s eyes sharpened to azure. She took the chocolate-smeared pacifier out of her mouth. ‘Oooh, what’s a mami peppe? Sounds sexy.’

  ‘It’s …’ Vee flapped a hand. How would one describe it in the Queen’s language? ‘Like a hot-blooded woman, a feisty geh.’

  ‘Geh meaning girl?’ Vee nodded. Chlöe murmured the phrase to herself a few times, doing her best to mimic the right accent. ‘I like it,’ she tittered. ‘It does sound hot. Hey, am I a mami peppe?’

  ‘No,’ Vee snapped. ‘And if you don’t take that goddamn wrapper outta your mouth, I swear to God …’

  ‘But I’m huuuuungry …’

  Like a winged messenger from heaven, a colleague stuck his head in. ‘You guys ordered the pizza? The delivery guy wants to leave it in the foyer. You better get out there before the vultures descend.’

  Chlöe smiled coquettishly at Vee, raising and lowering her lashes like a lost puppy. The look wasn’t new. She was broke, too broke to chip in for lunch. Vee sighed and got up. The tin of petty cash in the receptionist’s office had better have enough in it. She damn sure wasn’t paying for a communal meal out of her own pocket. If Portia wanted a stellar output, it was her duty to feed the hungry slaves that made the magic happen.

  25

  The line of cars waiting for the lights to flick ‘go’ blocked Lucas Fourie’s line of vision. He squinted at the brick high-rise of brown and cream that his Garmin satnav had led him to, not sure what he was watching for. He needed to be in a spot with a better vantage point, but the thought of making an illegal U-ie in traffic and parallel parking in an available slot closer to the building made his armpits moisten. Traffic officers loved to bust fools who made stupid moves like that in the centre of town. Lucas liked to believe he was a guy who enjoyed a touch of predictable peril, if there was such a thing, and no more.

  A woman pushed through the glass double doors, holding what looked like a pizza box. She paused on the sidewalk and looked directly across the street, her hand a visor against the sun. Lucas held his breath. He needn’t be any closer to recognise the woman he’d been shadowing, the proud owner of the black wolf-monster. Had she spotted him? Not likely; he’d been too careful. He decided to sit tight.

  Vee threw caution to the wind and jogged across the busy road, forgetting that lunch was still in her hand and Chlöe would be mewling with indignation back inside. She was paying for the delivery when the white Opel Astra caught her eye. True, the city was awash with white budget buys, and shabby Opels made up a significant proportion of that number. But twice in fewer than twenty-four hours couldn’t be a coincidence, not when the first two numbers on the licence plate matched what she’d managed to see last night.

  She sidled closer, expecting the car to burst to life and spin into the traffic, knocking her down. It didn’t move. She peered through the windscreen at the man in the driver’s seat, sitting as still as could be. In fact, it almost looked like he was trying to think himself invisible, the way small children did when they were in big trouble or playing a game. He was chubby, sweaty and kitted out from head to toe in black, except for a khaki cargo jacket. Covering half his face was a baseball cap and pair of tinted sunglasses.

  I’m officially in the worst movie ever, Vee thought.

  The journalist tapped on the window and made a beckoning motion. Lucas remained immobile but fluttered internally, unsure what to do. How had she seen him? Maybe she’d go away eventually. Instead, she leaned close to the glass and mouthed, ‘Get out of the car, please.’

  He complied. He had no choice. When they were face to face, she stood about a head over him, but he also noted she was wearing a pair of modestly heeled shoes.

  ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ She didn’t look at all frightened. He’d expected her to be more shaken up.

  ‘Lucas,’ he muttered, then repeated with more confidence: ‘I’m Lucas Fourie and I wanted to, um, talk with you.’

  Her expression cleared and her shoulders relaxed. Murmuring a long ‘ohhhh,’ she looked him over. He knew what was going through her mind: that he wasn’t as tall as his father, or as attractive, despite the resemblance. That he was less a man and more a boy encased in stubborn baby fat. That he was a terrible stalker.

  ‘So.’ She placed her box on the hood of the car. ‘You know where I live and where I work. Di
d it occur to you at any point to walk up to one of those doors, knock and introduce yourself? To avoid having to do all this?’ She fluttered her hands on this last point, indicating the mild insanity of having to confront strange guys in parked cars outside her job.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d come looking for me, and when you didn’t, well … I sort of decided to come looking for you.’

  ‘Why would I be looking for you?’

  Lucas’s head snapped back and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Because,’ he said, then stopped, floored that his motives weren’t obvious. Didn’t this woman investigate things for a living? ‘Because you went looking for everybody else. You know, to ask all those questions about Jacqui and the police case and the past and everything. Don’t you wanna ask me stuff, too?’

  The chubby boy looked hurt and kind of flabbergasted, like a kid unfairly passed over during a schoolyard pick. It was hard to believe he was older than Serena. Vee mashed her lips together, keeping her laugh under her ribs. This family was intent on driving her batshit.

  ‘As it turns out, I’ve gathered all the relevant information I need. And I’m sure your family will be happy to hear that, for now at least, I won’t be harassing any of you. So thanks for dropping by and offering your help, but it really isn’t necessary.’

  The dig worked. Blood rushed to his cheeks and curled around the tips of his ears.

  ‘What d’you mean, my help isn’t necessary? I knew Jacqui. She was my sister, too! I had as much to do with her vanishing act as anybody else!’

  Vee raised her eyebrows. Vanishing act. So Lucas was on the team of those who believed Jacqui had ditched the humdrum for bright lights somewhere more exciting. The outrage on Lucas’s face was near impossible to fake. It convinced her they’d been right to exclude him from their enquiries. This guileless man-child didn’t have a hand in murder and a cover-up.