The Lazarus Effect

by H. J Golakai

  ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Exhausted.’ She plastered on the last smile she could manage for the day. ‘Alive and grateful.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Titus stroked her hair, then took his hand away quickly, collecting himself. He averted his eyes to the wall, then turned back to her, taking both her hands in his. She kept breathing and waited. ‘I don’t know what more to say here. When we talked on your birthday … okay, we didn’t talk, we had an argument and I deserved everything you said to me. It doesn’t change how I feel about us.’

  ‘I can’t think or feel much of anything right now, Ti. I just want to put all this behind me and get back on my feet. Let me get back on my feet.’

  ‘Yeah, of course. I know. I’m sorry.’ He nodded vigorously. He looked up at last, spearing her with a stare of liquid hazel. ‘I don’t mean to sound selfish but …’

  ‘You were never selfish,’ she conceded in all fairness. ‘Not until … And I too, shouldn’t have been … well. It was what it was.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He darted his eyes around, closed them briefly as if overcoming some internal war, and met her eyes again. ‘All I’m asking is for you to think about us, if there’s still the possibility of an us. I have no right to ask or even hope more than that, but if there’s a chance …’

  Vee felt a subtle shift in the fickle lay of the land beneath her ribcage. This was too much for one day. A yawn tried to disfigure her face; that too she fought and lost. ‘Titus. I don’t know anything now, and I won’t lie to you. But I need to process.’ She gave his arm a brief caress. ‘Just don’t ask me to give him up. I won’t give him up, Ti. That’s off the table.’

  ‘I fucked up but he’s my boy, Vee, Jesus …’ Titus’s voice was husky, snagging on his pride, his hurt.

  ‘That’s on you. You two can … settle or not settle it however y’all choose.’

  He gulped and turned back to the window, his jaw muscles flexing so vigorously she expected to hear his teeth crumbling. Guilt took eager stabs all around her ribcage. It wasn’t fun or comfortable watching him leveraged so easily off a long-held position of confidence.

  At last, Titus relented with a brusque nod. ‘Okay. I’m right here. Take your time.’ He leant over her and brushed his lips over hers. Familiar strands of warmth nudged away the guilt and curled around her belly.

  Vee brushed back and sank into the pillow, her eyelids pulling down the shutters over consciousness. Time was good. She needed a lot of it. Ten rice bags full and a dash on top.

  46

  The watcher slept.

  Curled up in a ball to trap every bit of warmth to his body, the eleven-year-old boy drifted between slumber and unconsciousness. He was unaware that for days his body had been failing him, but he did know he felt really sick. His lungs had slowly filled with fluid and his temperature was critically low. Every now and then, he coughed but didn’t rouse.

  Under the bridge was not the best place to doss, but it offered good protection from the storm. It was dry and rarely did anyone wander by and rudely kick him awake, or chase him off their turf. No one paid attention to street people in Cape Town. Maybe their eyes brushed over them and made out the shape of a human being, but their presence didn’t register. The street community was not a productive part of the city. He’d been living and begging on the street for long enough to know.

  He had lain down under a stone arch, making sure his tattered polyester jacket was zipped right up to the neck and the newspaper stuffed in his sneakers was still dry. He wished he still had the blanket he took from the woman’s house, the one who had given him hot chocolate. That blanket was worth more than diamonds right now. Obviously, it wouldn’t still be where he’d left it. He never should have let it out of his sight. Everybody on the street knew the value of a blanket in winter, so he wouldn’t be seeing it anywhere but in his dreams.

  The season was about to change and he couldn’t have been happier about it. This winter was harder than most. He wondered if he went back to the lady’s house, if she would open her door to him again. She had looked like a good person, not afraid of him or disgusted, unlike a lot of women with nice houses. But she was probably still angry because he stole from her house.

  He slept, and dreamt. He dreamt of the dying girl in the sewer, a dream that didn’t want to leave him no matter how he tried to beat it back. The girl whose body he still expected to see every time he passed an open drain, curled up at the bottom. The girl whose picture had scared him to death when he had seen it at the nice lady’s house. He dreamt of her arm …

  … reaching up to him, trying to bridge the distance. She was covered with leaves and discarded junk; plastic cups and bottles and paper. Her body was twisted in a strange, broken way. A red knitted cap was askew over her face, leaving her head partly uncovered. Her entire body looked to be frozen in place, like she couldn’t move, but her eyes burned bright. The look in them was unmistakable. It was one of pure terror.

  She was still alive. The boy couldn’t believe it. Twenty minutes earlier, two girls had driven up while he was eating a chocolate bar under a tree, about to push off to a less deserted area to sleep. They had driven with no lights, and he had barely made out the car. He ducked behind the tree. The two girls got out and whispered for a long time. The boy waited. They put their arms around each other; one of them wept and the other tried to keep her quiet. Finally, they’d opened a passenger door and struggled to drag something out. It looked heavy.

  Bent double under the weight of their load, they had stumbled to the edge of an open drainage canal and lowered it. They’d patrolled the length of the canal, hissing back and forth to each other. Whatever they were deciding had taken a long time. They’d nodded, picked up the bundle and rolled it down the brick-walled verge of the pipe. The bundle had rustled, thumped and landed on the bottom with a thud. One of the girls had slid down the verge after it, holding on to the other girl as she’d lowered herself down the top half. She’d disappeared out of sight for several minutes. The other girl had drifted back over to the car and started pacing the pavement. It sounded like she’d started crying again. Or maybe vomiting. The boy hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath until the girl in the pipe gave a low call and he’d sighed in relief. The other one ran over. It had been a tussle lifting out the first girl but they’d managed. They’d scrambled into the car and driven away.

  The watcher had waited for what felt like years. When he’d been sure they weren’t coming back, he went down the slope, too, scraping a leg on the cement and drawing blood. He crawled in and squinted into the stretch of dark in front of him, but wasn’t able to see anything. The pipe had broken in two and the other half plunged further down at a sharp angle. He’d rooted around for a stick long enough to poke around and feel his way deeper inside.

  His stick knocked against the shape of something big. It looked like a human being. It made a sound when he poked it, and he jumped. He snuck closer and knelt. In the dim light he could see it was a girl, or a boy with a pretty face and too much hair. She was lying near the bottom of the slope of the broken pipe.

  She tried stretching an arm out to him and he tried to reach back, but the distance was too far. He tried leaning in, one arm and leg braced against the edge and his body thrust forwards. It was no use. Tired, he finally gave up. Maybe if he just jumped in … but how would he get out? He wouldn’t get himself out, much less the two of them.

  The girl’s whimpering faded to low mewls, and then to the sound of breath rasping in and out of her windpipe. The boy considered going to get help, but the girl gave a mournful moan when he tried to move away. The boy understood. She couldn’t bear to be left alone.

  Minutes passed and the body went still. The boy waited some more, listening to the sound of his own breathing. Nothing answered save the wind. Using his stick, he shifted leaves and dirt off the girl. She didn’t move. Her chest and one of her arms were outside her tracksuit top. He worked his stick around, pushing the body ont
o its side and twisting the top off. He hooked it up the slope. It was brand new Nike and looked like the real deal. The night became less unforgiving as he drew it around his shoulders.

  The boy trudged to the closest police station. The policeman behind the night-desk yawned in his face and threatened to arrest him for telling stories while high on tik. The child shrank and fell silent. Then the policeman gave him two rand and told him to piss off. The boy ran back into the street with the coin, knowing no one would ever believe him.

  He tried to forget.

  The watcher slept, and his breathing and circulation slowed to feeble murmurs and thrums. Within an hour, they had stopped.

  47

  ‘Is this even up for discussion?’

  ‘It’s open to negotiation. Think about it. Cheers.’

  Vee ended the call and tossed the phone on top of the laundry basket. Her schedule and her mind were full to overflowing, and still she was being pressured to take on more. What the hell kind of sabbatical was this?

  She rose off the edge of the bathtub and walked to the basin. It was a long and majestic walk, much longer than it took in her own house, and on much nicer floors. She smiled, feeling the tiles under her feet. Cold tile was cold tile, no matter how fancy a bathroom you got.

  She fiddled with the tap until she worked out which direction got the water flowing. She wasted more time adjusting the spurt from lava hot to mountain freeze and everything in between, until she got the temperature she wanted. Three days in this place and she still couldn’t work all its gadgets and mod cons. Good thing she had at her disposal a brilliant head on a capable, strapping pair of male shoulders. She grinned at herself in the mirror before lifting the toothbrush to her teeth. Screw it, she deserved her fun.

  ‘Was that another offer?’ called a male voice from the bedroom.

  ‘No,’ Vee mumbled over a mouthful of toothpaste. She spat. ‘Portia’s on my ass, again. She wants me to go on some women’s talk show and shamelessly promote the magazine.’ She shook her head. ‘As if we need help with circulation after this.’

  She wanted a little peace and quiet and the universe was having none of it. The police had just gotten off her back. The forensic scientists had found a scrap of evidence in her car, buried deep in a crevice of the back seat cushions – a silver earring, a cross attached to a shrivelled piece of human tissue. So far the working theory was Rosie and Serena had thrown Jacqui’s body onto the back seat to dispose of it. When they dragged her out, the earring and part of her earlobe caught in the fabric of the seats and ripped out. Vee gagged every time she thought about it, driving along with a piece of another human being wedged in her car, surviving months of shampooing and vacuuming in its burrow. The next ride she would do extensive homework on beforehand, then take it apart herself and clean it top to bottom.

  Now the press was hounding her for an interview about the investigation. Not to mention the blitz of emails from the WI’s image consultant, demanding that she speak candidly about the incident and disperse all rumours that murderous psychopaths roamed their halls. Vee had politely refused, telling her to get closure from justice being served, like the rest of the general public. The WI still circulated a statement to the effect that their reputable facility was in no way connected with the tragic circumstances of Jacqueline Paulsen’s death. The worst move they could’ve made, in Vee’s opinion. If it doesn’t stink, don’t spray air freshener. All they succeeded in doing was drawing attention to themselves, by implying a tenuous link to an isolated cold case. Now the press was on the hunt and WI had their work cut out for them. The thrill was gone.

  Vee rinsed and knocked her toothbrush against the sink. She had to admit, she didn’t mind too much the fuss being made over her. It reminded her she still had swag, and if that wasn’t enough, the job offers from a few high-flyer news agencies were damn sure an ego stroke that came with a larger pay cheque. Now the only part she hated – and she’d expected there would be something, but not this – was being hounded by strangers to look into the tragic disappearance of their relative, friend, lover, colleague or pet. Vee didn’t know who put it about she was a P. I. who solved piddling mysteries or how her contact details got into circulation – she strongly suspected Charisma Mapondera and her devilry on both counts – but that problem wasn’t hers for now. Let Chlöe earn her new salary fielding calls and handling paperwork.

  Vee headed to the bedroom. For a moment, she paused in the doorway and took it all in. The room was done up in white and teak, complemented by the right blend of muted tones and good furniture. She felt a deep pang. Were Jacqueline Paulsen alive, she would know what kind of décor this was. It was lost on heathens like her.

  ‘Maybe you should do it.’ Joshua looked up from his laptop. ‘Portia gave you something; you should give her something back. Lengthen your life span.’

  Vee exhaled, exasperated. He was right, but contemplating the pound of flesh she owed and would eventually have to repay stuck in her throat. Portia the Proud, and ever strategic, had handed she and Chlöe over to City Chronicle. Chronicle was small, but its investigative beat was well worth the move. And they were one building away, where Portia would most definitely be keeping tabs on them.

  ‘Attention like this is always short-lived, not to mention hungry and dying to feed. I’ll make a fool of myself on camera to please her and have to live with that piece of history hanging over me forever. Hell no. I’ll find something else to trade with.’

  ‘Come on, you’d slay a TV appearance. You could wear that lacy bra with the pop-open front, great for ratings …’

  Vee jumped behind him on the bed and wrapped her legs around his waist, and hugged his back. He smelled of clean cotton, soap and pheromones. Essence of Guy, God’s gift to womankind. The sun was out in full form, as it had been for days. The picture of contentment. All the picture needed was for Monro, outside sunning himself on the lawn of his dreams, to dash in with a Frisbee in his teeth. You’re a revolting cliché, she thought.

  Vee tapped the laptop screen. ‘Ibekyu, I thought you were helping me find a new car to buy.’

  Joshua scrolled down the Top Gear webpage, awash with unattainable supercars with their monstrous price tags and impossible specs. ‘My bad. Got a little carried away.’

  Vee put her head back down on his shoulder. ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should become a private investigator.’

  Joshua’s shoulders arched up and dropped. ‘It’s not the worst idea in the world. Though personally, don’t bite my head off, but I don’t think you’re ready. You have bigger fish to fry for a while yet.’

  ‘Yeah. You’re right.’ She let it hang. ‘But I should learn how to use a gun.’

  Joshua stiffened. Slowly, he closed the laptop and pivoted to face her. ‘Okaaay. That’s huge. Firearms are a major responsibility. You have to be fully trained to handle one.’

  She wanted to roll her eyes but didn’t, seeing as he was in his no-nonsense mode. ‘I know something about guns, Joshua. I don’t take them lightly.’

  He shook his head and reopened the laptop. ‘If you really want to learn how to carry a piece, you should ask your boyfriend Titus.’

  ‘Ti knows how to shoot? From where?’

  ‘Same place I learnt.’

  ‘You know how to shoot? When did my life turn into Walker, Texas Ranger?’

  ‘I’m from Brooklyn, and Titus owns a farm in your rebel hinterlands. Do the math.’ He tapped away at the keyboard. ‘You may want to sharpen your listening skills and spend less time abusing us to your salacious ends. We’re people, too.’ The mouse scanned across a car dealership’s web page. ‘How about a Renault Laguna?’

  ‘I’d rather walk barefoot on rusty nails.’

  She left his side and curled under the duvet. ‘You still haven’t told me whose place this is,’ she murmured.

  ‘I bring all my women here. Don’t ask questions.’

  That was their new mission statement. No questions. No hope, no expectati
ons, unrealistic or otherwise. She could smell how horribly this would end a hundred miles away. ‘At least tell me what you’re paying for it, so I can really feel like a kept woman.’

  ‘Paying? Damn, you do get ahead of yourself. Ask me first if I even know whose house this is.’ He got to his feet, looking round the room and scratching his chin. ‘Remind me again how long it took the cops to reach you last time?’ He gave her a teasing look and walked out.

  Vee rolled onto her stomach and propped a ridiculously soft pillow under her head. ‘Whatever, Joshua Allen. I am completely at my leisure.’

  Epilogue

  After days scouring the major drains and canals in the neighbourhoods around the Black River – Pinelands, Observatory, Mowbray – the search and diving parties finally found the skeletal remains of a teenage girl. Forensic evidence confirmed them to be those of Jacqueline Paulsen.

  A week after putting her only child to rest, Adele Paulsen cleared her bank account, liquidated the few assets she possessed and packed her bags for Australia. She took up residence with her sister in Melbourne, making no plans ever to return to South Africa, apart from a brief visit to give testimony in a murder trial.

  The handsome sum of money that landed in her Absa account went a long way towards facilitating her move. In reply, she sent a distant but cordial letter to Ian Fourie thanking him for his support, though it had come too late.

  Ian didn’t understand the letter. Primarily because the payment had come from his wife.

  Carina Fourie placed lilies on the grave of her son, Heinrich Sean Fourie. She took Lucas’s hand and together they observed a minute’s silence in his memory.