The Score

by HJ Golakai

  “Beluga on a Friday. What can you do?” Titus said kindly.

  “We can share a table, that’s what. Darling, I’m sure they can join us.” Aria linked her arm through Joshua’s. “It’ll be like old times. We can catch up.”

  “You know what, that’s a fantastic idea,” Joshua answered, looking Vee dead on.

  “Hey, I don’t mind.” Titus rubbed his hands in agreement. “Probably because I’m starving. Whatchu think my jue, you game?”

  The nucleus of heat in Vee’s chest slowly started to weaponise. No she didn’t. This bony-legged bitch did not just chunk a ‘darling’ in my face.

  “Why not?” she muttered.

  Later, as a waitron took their orders in the crowded, chic restaurant, Joshua offered up a toast.

  “To friends,” he saluted solemnly, looking round the table.

  Vee all but swallowed her tongue as she raised her glass to a very long evening.

  “I will strangle you! I nah say it plenty times befo–”

  “The subscriber you have dialled is unavailable at present, or more likely, doesn’t give a rat’s ass. Please try again later,” Joshua droned in electronic monotone, a final beep cutting off his evil laugh.

  Vee threw her phone across the bed, bunched her fists and roared. Of all skanks on the planet, Aria? Several incensed minutes later, she kicked open the bathroom door, sloughed through her nightly cleansing ritual, all the while muttering to herself. Back in the bedroom, she snatched the cell and dialled. It took an eternity to wrestle through the haze on the other end.

  “Chlöe, come on man, can you please wake up and listen.” Vee yanked a baggy T-shirt over her head. “Damn, why you sleep like gina nah steal your soul?”

  “Hhhhmmprrgh,” Chlöe grumbled. “Because it’s three o’clock in the morning, not because some evil spirit’s possessed me. Can’t we talk tomorrow?”

  Vee checked her clock-radio and rolled her eyes. It was barely eleven. Chlöe could party any weekend into submission, but parting her from sleep was mission impossible. “No. There won’t be time. I need you packed and ready to go at six a.m. We’re taking the travel assignment at Grotto Lodge. I’ve sent Nico an email already.”

  There was a rustling of covers. She pictured Chlöe shooting up in bed like a proverbial carrot-top, slumber melting away. “We’re doing what now?”

  “Look, Bishop.” Vee rubbed grainy eyes, searching for the right words. “We need this. I didn’t consider this properly before, but this could be an opportunity to stay on his good side. Plus we have to play ball or –”

  “Screw balls! I can’t imagine what brought this on, but allow me to remind you that we are not travel columnists. Okay? We’re not. I’ve barely been at this long enough to know what I am, but we don’t go chasing features on spa destinations.”

  “Chlöe …”

  “In fact,” venomous, outraged laughter dripped down the line, “how clueless am I? I do know what brought this on. Your magnified man crisis, combined with some cheap office tattle and whoo-hooo, you flip out and decide to throw us in the deep end to take your mind off!” Her breathing sounded like a woman in labour.

  “Hey. Whoa.” Vee contained a laugh. “Is roughing it a phobia for you?”

  “I DO NOT DO VILLAGE! And I’m not even gonna address the man shit, a mess entirely of your making. But the other thing? We both know the only place it could’ve started. It’s Mapondera, finish and klaar.”

  “Yeeeaah.” Vee massaged her forehead. All roads led back to Urban, the old den of snakes. Talented, hardworking, even friendly snakes … but self-serving nonetheless. The pedigree of gossip was telling: destructive, yet somehow careless and lacking spite. Classic Charisma Mapondera. Frenemy extraordinaire; biggest shortcomings – inability to keep confidence and chronic gagging for attention. It’s like we never left, she thought tiredly.

  “So we deal with her, and with this. Or let it blow over. We didn’t take it, why should we give a toss what those morons think? We can handle this from the comfort of our homes.”

  “Chlöe, I hear you, but no. We’re not arguing over it either. It’s been a crazy day … week, and this’ll be good for us. Be ready by six. That’s a.m., not p.m. We’ll take my car.” The Chrysler needed to stretch her treads.

  “What if I don’t want to go to that tatty bush lodge?” Vee imagined the monstrous length to which Chlöe’s pout had grown. “What if I want to stay and be part of the interns’ thingy? That makes a lot more sense if we’re being ‘team players’ now.”

  “Good night, Bishop.”

  Vee flapped open on her lap the dossier of reviews Lynne Hammond had prepared before going on leave. She bristled at an impressive list of spoils the travel columnist had indulged, overindulged in, in the past months. Why hadn’t Hammond taken her maternity sooner, leaving the delights of the Arabella Sheraton and Twelve Apostles Hotel to a lucky stand-in?

  Instead we get this, she sagged, leafing through The Grotto Lodge’s self-aggrandisement. ‘Our rustic but quaint accommodation serves to create a wonderful lodge experience for the discerning, adventurous visitor. Situated just fifteen kilometres shy of Oudtshoorn, our location encompasses many colourful aspects of the Garden Route towns. Nestled near the famous Cango Caves, we offer rock-climbing excursions, guided hikes and sightseeing drives, as well as spa facilities, horseback riding and our unique military boot camp for the real outdoorsman. Perfect for family, group and corporate bookings. Call –’

  Vee tossed the file, muttering, “How the hell anything can be quaint and rustic at the same time?” Chances were it was much closer to one than the other; with their luck, it would be to the latter. Ever since pastoral life had scraped off its shameful veneer and become ‘an experience’, the hospitality industry’s contemporary spin on the concept bordered on ridiculous. Poverty porn, wasn’t that the catchphrase? She imagined bowls of sludgy rat soup in chipped tin cups, slurped down by a pack of enraptured fools with money to burn.

  Chlöe was going to murder her.

  She flicked off the bedside lamp, hit the highest setting on the fan and star-fished her limbs across the bed.

  Retreat

  Chapter Four

  The LG flatscreen sounded a tiny ‘zooop’ as it went off, fading to black over the ‘Harpo Studios’ emblem, trademark of Oprah Winfrey’s empire. Heavy-hearted, Zintle Msengwana sighed to her feet. The queen of talk was serious; she was really going off primetime for good.

  Zintle couldn’t believe it. Not much made her days cleaning up other people’s mess easier to stomach. If the halls were empty and the work hadn’t piled up, relaxing in front of talk shows and soapies was the one treat she allowed herself before she started her routine. Management in some lodges was strict, and allowed only good clients to book rooms. At The Grotto, class and wallet size equalled one and the same, and judging from the nonsense Zintle had had to clean out of some of the rooms, that equation told a sad, disgusting story. At some establishments, they were more lenient, allowing longer breaks if the day was slow, or generous, handing out barely used or expired stock to staff that wanted it. No such luck at The Grotto.

  Zintle sprayed the shag-pile rug in the en-suite sitting room with carpet cleaner and started on the bathroom while it dried to powder. She sighed again, shaking her head as she removed a half-full wineglass rimmed with lipstick from near the bathtub. The bathroom smelled vaguely of alcohol. Ms Greenwood was a good woman but she drank too much. It was an open secret amongst the staff and management, who’d turned a blind eye and tolerated it for years, but now the stakes were higher. The lodge had stepped up its game in the bid for three-star status, and if Ms Greenwood wasn’t careful her job would be on the line. It would be terrible to lose her over something so shameful.

  Deciding to leave the scrubbing of tiles, which she hated, for last, Zintle moved on to stripping the bed. She yanked the corner of the duvet spilling down the side of the mattress. Cursing when it didn’t budge, she inched over to the other end
of the bed, pulling harder. It gave under her force, releasing a heavy weight that rolled against and buckled her legs. Zintle yelped, stumbled and fell against a sidetable near the window, overturning a lamp.

  “Hhayi mhani. Jesus.” Pushing the lamp aside, she knelt beside the bundle on the floor, pulling back the duvet. She jerked and uttered a tiny whimper. Underneath lay Rhonda Greenwood, face down and back turned, head barely visible beneath the rumpled folds.

  “Ma’am.” Zintle put a hand on her shoulder and shook gently. “Ms Greenwood.” No answer. “Ms Greenwood. Are you awake?”

  She had no idea why she was whispering, only suddenly she felt scared. She shook harder, and watched Rhonda Greenwood’s pudgy, prostrate form jiggle back and forth under her hand with no will of its own. Gulping, Zintle heaved, dragging the edges of the duvet and Greenwood closer. The woman pitched and rolled, coming to rest on her side. Through the blonde strands falling across her face oozed a dried mess of thick, creamy-looking fluid inside and around her mouth. A dark red lump stood out behind her ear.

  Zintle shrieked and scrambled on all fours towards the door.

  Sunshine slowly braised Vee’s forehead in sweat. Eyes shielded, she estimated the peril of venturing out unprotected and shrank back indoors.

  She dragged her tiny suitcase across the baked mud floor and dug through it for her straw hat. Above her head, bouts of vigorous rustling emanated from the roof thatching. The mice usually did the rustling, especially at night, but she looked up to find a sizeable lizard languishing in a patch of sunlight on the wall. She made a half-hearted throw at it with a tissue box and missed. The lizard twitched a mere centimetre, turning its neck to stare at her. Vee went back in search of the hat. Dusty and mashed, she pulled it from under the rickety metal bedframe.

  As she crept out of the chalet, she paused by the second bed. Spread-eagled in underwear and tangled in a sheet, Chlöe lay conked out. Her hair, a spill of rooibos tea brewed strong, had shrunk into a mangled halo of frizz. Her pale skin looked like blue-veined cheese, if there existed a kind with veins that appeared to throb in high heat. A few welts of a hateful indigo were blossoming in patches on her limbs. Paintball was a game unsympathetic to delicate skin, especially if you found yourself on a team of losers who couldn’t shoot worth a damn or even recognise their own team-mates.

  Vee, who’d been on the winning team, twinged with guilt. Grotto’s idea of boot camp came off more like a softened version of boarding school, but its rustic appeal was kicking Chlöe’s pampered backside. Right out the gate, the cracks had turned into gaping fissures. After arriving early Saturday morning, Chlöe realised she’d done the unthinkable: forgotten her bag of magical hair and skincare products. Before they’d even settled in properly, her whingeing had begun. The chalet was cramped and overrun with gleefully scampering critters; the mattress was too thin and lumpy; the shower spat freezing bullets. Vee didn’t have the heart to point out they were supposedly under military conditions, especially after watching Chlöe stink at almost every activity. She’d fallen on her butt during rope-climbing and hadn’t had the guts to tackle the swing bridge. Bishop the wildcat, picture perfect of a frontier woman unbridled on open prairies, had even flunked horse-riding. Who knew there existed any white girls who were scared of horses.

  She ripped the top sheet off her own bed, wet it under the bathroom tap and draped it over Chlöe, shifting and muttering in her sleep. Don’t worry my lil Vanilla Princess, Vee thought, we’re out of here first thing tomorrow.

  And on their return, Nico had better do a stellar job of explaining why they were marooned in hardship headquarters instead of, as she’d expected, lavishing in mod-cons in the valley. Not that he still needed to. By now his point had been made loud and clear – stay in line, or I deploy my myriad ways of making you miserable. No way in hell had she agreed to a weekend of roughing it for the sake of writing the review, no way in all nine circles of Dante’s hell had Chlöe agreed. But they’d been assured by Grotto’s management that their boss had insisted his journalists be ‘fully immersed in the true boot camp experience’ in order to get a unique and unindulged taste of the lodge’s facilities. Another Van Wyk blindside. Well played, bossman, Vee thought with a wry smile. She cast a longing eye downhill to utopia, her saliva slowly thickening like drying cement. The colourful Cape Dutch estate, complete with twinkling pool, sprawled in laughable contrast to theirs. The luxury guesthouses were solely for those ‘who truly got away to get away’. Their section, well … left a lot to be desired was putting it kindly.

  Hat low, she snuck past the makeshift kraal that was the cooking area, snatching a bottle of warm mineral water on the way. The morning regimen began at the crack of dawn and broke at seven-thirty for breakfast and showers, lasting an hour and a half. Most of the team members were still lounging about after the meal, waiting for a camp instructor to kick the day’s activities back into gear. If ever she ran into them in the city, Vee would’ve walked right past them. The women were filling pots with water and loading them back onto glowing coals to soften up the pap-caked insides before they were scrubbed. Perched in a loose circle on the rocks around the fire, the men rested near huge barrels, their labour complete. After every morning’s workout, they walked over a kilometre off base to a water pump, filled the barrels, and hoisted them back on their shoulders, four men at a time.

  She shook her head pityingly. White people were incredible. The toils others shouldered as a part of daily life, they paid good money to get whipped up about. Had anyone volunteered to spend a weekend in a real village with either of her grandmothers, the only thing they’d feel excited about was drowning themselves in the nearest river.

  Outside the thatched fence, she hit the footpath and skirted the periphery, avoiding the main gate. None dared breach that iron curtain, and the security guards had superb radar for breakout guests. She scaled the fence at the lowest point, landing with a soft thump on the grass. Even the air felt cooler, lighter on the other side. Popping open the mineral water, she splashed dust and grass off her feet, face and elbows before tucking the bottle underarm, certain she looked shiny enough as she trudged down.

  “Good morning, madam,” beamed the man at the front desk. “How’s been your day so far?”

  “Oh excellent, thank you. I’ve just been to the spa …” Vee caught herself. Presentable she was, true, but her face (parched and tense) and hands (clean enough, but glaring brown moons of dirt under the fingernails) were hardly spa-fresh products. “Just for a massage. Can’t sit up long enough to endure anything in this heat.”

  The concierge returned a polite half-smile. ‘Trevor Davids’ read his name tag. She broke eye contact and scanned the reception area, then through the glass double doors to the first, smaller dining area. Even for a post-breakfast crush, the vibe was dead.

  “Where’s everybody gone?”

  “They’ve reconvened for the final session of the conference. Today’s the last day of seminars and discussions; tonight we host the closing festivities. Although some have bunked off earlier and gone for this morning’s tour of the churches in Oudtshoorn and the nearby ostrich farms.” He coughed. “Aren’t you part of the convention?”

  “No I’m, uhh … It must’ve slipped my mind.” She quickly plucked a free advertorial off the desk and fanned herself, forcing a smile. “You know what, I wanted to order a drink at the bar, but maybe I’ll just do that from my room.”

  “Which would be room number … ?”

  Maybe she could just walk off like she hadn’t heard, and scurry like hell once she was out of sight. The heat didn’t encourage that kind of energy burst though, and the concierge looked pretty damn fit. His eyes lasered her with open suspicion. His one hand bunched into a fist, while the other glided almost involuntarily toward the reception phone.

  She cleared her throat. “Listen, Trevor. I’m with my boyfriend in a … um, private capacity. He’d hate for it to become widely known that we were here together, it’s rather de
licate.” She made a woeful face that hopefully screamed ‘kept woman in precarious position’. “Management is well acquainted with our intimate situation, I believe,” she closed wildly.

  His stance loosened, arms dropping to his sides. “Of course, madam. Room service will be glad to fill your order from your room.”

  Vee muttered thanks and slunk off. The coast was clear as far in as the second dining room. Near the kitchen, a gaggle of female staff had congregated. She lingered near the commotion, watching one of the younger girls wind her waist in tune to the local house music playing. The rest of the group peeped through a cubbyhole at the widescreen television in the adjacent room, cheering and loudly comparing the girl’s gyrations to DJ Cleo’s background dancers. Snickering, she snuck past them.

  The kitchen yawned, mercifully deserted. The first huge, upright fridge concealed nothing impressive but swirling plumes of icy air. The next one was kinder, offering colourful pinwheels of fruit arranged on silver trays. She carefully lifted the clingfilm and swiped chunks of watermelon and kiwi on toothpicks, giving a throaty moan of joy when the cold, sweet juices burst in her mouth.

  “Dammit,” she whispered. The walk-in fridge was locked, and getting past the mechanism would take professional skill, time and the right equipment. What she did have in the boot of her car was her ‘access pass’ – a makeshift combo of tools for gaining entry where it had been denied, but the Valiant was in the car park, far from nearby. She bent over the chest freezer, locked also, examined the lock and brightened.

  As quietly as possible, she rummaged through the drawers near the sink until she found a thin-bladed paring knife and a teaspoon. Kneeling, she slid the knife into the keyhole and jiggled. The metal hook of the latch lifted a hair’s breadth. The freezer was new. She leaned on it and the gap widened, enough to insert the teaspoon. She twisted the blade and used the teaspoon as a lever to lift the latch, and the mechanism soon clacked loose. She examined the lock for damage, exhaled in relief, and lifted the lid. Triumphant, she drew out two frosty plastic bottles, salivating as she worked open the Coke.