by HJ Golakai
“How dare you? Who the hell are you to hurl accusations?” At last the mask slipped completely, and with a curl of his lip and a gathering darkness between his brows he revealed a man battling fury, shame and apprehension, and lingering behind it all, fear. “What’s your alternate ending here? That I would’ve been so blinded by the desperation to fuck you that I’d run to you to spill my guts? And what would’ve happened after? Your self-serving union of muckrakers gets their scoop and to hell with the deal, with my reputation, potentially my company?” This time it was he that advanced, pushing away from the desk, his legs eating up the carpet in two strides till he loomed over her. “I guess that makes us both mercenary, that we’re willing to trade afterglow to achieve our own ends. Good thing neither of us acted on it,” he sneered.
“Wow.” Vee looked at the ground, then up at the ceiling, finally catching a bitter laugh at the back of her hand. “Wow.” You lucky you’re so tall, she thought, glaring into his eyes, otherwise I’d knock you the fuck out.
“Let me remind you of what you said to me not long ago, how you’re great at finding toys with which to amuse,” she said. Petty satisfaction swelled again at the sight of his blush of embarrassment. His bravado seriously needed work; nerd was clearly the dominant ego. “Toys and amusement come at a price. Watch your back, maestro. Gavin and Gaba left theirs to the breeze.” She tossed the magazine onto his desk, gratified when it skidded and knocked over his mug, splashing coffee onto the carpet.
Outside in the canopied parking of the office park, his Audi Z4 crouched like a smug bluebottle fly in one of the prime reserved slots. Vee shot furtive glances around the lot before digging her car keys deep into the paint job. “Asshole,” she muttered, sprinting to her car as the alarm screamed to life.
Chapter Thirty-six
Vee jerked awake and winced at the headache still gnashing its teeth between her eyebrows. She fumbled through her handbag’s zipper compartment for the travel container of aspirin and dry-swallowed two, grimacing. Her stomach rumbled but she ignored it for another twenty minutes, tapping away on the laptop. Finally she cracked, flexed her spine and arms and eased into her sandals. She grabbed her purse, then paused by the tiny window for a second. Outside, the CBD was a dark canvas studded with the lights of stars and city lights, a pretty milieu of real and artificial twinklers. She pushed the window open a bit more, though there was no breeze, and it squeaked on rusty hinges. Mental note to squirt oil on it.
She strolled a street down to her usual takeaway joint, grabbed something to go and strolled back, munching slap chips loaded with salt and vinegar. As she crossed the newsroom a second time, she noticed one of the two stragglers she’d seen slogging away miserably in their cubicle had left. She took the stairs one flight up, unlocked the door in the far corner of the wall and re-entered the office.
She was taking her sandals off again when Nico pushed the door open.
“You’re allowed to come in,” she said, kicking them away and sinking behind the desk. The wooden chair wobbled and creaked under her. Mental note two: pinch a better one from supplies, and a bigger desk to go with it.
He stared around him, then released a long sigh, his posture deflating. The room seemed big enough for both of them then, no longer a space battling to maintain supremacy over two statuesque presences.
“Good work.” He paused. “Great work. All this scrutiny on LEAD, the links to corruption and the fallout from it means we’ve got traction for a while yet. The angle on the Berman murder and Gaba suicide will keep feeding it too. Nothing sells a story faster than violence and corruption. It’s the wet dream combination for creating instant icons.” He noticed her head was still down, her eyes averted, and his tone softened a notch. “I know it didn’t all work out how you imagined, but still, it’s a major coup for us. Kudos on that, and ride the wave. Trust me, it doesn’t come around often enough. You can keep … pursuing the other angles if you feel the urge to. You may actually get enough to put B&M and The ITF in the hot seat.”
“Mm-hhm,” Vee replied noncommittally.
“Did you ever find anything to substantiate the second death you were foaming about? The fat drunk?”
Vee flinched. “Greenwood.” She stared at the nearest wall. Its nakedness was a little rude somehow. She would put something up to remind herself why she still came in to do this job every day. “No. Nothing I can prove anyway. Doesn’t matter now. Her surviving relatives had her cremated. End of story. You win some, you lose some.”
“Indeed.” Van Wyk’s wan smile was struggling to stay on, so he quickly shut it off, like flipping a switch. “You’re a journalist, Johnson, not a crime fighter. You chase stories to boost circulation. You don’t save lives. That shit’s cute on TV characters but in real life trying to only makes you bitter.”
Vee sighed. “Yeah. I know.” If this had been TV, she’d be the rogue element who cared too much, being given gruff empathy by her careworn boss. He’d pulled her off the case, and she’d disobeyed his orders by – Oh God, how cookie-cutter sickening. She thought she’d matured beyond the clichés, but clearly not. At least she still appreciated a good joke, even when she was it.
“We’ve all screwed up. We get too close to it sometimes, airbrushing the details and running too fast for the finish line. If you lose sight of the big picture –”
“I get it,” she snapped, jerking her head up. She dropped her eyes back to the desk, moving a few objects around aimlessly. “I get it,” she murmured. She studied him, mulling over a thought. “Why’d you leave it, retreat to management?”
He smiled the first real smile she’d seen on him in a long time, no trepidation but no teeth either. It only succeeded in making him look sad and bone-tired. “For the reason you suspect. I never loved it out on the streets like you do, and it didn’t get easier. I suspect you won’t always, either. We have a shelf-life. News, the industry; we expire quicker than milk. Everything’s online now, every smartphone owner’s a reporter.” They held a mini staring contest, each searching in the other for something they knew they weren’t allowed to look for, and he broke it by clearing his throat. “Which brings me nicely to why I came in. To chat about your future here. At tomorrow’s staff meeting, you’ll be formally named as part of the online team. Of course you’ll still be a regular features contributor, as well as handling travel for the entertainment page. But yes, I’m granting your wish. You deserve it.” She let her silence chew at him. He ploughed on, enunciating each word carefully in case she’d been struck deaf, “I’m promoting you. To Februarie’s team. With immediate effect. Bravo.”
“Hhmm.”
“I wouldn’t be amiss by saying I expected more enthusiasm.”
“Enthusiasm works in mysterious ways. Let’s consider what I, your investigator, and really the best one you’ve got, to be honest, know for a fact.” Vee flashed her teeth, left out the humour. “I know Lawrence isn’t staying after his contract ends in July. I know Lynne’s not coming back to work; my strong inkling that she wants to do the full-time mommy thing this time around is correct. So in essence, that’s saved you from having to drum up reasons to retrench two people, and also left us even shorter of hands. I also know you’re aware I’ve considered moving on more than once, and twice I’ve turned down job offers that, let’s face it, was madness to let go. You know about the assistant editor post at Mail & Guardian. Hell, I even interviewed and was made an offer, that I know you know. So. It sounds more like I’m needed here more than ever, than a coincidental golden opportunity that I should be gushing over.”
Nico’s squint threatened to drill a hole through her forehead.
She swept her arm over the room. “My bad. I’ve christened these my sanctified walls of truth, meaning my mouth will run like chicken butt in here, no brakes. Plus, I’ve had it rough lately, very rough. It seems our relationship … I can call it that or does it sound weird to you? Alright, our collegial interfacing then, has consisted largely of having your needs met,
and few of mine.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Dead sober. To my point, this case has taken me on a steep learning curve. I’ve seen the wisdom of knowing how to leverage value in real terms instead of trading for magic beans. And potentially ending up bitter. It’s been tragically illuminating. So if I’m taking on this … wait, what exactly constitutes what I’m taking on?”
“Assistant editor slash manager of the online webpage and social networking site. Darren drew up your title himself. He felt ‘deputy’ brought you a little too level to his shoulder, would make you too big for your boots.”
“Ooh! Well, sounds like I can make a few demands then.”
“You can keep this hovel if you feel it qualifies as an office.”
“Oh, that’s a given. Wasn’t even on the negotiating table. I want a raise. A real one.”
“No.”
“Yep. See, again, I’ve done my research. All the articles about how far more women than men stagnate in the workplace. I think an average seventy-eight per cent …”
“Jissis, not these statistics again. It’s never seventy-anything per cent.”
“A significantly greater number of men compared to women take the initiative to ask for raises. Not to mention the disparity that still exists between the genders’ salaries. In this day and age. Happening at this very newspaper. Now you may counter, she’s bluffing; she has no way of knowing confidential employee information like that. And I’ll just reply, I never said I did; maybe I’m just fishing.” She shrugged slowly. “But let’s stay on topic. Destiny Women magazine did this great opinion series on it, got local professional women to contribute on our perceived role and worth in the corporate setting. Geez, weren’t those articles candid! It got me wondering, and my mind went down an interesting road. Do I have a grasp of my own value? Am I the proverbial flunky at every job I’m at and do I bring it upon myself, buying into every sob story about tight resources? Because I can tell you, I’ve been described as invaluable many times, but it’s been awhile since I got a bump in title or an extra cent on par with all the pats on the head.”
“This is going somewhere?” Nico said drily.
“Let me land. If I wait around to be offered what I deserve instead of asking for it, and in some cases just flat out taking it, well.”
“The taking part I suspect you’re already very familiar with. Taking liberties appears to be your bounty of choice.”
“Then the raise will simply quantify it. Put a dollar sign on how subversive I can get before you put me on a leash, in a manner of speaking.”
“How much am I being shaken down for?”
Vee chuckled. “Let’s go the civilised route. I’ll think it over this weekend, taking all factors into consideration; you do the same and on Monday we’ll present each other with findings. I have to warn you in advance, things will be coming down more on my side than yours by the end of it.”
“I have no doubt.” He didn’t move a muscle. “There’s a feeling of more.”
“There is.” She extracted a mineral water bottle and straw from the takeaway bag. She fiddled with the straw absently, tearing it from its wrapper, poking it into the water bottle where it bobbed up and down. She hated straws. What type of adult still chose to suck liquids through a tiny hole decades after they were weaned? Fools, that’s who. And why did they always have to stuff the bag with so many, but skimp on the ketchup packets? “You can’t fire Chlöe. She has to stay. Please.”
“That’s beyond –”
“No it’s not, we both know it’s not. You do have a point where she’s concerned, I grant you. But she can’t be an expense you simply write off because it’s not working out. She’s spent a year on your payroll; your final evaluation can’t be she’s not worth keeping around. That’s a waste and far from true.”
“She hasn’t pulled her weight. Not on her own anyway.”
“Give her weight to pull and she’ll pull it. I’ll see to it.”
“My worry exactly. That without you constantly breastfeeding her, she’s more sink than swim,” he said. Vee screwed up her mouth at the imagery his words evoked, plucked the straw out of the water bottle and chucked it in the trash bin. “This isn’t a learning academy.”
“Then give her a fair shot,” Vee replied.
He raised his eyebrows. Clearly he had no faith in her letting Chlöe fend for herself.
“I swear I won’t stand in the way of whatever you throw at her. But fair’s the operative word. Take the training wheels off but don’t put her on assignments to sabotage her. Come on, let’s not –” she cut him off when he tried to interrupt. “Sanctified walls of truth, remember. I’ll admit to overprotecting her if you’ll admit you’ve been itching to axe her since we got here.” She gave it time to soak in. “Chlöe would be a great political correspondent …”
He sauntered to the window. His shoulders were tight and high again; the room was shrinking. “That’s Naledi’s area. If she –”
“Yes. The if’s and but’s of Naledi. But we’re not at that bridge yet. Put her on travel. Another thing she follows more avidly than mudslinging is the good life. Under my watch she can handle it, ’cause we both know I can’t straddle both the online and extra columns solo.” Vee spent a few minutes outlining the exactitudes, closely watching his face. His profile gave nothing away. “You know it makes sense. Until you get someone new to run the entertainment page, if at all you decide to, how else will the logistics work?”
He turned back to her, hands in pockets.
“Third of all. I feel there should be a third thing. Demands made in triplicate seem to yield a positive result. Third would be …” she ran her eyes over the ceiling, “no more games with Portia. Y’all want cackle and bubble and brew together, fine by me. But this attempt at subterfuge, it’s not fooling anybody, so stop.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“Really?” Vee crossed her arms, laughing. “Really? If I didn’t have evidence to the contrary, I’d say you two strangled Gavin Berman in some elaborate ruse to make me fight for assistant editor. But whatever. There’s an old Polish saying, goes ‘not my circus, not my monkeys’. Well, no more of either. It’s exhausting. New relationship. Boss,” she pointed to him, “employee,” she pointed to herself. “Finish and klaar.”
He managed another wan smile.
“That’s all. Now since you’re here, have a beer, it’s practically Friday.” She pulled two Amstel lagers from the bag and banged them open on the edge of the desk.
“You’re not allowed to drink on the premises.”
She snorted, executing a covert eye-roll that effectively said ‘that’s rich, coming from you’. She caught herself, but not in time. Silence throbbed in the tiny space. She trained her eyes to the floor (mental note three: the cleaners needed to go over it one more time) and when she looked up, his watery grey-blue eyes were placid. She cleared her throat. “I meant, it’d be nice if you help christen my semi-office. A one-person ceremony is just sad.”
“No, thanks. I’m more of a Windhoek man.”
“They didn’t have. Or Heineken.” She fished around the plastic, finally emptying its entire contents. “At least try these.” She bit into a roti and held out the other, hot lamb curry flooding her mouth. “Some of the best in town.”
“What’s that? Eugh. Looks like the contents of a baby’s diaper. Really, I’m fine.”
“Where I come from, the land of black magic and other dark forces, when you offer someone refreshments and they refuse, it’s tantamount to them spitting in your face. Don’t roll that dice.”
She took a step back. It couldn’t be the first time ever she’d seen him smile using his teeth, but she sure couldn’t remember another occasion offhand. He looked … almost human.
“God, give me the beer,” he relented. “But keep that other shit away from me.” He took the bottle but left it suspended in mid-air. She leaned across and clinked the butt of hers with his. Before
she sipped, she tipped out a small measure onto the floor, thinking of lost and wasted lives. He met her eyes, gave a very tiny nod, and turned away.
“Nice,” he swigged, taking in the cityscape.
You should see the other view, she wanted to say, sneaking a peek at the door behind her desk. It connected to a short corridor, which opened out onto a secluded balcony. Ah, the cleaners, what wealth of information they harboured.
Chapter Thirty-seven
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Vee replied reflexively, not looking up. “Oh, hi,” she jolted when she did.
“So I heard a joke this week,” Chlöe said, not giving the awkward silence a chance to breathe. “A white guy, another white guy, a black woman, another black woman, and an Indian chick all walk into a police station to report a murder. The cop on duty looks at them and shakes his head, like ‘seerias? Ag nee, man! If you want to report a true rainbow nation crime at this station, you need to involve either amakrokokroko or the president.’”
Vee didn’t laugh but her smile was genuine. “That joke sucks ass. And I think it’ll be a long while before any disabled people go round committing high-profile murders.”
“This is South Africa. Give it time.” Chlöe flicked a finger, indicating she wanted to enter. At Vee’s nod she inched in, scanning the space. Compact, but nice. Definitely cleaner. The desk and chair were fresh additions. The metal sink was scrubbed clean and there was even a shiny electric kettle. Van Wyk wasn’t going to like any of this.
“Nico’s gonna flip out.”
“Maybe,” was all Vee said.
“Or maybe he’ll let it slide. You really tickled his funny bone today. Major cool points on the lunch idea, I must say.”
