Water Music

by Margie Orford

  The doctor leaned back in his chair and regarded her for a moment. Clare, youre thirty-six today, He glanced at his notes. In two years time itll be much harder to conceive. Four years time youll be forty. Youve read the articles, you know the numbers. For women, biology isnt fair.

  Its not for me, motherhood, said Clare. Its inconvenient.

  Inconvenient. Dr Evans looked at her over his glasses. You are one of the most inconvenient people Ive ever known, Clare. Since you were born youve made a career out of it, like your father did when he was alive, like you are now with that unpleasant policeman I heard on the radio this morning.

  Jakes Cwele, said Clare. Im quite enjoying inconveniencing him.

  Are you afraid? the doctor asked.

  I just think I should terminate, said Clare.

  Have you discussed this with that unsuitable cop of yours?

  Clare shook her head, looked at Table Mountain framed by the window.

  Its a hard thing to decide alone, said Dr Evans. A hard thing to do alone.

  Maybe you should do that scan after all, said Clare. Let me look at it. Then Ill decide.

  Itll make it harder if you do, said Dr Evans, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  Ive never not looked what I plan to do straight in the eye, said Clare. Let me see this.

  The doctor spread a thick film of gel across Clares concave belly. He ran the scanners arm over her skin. A pale green snowstorm appeared on the screen. Here was the solid cradle of the pelvis, cupping softer, darker parts of her body. Dr Evans moved the instrument with precision, naming the organs that did their quiet work unnoticed bladder, liver, kidneys. Then a different spherical shape, the uterus. The doctor zoomed in, pressing the eye of the sonar firmly against Clares belly, bringing the inside of her into sharp focus on the screen. A window into another world. The bulge of what would be a head, the curve of a bottom, flipper-like arms, tadpole legs curled into a chest. It was of her, but not her. At the epicentre of this ordered, alien accumulation of cells, a steady pixel-pulse. A beating heart.

  Everythings there, everything looks right. The doctor was concentrating, measuring.

  Its a mistake, said Clare.

  Nothing wrong with mistakes. The sonar spat out a print of the scan. He handed it to her. The blur of her belly, the womb where the tiny foetus floated, oblivious of being spied upon in its safe, watery cave.

  This is not a mistake I think I can make, said Clare.

  The doctor wiped the gel from her skin. Get dressed, and then come through and talk to me.

  On the broad, blank desk was a paperweight, two paperclips, a family photograph. Her file, lying open. Clare watched him write up his notes, the sound of his pen scratching at the silence in the room.

  She felt as if she were floating, or drowning. It was surreal. An unforgivable slip-up that had landed her at the edge of a precipice. She had to decide. Whatever she decided would be absolute and irrevocable. This was the moment between Before and After. Baby. No baby. There was nothing in between. Two halves of herself: her desire to shield the vulnerable; her fear a terror, really of losing her independence, her hard-won solitariness. She felt as if she were being drawn back into being half something doubled. A twin and now a mother. Potentially a mother. She looked at the small black-and-white image in her lap, and her throat closed up.

  Did you hear me, Clare?

  She jerked back to the present, to the room, to the window with the mountain caught in its frame, to her doctors voice. Her fathers friend, and the man who had reassembled Constances broken body Constance, her other other. This doctor who had known her since before she was born. His eyes were on her now, gentle, knowing, without judgement.

  Youre further along than you think, Clare, he repeated. Ten, eleven weeks.

  Clare felt the shackles of indecision and anxiety tighten.

  How do you know? she asked.

  He opened a drawer and pulled out a card. The Ministry of Healths coat of arms was on the front, the bird at its centre more Zazu-from-The-Lion-King than the eagle rampant Clare presumed it was meant to be. Dr Evans opened the card three elegant diagonal lines plotted on a graph.

  Whats that? asked Clare.

  A state antenatal card, said Dr Evans. This graph gives you a good idea of uterine development, which helps estimate fairly precisely how far along you are. This here shows

  Clare was on her feet.

  Thanks, she said.

  Clare, sit down, said Dr Evans. Im not finished. Your condition is not something you can hide from. Youre nearly twelve weeks, he continued. And youre thinking of terminating. If you wait much longer it will be far harder.

  I know, said Clare. But I cant think about that now. Can I have that card?

  Are you afraid? He handed it to her, bemused.

  Im terrified. Clare stood up abruptly, knocking the chair over. But theres something I have to check.

  Dont worry with the chair, he said, righting it. He put his hand on her shoulder. Itll be fine. Youll be fine.

  A film of tears covered Clares eyes. Ill come see you again. Tuesday, maybe. You can tell me the rest then.

  With that, she was gone.

  Dr Evans walked over to the window. He watched as Clare ran across the rain-slicked parking lot. Her hair flashed against her blue coat. It made him think back to when she and her twin had been schoolgirls. He closed his eyes, remembered the summers night eighteen years before. Constance, ever the shy twin, climbing out of the window of her boarding school, following Clare always impatient, always questing who had a liaison with her first love. Dr Evans opened his eyes, saw still the sinister park where Constance born second, born smaller, incubated for weeks, unable to bear being apart from her twin had followed Clare. But instead of finding her sister, Constance had been set upon by five gangsters. Two had knives, one had a hammer. When theyd finished with her, they left her for dead. Clare had found her twin, mutilated, maimed; she had forced Constance to live. Forced her. And ever since, Clare had tried to atone.

  20

  Clare tried to order her thoughts as she drove back to Hout Bay. The simple solution seemed impossible. And the complicated solution, not taking action, was also impossible. She had to brake sharply for the horsebox at the traffic lights, the acrid smell of rubber bringing her back to her surroundings.

  There were few people about, two horse riders on Main Road, an intrepid group of cyclists overtaking them. Women domestic workers, cashiers, packers trickled out of the tin shacks that clung to the mountainside. Boys in immaculate soccer kit streamed down to the muddy poor-boy pitches lower down on the Disa River. Light gilded the corrugated iron walls, and for a moment Imizamo Yethu looked like the City of God. Then the sun was gone and it was a slum again.

  As Clare turned into the Section 28 parking lot she could hear the first cheers of the gathering crowd. The rally was the prelude to the Saturday morning soccer matches. There were posters. Free T-shirts were being handed out. The familiar image of Hector Petersen borne in the arms of a youth whose face is forever frozen in fury and pain.

  Today, in Cape Town, on this muddy stretch along the Disa River, there were Cokes and Kwaito music. Soon, politicians would make speeches filled with promises that would dissolve in the rain.

  Clare parked her car, the wind catching her door as she got out.

  Sweetness, let me help you. It was Jakes Cwele holding her door, blocking her path. He thrust an enormous bunch of white lilies at Clare as she got out.

  I signed for them. Says here: Clare. Sweetness, see you at dinner, Birthday Girl.

  He smiled. A row of perfect white teeth. Blank eyes.

  Thank you, said Clare. She had no choice but to take the flowers. Having her hands full made her feel vulnerable. He had boxed her in between her car and the fence. Im surprised to see you here, she said. I thought youd be at the rally, telling the youth what a wonderful job the police are doing to keep them safe, ensuring that they enjoy all the rights promised in Section 28.

/>   Just came by to wish you, to tell you take the day off.

  And why would I want to do that? said Clare.

  Im your commanding officer, remember, said Cwele. Im here to help, to guide, to advise. You feminists, you think you have to do everything yourselves, but try it. Sometimes a man can help.

  Its so kind of you to offer, said Clare, But right now, neither Major Britz nor I need your help or your advice, said Clare.

  Your time is up, Dr Hart.

  Not quite, said Clare, pushing past him. You check my contract, you check the mandate of Section 28. Youre not getting rid of me yet.

  Clare, his voice was low. Watch yourself. If I find out that you have done something out of order, you will pay.

  Clare turned to face him.

  What are you implying?

  Ive been told that resources are being spent on things other than childrens welfare, said Cwele. Thats a serious offence.

  Cwele, she said, you might be my commanding officer, but I will say this to you. You have no interest in justice.

  You watch yourself, little lady, he said. Captain Faizal and Phiri are not going to be able to watch out for you that much longer.

  Are you threatening me? asked Clare.

  Cwele held his hands open, palms up. Im your friend, he said. Im looking out for your welfare.

  Thats something Id prefer to do myself.

  Clare slammed the door behind her.

  Ina let out a low whistle when Clare walked in.

  I watched that, said Ina Britz. Looks like Cwele really got to you.

  Thats one way of putting it, said Clare, propping the flowers in the sink as she washed her hands. She hadnt realised they were shaking.

  Dont take it personally, said Ina, dunking a doughnut in her coffee. He hates all women, especially the ones who backchat.

  Ja, I know, Clare gave a wry smile. But hell be out of the way today. Hes scheduled to be the ministers poodle at the Youth Day rally.

  Clare watched Cwele manoeuvre a million rands worth of official car out of the parking lot.

  Its a farce, said Clare, turning away from the window. Were still getting kids shot in the back. Some days it feels as if were handcuffed to history.

  Youre philosophical for such a cold morning, said Ina.

  Not me, said Clare. Salman Rushdie, I was reading Midnights Children again. That phrase, right there on the first page it jumped out at me. Seems to sum up the Cape.

  Thinking about dead or nearly dead children on Youth Day would drive anyone to philosophy, said Ina. But last year we had over two hundred cases like this, girlie, so I wouldnt go all New Age and see it as symbolic. Happens pretty much every weekend.

  Anything from Shorty de Lange yet?

  Not yet, hes working on it. But the rubbish that they found in the cottage is photographed and up now. The rest is bagged and tagged in the incident room. The photographs from the house in Sylvan Estate are up there too.

  Youre like Wonder Woman, Ina, said Clare.

  Clare went to look through what had been found. The order in the room dispelled both the fury and the fear that Jakes Cwele had managed to trigger in her. She focused on the evidence, working methodically through the detritus that had been sorted and labelled.

  Ina, said Clare, where does this come from?

  She was holding a photograph of five scraps of soiled yellow paper.

  Its part of the rubbish from the cottage, said Ina.

  Where is it? asked Clare.

  Its there, with all the other evidence. Id planned to take it over to De Lange this morning.

  Clare opened the box on the table marked and labelled and signed for. She broke the seal, signed again, and tipped out its contents. She laid out the plastic sleeves, one by one. Pictures of the girls, each telling its predictable story. Clare pushed them out of the way. Not what she was looking for. The magazine was there, the sweet wrappers. She found what she was looking for in the last bag.

  She arranged the five torn scraps of paper, like a jigsaw puzzle. She Sellotaped them together. They were smudged and damp and it was hard to make out the details. A Ministry of Health logo, at least. Graphs and some smudged numbers. Like the one shed picked up for the pregnant woman yesterday in Casualty. Like the one Dr Evans had shown her an hour ago after he had done her scan.

  Ina, she said, clutching the card. Ive got us an ID.

  21

  The Sentinel, the lopsided hill at the harbour entrance, loomed over the fishing village that had clung for centuries to its wind-scoured flanks. Hangberg straggled above the harbour, its humble houses shuttered against the storm.

  The Community Clinic was situated in the no-mans-land between an abandoned warehouse and a crescent of rundown council flats. It was ringed by a razor-wire fence and had grenade mesh on its windows.

  The sign outside said No Guns Allowed. It also said that Saturday was for emergencies only. A Kevlar-jacketed security guard checked Clares bag for weapons and patted her down.

  She pushed the door open. The waiting room was packed. Friday night in Hangberg produced more than its fair share of emergencies. Women looking worse for a nights marital wear and tear, coughing children slumped against their grandmothers, fishermen with bandaged hands, boys in hoodies leaning their bandaged, bloody heads against the wall.

  There was a scrum of people at Reception.

  I need to see the head sister, Clare demanded.

  So does everybody, said the receptionist, looking up at Clare. She scanned her hair, her clothes, her authority. Then she said, Let me call the sister for you.

  Can I help? The nurse was immaculate in her white uniform. A plump, pretty face; tired eyes.

  I need to know something: is this one of yours? Clare said, holding out the patched-together clinic card to the nurse.

  It is, said the nurse impatiently. As you can see, we are short-staffed and busy.

  Like the police, said Clare. But please, I need to know who it belongs to. The name is smudged.

  A ripple of silence was spreading out from where Clare stood. This was not a community that shared its secrets with outsiders. The nurses glance shifted to the watching patients, then back to Clare.

  Sorry, I dont have the time now, she said.

  This wont take long, Sister. Clare proffered her ID, and the nurse capitulated.

  Come through, then.

  She followed the nurse into an office that doubled as an examining room. A raised bed, steel instruments, a light, lubricant, an empty box of tissues, posters about breastfeeding.

  Right, Dr Hart, said the nurse. What do you need to know?

  I want to know whose card this is, said Clare.

  Patient information is confidential, Dr Hart, said the sister. Do you have a warrant?

  No, said Clare. But a young woman has gone missing. This was found in a cottage on an estate near Judas Peak. Looked like people had been smoking tik there. Im hoping it was someone who can help us with the enquiry.

  The gangsters dont come in here much, said the nurse. If they need attention, they go private so theres no record.

  Please take a look at the card, said Clare.

  The nurse scrutinised it.

  This is an antenatal card. She held the card up to the light. DesRay Daniels. Fifteen years old, weight fifty kilos, third trimester.

  When last was she here? asked Clare.

  Her last appointment was Friday. Yesterday. She rifled through a drawer, pulled out a file. Shes due in a month, said the nurse.

  And the father, said Clare. Do you know him?

  Not personally, no, but I see a version of him every day. She ran a finger down the notes and said: The side effects of pregnancy. Nausea and tiredness: yes; black eyes and split lips: no. Two of DesRays visits have been because of assault. She pushed the notes over to Clare.

  Do you know his name? asked Clare.

  No, said the sister. But I can tell you where DesRay lives. Her chance of surviving will be much higher if hes in jail.
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  Clare stepped out of the clinic. The boy sitting on the pavement watched as she walked by. She could feel his eyes on her, two knives in her back. A dog with swollen dugs was scavenging in the gutter next to Clares car. The boy picked up a stone and aimed it at the bitchs scrawny flank. The animal howled, then disappeared among the crowded houses. The raw sensation in Clares stomach was way beyond morning sickness. She started the car and drove up the steep cobbled street. Past the crèche, past the barricaded sports centre and the Anglican Church to where Vulcan Close petered out into a footpath that ascended the contour of the mountain. Number twenty-six was the last house, but there were no signs of life when Clare knocked on the door. She could feel eyes watching her from behind shabby lace curtains that hung in all the windows on the desolate crescent. At the Danielss house, someone had planted a geranium in a tin. It nodded a pretty red flower at Clare as she knocked on the bright yellow door.

  The bolt shot back and the door opened a crack.

  Mrs Daniels? asked Clare. The woman was about Clares age, though a very different life had been scripted on her once-pretty face. A wiry little boy clung to her legs. A television, tuned into Cartoon Network, rat-a-tatted and squealed.

  Hello, Im looking for DesRay.

  What for?

  Can I come in? asked Clare, aware of the watchers behind the windows arrayed behind her. Mrs Daniels seemed to have the same concern, as she quickly opened the door and ushered Clare in.

  Why you looking for her? Belligerence and fear in her voice, Mrs Daniels stood in the middle of the living room with her arms folded. Outside, two black-and-white maids uniforms were pegged on the washing line. Inside, a flatscreen TV, a puffy leather lounge suite that crowded the small room, a sound system. Costly possessions, on a cleaning womans wage.

  DesRay, said Clare. Is she in?

  Ja, shes here. Arms folded across her chest. Shes asleep.

  Could you wake her? asked Clare. I need to speak to her.

  Why, whats she done?

  Is she pregnant, your daughter? asked Clare.

  Whats it got to do with you?

  Her clinic card was found in a house down the valley, said Clare. Something seems to have happened in there. Id like to talk to her about it.