The Score

by HJ Golakai

  Vee cut her eyes to dangerous slits.

  “… or the shoulder to cry on who lies about his ex-girlfriend or–or–or …” Chlöe flailed her arms, as if challenging the world at large to chime in on her rant, “… the dodgy lawyer with underhand dealings in your private affairs. I’m not Portia or Nico,” she yelled at the fruit-buying onlookers, whose expressions had become a milieu of uncontained wonder, bewilderment and amusement, “and for bloody sure I’m not some raging rebel leader pointing an AK-47 in your f–”

  The force of the blow registered as sharp needles radiating across Vee’s palm one blink before Chlöe’s head thudded onto the side of the Chrysler’s roof and bounced. As one, the crowd yelped ‘Yuwi!’ and shrank. Every stare swivelled to marvel at Vee like a breaker of barriers, a slapper of white girls in the street, an alien force to be reckoned with. Confused, Vee back-pedalled, then caught herself and rushed forward. Chlöe blinked for several seconds and wobbled to rights, bracing against the side mirror.

  “Chlöe.” Vee’s breath caught. For an absurd second, as the last of the day’s sun swelled over the row of zinc sheets and hit Chlöe’s puffy cheek, she thought the force of impact had transferred gold paint off the car onto her skin. Then her vision coalesced, and nothing save the insult of her handprint, a cartoonishly stark outline, remained. Chlöe took another step and swayed. “Shit. Aaay Lawd. Bishop … I …”

  “You … Did you just …?” Chlöe put a hand on her cheek, lowered and looked at it, touched her cheek again, looked at her open palm again, as if trying to capture the bizarreness of the thing itself and render it visible in some way.

  “I’m sorry.” Vee reached out but read the look on Chlöe’s face and sidestepped quickly before she got shoved away. Chlöe stalked around the car, yanking the passenger door open with such violence Vee feared it might come off in her hand.

  “Bishop, stop,” she pleaded, as Chlöe dragged out her handbag and laptop case. “I’ll take you home. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … I’m sorry.”

  Chlöe’s head snapped up at the same moment the door slammed. Vee’s heart crumpled when she saw the glimmer of tears. Chlöe said something in a quavering sob, something Vee didn’t catch over traffic noise, and jogged off, struggling one-shouldered with the strap of the laptop case. Vee made a move to run after her, but found her feet couldn’t move. She stood, rooted, as her friend ran across the road and disappeared down the next street.

  A hand dropped onto her shoulder and she started. A woman in a headscarf and bright floral-print top looked into her face with deep earnestness as she spoke, a meaningless jabber that made Vee feel strangely tired. Chlöe’s right. I should learn the language, any one of them. I should try harder. The back of her eyes began to prickle.

  “Ah-ah. Sisi, ko chii? Muri right? Anozviona saani angataura newe kudaro? Pachena pane vanhu kudai,” the woman said. The language was definitely Shona, she had enough Zimbo friends to spot it. Then again maybe it was Venda, its local cousin, the language of Muvhango, the soapie overrun with disgustingly hot stars that she loved to binge-watch on Saturday. Lips pursed, the woman straightened Vee’s shirt like the encounter had somehow left her disgracefully dishevelled. “Nxc. They still think they can do whatever they want. White people, neh.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Vee’s hands were still shaking when she slumped behind the steering wheel. Several turns of the key and the ignition only coughed in response. She shook her hands out like limp rags for a few seconds, then held them straight and level with her face. The tremor persisted. She shook them some more, then turned the key. The engine growled. She dropped her head with a thud onto the headrest and squeezed her eyes shut. The prickling behind them had morphed into throbbing.

  A distant chime resonated around the car, faint but incessant. She opened her eyes reluctantly and flicked them to the radio. It was still off. The sound continued in the back seat. Cabo Snoop. Vee lunged for her handbag and all but turned it upside down to get at her phone. Chlöe …

  She frowned at the unidentified number. Then her spine snapped straighter. Gaba. The number looked different, though. The first had come from the Vodacom network; this one was MTN. She stared hard at the Nokia 8910 in its hard-shell purple case, willing it to cease and desist, silently begging it to give her a break, let her have an early night off. She could swing by Eastern Food Bazaar on Longmarket for some tandoori chicken, yellow lentil curry and butter naan bread, bring it back to the car and trough out in the back seat. Or hold off till she got home, to kick up her feet with a big bowl of bitterleaf and rice, maybe a beer, episodes of Sam and Dean serially killing monsters on Supernatural. Or just lie in bed, starving, marvelling at the utter elegance of her bitchiness. The phone fell silent. She exhaled, relieved and surprised at her relief. It immediately took off again. She took a big gulp of air and answered.

  “M-m-miss Vee. Miss Vee. It’s m-me.”

  Vee exhaled in a long stream. “Twinkie? What’s up? Oh Lawd.” She massaged the knot between her eyebrows. “Look you lil boy, chill out. You turnin’ into a stalker. I remembered about Monro, alright. He’s been at the vet over the weekend, that’s why you haven’t seen him. He got the shots and I paid for him to sleep over at the kennels. I’m picking him up …” She flipped her watch and mouthed ‘dammit’. 5:57 p.m.; the vet’s office and kennels closed at 6 p.m. Only fairy dust could magic her from central town to Kenilworth in three minutes. “I’ll have to get him tomorrow. Meantime –”

  “No worries. I have him already. I picked him up.” Tristan’s voice sounded uneven.

  “You what?” She slatted her eyes. “How’d you –” Then she remembered. To quell his nagging and make him feel more grown up, she’d made him co-guardian of her husky. The vet had her permission to release Monro into his care, if ever she was indisposed to do so herself. It had all been for show; no way was he supposed to actually act on it. “So you walked to outside our grid, all the way to Kenilworth –”

  “I took a taxi.”

  “Tristan Heaney! How many times I nah tell you –”

  “Miss Vee! I need your help.” Long pause. “Please.”

  The scolding dissolved on her tongue. For the first time she noticed the quaver in Tristan’s voice, his heavy breathing. Why was he whispering? “Twinkiiiieee,” she cajoled. Jesus, had Monro dashed into traffic and been run over? Was her dog … “Tristan. Talk to me.”

  “There’s a lady here. I’m with her. She … has me. Us.” Tristan’s gulp was audible. “She says she knows you.”

  “What lady?” Instantly she knew how ridiculous the question was. Ice formed a cage around her heart. “What lady, who?”

  “She …” Tristan choked on a sob. “A black lady. Oh, sorry. Ummm …” Vee imagined him closing his eyes and blushing in that way he did when he chided himself before she got the chance to, ears turning red under the wisps of his too-long blond hair. Right then she wished she’d spent less time teaching him to mind society’s niceties – don’t describe people by their race or accent or weight – but rather to defend himself against the nefarious strangers she continuously harped on about. Teach him how to fight; he was a boy, he ought to know that.

  “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s fine, don’t worry. Tell me exactly what she looks like.”

  “She has dreadlocks. In a ponytail. She’s tallish. Shorter than you. H-her bum is a bit big.”

  Vee could’ve sworn she heard a muffled chuckle in the background. “Where –”

  “I think she followed me. She was outside your house. When I came to check if you were home yet, if you’d picked up Monro. She was sitting in her car, with the door open, like she was waiting. She was staring at your house. When I went through the gate she started staring at me … for a long time. Then she waved. I … I … waved back.” His voice cracked on the last word.

  “It’s okay, you’hn do nuttin wrong,” Vee cooed over his sobs. She imagined him, huddled God knows where, hands shaking as he held the phone
to his ear, face red and streaked with tears, blond hair falling in his eyes while an impassive stranger sat by his elbow, listening to their conversation. Was she on speaker? She couldn’t pick up any distinguishing sounds in the background. “Around what time? What kind of car she was in?”

  “I dunno. The car. I don’t know types of cars.” Seriously? Another thing she’d have to coach him on. “It was white. Medium-sized. With four doors. And … and … and,” he’d be pulling on his right earlobe as he tried to come up with something, “uhh … I don’t know!”

  “Alright, just take it easy. What time was it? Finish tellin’ me what happened.”

  “Five-ish. No … going to five. I knocked and checked the back way for Monro and looked into your windows. No-one answered so I left your gate and she was still there. I wanted to call you but I knew you were busy. I knew you’re so busy you’d forgotten about Monro. So I decided to go get him. I was gonna tell Dr Neilson you sent me to get him. I-I’m sorry.” The line fell silent. Vee knew he was thinking of a more heartfelt way to relay how sorry he was. She felt relieved and proud when he only let the silence hang a few more seconds and ploughed on: “I don’t know if she was there at the vet’s when I got there. Didn’t look around much. I didn’t know her, didn’t know why she was following me. I was so excited to see Monro I didn’t look around. But she was there when I came out with him. She waved to me again, like she was calling me over, but I ignored her and we started walking along Main Road.” Silence again. “We hadn’t gone far, just to a BP filling station. I wanted to buy a Magnum.” Vee forgot herself for a second, smiled and rolled her eyes. Sugar might literally be the death of this kid. “When I came back out she was there again, standing by her car. She waved for me to come over –”

  “What? Twinkie, did you go with that psycho?”

  “No! I st–”

  Tristan’s voice was cut off. There was rustling and muttering in the background; Vee held her breath until she heard him give a low whimper. She shouted his name.

  “Calm down, calm down. He’s fine,” Xoliswa Gaba drawled in her ear. Vee had always felt the saying about a cold hand closing around one’s heart fell on the cheesy and melodramatic side, until that moment, until the sound of that voice suspended time, bringing even the air in the confines of the car to a standstill. “For the most part. He’s a bit … dishevelled, but he’ll live. Since I drove you to such boredom last we spoke, I decided I’d use a different tack to kick your investigative juices back into gear. Make you understand the … gravitas, is the fancy word I’m looking for, of the situation. Though I wonder … roaming about alone, no-one looking out for him?” Her laugh was almost friendly in its lightness. “Ah, I’m being silly. AmaEnglish muffins are always of value to someone. Maybe he’ll make more of an impact than Gavin did.”

  “I’ll call the police. They’re already looking for you.”

  “Please yourself, my dear. But before you do, make sure you ask yourself if the cops who’ll come to his aid know the township like I know the township. Some of them can make it to Mzoli’s and fuck-all after that. Maybe they might find me.” Gaba snorted. “Eventually. But your friend, eish. I’ll pass him on to my friends, and I’m sure even you know how dangerous our local townships can be. You’re the last person I need to ask if you’ve seen the news lately. What happened to that Anni Dewani just a few months ago … that poor woman, so out of place in Gugs, brutalised on her own honeymoon. Such a disturbing case.” She made a series of sympathetic sounds, like she was at a loss of words to comprehend it herself. “With the way the SAPS is so hyper about restoring their reputation right now, I wonder if they’ll believe your story. I wonder if they won’t … maybe see any parallels and jump to conclusions. I mean, another foreigner involved in another kidnapping, this time of their own citizen. An innocent white child from the southern suburbs. And incidentally, the same woman involved just came under suspicion in a fresh murder case … yoh, that’s too much coincidence to be overlooked, don’t you think? Now, what would your motive be?” Gaba gave a contemplative, musical sigh. Vee easily imagined the comma-shaped indents near her mouth twitching as her mind flicked through the scenario she was spinning. “Money? Always a popular choice. Lashing out at the racist system that you’ve been battling with since you emigrated here? We do love our racism angle in this country, don’t we. So you formed a plan, hired some thugs to help you, somehow got me involved … then when it all fell apart, you tried to pin it on the girl from the ghetto. It would make such a thrilling headline.” Her every word pierced through the receiver like icicles, stabbing into Vee’s ear, all over her flesh. “So ja, call them. If they get me, I’ll make sure to swing them right back in your direction … and I could tell them anything. Let’s see how your word holds up against mine. Meantime I’ll see if I can’t organise a special treatment for him. By the time the cops get their arses in gear, you won’t want him back in the condition they’ll find him in. His own mother won’t want him back.”

  “Listen good.” To her ears, Vee’s voice sounded like it was being squeezed through a very tiny hole. “You mess with dah lil boy in any way, I swear ’fore God …”

  “Hhayi! So now you think you can threaten me?! Are you thinking properly? You really feel that brave?”

  Vee put her head back, eyes closed as she listened to the rant flip into Xhosa and climb in octaves. She hauled in a giant breath. “Put him on the phone,” she demanded quietly. She bore another ten seconds of shrillness, then hung up. Phone clenched in her fist and clutched to her chest, she waited. Finally, it rang.

  “Miss Vee?”

  She nearly imploded with relief. “Where are you?”

  “The vet’s. We’re inside.”

  “What, in the building? You’re at Dr Neilson’s practice still?”

  “She scared me. When I got out of the BP shop and she was still there, smiling and waving at me … I didn’t know what else to do. I thought if I went back to the house she’d … follow and do something to us there. The look in her eyes freaked me out. So I went back and sat in the waiting room, and pretended I was waiting for you to come get us. Every five minutes I went and checked and she was still outside. So when the receptionist left the front for a bit I took Monro and we hid inside the building. I thought I could wait until it was dark, and sneak out … I got confused and scared. But she was in here with us too. Everybody locked up and left, no-one knew people were still in here. And she found me.”

  “Where’s she taking you?”

  “Nowhere. She says you’ll find us here.”

  “The building’s locked! How …?” She chewed back her words. This, all this, was an intentional attack. Intentional, but unplanned. If she wanted wiggle room, she’d have to blaze her own. Fair enough. “Where’s your cellphone?”

  “She took it. Took the battery and SIM out and threw it away.”

  Right, she thought, scratching out that option. “Where’s Monro?”

  “She made me … I-I had to …” Fear snagged the edges of Tristan’s voice; the cold hand of fear dug its fingers in deeper. Monro was a clever and ferocious dog, practically a wolf. Monro wouldn’t eat anything from a stranger. Monro could eat a stranger. Monro wouldn’t allow himself to be physically harmed or even touched, she chanted. He would fall back or attack, though, at Tristan’s command. If either of them made a wrong move … if Gaba was armed …

  “She made me tie him up downstairs. We left him there. She said if I made him attack or tried any funny stuff she’d call her friends, her bad friends. They would take him to the township and – and,” another gulp, “tie him to the back of a bakkie and drag him until he died. Or they’d put him in a barrel and p–p–pour petrol on him and braai him alive.”

  It was almost impossible to hear him through the sobbing. Vee gripped the phone. It bounced a little against her cheek, her hand was shaking so badly. “He can take care of hisself. Don’t think about it,” she said softly.

  “But what if –”
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  “No. Can’t happen. Tristan, listen, do one thing for me.” There was more rustling and a muffled, strangled wail that got cut short as the line went dead in her ear. Vee spoke the words anyway, quietly at the phone, as if on a wing and a prayer they’d find their way to the boy and comfort him: “Stop crying. Hold your heart and be strong. I’ll come get you.”

  Without locking the car, she walked across the road to the nearest FNB ATM and withdrew fifteen grand, her daily limit to the hilt. Then she slipped into a nearby Coca-Cola kiosk and bought R50 worth of airtime. Then she made four phone calls.

  The first to Chlöe. It rang and rang and rang, then cut to voicemail. “This is Chlöe Bishop. If you know me, then you know I suck at returning calls. But I’ll do my best. Leave a message. Cheers.” Vee closed her eyes as it played. She typed a text, horridly senseless in context and punctuation what with continuous, infuriating input from auto-correct, then deleted it just as quickly. Some sentiments, technology did not deserve to be messenger of.

  Second to Kara Heaney, Tristan’s mother. “Hi, Kara. It’s me … Vee, your neighbour. From the house across … yeah, Monro. I guess you still haven’t saved my number. It’s a good idea if you do, in case … true, exactly. Listen, I’m sure you’re wondering about Tristan seeing as it’s kinda late, but just calling to let you know he’s with me. Yeah, not to worry. If you tried calling him … no, ah okay. His phone got stolen today and … oh, nothing like that! He’s fine. Just some kids in the neighbourhood messin’ round with him. He had a bad day so he came over after I got home from work. Been missing his father, feeling anxious about school starting next week. Ah, you know boys, can’t always tell. Anyway, we played video games and came out for pizza at St Elmo’s in Rondebosch to cheer him up. Please forgive me, I didn’t even realise the time. You know us childless women, we don’t think. Haha, I know, right! Okay … not too late at all, absolutely. I’ll bring him soon as he picks his lip off the floor. Mm-hhm … yes. Alright, later then.” Vee hung up and looked at the cell a long time. She didn’t sound worried. Kara Heaney did now, a little, but she hadn’t. Her kid was running the streets after dark and she hadn’t noticed. Vee wondered if a refresher bout of grief counselling was needed in the Heaney household.