The Score
Page 29
Third call to Uzochi Eze’s establishment. Salt River; a dodgy puke-and-beer-encrusted side street off Main Road, after Queenspark and the factory shop enclave, but before the street vomited rows of shoe stores and China shops and fast-food stops that marked the entry into town central. As the phone burred steadily in her ear, she imagined the place, what could only be termed a joint or a hole. An African dive bar, if such a thing existed. ‘FineTime African Bar & Restaurant, The Best in African Entertainment & Cuisine’ would announce a huge blue hand-painted sign, a length of plywood mounted in a rusting frame. The name in cursive letters would take up most of it; in one corner (which one she couldn’t remember, it had been a while) the map of Africa was splashed in vibrant yellow, rays shooting out of it as off the sun, a man in a boubou and woman in colourful ankara dancing in its centre. Vee’s lips twitched into a tiny smile. West Africans; had to announce themselves every-bloody-where. Just as she was about to hang up and try again, it picked up. She sighed into it: “Hello? Uzo my friend, dah me, Vee. Long time o, how dey go? It has indeed. Ah-ah, mysef I’hn hear from you for long … when you nah ever call me? Ehn-hehn, jes tell de truth and shame the devil. Hahahaa, what, I beg you yaah! When I told you say I want be your second wife, to be slavin’ over egusi soup all day? Dah your head nah straight for true, you crazy small. Listen, I’hn got plenty time to talk, and I won’t waste time denying dah I called because I need sumtin. I’m calling in that favour. Yes, I meant it when I said it … no, it hasn’t been over four years. Don’t exaggerate o. Anyway, debt dah debt. Don’t bullshit me, Uzo, I’hn got time to kill listenin’ to sweet mouf. Right now I desperate and dah nah play-play ting I on. I need some muscle, but you got to move now. Send your guys to Kenilworth, I’ll text you the address. Guys you can trust o, I beg you, nobody who quick to lose their cool. No, it not like last time, this one need to be quick and dirty … whetin you callin’ it now, ‘extraction’? Hehe, I say, Naija man went far in school! Okay maybe … maybe dah sumtin like last time. Right now I can’t give you all the exact details, there’s no time … no, dah’n hot water I putting your hand in. We all makwerekwere here, I can’t jeopardise you without jeopardising mysef. Jes know it very personal to me. Like last time was deeply personal to you. So you can understand wha’ I mean by emergency. Yes … I’ll message you now-now. Uzo, please ooo. Don’t let me down.”
Fourth call to Richie. She tried all three of his oft-used numbers, working down the line, going over each one a second time when the first didn’t yield a result. Finally, on option three, attempt two: “Yeah it’s me. Don’t pull that ‘me who?’ crap, you know who. And don’t give me your usual spiel about how you can’t stay on the line too long either. I have a query, and if the answer’s yes you need to get on it fast, like yesterday. None of your ethics or bolts of conscience; I’m considering it done, seeing as it only crops up when it suits you. Question – can you hack into and disable a building’s alarm system? I don’t know which kind of alarm system – no, I don’t know which company installed it either – do I sound like I know the answer to my own questions? Hhmmm? Speak up, Richard. Yeeeaaah or yes? ’Cause I much prefer a definitive yes. Brilliant. It’s Dr O.T. Neilson and partners, veterinarians and surgery; it’s in Kenilworth off Main Road. I’m texting the exact address. Knock it out completely for long as you can, no hassles to get in or out. Next question, and please ruminate quite carefully on this one. How scared are you of Chlöe? Yeah, you heard me. Oh, not at all! Great, because that makes the math much easier, not having to multiply how much she scares you by a hundred to get to how much you shouldn’t dick around with me, Richard Fish. That shit you two pulled … I’ve decided to be cool about it for now, for all our sakes. Because I know you know, on some deep visceral level, that although we’ve never met in person, I could find a way to make an introduction happen. I can assure you that won’t go down well for one of us. So keep whatever you got on me under your hat; call it professional leverage. We’ll revisit it at another juncture in the future. And be speedy on disabling that alarm system. A little boy’s life literally depends on you, in case you were planning on choosing this moment to get high-handed and uncooperative. You clear on all that? Perfect. Thank you – you are valued, you are appreciated.”
She waited ten minutes almost to the second, unaware of time slipping past. She simply sat, hands folded in lap, gaze afloat, body slack; tension building and releasing between her ears, a lightning charge crackling between poles. She snapped out of it and started the engine. Revved a few times and gave a single nod in satisfaction at the answering growl. Cranked up the radio. Slammed into gear, shot through a yellow light and did an illegal U-turn at the top of the road. In two ticks she ramped onto the N2 highway.
Game on.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chlöe was never more relieved than when she jumped off the taxi. She wished she’d worn a hoodie, to pull up over her head. All eyes of the sympathetic collective in the back two rows where she’d huddled, fighting tears and failing, trailed one last sorrowful glance in her direction as the taxi pulled away.
She turned her back abruptly, fresh tears welling. She wiped her face with her forearms; they kept coming. She used the hem of her halterneck top, allowing herself one final sob into the fabric, then scrubbed until her skin felt raw. She kept the top pressed to her face, feeling the very slight breeze graze her bare tummy and knowing her bra was partly exposed, but not caring. She took her time, dragging her breath in and out through the cotton until gradually it calmed. Counted a full minute in her head. She dropped her arms and straightened the top over her jeans; it was sodden, like someone had thrown a glass of water at her. She sniffed and carried on walking.
The latticework of streets in front of the office was deserted and dark, the slightly eerie quiet that characterised the business landscape after dusk, after the soldiers of industry that traversed it daily had left for home. There had to be a few diehards still upstairs, burning the midnight oil for Wednesday’s print or hoping to catch Nico’s eye and earn a gold star for diligence. Good luck with that, Chlöe thought bitterly. Like hell would she hand that bunch of busybodies more fodder to hiss and snigger about behind her back by going upstairs and letting them see her in this condition.
She rounded the corner and headed down the ramp to the basement car park, throwing one last look over her shoulder to make sure the night security guard was aware of her presence. She stopped. A man, crisply dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt, got out of his car, an Audi, and looked up at the City Chronicle building. Holding a large brown envelope, he looked like he was deciding whether to go in or not. Chlöe knew that crispness from somewhere, it looked familiar. As if he felt her eyes on him, he slowly looked across the road at her. Most people would’ve squinted into the dark, or peered and craned their necks to get a better look, but he simply stared at her long and hard, a car or three zipping between them before he finally moved to cross the street.
“Hi,” Lovett Massaquoi said.
“She’s not here,” Chlöe answered.
“Yes, I guessed as much. I called her today. She sounded like she was very caught up in work, could barely talk. So I left a message. She didn’t get back to me.” Chlöe watched his eyes drift down her body, at first she thought over her breasts, then she realised he was looking at the damp stain on her top. He looked up at her waterlogged eyes, made the barest of squints, parted his lips a little as if to say something, and then closed them. “In any case,” he ended the pause, “I’ve got a package for her. I’m leaving early tomorrow and it’s urgent. I would’ve had it couriered but I’m staying close by at the … um …” he snapped his fingers and pointed up the road.
“Arabella Sheraton,” Chlöe finished for him. Where else would he be staying? No Cresta Lodge for this one, that was for sure. “Give it here.”
He dropped his arm and studied her, again for a disconcertingly long time. “It’s very sensitive, personal material. And therefore … highly con
fidential.” He spoke slowly, as if to a mentally addled child that couldn’t be trusted to follow things through. She didn’t know what to make of the look, a shimmery gleam emanating from within the sunken caves of his eye sockets, his brow bones and cheekbones sharp supports around their depths. His examination of her wasn’t lust, or even vague interest. Not curiosity or pity either. What it was, rather than what it wasn’t, made her … On another day the look would have frightened her a little.
“So? D’you think I don’t know how to treat confidential material?” she challenged. How much did he know? Had he spoken to Vee? Had he spoken to Vee and Joshua, about her? She held her hand out, and when he hesitated, flicked her fingers in a ‘come on, let’s have it’ gesture. He handed it over.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gently, expelling a tiny sigh. For that moment part of the glimmer made sense; he was asking because he knew she wanted him to, though she’d never admit it.
“Are all of you like her?”
His eyebrows curved up, eyes widening a tad. The first real reaction. “How?”
“Like …” She screwed her mouth around over clenched teeth and still no words came. “Fucked up,” she choked out over another upwelling. “Broken and–and–and–and clueless as to how other functional human beings do life.”
He crossed his arms. If he didn’t stop drilling into her skull like that Chlöe felt she’d have to take drastic action. Klap him maybe; give back a gift that had been given to her. “Depends. How fucked up one is is a factor of how much trial and tribulation one has had to endure. It’ll always be a part of normal life. The tough part is not letting one overtake the other.”
Chlöe looked away. She wanted him to say something different, cleverer. “Which one shouldn’t overtake which? The fucked up-ness over the normal?”
She’d forgotten the booming quality of his laugh, which made her start. Like a sound that had gotten trapped in a tiny room and bounced around its walls looking for escape. It was at odds with the rest of him, not at all what one would expect coming from a guy who wasn’t by any means tall or otherwise imposing. “That depends on what one’s trying to accomplish.” He put his hands in his pockets. His look softened a little, but only a little. She doubted he was someone who wasted much time nursing others through their vulnerabilities. “She’s a very good person,” he added.
“Really? Pity she doesn’t say the same about you,” she spat. Heat erupted under her skin.
He chuckled, nonplussed. “I’d be worried if she did.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. No comforting pat-pat or squeeze; just laid it there for a few seconds and then removed it. “It’s important she gets that. Make sure she does. Please.” He gave a final half-smile, his teeth very even and very white against his complexion, and made his way back across the street.
In the basement-level parking bay, Chlöe sat behind the wheel, clenching it till her knuckles went white. She eyed the brown envelope, lying on top of her laptop bag on the passenger seat. She grabbed it and tore it open.
Chapter Thirty
The Valiant bent the road to its will. It slicked down the N2’s back, past the Mowbray and Newlands exit and sped on. Speed cameras, click click, caught her twice. Vee careered down Klipper Road into Newlands. Cursed. Traffic, traffic lights, foot traffic. She’d have to slow down. She idled at the light, bouncing her knee, stomping the accelerator. The engine cussed back at her. She took her foot off. Time check: 18:09.
She fiddled with radio stations until she found something halfway decent. The crescendo of ‘Sober’, Jennifer Paige’s melodic warbling about a bad love that shook her up, filled the car. GoodHope FM; a DJ with a case of nostalgia running through pop and rock hits from the nineties. She threw her mind out of the window, let it flutter back to high school, the music, the milestones. SWV, Missy Elliott, Boyz II Men, Puff Daddy and Notorious B.I.G … Ace of Base, The Cardigans, Sheryl Crow, Take That. The black jams that rendered you cool by listening to them and cooler for knowing the lyrics, versus the white stuff that everyone was down with but didn’t dare publicise. Tristan was almost in high school; in less than two years he’d be a teenager. Tristan as a teenager was an insufferable concept. Her heart wrenched under her ribs. Her eyes readmitted to reality. The light still hadn’t changed. Time check again: 18:10. She flexed her neck and gave an impatient snarl.
Tristan sat quietly in the dark, valiantly trying to make out the shape of his takkies and how dirty they were by the dim stream of orange light coming through the window from the streetlamps outside. Every time he moved, like swinging his feet or lifting his bum surreptitiously to peel back the plastic chair off his sticky skin, the woman gave him a burning, terrifying look. She was right next to him on the row of chairs in the hall outside the waiting room, her right hand painfully gripping his wrist in case he had ideas about running. She sat with her legs taut, knees slightly raised and only her tiptoes touching the ground, like a diver poised to jump off the board. Her hair smelled waxy, a bit like a candle, but a scented one. Her smell was light, girlie, a mix of deo and perfumed lotion. The way his mother smelled now that she bothered more, but not as nice as she had when she’d really made an effort, before, when his father was alive. Definitely not like right after he died … when she’d stay in bed for days, only getting up long enough to use the loo and force herself to eat a little to appease his aunt, her sister, who watched over her while she did everything. Once she’d swallowed enough mouthfuls or changed her clothes she was allowed to drag herself back under the covers. Her smell had surrounded her like a cloud, following wherever she went, and would always remind him of sadness, the deep-into-your-soul kind that no-one could fix.
“Sit still, or I’ll break your hand,” the woman leaned down and hissed close to his face. Her breath smelled like the ocean, clean and kind of salty. Tristan wasn’t a fan of people who smelled bad. That, and not being cheap, he could agree with Miss Vee on, for sure. She’d called him out on it once, in his early days of working at her house. Out of the blue, she’d presented him with a gift: a new T-shirt, baseball cap and a stick of Nivea for Men deodorant. The present had really been about the deo, he knew; he had lots of cool T-shirts and caps. She’d told him kindly, looking past his shoulder as she spoke, that as people got older they had hormones, and hormones changed the way they smelled, especially if they worked as hard as he did. He hadn’t even noticed. He’d blushed and felt kinda bad, and worse for making her feel embarrassed.
Tristan obeyed and stopped fidgeting. He wasn’t feeling particularly obedient – it was more that the scary chick looked like she meant every word she said. If he tried anything dodgy she’d hurt him; if he managed to get away she’d find him. She’d found him real easy once before, hiding out after the building was clear. The last two people to leave the practice, a pair of gossipy ladies, had been too caught up in their loud conversation to give the ground floor a proper search before locking up. He’d thought he was alone, but not long after they left, footfalls had cut through the quiet. Tristan had known instantly that it was her, the crazy-eyed stalker. Now she was in here with him, in the dark, just the two of them. Her steps were light, nearly soundless, but to his ears they’d thumped like a giant’s. Even without seeing her his mind multiplied her, added extra chill to the way she’d looked at him when she was outside, till he felt hunted by a monster. She’d picked her way around the floor, pushing doors in and disappearing behind them, emerging again, the sound of her steps pressing on. It didn’t take her long – he’d snuck into the dumbest place in the world, under the staircase behind old equipment boxes – and that was that. The boxes had scraped aside and there she was, unsmiling, a wickedly sharp knife glinting in her hand, which made him burst into tears immediately.
He pricked his ears and listened keenly, hoping for any sound from Monro; snuffling, whimpering, a low howl. Nothing. Before trying to hide, he’d tied his collar to a leg of one of the metal stations in the examination room further up the hall and whispered in his ear.
The dog had instantly picked up on his fear and urgency, and stayed quiet. The woman knew the dog was somewhere in here with them, but once she had Tristan in her clutches, she didn’t seem too hot on finishing the game of hide-and-seek. Tristan hoped against hope that his instinct was right and she was terrified of dogs. As long as Monro was free and Vee was out there, he felt he had a chance.
Tristan kept his eyes trained on the window, as outside the last of the daylight died and sounds of life on the streets outside faded. Scary Chick’s grip on his wrist was torture. He wanted to flex it but pretty much knew the next time he even twitched, she’d punch him. Or worse, bring out the blade from a pocket in her cargo pants. Her eyes kept darting and flickering everywhere, to every window and door, up and down the passageway, like she was watching an invisible tennis match. He kept hoping she’d realise how stupid this was and give it all up, but every time she nodded and muttered something to herself, his hopes dropped. They’d been locked in and no way were they just walking out.
Miss Vee couldn’t get in, he realised with a jolt. How was she going to get to them? How would she find him? Was she even coming? Maybe she didn’t care what happened to him. Maybe she’d only pretended to care while he was crying in her ear like a stupid little girl. The second he’d hung up, she’d rolled her eyes and gone back to what she’d been doing. Writing a story about bigger criminals, while this one took him to the township and had his limbs chopped off and thrown in a potjiekos. Tristan felt a blooming sense of dread take over his chest, crowding out the air until he was wheezing. He blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes to suck the shameful tears back in.