by Rosie Rowell
I study the duvet cover. It’s obvious that Helen wants to stay. I think of the bag and the gun under the bed and start to giggle.
Helen frowns. ‘Are you guys stoned?’
‘No,’ says Louisa, giggling too. ‘Call me when you’re done shopping.’
As the morning progresses it becomes apparent that we can’t have a conversation without mentioning ‘the bag’. It’s no longer exciting; it has become a reason for us to snap at each other. Each time a car passes I look up, and every time I look up I catch Louisa watching me.
Brett has barely said a word since he got up. His face has a green tinge as he lies on the sofa, flipping through TV channels. Each time one of us talks, he turns the volume up.
I offer to stay at home while they go out. This annoys Louisa. ‘You can’t babysit a gun, Grace.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘We’ll leave it here and all go out.’
‘Where are we going to go?’ snaps Louisa. The mist has not shifted, it is tightly wrapped around the house. Eventually we settle on a walk. With the bag. That way Helen won’t stumble upon it if she drops by. Spook will have to wait if he turns up while we are gone.
Stepping onto the beach is like walking into a tunnel of white. Halfway across the sand Brett stops. ‘I’m too ill to walk.’ He pulls his red hoodie over his face and collapses on the sand.
‘Will you keep this?’ I hold out the bag.
Brett laughs at the suggestion. ‘Just so we’re clear, that bag has nothing to do with me. If my dad ever hears about this, he’d cancel my overseas trip.’
‘No he wouldn’t,’ Louisa scoffs.
‘He would. He’s dying to find a reason not to fork out all that money.’
Louisa crouches down to kiss him and says something that makes him laugh. I turn away, feeling lonely. Rory used to say no one can make you feel anything you don’t want to. That’s another thing he was wrong about.
Louisa and I walk along the edge of the water, dodging the waves that creep too far up the sand. The mist is so disorientating that I can’t work out whether the tide is coming in or going out. We pass a perfect blue mussel shell next to a branch of kelp. Louisa hasn’t said anything about the two I left on her bedside table. Every so often a walker looms through the mist, then disappears again. The weight of the bag on my back feels as though I’m pulling Spook along with us. I shift the contents around until the gun is not jabbing against my coccyx.
‘Mrs Cele hasn’t called since we arrived,’ says Louisa, referring to her mother.
‘Lucky you.’
Louisa raises a disparaging eyebrow. ‘You know my mum. She phones me to tell me she’s put the dishwasher on. This kind of silence means trouble. And the only trouble she wouldn’t want to tell me about is to do with me. I’m guessing I’ve been accepted onto the Social Work course.’
‘Why is that trouble?’
‘I didn’t tell her I applied.’ Louisa smiles at the look of disbelief on my face. I was surprised when Louisa announced at the beginning of this year that she’d changed her course from a business degree to Social Work, but I didn’t think much more than that. How had I missed it?
She puts on her mum’s accent: ‘“Your father does not leave for work at six-thirty every morning so that his daughter will end up a social worker. Do you take your parents for idiots? You will get a proper job and make your father proud.” Of course, Dad’s not the one who objects.’
I’m struggling to stop myself from feeling hurt that she hadn’t told me about it. Her application went in months ago. Did she tell Helen at the time? ‘Social work is a proper job,’ I reply eventually.
Louisa shakes her head. ‘According to my mum I won’t make any money, no one will want to marry me and dealing with people in need is depressing and thankless.’
‘But your mum was raised by nuns,’ I say.
‘Exactly. Her reason for living is to give her children a different life to hers. She is going to be apoplectic when she finds out, especially as Dad signed the forms without her knowing.’
‘Wow.’ I almost feel sorry for Mrs Cele. Louisa is so obviously her favourite child, this kind of defiance would be devastating. ‘Are you going to stick to your guns?’
‘Dunno,’ says Louisa quietly. ‘So when does your programme thingy start?
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Lou.’ I realise too late that this walk was a very bad idea. To be stuck in a one-on-one with Louisa could end up being disastrous.
‘I can’t believe you’re not going to be starting varsity next year!’ That is the sort of thing Theresa would say.
‘We were never going to be on the same campus.’
‘Still –’
‘You won’t even notice I’m not there with Helen and Theresa around.’
Louisa stops short. ‘What is your problem with them?’
‘Nothing! It was a joke.’
We’ve reached the end of the beach, the crayfish factory looms above. A long row of glassless square windows gapes at the ocean. ‘You could just imagine a bunch of corpses in there,’ says Louisa, shuddering.
‘And a den where a serial killer has covered the walls in photographs and painted over them in blood,’ I add.
‘Stop it!’ says Louisa.
I laugh. I’m about to carry on when something brushes against the back of my legs. ‘Jesus Christ!’ I shout and whirl around. A bedraggled sheepdog is wagging its tail. ‘Voetsek!1’ I shout. I stamp my foot at it.
Louisa throws back her head and laughs. ‘Did you think it was the serial killer?’ The dog jumps up at her, but she bats it away. She’s not a pet person. There is a high-pitched whistle behind us and the dog charges off.
‘This mist is freaky. Anyone could be following us.’
‘Who would want to follow us?’
‘The gangsters, from that car in Lambert’s Bay,’ I say before I can stop myself.
Louisa takes my arm. ‘No one was chasing us, Grace. It was some random car.’
‘So you’re saying the black car and the bag and Spook disappearing have nothing to do with each other?’ Even as I’m speaking the words I know it sounds a little far-fetched.
Louisa gapes at me. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘No,’ I say, looking away.
‘Do you want Spook to come back?’
‘Well, he has to, doesn’t he?’
‘That wasn’t what I asked.’
As we walk back I can feel the pressure in the air changing. The sun far above is creating a sharp yellowy light.
‘Did Mr Thomas suggest the programme?’
‘Why are you so obsessed with Rory?’
Louisa stops abruptly. It’s because I used Rory’s first name. Dammit. ‘You never talk about him,’ she says in a carefully casual voice.
I carry on walking a few paces then turn around and face her. ‘There’s nothing to say.’ And it’s none of your bloody business, I almost add. ‘But you’re right, I never talk about him. So how do you know about him?’’
She holds up her hands. ‘Forget it, Grace.’
She’s holding something back. ‘Do you discuss me with Helen and Theresa?’
Louisa pulls a face. ‘No.’
‘Because that will go straight back to my mother and –’
‘Grace!’ Louisa shouts at me. ‘Who do you think told him where to find you that day?’
I look at her, reeling. ‘He was taking a walk.’
Louisa sighs. ‘Sure, and Father Christmas is real.’ She walks past me at an angry pace. Brett comes into view, lying exactly as we left him.
‘Are you saying you told him? How did you know where I was?’ I shout after her, but she has broken into a run. By the time I reach them she’s lying next to him with her head on his chest. I leave them there and head for the path to the house. I round the first corner, brushing a pin-cushion bush out of the way. It’s not fair. Less than twenty-four hours ago Spook was simply the oddball stranger with no plans for the rest of his life. T
his time yesterday we were at the bar. He hadn’t yet spoken to Marvin. I feel his arms wrapped around my legs again; the smell of soap on his neck.
The glimpse of a car through the trees makes me stop. It’s moving slowly, as if about to turn – is it Spook? Has he come back? It disappears for a moment. I try and stop the smile from spreading across my face. Be cool, Grace! He’s only here for the bag. But I don’t care. I’m glad the others aren’t with me. I’m almost running as I round the curve and come into full view of the house and the drive.
Shit. I sink to the ground. I have to get to Louisa and Brett, I have to stop them making a noise. I scramble back along the path. Louisa is alone. I lunge at her and pull her down. ‘What?’ she says, too loudly so that I scrunch up my face and shake my head.
‘Car,’ I breathe.
‘What car?’ Louisa tries to get up but I pull her back down.
‘The black car.’
I follow Louisa, bent double, the bag banging awkwardly on my back, silently begging the dense growth of fynbos2 on either side of us to hide our scramble back down the sandy path.
‘Brett, get down!’ hisses Louisa as he comes into view.
‘What?’ Brett’s surprise wipes away his grumpy expression.
‘Get down!’ Louisa yanks him by the arm.
‘I knew it!’ I whisper. We’re crouched around the scuffed bag. ‘I told you, Louisa! They must have been following Spook.’ I feel triumphant, vindicated.
Louisa glances sharply at me then turns to Brett. By the look on Brett’s face it’s obvious she hadn’t mentioned the black Golf following us in Lambert’s Bay. As she whispers a hurried, edited version, Brett stands up. ‘Brett!’ we hiss and pull him down. The heavy mist is evaporating in front of us.
‘They’re climbing up to the deck,’ he says.
‘Go and get rid of them, Brett.’
‘Why me?’
‘They don’t know you.’ Louisa’s whisper is rising.
‘This has got nothing –’
Louisa pinches his thigh.
‘OW!’ He rubs his leg.
‘Go,’ repeats Louisa, ‘before they break the door.’
Brett swears and gets up.
‘Don’t look back,’ Louisa says fiercely.
He walks forward, his grasshopper legs extending angularly from his yellow and white boardies, making him look no older than twelve.
‘Jesus, I hope this works,’ whispers Louisa.
‘I told you –’
‘Shush,’ Louisa interrupts.
A voice reaches us: ‘Hoesit my bru.’ It sounds like a bad caricature of a Cape Flats accent.
Brett’s response is muffled.
‘Nice place, nuh,’ continues the oil-on-water voice.
I glance at Louisa. She is frowning in concentration as she listens, hugging her knees. I pick up a twig and run my fingertips along the jagged stem.
‘Happy days,’ comes a different voice. Of course – there were two in the car. ‘Bietjie3 fres fish and calamari.’
‘Can I help you?’ says Brett.
‘Just a courtesy call,’ says the first voice. The other voice laughs. ‘We’re looking for a friend. Haven’t seen him for a long time, so we’re trying to get back in touch, see.’
‘Are you going from house to house?’ asks Brett. I catch Louisa’s eye. She shakes her head.
The first voice laughs. ‘Lekker4 funny, nuh? No. A friend of a friend said he was staying here.’
‘You’ve got lots of friends,’ says Brett.
‘Stop being smart, Brett,’ whispers Louisa, rubbing her hand over her head. Her hair is shorter than Spook’s. Her head has a more graceful curve.
‘But I’m afraid your friend isn’t here,’ Brett continues. ‘Never has been.’
‘That is odd,’ says the first voice slowly. ‘Sorry to bother you then.’ There is a pause. Louisa and I look at each other, waiting.
‘You don’t mind if we come inside, nuh.’ The politeness of the request is distinctly mocking. ‘Leave our number in case he turns up.’
Louisa holds up the house keys. I squeeze my eyes shut.
‘No,’ says Brett, loudly. ‘I mean yes, I do mind.’
We’re straining to hear their reply but the noise of the approaching train drowns their voices. ‘Oh my god, this is not happening,’ whispers Louisa.
The steady mechanical hiss and rumble lasts for so long that it seems as if someone has pressed pause on the moment. I picture the three hundred and forty-two wagons, each creaking under the weight of one hundred tonnes of iron ore, and will them to go faster. Louisa looks down at the bag. ‘It’s not fair to leave Brett on his own.’ Her voice is wobbly. ‘I’m going to join him.’
‘No!’ I grab onto her arm. ‘They saw us in Spook’s car. It will make it obvious that Brett is lying.’
‘I don’t care!’ She yanks her arm free and straightens up.
But a moment later she is next to me again. ‘Helen’s just driven up!’
I put my hand over my mouth.
‘Howzit Brett!’ comes Helen’s voice. It has an edge to it that’s really saying ‘who the crap are these people?’.
‘Can I help you?’ she says, in a voice her mother would use to talk to the gardener. Only Helen wouldn’t realise the danger she’s in. ‘What? What chap?’
The response is muffled.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sorry but if you don’t leave I’m going to have to call the police.’ Helen’s voice is getting louder.
After what feels an excruciating delay the car starts up and reverses. Louisa and I look at each other. I’ve been sitting on my haunches. My knees are aching; I lean backwards until my bum hits the ground.
I look at Louisa. ‘Do you –’
‘Shh!’ she says and we wait a few more minutes.
‘Helen can’t know about the bag,’ I whisper.
‘Leave it here. We’ll pick it up when she’s gone.’
‘You’re right, Louisa. We should have gone to Plett,’ Helen calls from the deck as we approach. ‘You’ve just missed some seriously skanky guys snooping around. Looking for your guy, apparently,’ she adds, looking at me.
‘He was never my guy,’ I say as we reach the top of the steps.
Louisa steps around me and hugs Helen. ‘It’s good to see you. It’s always good to see you, but right now, particularly so.’
Helen steps back and looks at her suspiciously. ‘What’s going on?’
Louisa laughs, much higher than her normal gravelly chortle. She looks at me.
Helen turns to study Brett and me. ‘You were acting weird this morning too. I know,’ she says slowly, ‘you’ve got hold of some mushrooms, haven’t you?’
This starts Brett and me giggling too.
Helen knows she’s missing something. Her hands are on her hips. ‘Vredendal is crappy,’ she says eventually.
Louisa sighs out the last of her laughter. ‘Of course it’s crappy, but you knew that before you went. Hey – the sun has come out.’
I look up. The sky has transformed into an innocent blue; the solid morning mist belongs to a different place and time.
‘We’re having a party tonight. You guys have to come. But no more weirdos,’ says Helen, looking at me.
‘Why don’t you hang around for a coffee?’ Louisa asks.
‘I have to go. The others are waiting for me.’
‘The others?’
‘We met some guys at that restaurant on the beach. They’re coming over.’
‘OK,’ says Louisa, not quite managing to hide the disappointment. I watch her watching Helen walking back to her car, looking wistful.
‘Bye, my love!’ I shout after Helen. She turns around and waves.
Louisa glares at me.
A thud makes me jump. Brett has hurled an empty beer can across the deck. It clatters about for a few moments. He stalks after it. Louisa looks at me. The temporary distraction Helen brought has evaporated in the growing heat of the sun.
‘Fuck!’ Brett shouts at the sea. He turns back to us. ‘I am NEVER doing that again.’ He’s shaking. I think it must be fear but then he looks at me, his face tight with anger and for the first time I see his father in his face. It moves differently. Are our grown-up faces there all along, waiting for childhood to be rubbed away like a scratchcard?
‘Get rid of that fucking bag.’
‘Brett, chill!’ says Louisa.
He turns to her. ‘You didn’t have to talk to them! They were gangsters, Louisa.
‘Two days ago you two are followed by some random car in Lambert’s Bay. Now they turn up here, looking for Spook. How the fuck does that work?’
Louisa turns to me.
‘I don’t know! Will the two of you stop making this out to be my fault – you were the one who wanted to take the car, Louisa.’
Louisa gapes at the words. ‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s true. If you hadn’t insisted on taking Spook’s car this would not be happening.’
Brett swears again and disappears inside. He returns with his wallet. ‘None of this is my fault. Fix it,’ he says and disappears down the stairs.
Louisa turns to me. ‘But how would they link the car and Spook to this house? They must have been following us. What happened yesterday when you went out?’
‘Nothing! I told you! I’m going to get the bag.’
I feel sick as I walk back down the path. Is it time to tell Louisa about seeing the car again yesterday? But I’ve already denied knowing anything – if I changed my story now, she’d blame all of this on me.
She is in the kitchen when I return. I drop the bag next to the fridge. The heavy clunk of the gun on the floor makes me wince.
She hands me my phone, showing another three missed calls from my mother. ‘Get over yourself and call her. Soon she’s going to drive up here and that is the last thing we need.’
The impatience in her voice makes me defensive. ‘She won’t.’ I almost wish she would. Those men and the problem of the bag would be no match for my mother in a fury. I turn and open the fridge for the jug of water. I feel Louisa’s angry silence. I slowly fill a glass and place the jug on the counter. The cold water slices a path down to my stomach.
The house owner has stuck laminated notices to the fridge.
‘Water is a precious resource! Use sparingly!’
