Sedate the mother. Remove the father, Anwar Jacobs instructed the medical officer who had come to relieve him. Get Social Work for the child. This is the third time hes been here in as many months.
He turned to Clare. Welcome to tik hell. And those who make the money drink Johnny Walker Blue while taking in the Capes beautiful views. I patch up these kids and its like sending them back out into the killing fields. You saw that womans antenatal card, shes pregnant again. She and that scum making sure I never run out of patients.
Its the devils merry-go-round, said Clare. Poverty is a goldmine: abalone, cash, drugs, cash, gangs, cash, then the merry circle starts all over again.
They took the lift to the second floor. I was expecting you earlier, said Anwar.
So was I, said Clare. Another case came in this morning.
Another child? asked Anwar.
Missing teenager, said Clare. A cellist. Rosa Wagner. Vanished three weeks ago.
And youre only looking now?
Seems like nobody missed her either.
The doctor pushed open the doors to Intensive Care. The little girl was in a room of her own.
A muted electronic orchestra played along the managed borderline between life and death. Beeps for heart rate, blips for temperature, the accordion wheeze of the oxygen mask. The little girl was curled up on a sheepskin to protect her fragile skin. She was so thin that she seemed hardly human. Though attached to a rehydration drip and oxygen tubes, she seemed less spectral than the previous day.
Jesus Christ, said Clare. The things people do to children.
Dont think about it, said Anwar. Think about what we do instead. Just react. Dont analyse. Youll go mad otherwise.
You said you got the test results back.
The preliminary ones, said Anwar. Infections and chronic diseases eliminated.
The IV beeped. Anwar Jacobs replaced the hydration fluids, got it going again. Clare knelt beside the little girl, her tiny translucent face inches from hers.
Hows she doing, Anwar? She cradled the childs hand in hers.
The girls tenuous breath fluttered in her chest, and Clare thought she felt a faint pressure from her fingers.
Shes alive, said the doctor. What a little fighter she is. All the odds against her. Shes struggled to breathe and her heartbeat was erratic but thats better now, much better.
Anwar Jacobs bent over the child. Clare watched his deft hands move gently over the little girls body, re-counting the injuries on her back.
Shes got more than twenty-six marks on her back. There are some nasty scabs at the back of her neck under her hair. Whatever has happened to her has been going on for a long time.
And these? asked Clare, indicating two ridged scars across her back.
Thats from a sjambok, Id guess. Ive seen this on farm kids a few times. Less so in town. In the meantime well keep her sedated. Its who she is and whats happened to her that I need to know. As soon as I have that, Ill know whats wrong with her and what she needs.
So far weve had nothing, said Clare. Inas just done a press conference, though, so maybe thatll result in something. You said no sexual assault?
No semen traces, no tears in the vagina or the anus, no burns on the nipples, so none of the usual stuff, if thats what you want. Anwars voice was pruned of all emotion. Those two scars across her back are from a beating thats long past. We X-rayed her, and it looks like the beating fractured some ribs, but there are a number of other fractures too.
Beatings, you say?
Maybe, he said. But it could be rickets vitamin D deficiency thats made the bones brittle. Shes like a little old lady her bones are like meringue.
Thats the malnourishment you mentioned? asked Clare.
Could be, said Anwar. But I think it might be more than that. Her case is so severe, must have been lack of sunlight.
Clare looked at the childs wan face. How do you manage that in South Africa?
17
Clare left the Childrens Hospital. It was only a handful of days shy of the winter solstice, and the darkness came swiftly. She thought of Rosa. Girls vanished without trace, that she knew, but unless the earth opened and swallowed them up there was always someone who knew where they were. And why.
Thats what Clare wanted to know. Where. And why.
The black dress she kept for sartorial emergencies was in its dry-cleaning bag under the seat. It was dark in the parking lot, so she slid her seat back, stripped, and eased herself into the dress. She found the heels she had abandoned after the press conference and slipped them on.
Clare flicked down the sun visor and the mirror light came on. Her angular face seemed that of a stranger; the two vertical lines between her brows lingered even after she had finished frowning. She dug a comb out of her handbag and ran it through her hair. She dug deeper, and was rewarded with foundation and a lipstick. The former erased the dark rings under her eyes; the latter restored colour to her lips and cheeks.
That should do, she thought.
She drove over Constantia Nek and down into Hout Bay, transformed into a place where all lights sparkled equally. The democracy of darkness. She turned in at the College of Classical Music. The gravel parking area was filled with cars, some with drivers hunkered down, engines idling to keep the heating on, but Clare managed to find a place that wasnt completely illegal.
The noise of the Gala spilled out of the front door where a pretty usher stood at her post.
Welcome, maam, she said. You have a ticket?
Clare flashed her official ID and the girl took a step back to let her pass. Four girls wearing expensive shoes and not much else, despite the cold, trotted in after her, but the usher continued to stare after Clare as she strode towards the reception.
A waiter at the door had a tray poised sparkling wine, Bloody Marys, whiskey. The warm notes of a cello wove through the cocktail party chatter. Caviar and trays of carpaccio too raw, too red against the silver.
The musicians were grouped on a raised dais. Irina Petrova had a conductors baton in her hand and her back to Clare. Katarina Kraft was there too, pale, her cello cradled between her knees. Lily smiled briefly as she tossed back her hair.
Laughter erupted on the other side of the room. A tall man at the centre of a knot of people. Mid-forties. A hard good-looking face. A hard good-looking body too. Good suit, good shirt, bad shoes.
Mr Savić, Irina Petrova called out to her guest of honour. A toast. Welcome. The programme begins in half an hour. For now, enjoy.
The merest hint of a frown as she noticed Clare in the crowd.
Dr Hart. This Winter Gala is the highlight of our calendar. I must ask you what you are doing here. Surely this is not a time for an investigation?
Irina, darling, this is wonderful, what a crowd. It was the good-looking man. He smiled at Clare.
Dr Hart, may I introduce Mr Savić, said Irina Petrova. Mr Savić is one of our sponsors, he is the one who has kept this college alive, is that not so, Milan?
She laid a hand on his arm. Savić patted it. I give money to soccer teams, of course. But who could resist you, Irina? Who could resist all this? he said, with a sweep of his hand.
Clare felt his dark eyes on her before he said, You are a music lover?
Irina coldly interrupted, Dr Hart thinks there may have been an incident with a former student.
Which one? he asked.
Rosa Wagner, Clare replied.
The lovely cellist? he asked. What has happened? She cannot be allowed to drop out. I was so looking forward to hearing her this evening. That beautiful piece she played last time she entertained us. Shes one of the highlights, you know.
Rosas grandfather reported her missing this morning, said Clare. She called him before dawn this morning, very distressed, there has been nothing since.
You were up at my residence this morning, no? Savić was looking intently at Clare.
One of your men let me through, said Clare.
Mikey, said Savić. He told
me. He seemed pleased at the surprise on Clares face. Weve had security issues. Not everyone in the valley appreciates our conservation efforts. There were some beehives up there that we had to move.
Paradys Honey, you mean? asked Clare.
Yes, them, Noah Stern and his wife, said Savić. You know them?
I was up there today, said Clare. Seems as if Rosa Wagner spent some time there.
An eccentric man, Stern, said Savić. We have not been able to see eye to eye. But hes a hippy type. Harmless, I believe.
Clare ignored the observation and said, How well do you know Rosa?
Shes one of Irinas special girls, said Savić. Shes played at events at my residence. I have a yacht, The Siren you may know it?
Clare nodded, recalling news reports of the luxury vessel.
In the summer, she played there too. I hope she returns soon. She has a great gift.
Irina Petrova was clearly impatient with the conversation. Rosa is young and impulsive. She will turn up, she said. It would be a pity for the name of the school to be sullied. She rested her hand on Savićs arm, and said, I assure you, this has nothing to do with the school; it has nothing to do with our partners.
The thought never crossed my mind, Irina, said Savić.
Im truly sorry about this, said Petrova. But you will still be able to hear the piece. Bach. I know you love it.
With a tight smile, she said to her companions, Come, theyre due to start in half an hour. Lets first find my lovely Lily, and then we take our seats.
Clare watched as the director and the patron walked towards the front row. It was then that she became aware of being watched herself. She turned to look for Katarina. Instead, she saw Jonny Diamond, without the luminous Lily this time, leaning against a wall. Clare worked her way around the room towards him.
Hello, Im looking for Katarina, she said. Do you know where she is?
The bathroom, Im sure. Throwing up, said Diamond.
Is she sick?
Nervous, said Jonny Diamond. An ugly sister trying to fit into Cinderellas shoes.
You do have a charming way with women, Jonny, said Clare, turning on her heel.
She found Katarina in the bathroom splashing her face.
Hello, said Clare. The girl looked up, startled.
I have to go on soon, she said.
I need to ask you more about the farm Rosa used to go to. The one up the valley. Paradys.
Yes, said Katarina, drying her hands.
Rosa went back.
Thats no big deal. Rosa liked the little boy. He was home-schooled like her, and she taught him a bit. The person she really liked was Nancy, though. I thought she was a bit weird, but Rosa liked that she was so devoted to her husband. Katarina picked up her bag. I suppose she was the opposite of her own mother.
Clare walked with her towards the door. Then why did she stop going there?
I didnt know she went again, said Katarina. I dont know anything about that. She didnt talk to me about it.
You didnt like it, then?
The place was a bit too old-fashioned for me. And I didnt like all the Bible stuff. I told her that, then she didnt talk about it again.
What are the other places Rosa went to that youre not telling me about?
Look, we studied together, we shared a rehearsal room. Does that make me my sisters keeper?
Tell me what you know.
I have to go. Im on now.
Clare took her arm, and just then Irina Petrova opened the door.
Is everything alright, Katarina? she asked. Dr Hart, please, this girl must perform now. Why are you upsetting her?
I need to know if she is withholding information about Rosa, said Clare.
Are you, Katarina? asked Petrova. This would not be wise.
Ive told you what I know, Dr Hart.
Good girl, said Petrova, her hand in the small of Katarinas back, guiding her into the corridor. Everyone is waiting to hear you play, Katarina. You will make me very proud.
The door swung closed behind them. She slipped into the back of the concert room. It was a charming room, pale blue walls and grey velvet curtains draped across the tall, narrow windows. The small orchestra was gathered at the far end, and the light gleamed on the instruments. Katarina looked out over the audience, but when she caught Clares eye she dropped her gaze. She clasped her instrument, her bow moving rapidly over the strings. Clare listened to her play Rosas solo. It was technically perfect, but even as the music swelled, filling the room, there was no heart.
18
It was later than shed have liked when she got into her car. Sea Point was quiet, just the occasional car hissing along the wet roads. Hungry waves leapt over the sea wall, scattering tangled strands of kelp across the Promenade. There were no lights on in her flat, and no sign of Riedwaans motorbike outside her flat.
Fritz was sitting on the top step, slit-eyed with disapproval, when Clare opened the door.
Hello, kitty-cat. Clare picked her up and, with her body warm and purring in her arms, went through to the kitchen. Just as shed left it that morning: half a cup of coffee on the table, burnt toast in the sink, wet washing in the machine. She tipped some pellets into Fritzs bowl and put the clothes into the tumble dryer.
The kitchen table was littered with old photo albums, the funny haircuts and the too-tight, too-short shorts of her childhood. She and Constance: her twin and her doppelganger. Their birthday tomorrow. Clare packed away her efforts at making a collage of their shared lives something her sister would love, and something that Constance was incapable of doing. She pushed it all away and opened her laptop, the Marie biscuit she was nibbling settling her stomach. She typed in Rosas name, Google-trawled it.
Rosalind Wagner was listed as a student at the Cape College of Classical Music a formal shot of her playing the cello, a brief note about her scholarship, notices of concerts, a shot of her playing on a yacht. Hout Bay harbour in the summer. A few entries for her performances, and a Facebook page.
Clare clicked on it.
Lifes about the journey. A stock image of a mountain scene, a waterfall plunging down a cliff face, and some pictures of cats and laughing babies. Stupid, Clare thought. She scrolled through some of her posts on other peoples pages. Lacking the glibness essential for easy Internet socialising, very few of them had a response. A few photographs in all of them, Rosa had merely been tagged. Rosalind with her cello, some group shots with her class. A small number of friends, and none, apparently, that preceded her arrival at the college. The last time shed posted was the middle of May.
The electronic spiderweb that bound people to a communal life was absent. Wheres the busy virtual life of a pretty young woman, Clare wondered.
Clare checked the time late enough to be sure Ina Britz would be at home.
Anything more on Rosa Wagners phone? asked Clare when Ina picked up.
Its a pay-as-you-go. Small top-ups. Apart from calling her oupa, she didnt use the phone much. And she didnt use it at all after the twenty-fifth of May. Ive put her details up on Facebook and Twitter. Well see if that triggers anything. The papers are running something tomorrow. But listen, go to sleep now. Theres nothing more to be done right now. Ill see you first thing.
OK. See you at nine, said Clare.
You need to get here before that, sister, said Ina.
Im going to the doctor first thing.
Vroulike kwale?
You could put it like that, said Clare, hanging up.
She walked to the bathroom, Fritz at her heels. The light was harsh, the mirror unkind. She looked wan, drawn around the eyes. Sleep. She was desperate for it. She closed her eyes against the headache building in the base of her skull. The momentary darkness was a relief, but not an escape.
Escape. The reason why many people disappeared. You just vanished. And then, somewhere else, sometime later, you could just make yourself up again.
The phone call, the blood on the wall. Rosa hadnt wanted to escape; shed been tryin
g to get home.
Clare opened the bathroom cupboard and rooted through the jumble of medicines and cosmetics. There they were: the sleeping pills.
Do not combine with alcohol, said the package insert. Not safe during pregnancy.
She popped one out of its foil blister and placed it on her tongue, but she gagged, her body rebelling. She could not get it down. She spat out the pill.
She was tired enough, in any case. Shed sleep, shed sleep. She lay down, her limbs leaden with exhaustion, though she willed herself to get up, to shower, to eat something. But it would be morning before she awoke the warm creature against her back the cat rather than Riedwaan.
Saturday
June 16
19
Relax your leg against me. The gynaecologist gave her knee a firm pat. Come on, Clare.
I hate this, she said.
I know. You tell me every time theres a moon blue enough to make you come and see me.
Clare forced herself not to tense up while the speculum parted her flesh. She lay still while the doctor adjusted the light, looked at whatever it was he needed to look at, probing what he needed to probe.
All done.
He pulled the towel over her knees.
All fine, he said. No infection, healthy cervix. The test says you are about a hundred percent pregnant. Youre a bit on the thin side, but youre a strong woman. Youll push out that baby, no problem.
I dont want it, she said.
Nobody in their right mind wants a baby, Clare, said Dr Evans. But sometimes people get lucky.
Lucky? said Clare.
Its your birthday today, he said. In case youd forgotten.
I hadnt, said Clare.
One wouldnt, I suppose, being born on the day that the whole country convulsed. Seventy-six. You and Constance, born as those children were being shot at in the streets.
The events are unconnected, said Clare. My mother went into labour early. Tell me why you think Im lucky to be sitting here like a careless teenager in trouble.
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