Crystal Whisperer (Spotless Series #3)

by Camilla Monk

  “I’m really sorry about your house,” I murmured.

  Seconds stretched between us. Whether because he secretly reveled in punishing me like this—which I doubted—or because my words had hit too close to home, March remained obstinately silent.

  I took a shaky breath. “If you want me to feel bad, it’s working. I feel like shit. Please talk to me.”

  The SUV slowed down and came to a halt on the trail, in the middle of nowhere. He wouldn’t look at me, but his features relaxed, the ice in his voice melting to let through genuine hurt. “I’m not angry that you contacted him. What I hate is that you felt you needed to hide from me.”

  His left hand dropped from the wheel to rest on his lap, and I covered it with mine. “Would you have agreed if I had asked you?”

  He sighed. “No.”

  “Because of the risk?”

  “Because it’s him,” he admitted.

  I leaned on his shoulder. “You really have nothing to worry about.”

  His reply came with the brush of his lips in my hair. “Is that so?”

  “He shaves his chest.”

  There was a beat of silence as March pondered this. “Is that . . . why you two didn’t—”

  My cheeks turned crimson. “Pleading the Fifth.”

  He started the engine. “I won’t ask then. Although I did wonder—”

  “March!”

  I remembered Joy telling me once that it was one of the many facets of jealousy: the need to know everything about one’s rival, no matter how creepy or intimate the details. March would have to live without that particular knowledge. I doubted I’d ever share how I had nearly slept with Alex, only to run away from his hotel room because someone else was on my mind.

  As the road came into sight, I thought it safer to revert to a somewhat less controversial subject. “So, where are we going?

  “Cape Town. Dries has a contact there who arranged a flight for us,” he replied, pulling out his phone to sync it with the car stereo. “Now try to rest; we will be driving all night.”

  I shifted in my seat to watch March, my fears kept at bay by a warm cocoon I knew came from being at peace with him. When he pressed play, Conway Twitty’s gravelly voice filled the car like a manly lullaby, singing to his girl that he’d love to lay her down.

  6

  The Mother City

  Preston tore away the greasy Whopper wrapper to reveal a small velvet box. “Yes, I only pretended to be a bum to see through you, Charity. And I have.”—he went down on one knee—”So, Charity Angel, will you marry me?”

  Alabama Skye, Her Billionaire Bum

  During the months my mom and I spent in Pretoria, I saw very little of South Africa save for the quiet luxury of a rented villa in the secluded residential area of Waterkloof Heights.

  I remember long days spent in near silence, yawning in front of online courses and waiting for her to come home. Yet some details stand out, like colorful pebbles scattered in the sand. There was the laugh of our neighbor’s kids as they came back from school and walked by our front yard. I was dying to go out and hobnob, but I wasn’t allowed outside on my own, so I’d just eye them through the window like some creep. Even sharper was the memory of Dries’s footsteps on the wooden floor, at a time when he was nothing but a shadow visiting my mother at night. And, always, the purple haze of the alleys of Jacaranda trees shrouding everything.

  Discovering Saint Francis Bay had been my first inkling that there was so much more to this country than the vague patchwork I had in mind, made of crime statistics, Peppermint Crisp, and Johnny Clegg songs. This impression was confirmed by our eight-hour drive to Cape Town, chasing the sun as it rose over wild greenery and clusters of pink houses, on roads that stretched for miles and miles along an azure ocean.

  And so, the Mother City, as they called it . . . Well, it was a shock, but not the kind of shock I’d been hoping for. I had been ready for a burst of light and colors, for palm trees and white sandy beaches overlooked by the massive silhouette of Table Mountain. I couldn’t wait to see flashy colonial houses next to skyscrapers, to experience the spicy scent and dizzying hubbub of traditional markets . . .

  Forget that.

  The sun had just risen, and Table Mountain was little more than a bluish ghost in the distance as we drove along a highway in the airport area. A strong onshore wind swept over patches of dried grass and a few trees. The occasional green dustbin added a welcome touch of fantasy. After a mile or so, it became clear that the sparse houses scattered in the plain were getting more and more derelict as we progressed. March’s fingers rapped on the wheel. “I’m sorry. Cape Town is a beautiful city, but this isn’t the best neighborhood.”

  I gazed at a strip of houses that looked like they had been dropped there in an afterthought, their rusty tin roofs supported by cracked walls and wooden planks. “Where are we?”

  “In the flats. This township is called KTC; it’s part of Nyanga.”

  Nyanga. As a teen, I’d heard it mentioned a few times on television, spoken by our neighbors, always in hushed voices and with an appropriate amount of disdain. “A crying shame,” they’d say of a township that held the dubious honor of being their country’s murder capital. There, even more than anywhere else, unemployment, poverty, and violence prevailed, eating away at the community.

  I gazed at the jagged ribbon of wooden shacks flying past us. I thought of Dries, back in Japan, six months prior, serving me a plate of caviar as he told me about March’s father, a British immigrant who used to sell drugs in a similar hellhole in the flats. “Is it like that, Lavender Hill? When we were in Tokyo, Dries said . . .”

  His eyes darted at me, losing sight of the road for a second. A rare occurrence for him, who made such a big deal out of road rules—well, most of the time anyway. “If you mean the township, yes. Lavender Hill is just as bad. But we lived south, in Marina da Gama.”

  My jaw went slack for a second. I honestly hadn’t been expecting anything beyond a gentle dismissal. I pushed my luck. “So . . . it was better?”

  “We had walls.”

  There was a lot packed in those three quietly uttered words.

  “March, what were they like, your parents?” I asked tentatively.

  His Adam’s apple moved, but he remained silent. I thought maybe I shouldn’t press the issue, that there were still so many layers to tear through. He let go of the gearshift and took my hand. His mouth worked in vain, as if words were on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t assemble them into a coherent sentence. He shook his head in frustration. His fingers tightened around mine, his thumb stroking my palm over and over. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I covered his hand with mine. “It’s okay. When you told me about your Lion, and I asked about your name, I said you can tell me when you’re ready. There’s time . . . you just need to find where the tape starts.”

  He flashed me a curious look as he let go of my hand.

  “You know, when there’s too much data at once, and everything is linked and too complicated to sort out, sometimes the best way is to find the one thing that ties it all, and that’s where you start. It gets easier after that,” I explained with an encouraging smile.

  He pursed his lips as if he were contemplating the notion.

  I went on. “Like, for me, if I had to tell someone about my mother, about all I’ve discovered, I think I’d actually start with you. You’re where my tape starts.”

  Surprise registered in his eyes, and I couldn’t stop the blush I felt warming my cheeks. While I might be a step ahead of March when it came to opening to others, some confessions didn’t come easily yet.

  He nodded a few times, to himself it seemed. “I promise I’ll try. Just give me a little time.” At last, he smiled too. The hint of sadness, of caution that seldom left him, was still there, etched in his fine crow’s-feet, but seeing the dimples appear on his cheeks, I felt lighter.

  He pulled out at the next exit and took a few turns until we were
on Klipfontein Road. The first quarter mile wasn’t so bad, but soon we were driving in a bona fide shantytown—sorry, an “informal settlement.” In the dark, those frail shacks on the outskirts of Saint Francis Bay had been easier to ignore. Or maybe I didn’t really want to see, because it’d mean accepting a reality that people like me only glimpsed on TV. Twenty years after the end of the apartheid, there were still walls no amount of democracy could tear down. In those streets where trash piled up, where houses were little more than a patchwork of tin, wood, and cardboard, you could find all the colors of the rainbow nation, except one.

  Music boomed somewhere to my right, barking echoed in the distance, and smoke rose from a repurposed red container, accompanied by the smell of fried food. Heads turned as the SUV drove past them; children stopped playing to stare. It wasn’t that they’d never seen a car. What they probably didn’t see that often was a couple of “whities getting lost” in this part of town, to quote a seemingly drunk guy who yelled at us when we drove past him.

  I fidgeted in my seat, holding on to my seat belt.

  March cast me a sideways look. “Don’t worry. We’re safe here. Safer than downtown.”

  As a general rule, I trusted him, but, really, there was reason to worry. A dozen guys covered with tattoos were now surrounding the car. Some lean, some beefy, most proudly displaying the saint trinity of any aspiring gangster: a soccer T-shirt, some amount of tasteful jewelry, and, of course, a “passion gap.” Kind of like my gap tooth, except it was about pulling out your four top incisors to look dope, and that was too much dope, even for a rebel like me.

  I shrank in my seat when a bony guy with one such gap wiggled his tongue at me through the window. I could guess what sort of message he meant to convey, but no thanks. A squeak escaped me when something slammed on the car’s hood, and March pulled the brakes with a huff. Another soccer enthusiast, this one much fatter, was playing drums on our car’s hood. He and his friends appeared inordinately pleased to see us.

  Next to me, March shook his head and smacked his tongue in annoyance. He fitted his black gloves on before reaching under his seat . . . for an Uzi. I suppose our hosts didn’t react immediately because the windows were a little tinted, so it must have been difficult to see clearly what was going on. I, on the other hand, stared at the long suppressor and elaborate optic mount and was close to hyperventilating. “March, I’m not sure . . . ”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t worry; most of them are just kids.”

  Kids with guns, I mentally corrected, as one of them raised his red-and-white shirt to expose a toned midsection and the handle of the pistol he kept tucked in his jeans. March ignored him. He flipped on the laser aim of the gun resting on his lap and casually lowered his window. Those gangsters outside welcomed the first three inches down with victorious cheers; then March revealed the Uzi at the same time that a little red dot popped between the eyes of the guy closest to the window, a boy wearing a black Porsche cap.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. How may I help you?” he asked in his smoothest, coldest voice. Solidified azote in a velvet glove.

  In spite of my initial scruples, I had to admit that March’s approach made sense. You should indeed always try to solve your problems in a courteous manner. A slew of profanities and the solemn promise to “kill us dead” reached my ears, but the boys all backed away from the car with slow, careful movements. Well, except Porsche boy. He remained where he was, bent in an uncomfortable position and facing the Uzi. He was sweating a lot.

  “Uh,” he said in an odd, high-pitched voice, “man . . . it’s cool. You do your thing . . . and I do my thing . . . and I go.”

  March’s head tilted. Oh my God. He was giving him the creepy poker smile. At that point, I felt bad for the kid, even if I now recognized that little prick as the one who had wiggled his tongue at me. “Man?” March repeated.

  Surprising how fast the human brain works under stress. “Sir! I mean, can I go and do my thing . . . sir? Please?”

  “Barely arrived in Cape Town, already sowing death and destruction in the flats!” a cheerful baritone suddenly called from behind Porsche boy.

  March seemed to recognize its owner. He lowered the gun and handed it to me with a little wink. “Can I entrust this to you, biscuit?”

  No, not really, but it would have to do. I took the Uzi, only to relax when I looked down and noticed the position of the tiny switch on its side. The safety was on. Still, I was the one with a gun now, so while Porsche boy slowly backed away from our car, I raised the weapon in warning and stuck out my tongue at him. Don’t say it was petty: you don’t understand the ruthless law of the townships like I do.

  I looked over March’s shoulder. A tall figure emerged from a wooden shack and strolled toward our car. A confident grin cracked through his ebony skin. With his tux and shiny brogues, he looked like he had accidentally been pasted in the decor. Oh, wait. His dress shirt was covered in blood, so it was okay: he had earned the right to “sow death in the flats.”

  The guy had a few years on March—early forties at least. Examining the razor-sharp lines of his buzz cut and his impeccable shave, I gathered they shared the same grooming habits. What I’m really trying to say is that I didn’t need to see the scarification on his back—the way he carried himself, his predatory nonchalance, even that untied bow tie hanging from his neck, as if it was just another night of partying too hard: this guy had Dries’s disciple written all over him.

  March opened his door and took the Uzi from me to place it back under his seat. “It’s all right; we can come out.”

  Still hesitant, I stepped out of the car, never losing sight of the young gangsters who now watched the scene from a safe distance.

  The newcomer assessed me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher. Benevolent yet wolfish, if that makes any sense. “Pleasure to meet you. People call me Isiporho.”

  I shook the hand he was offering me. The grip squeezing my fingers spoke of contained strength. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, sir. I’m—”

  “Little Island,” he stated.

  I startled. Not just because he already knew my name, but also since the only other person I had ever heard call me that was Dries. Isiporho then turned to March. “And this is a face I haven’t seen in a very long time. I take it you had a rough night too, broer?”

  “You could say that,” March conceded.

  I made a note that, again, like Dries’s and March’s, our host’s South African accent had been largely tamed into something closer to an inconspicuous British accent. When he gestured for us to follow him, I hesitated. “Are we going to leave the car here?”

  Yes, I was being guilty of social prejudice. But, honestly . . .

  Isiporho’s eyebrows shot up in mock incomprehension. “Well, yes. Why shouldn’t we?”

  All I could manage in response was an uncomfortable rictus. Best leave it at that, since March seemed okay with this plan. Our host, however, had something of a showman in him. He raised his arms, palms splayed flat like a preacher, and called to the scattered gangsters still glaring at us. In doing so, he revealed a double holster and two guns tucked to his sides. “Is anyone going to touch my brother’s car?”

  The men around us remained silent; the most impressionable ones shook their heads negatively. Isiporho flashed me a smug grin. “See? Safest neighborhood in Cape Town.”

  Right.

  He led us to an isolated tin hut at the end of the road. Some cement bricks supported the structure, and it was a little sturdier than the cardboard sheds we had passed. March had done really well so far, ignoring the devastation around us and the junk littering the dusty ground, but when Isiporho opened the plywood door, I sensed him stiffen. I think it had to do with the notion of being trapped in a cramped space that might trigger every single one of his buttons and bring back memories that were best left buried.

  I came in first to take a peek while he stood in the doorway. My chest tightened at the idea tha
t someone lived in here every day, in that musty smell, with a floor made of cardboard and plastic sheets hastily taped over scraps of wallpaper. Seeing more plastic sheets covering everything in the main room, from the microwave to the old electricity meter, I came to understand that they were meant to contain the humidity that would seep into every corner when it rained.

  March hadn’t moved. He just stared, fists tightly clenched. I took his arm and squeezed it. “We have to go in.”

  “I know,” he said tightly.

  Isiporho gave us an odd look, which prompted March to finally move. Once he was in, his eyelids fluttered, like he was about to be sick, but he soldiered on, past the stained plastic bucket serving as a sink and through a pair of flowery curtains. I held his arm tighter. His hand found mine, squeezing it hard. It was all the support I could offer, but I was glad that he at least sought it.

  The curtains shielded a camp bed on which a young man rested. His eyes were a striking green, but his face, which I gathered should have been a golden shade of brown, appeared a pasty gray under the ray of light filtering from a small window above him. Next to the bed, an old woman wordlessly tended to thick bandages around his right arm. Blood seeped through the white gauze in several different places, and he snarled, revealing clenched teeth. The old woman placed a hand on his forehead and mumbled a few words to calm him down. There was no apparent tenderness in the deep lines creasing her face, but from the way her fingers smoothed dark curls away from his face, I figured he was no stranger to her.

  In that moment, I wondered if anything at all could scratch a dent in Isiporho’s jovial mood. He was still smiling as he pointed to the guy on the bed. “As you can see, I had to improvise. That’s our little cub, Dominik, here. Freshly carved by Dries and already retired. Dominik, say hello to our guests with your good hand.”