‘Who’s that girl?’ asked Clare.
Melissa followed Clare’s gaze. ‘Cornelle, I think. She’s new. Do you know her?’
‘We’ve met before,’ said Clare.
‘Do you want to speak to her?’ asked Melissa. Cornelle turned, sensing that she was being watched. She blanched when she saw Clare.
‘I don’t think she wants to talk to you,’ said Melissa.
‘I think you’re right.’ Clare took a sip of her drink.
Melissa looked Clare up and down. ‘We don’t often get ladies,’ she said. ‘Hardly ever on their own.’
‘Who do they come with?’
‘The older ones come with their husbands usually, hoping it will stop him getting bored with their saggy tits and everything. The younger ones come with their bosses. They quite often buy the underwear. Would you like some? I can give you a catalogue.’
‘Thanks,’ said Clare. ‘I would like one.’
The girl reached under the counter and handed Clare a brochure; embossed in gold on its cover was the outline of a woman’s sumptuous body. ‘Cool, hey,’ said the girl. ‘They’re new. The whole place is going upmarket. The new owner bought all those expensive pictures to hang. And our movie catalogue is going to be great too.’
‘I didn’t know Isis made films,’ said Clare.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Melissa. ‘We used to just order from America or Holland and then sell them on. Now we’re making them here. Cape Town has such a great film industry. Really skilled technical people, you know. And that will make things much more professional for us.’ She wiped the counter and set out dishes of stuffed olives.
‘What sort of movies are you making?’
‘It’s all under Isis Productions. I’ve been in two already. I got to choose my own costumes too. But those were only soft-core. There’s also hard-core, girls-only flieks – all the usual stuff. Some of our customers like to star in their own blue movies. So we’ve been doing some of that too. Some only like to have the lapdances filmed. Others like more. It’s cool for them. Quite expensive, but cool. There are also some girls who do live webcam stuff – so anyone who can afford it can do pay-per-view from home.’
‘Did you ever meet a girl called Charnay?’ asked Clare.
‘Charnay … that’s a good name. Was it her real name?’
‘It was. Charnay Swanepoel.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘She was slim, tall, very long black hair. About seventeen. Apparently she was interested in making films too.’
‘I can’t remember. Maybe I saw her. Check our website. There are pictures of all the girls who have been in anything to do with Isis.’
‘I will,’ said Clare. ‘How old are you, Melissa? Where are you from?’
‘Me? I’m from Beaufort West. You can’t imagine how boring the platteland is. I came here when I was seventeen, but I’m nineteen now. But I look young still, hey?’ she pulled her mane of blonde hair into two pigtails and batted her eyelashes. ‘I do quite a lot of the barely-legal stuff – you know how many guys just freak for the schoolgirl look.’ She was thin, fragile even. In a uniform, without make-up, she would pass for fourteen. Or less.
‘Who is the new boss?’ Clare asked. Melissa’s effervescence was gone. The colour drained from her face, leaving her blusher starkly scarlet on her white cheeks. She fumbled with the glass she was wiping. Clare looked into the mirror behind her. Kelvin Landman stood in front of the thick velvet curtains.
‘Hello, Clare. You look lonely.’ He smoothed her hair. ‘I’m glad that Melissa has been keeping you entertained.’ His diamond cuff links glinted as he leaned against the bar and snapped his fingers – boldly displaying his power. A drink materialised and Melissa was gone, taking a tray to check on already scrupulously tidy tables. Landman picked up his glass.
‘Come through,’ he said. ‘The show is about to start.’
Clare followed him, bringing her drink with her. Landman held the heavy curtains aside and she went through. The room was an updated Moulin Rouge: the ubiquitous kitsch of commercial sex. The low stage was draped with plush red and gold. A low ramp thrust its way into the centre of the room. Men clustered at the tables, moving the chairs to be closer to the promise of the dancer’s ramp. The mandatory poles were present, painted shiny black and red. Kelvin Landman’s table was on a small raised dais, his entourage smaller than when Clare had met him at Otis Tohar’s party. ‘Where would you like to set up your camera?’
‘Here,’ said Clare, positioning the tripod so that the strippers would appear behind him when they came onstage. ‘This is perfect,’ she said, clipping the camera into place, checking batteries, tape, light. She pinned the mike under his shirt, startled at how smooth, how cold, his skin was. Then she sat back, watching him preen. The lure of celebrity that a lens promised was irresistible. Clare gave her standard caveats, that she was recording this interview, that he should answer in full sentences so that she could be edited out later, that he should look into the camera’s eye and not hers. She asked him to tell her who he was, where he came from.
‘Kelvin Landman. Born in 1968 in Cape Town. I grew up on the Flats. I had my troubles with the law. I was involved in street gangs where I lived in Manenberg. But who wasn’t, there?’ he grinned broadly at Clare. Then he remembered her instruction and looked back at the camera. ‘I had some trouble with politics too, so in the eighties I went overseas. Into exile.’
‘Where did you go? How?’ prompted Clare.
‘To Amsterdam. My uncle was in the merchant navy at that time. And as you can imagine, there are many places to hide on a boat, especially if you are a pretty boy. Which I was, in those days, believe it or not. I worked my way over and jumped ship in Amsterdam. I met some people working there, started at the bottom and worked my way up. Then I got asylum papers, so I was legal.’
‘What exactly were you doing there?’
‘A bit of import, bit of export – luxury goods. They’ve got it sorted there, I tell you. Hash bars and the women selling themselves with no problems from the police. I learnt how to run a business.’
Clare’s face was wiped clean of expression. ‘Explain the import-export thing to me.’
‘You figure out what is in demand and then you supply. You can get what you want as long as you are willing to pay the right price. That is the business principle I have applied since I came back to Cape Town. We import vodka and hot Thai chilli. And we have lots of sweet things to export – wine, peaches.’
One of the men sitting listening sniggered. ‘Shut the fuck up, Benny,’ snarled Landman. ‘Whose fucking interview is this?’ Benny held his hands up in submission and cowered into his seat. Turning to Clare, Landman took a deep breath. ‘Where were we?’
‘You were telling me about supply and demand. What about here? In this club?’
Landman looked around, genuinely proud. ‘I supply my clients with what they need.’ He pointed to the men waiting along the ramp. The music throbbed. ‘And I provide employment.’ He grabbed a passing hostess, her buttocks exposed in tight black hotpants. He twisted her flesh, his eyes holding hers, daring her to do anything less than smile delightedly through the pain. ‘What else would these girls find to do?’ he asked, dismissing her. Clare watched her retreat, a welt emerging on the smooth skin. ‘I suppose you could call me a philanthropist. I give men what they need and women what they deserve.’
The lights suddenly dimmed, releasing Clare from the interview. A pulsating drumbeat filled the air, the rhythm unmistakable. Clare turned her attention to the stage. A spotlight cut through the darkness, illuminating a girl, naked apart from the intricate metal bondage gear biting hungrily where her flesh was softest. She was tightly blindfolded. Her tongue glistened red behind her parted lips. Two corseted women, strapped into high, shiny boots, stepped out of the darkness to spreadeagle her and handcuff her to a pole. Both held whips that they flicked first across their hands and then across the girl’s breasts. The sound cr
acked sharply in the silence, and the girl’s nipples stood erect. Slowly, the music began to pulse faster, and the lights went up a little. The strobe turned slowly, tattooing the girl with flickering pornographic inanities. Each new word brought fresh blows from the stiletto-heeled dominatrixes. The girl writhed, either in faked agony or orgasm. Clare watched, mesmerised.
Landman touched the inside of her knee. ‘That is Justine. I see you like it. This is “Fetish Night” – very popular, as you can see.’ Some of the men were taking turns now, at a hundred rand a time, to bring a velvet horsewhip down on the bound body that now hung limp against the pole.
Clare shook herself, switching her mind from the degradation on the stage back to Landman. ‘Where do these girls come from, how do you recruit them?’
He turned his attention back to the camera. ‘Some are local. Quite a few are foreigners – they’re often better dancers,’ he explained, ‘more committed to the profession. Fewer piercings, fewer drugs, no families to worry about. But you can check, there are no illegals here. All of them have their papers. With the unique skills these girls have, it’s not so hard to get Home Affairs to comply.’
‘Your mother must be proud of you,’ said Clare. ‘You have done so well.’
Landman spat. ‘My mother was a dronklap who forgot to feed me when I was baby and who loaned my sister out to any “uncle” who’d buy her a dop. Right now she can’t remember her own name, let alone that she ever had a son.’ He paused and swivelled around to watch the show. It had shifted to a complicated harem scene that involved yashmaks and lapdogs. ‘But we are doing well.’
‘We?’ asked Clare.
‘My business partner has bought this building. And another one recently, in Sea Point, for the next Isis Club. We’re building a chain that will challenge the other operators. Much less tame, much more extreme. Our next move will be Isis Safaris – “Where all your wildest fantasies come to life”.’
‘That’s an expensive investment.’
‘Sex is a very lucrative business, Clare. The demand is always there and the supply is limitless.’
‘What has your strategy been?’ asked Clare.
‘We’re consolidating, branding our products, developing our niche market – for the connoisseur who thought he had it all. There’s so much growth potential: products, spin-off goods, movies. That’s where you make your money.’ Clare thought of the elaborate edit suite she had glimpsed at Tohar’s apartment. The memory called to mind Tatiana’s sobs as she huddled there, alone. Landman continued, on a roll with his newly acquired business-speak. ‘Movies are where you really make your money. You can, for one, sell the same girl over and over again. She doesn’t get tired, doesn’t get her fucking period, doesn’t get thirsty. It’s perfect. And because it’s the movies, you can make all sorts of things look as if they really happened – when in fact they didn’t. Some men pay a lot to see their darkest fantasies come alive.’ He laughed. ‘Or dead.’
A waitress brought a fresh round of drinks to the table and cleared away the ashtray and dirty glasses. Landman’s phone rang. He picked it up and checked the number. He didn’t answer. It rang gratingly four more times. ‘We just have to keep our main man steady.’ He put the phone back into his pocket. ‘Keep him convinced that teamwork is the best.’ The interview was over. Clare repressed the urge to down her whiskey. Instead she packed up her camera, hoping that Landman would not notice that her hands were shaking.
‘Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘You have been most informative.’
‘Sure,’ said Landman. ‘Any time. You let me know.’ He slapped her bottom. ‘You’re going to make me a star, aren’t you, baby? Move over, Patrice Motsepe, Mr Oppenheimer. Watch this space: here comes Kelvin Landman.’
Clare zipped her bag closed and said through clenched teeth, ‘I don’t know about being a star. But probably famous for a day or two.’
She desperately needed to get out. The cool night air was cleansing, and she gulped it in as soon as she was outside. She felt complicit in Landman’s misogyny and ambition. And defiled by her own fascination with what she had watched, by the pulse she had banished from between her legs only after it had left its wetness behind. She opened her window wide, hoping the sea air would blow her clean. She would have another shower, scrub herself, as soon as she got home.
But the road home took her past the turnoff to Riedwaan’s house. Clare took it without thinking. She slowed as she descended the steep one-way road where he lived. The lights were on, and before she had even thought about what she was doing, she’d parked her car and knocked on the door. Riedwaan opened it and drew her inside without a word. His hands were on her body before he had latched the door behind her. He pushed her against the wall and kissed her, obliterating from her mind what she had watched all evening. The tension that had held Clare so taut melted away. Then Riedwaan led her to his unmade bed.
Later, Riedwaan got up and poured them both whiskeys. He lit a cigarette and pushed Clare’s hair aside, stroking her naked back from shoulder to flank.
‘Isn’t it your birthday tomorrow?’ he asked.
Clare turned her head to look at him. ‘How did you know?’ she asked.
‘I remember these things.’ He leant over and kissed the curve of her waist. ‘What shall we do? Croissants? A walk on the mountain?’ He flipped her over, moving his hand down her belly towards her thighs. She didn’t resist when he put his glass down and pulled her on top of him again. She couldn’t give him an answer because he was kissing her again. Like a drowning man. He fell asleep as soon as he had come, but Clare lay wide-eyed long into the night. She was not looking forward to the hours she’d have to spend over the next few days listening to the recording of Landman’s voice, transcribing and editing until she had every nuance ready for her documentary. And, of course, she also had her date with Mrs Ruiters, who had called earlier to say that Whitney had to be moved somewhere safe. She had insisted Clare meet with her. She wanted her to record her statement, and she was too afraid to tell her over the phone.
Clare thought of that coming Sunday, her birthday – and hoped she and Riedwaan would spend it together. They would get coffee, sweet winter oranges, newspapers, and then return to the bed that held the mingled traces of their desires. They would read and doze and make love. They would do normal Sunday things together. They could maybe start again and this time she would make it work. She turned to him and fell asleep.
Clare was wide awake at five. Riedwaan was sprawled across the bed: one hand at home on her hip, the other curled under her hair. He knew she couldn’t sleep if the nape of her neck was exposed. At six she inched out of his embrace. The pull of Constance was irresistible, and so Clare chose her twin. She slipped out of bed. Riedwaan awoke while she was dressing in the dark, searching for her keys. He watched her in the darkness, saying nothing as she slipped out of the room. He held her pillow tight against his chest, but her warmth was already gone. Traces of her perfume taunted him. He got up and made coffee, taking it into the cold courtyard to watch the sun rise.
28
Across town, in a leafy, cloistered suburb, Cathy King sat cradling a phone, her shoulders bony under her cashmere cardigan. She drew up her knees, sharp beneath her fawn trousers, as she stared straight ahead. Her untouched teacup was dwarfed by the over-sized coffee table. It looked ridiculous. Much like she did on the enormous blue wave of a sofa. The French doors were open, the sage carpet blending with the luxurious sweep of lawn rolling down to the pool, its great, dead eye staring unblinkingly at the sunless sky. Cathy hated the swimming pool, and never swam in it. Neither did India.
The thought of her daughter was a knife twist where her most recently cracked rib was healing. Her doctor had raised an eyebrow when she went to him. ‘Again, Mrs King? You must be more careful.’
Indeed, she must. Cathy stared dry-eyed at the swimming pool. It stared back. She had tried so hard to be careful with India. Last night she had waited up all night, pacing, pacing. The
beautiful daughter, who she loved with an aching intensity, had not come home. Cathy knew she had failed her daughter – her broken rib told her that. So did the burn scars down the inside of her thighs. Despite her love, she had failed India. Now she forced herself to phone Brian to say that she was worried about India. He hadn’t come home either. He never did on Saturdays. It was her one night of respite.
‘You idiot,’ he snarled at her. ‘That little slut is probably fucking herself silly. Just like her dumb bitch of a mother would, given half a chance. Make sure you do nothing to embarrass me. I’ll see she learns her lesson when she does come home. You don’t fucking move. You hear me?’
‘Yes, Brian,’ she whispered. She kept from her voice the steel forming where her heart had once been. ‘I won’t.’ And she waited humbly, as always, for him to cut the connection. Then she looked at the Cape Times she had pulled out of the recycling bin and keyed in the emergency number at the end of the article on Amore Hendricks.
It was light now. She closed her eyes and, gathering the remnants of her strength, she pressed ‘call’.
‘Faizal.’ The voice was guarded, rough in her ear. She was quiet. ‘Who is this?’
Cathy gritted her teeth, did not cower. ‘My daughter is missing. This is Cathy King.’
Riedwaan felt the strap of tension tighten across his shoulders. ‘Mrs King, why are you reporting this to me?’
‘She looks like the girl in the newspaper. The one you found. Amore Hendricks.’ Her voice was almost inaudible, as if the air had been sucked from her lungs. The terror she had held at bay all through the darkness overwhelmed her now. She heard his voice again. It sounded muffled, as if she were deep inside a well.
‘Can you come to the station?’ he was saying. ‘Mrs King? Immediately? Can you bring a photo of her – a recent one? Shall I send a patrol car? Or is there someone who can bring you? Your husband?’
‘No! Not my husband. He’s not here. I’ll come straight away.’
Like Clockwork Page 14
