by Lily Herne
‘There’s nothing left of the city.’
‘There must be.’ He gave me a look. ‘Where do you think the clothes come from?’
‘So you’ve seen them?’
‘No. But my contact in New Arrivals has.’
‘But how do they get through the Deadlands? What about the Rotters?’ The image of the rotten thing scrabbling towards me after the funeral popped into my head. And that was just one of the thousands out there.
He shrugged. ‘They’re like this awesome band of hard-core War veterans. You have to train for years before they’ll accept you.’
‘And are they part of the ANC?’
He snorted with laughter. ‘A, N, Z, Lele. Zee, not Cee. You do know what it stands for, right?’
‘Um . . .’
‘Sheesh, girl. Anti-Zombians, of course. You know, the Resurrectionists being the Zombians – zombie lovers. Duh.’
‘Okay, okay, you don’t have to rub it in. But what do they do?’
‘They’re the only ones who spoke out when the Resurrectionists stopped being some weird cult and started gaining power. They’re underground now, of course.’ I was doing my best to follow this, and he chuckled again. ‘You really don’t know anything, do you?’
‘Maybe not. But I know enough to know that I’ve got to get out of this place.’
And then it all spilled out. About how I needed to get away; about how my plan was to find a way to get back to the Agriculturals. Things were a lot better at home, but still, I hadn’t dumped the idea. And if the Mall Rats could leave the enclave, so could I.
‘You’ll get there,’ Thabo said. ‘I dunno how, but I just have a feeling you will.’
I smiled at him, and he held my gaze for a couple of seconds.
‘Hey!’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You want to have some fun?’
‘Sure. Where are we going?’
He held out a hand and hauled me to my feet. ‘You’ll see.’
11
‘What are we doing here?’
We were right in front of the embassy’s high metal fence. Half of the huge building was obscured by scaffolding, the workers scurrying above us as they constructed yet another floor.
‘Forget hospitals, right?’ Thabo spat, looking up at the building that towered over its squat brick neighbours. ‘Forget new housing. Long as the politicians and their priest lackeys have their fancy offices. Forget what the people need.’
We walked straight past the ornate front gate, where several men in Resurrectionist robes were standing with their arms folded, hard eyes scanning the busy thoroughfare.
I hoped the Mantis wasn’t looking out of one of the barred windows that loomed above us. I pulled my hood over my head just in case.
I followed Thabo to the building’s edge, where he ducked into an alleyway that ran parallel to it. Large dumpster-style bins flanked the narrow space.
‘You’ve really got a thing about garbage, haven’t you?’
‘That’s why I like you, Lele,’ he said.
‘Ha ha,’ I replied, but at least he’d said he liked me – even if it was in connection with garbage. ‘What are we doing here?’
‘This is where the embassy dumps its rubbish, right?’
‘So?’
‘So, I need you to keep a lookout.’
He dug in his bag and took out a spray-can. The tip of it was stained bright red.
‘The sign at school – that was you? Are you part of the ANZ?’
‘Not yet,’ he said.
He shook the can and started spraying one of the dumpsters with the words Everything’s better with zombies – NOT.
‘It was you as well! That message on my desk.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ Thabo said with his lopsided grin. Across the side of another one he wrote ANZ – Be a Red NOT a Dead-Head.
He handed the can to me. ‘You do one.’
‘Me? But I don’t know what to write!’
‘Use your imagination.’
The spray-can was difficult to use at first, and on my first try the paint just spluttered out, running down the side of the can in a trickle, but it wasn’t long before I started to get the hang of it. I chose the dumpster in the middle, drew a cartoon version of a Rotter, put a cross through its head, and, as an afterthought, wrote Mall Rats Rule!
Utterly lame, I know, but Thabo looked impressed.
‘Hey!’ A male voice called from the far end of the alley. ‘What are you kids doing back there?’
‘Okay,’ Thabo said. ‘Here’s the part where we run.’
12
The Mantis was sitting at the kitchen table when I arrived home – back as rigid as a broomstick, face a solid block of stone. The peace-making vibe of the night before was clearly a thing of the past.
‘I can explain!’ I said before she had a chance to speak. Although I actually didn’t have a clue how I was going to explain why I’d spent the day defacing the embassy after almost punching one of my classmates.
‘Explain what?’ the Mantis snapped. Her eyes dropped to my boots. ‘I really hope you didn’t wear those to school, Leletia.’
‘I changed into them on the way home,’ I lied, relieved. ‘What’s up?’
‘You’re late!’
‘Huh?’
‘For the movie at the embassy! Go and get changed, and be quick about it!’
I raced into my room and pulled on the first clothes at hand. I was still on a high from my day with Thabo, and right then not even the Mantis could dampen my spirits.
‘Couldn’t you have made more of an effort?’ the Mantis grumbled when I came downstairs. She was dressed in her fine woollen suit, topped off with an anorak she proudly said was made of polyester. I shrugged. I was comfortable in my threadbare jeans, Mom’s boots and Dad’s old army coat.
The Mantis decided that rather than cramming into a rickshaw, we’d walk to the embassy, so the four of us set off together. Despite myself I was excited. I hadn’t seen a film since before the War, and could barely remember what watching one had felt like. It was something the townies took for granted, and I was pretty sure that the kids at Malema High deliberately tried to copy the accents and phrases they’d seen in the films.
There was a festive atmosphere in the streets that night. The Mantis eventually stopped scowling and Dad even offered to carry Jobe when he became too heavy for me. Of course, the monthly movies were not for everyone. Sure, there were crowds of poorer citizens bunched around the gates, hoping for a glimpse of the film flickering on the white wall of the embassy, but these outings were for the rich: the embassy workers, the high priests and politicians, and the wealthy store owners and their families.
‘Dad,’ I said as we queued to get in. ‘You know anything about the Mall Rats?’
‘Where did you hear that name, Lele?’
‘A friend mentioned them.’
‘Don’t let Cleo hear you talking like that.’
‘But who are they?’
‘They’re no one,’ Dad said. ‘Just fairy stories, that’s all.’
‘But –’
‘Ssssh.’
The Mantis waved her tickets at the robed Resurrectionist stationed outside, and we were ushered through the metal gates and into a large courtyard where several rows of folding chairs were laid out. The place was packed, and we had to push our way through the crowd to find our seats. As soon as I sat down, Jobe climbed onto my lap, popped his thumb into his mouth and leaned his head on my shoulder.
The rain looked as if it was going to stay away, but most people had come prepared for the worst, bundled up in raincoats and clutching sheets of plastic to cover their heads if necessary. Pretty much everyone was wearing something from before the War, and I didn’t know where to look first. There was a woman a few seats away from us dressed in a bright red silk jacket covered with embroidery. Judging from her expensive outfit and the ginormous amulet around her neck, I assumed she must be one of the high priests, and I recognised the fellow
next to her. It was Rickety Legs – the Resurrectionist from Gran’s funeral. I looked around for my classmates (okay, I looked around for Thabo, mostly), but the crowd was too dense, and the lighting was too subdued to make out any other familiar faces.
Finally an expectant hush fell, and then the generator roared to life. An image flickered on to the wall in front of us, and everyone started cheering and clapping. I didn’t know it then, but the only films the Resurrectionists allowed were violent gangster films or slasher horrors. They wanted to remind us how violent life was back then, before the War, and the movie that evening – Jerusalema – was no exception. Still, I was fascinated by how life was before: cars, bars, restaurants, men in suits, the thump of music, everyone smoking and chatting and shooting each other. The lives the movie portrayed were so different to mine that it was almost like watching an alien race on screen. But, strangely, few people actually seemed to be watching it. They moved around, swapping seats and chatting to acquaintances, shouting over the soundtrack.
‘Ah, Cleo, sawubona,’ a deep voice boomed from behind us. ‘So nice that you and your family could come this evening.’
I craned my neck around to see who had spoken. It was Comrade Nkosi, the guy who’d come to school to break the news about the Lottery quota.
The Mantis got to her feet and smiled nervously. I’d never seen her so ill-at-ease, and I watched with interest.
‘Comrade Nkosi,’ the Mantis said. ‘How are you? You remember my husband?’
‘Ah, yes,’ the man said. ‘Of course.’ He reached down and he and Dad shook hands awkwardly.
‘Are you enjoying the movie?’ The Mantis asked him, but he ignored the question and instead stared down at me and Jobe, his eyes resting on Jobe’s face for several seconds, before scanning mine.
‘And this must be Leletia,’ he said. ‘You will know my son from school, of course.’
‘I do?’ I asked.
‘Now where is he? I’m sure he will want to say hello to a school friend.’ He scanned the crowd. ‘Zyed!’ he shouted, gesturing towards the end of the row in front of us.
My heart plummeted as Zyed stood up and sulkily pushed his way towards us. His jacket was adorned with more feathers than usual, and his hair had been scraped into a topknot.
‘Look what he does to his clothes,’ Comrade Nkosi said to the Mantis, a half-smile on his lips. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Ah! Zyed,’ Comrade Nkosi said when his son finally joined us. ‘You know Leletia, of course.’
Zyed glared at me.
‘Zyed!’ Comrade Nkosi snapped, and I saw his hand twitch as if he was restraining himself from striking his son. ‘Where are your manners?’
Zyed muttered a sulky hello to me, the Mantis and Dad.
Comrade Nkosi fixed his eyes on me. ‘Leletia, you must be very excited about the Lottery Ball.’
I shrugged, and it was the Mantis’s turn to glare at me.
Comrade Nkosi suddenly clicked his fingers. ‘I have the most marvellous idea! Leletia, do you have an escort for the dance?’
I was caught off guard. ‘Um . . . no, I –’
‘Then you must go with Zyed!’
‘No!’ Zyed and I spoke simultaneously, and I’m sure his look of horror was mirrored on my face.
‘Zyed!’ Comrade Nkosi said. ‘I cannot believe that you would think of turning down such a beautiful girl!’
‘But I’ve already got a date!’ Zyed said.
‘It’s final, Zyed,’ his father said. ‘Leletia is new at Malema High, and she has no one else to go with. I’m sure your other date will understand.’
Zyed glared at me as if it was my fault that his father had come up with this horrible idea. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled before slinking off.
‘Teenagers,’ Comrade Nkosi rolled his eyes. ‘I must apologise for my son’s bad manners.’
‘It’s no problem,’ the Mantis said with a tinkly laugh I’d never heard her use before.
Comrade Nkosi made as if to turn away, but then he clicked his fingers as something else occurred to him. ‘Cleo. About your other child,’ his eyes slipped to Jobe again, and his mouth twitched slightly in distaste. ‘I’m afraid there are no places available in the immediate vicinity for him, but there is somewhere else that might take him.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘What?’
The Mantis gripped my arm tightly. ‘We’ll talk when we get home,’ she hissed in my ear.
Comrade Nkosi appeared to be oblivious to the look of shock on my face. ‘Mandela House is not in the best area of town, but, as institutions go, I think you’ll find it adequate,’ he carried on. ‘As soon as the paperwork is finalised, I’ll let you know.’
‘Thank you, Comrade,’ the Mantis said, her fingernails now digging painfully into my skin to silence me.
13
‘Well?’ I said. ‘What the hell was he talking about?’
Dad and the Mantis had insisted that Jobe was put to bed before we discussed the meaning behind Comrade Nkosi’s words, and the wait had almost killed me. We sat around the kitchen table, Dad nursing a mug of tea; the Mantis sitting erect, hands folded in front of her. I don’t think I’ve ever hated someone as much as I hated her right then.
Dad cleared his throat. ‘Your mother and I feel –’
‘My mother’s dead.’
The Mantis didn’t change her expression, but Dad flinched slightly. ‘Must you always be so difficult, Lele?’ he sighed.
The Mantis spoke up. ‘We’ve decided that it would be best if Jobe went to a . . . place where children like him can get proper care.’
‘You can’t do that!’
Dad held up his hand. ‘Just listen, Lele –’
‘But why?’
‘He’ll be with others of his kind.’
‘He’s not a kind. He’s my brother!’
‘Yes, but let’s face it. He is . . . different.’
‘That’s not his fault!’
‘I know that, Lele,’ Dad said.
‘I’ll look after him. I promise I will!’
‘You don’t have the time. You have to go to school.’
‘No, I don’t. I’ll become a worker, a rickshaw driver, a builder – I don’t care!’
Dad sighed again. ‘Lele, your moth . . . Cleo and I are working very hard to try to improve the conditions in the city,’ he said. ‘You know this. It won’t be long before everyone will have access to electricity and –’
‘What’s that got to do with Jobe?’
‘I’m not going to be around all the time,’ Dad said. ‘We can’t leave him on his own.’
‘Well, hire someone to look after him then!’ The tears were pouring down my face, but I let them fall.
‘We can’t afford that sort of expense.’
‘But you can afford to send him to . . . Mandela House, or whatever that place is called!’
‘Look, it’s not going to happen straight away. But we need you to come to terms with the idea.’
‘Yeah, right. That’s total kak! If Comrade Nkosi hadn’t said anything you wouldn’t even have told me!’
Now even the Mantis began to look uncomfortable. I pushed my chair back so violently that it crashed to the floor. ‘I hate you!’ I said, staring straight at the Mantis. ‘This is all down to you!’
‘Lele!’ Dad said. ‘That’s enough!’
‘You didn’t want us here!’ I carried on. ‘You want Dad all to yourself! You’re nothing but a cruel, evil bitch!’
Dad got to his feet. ‘Leletia! That’s enough! How dare you talk to your mother that way!’
‘She’s not my bloody mother! And I wish you weren’t my father!’
Dad flinched again at that, but neither he nor the Mantis replied. The long silence was only broken by the sound of the kitchen door creaking open.
‘Gogo?’ Jobe said, peering in at us from behind the door, the expression in his eyes making him look about a hundred years old.
‘You can’t tak
e him!’ I said, scooping up Chinwag who had made her way under the table, and moving to grab Jobe’s hand. ‘I won’t let you!’
Right then I knew I had to come up with a plan. And I had to do it fast.
14
I practically ran to school that morning. I needed to talk to someone, and who else was there but Thabo? As soon as I slipped through the gate I caught sight of him lounging against the sun sculpture, chatting to a plump girl with light brown, frizzy hair. For once I didn’t hang back. ‘Thabo,’ I said, striding straight up to him. ‘I really need to talk to you.’
The girl looked at me curiously, but not unkindly, and with a small wave and a ‘catch you later’ to Thabo she wandered towards the classroom. He watched her go, and I couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of jealousy as he did so. Finally he gave me his full attention. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘I’ve also got some news.’
We headed to the dumpster alley, neither of us speaking, although it was clear from the speed Thabo was walking and the way he kept clenching and unclenching his fists that he was also bursting with news.
‘You first,’ I said as soon as we were hunkered down behind the dumpster, although I was dying to let all my anguish out.
‘I went to a meeting last night, Lele.’
‘What meeting?’
‘An ANZ gathering. At New Arrivals. It was amazing. You should have heard them speak. There was this one guy – Michael. What he said made so much sense. If we don’t make a stand now the Resurrectionists will end up ruling the enclave with an iron fist. They –’
‘But they do rule the enclave.’
‘Exactly! But it’s only going to get worse. Last year three teenagers were given to the Guardians; this year it’s five. What’s next? All of us? And why don’t we know what happens to them? It has to be stopped!’
Thabo was right, but I couldn’t think about it then. All I could think about was getting Jobe out of the city, away from Mandela House, but I let him speak; he was so fired up by what he’d heard that the excitement was practically crackling out of him.
