by JT Lawrence
‘It’s not. I mean, of course it is, but for different reasons. So you’re sure? No record of an adoption?’
‘Actually, no record of you being born. At all.’
Kirsten had guessed the birth certificate was a fake. She laughs despite herself.
‘So, what? You’re saying I don’t exist? I’m a ghost? No wonder I feel hollow. It’s all starting to make sense now!’
‘Not quite a ghost, but there’s definitely something odd about the way you came into the world. We just need to work out what happened. I mean, if that’s what you want. You could just forget about the autopsy report. Go back to living your normal life. It’s probably the sensible thing to do.’
‘Impossible. Besides, it’s never been normal. I need to find out the truth.’
Keke downs the last of her drink.
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
Seth looks at the clockologram on his bedroom wall for what feels like the hundredth time since getting into bed. Agitated, he wonders if he should get a sleeping pill but he’s already had two TranX so another downer would probably be a bad idea, especially on top of everything else he’s had today. A rock lyric comes into his head.
‘Sandy,’ he says to the open room.
‘Yes, Seth,’ purrs the apartment voice.
‘Play the song ‘Slumber is For Corpses’.’
Three beats later the song comes onto the sound system.
He closes his eyes and listens for a while, then reaches over for the sleeping pills, taps one into his palm. Fuck it, he thinks, and swallows it dry. He feels immensely dissatisfied with life in general. His QOL score was sitting at 32 out of a possible 100.
He logged on to the Alba network when he arrived home to see if there were any messages, but there was no green rabbit. He looked for a chatterbot in the quantum philosophy circuit but didn’t find one interesting enough. He watched half an hour of a really bad ultra-reality programme about the Underground Games: NinjaJitsu and Punch-Rugby, before giving up on the day and going to bed. He has been alone for so long, but has never gotten used to the feeling. On nights like this his life gapes before him, one big, empty gash. He is a prime number, and prime numbers are always lonely.
The animated graphic novel on his Tile fails to interest him, and he doesn’t feel up to gaming, so he just lies back and watches the red hologram digits click over and over. 00:00. He can’t even be bothered to jerk off.
They leave the SkyBar at around midnight. Kirsten knows by the look in Keke’s eyes that she’s on her way to a booty call.
‘Watch yourself,’ Keke says, strapping her helmet on and inflating it. She flings her leg over her sleek e-motorbike, releases the kickstand, and revs the engine. Kirsten waves as Keke takes off with a roar.
Standing in the monochrome rectangular box of the almost empty, poorly lit parking basement, Kirsten feels restless, cocky, horny, and not at all in the mood to go home. If she were single she’d go back to the bar, pick up some unsuspecting man and show him her talents.
She misses that, sometimes, the thrill of sleeping with someone for the first time. The feeling of a stranger’s lips on hers—lips that have nothing to do with love or affection. The first undressing, the first nipple-in-mouth, pulling of hair, and then the heady relief of that first swollen thrust. Just thinking about it, Kirsten feels her breathing deepen, and a general throbbing in the lower half of her body. James is a generous lover, but he doesn’t have the same nagging libido she does. Add thirteen years of old-fashioned monogamy to that and it’s always tempting on nights like this, with booze in her blood, to accept one of the many advances made to her. After all, no one would have to know, so no one would be hurt. She has never cheated on James, but at times like this, angry with him, angry with the world, she feels a hard, rebellious recklessness, a sharp chipstone in her fist.
The idea of meeting someone new at the bar, someone who doesn’t know any of her problems, is tempting. She could pretend to be a different person. Be someone lighter: someone who didn’t think as much. Make up a fake name, live one of those parallel lives that loiter in her subconscious, if only for a few hours. Shake some yellow stars of adrenaline into her bloodstream. Have dirty sex.
But she won’t do it, wouldn’t be able to live with the haunting guilt. Kirsten may have a dozen flaws, but she is not a cheater. Cursed at birth with honesty and loyalty, she’s not dissimilar to a Labrador, as Keke likes to say.
All relationships have their rocky roads. She reminds herself to think with her brain, and her heart, and takes a definitive step in the direction of the late-night bus stop.
In the distance a silhouette steps out from behind a car and Kirsten jumps.
Jesus! She scrabbles for her mace.
The figure slowly approaches her and her beer-clumsy fingers can’t find the mace so she decides to run. The parking basement, however, is in virtual darkness apart from the exit, and the creep now stands between her and the light. Kirsten squints, shields her eyes, tries to see the face of the stranger.
‘Hello?’ She pushes her voice deeper, tries to seem strong and confident. The figure slows, but keeps moving towards her, gliding silently, also cautious. With a zinging in her head, Kirsten realises this is the person who has been following her all night. She sweats, feverish with fright.
‘Don’t be scared,’ says a woman with a wobbly voice.
‘What do you want?’ shouts Kirsten, an edge to her tone. She imagines herself waking up the next morning in a bath of dirty ice, with untidy green stitches (Seaweed Sutures) where her kidneys used to be. But that kind of stuff doesn’t happen anymore. They print organs now.
‘I have something for you.’
Kirsten can make out her face, cheek-boned but androgynous, with a matching haircut. Skeletal figure hidden in unflattering clothes: mom-cut jeans and a tracksuit top flecked with dog hair. No makeup on her dry lips or darting eyes. Clenched hands.
‘Stay away from me!’ shouts Kirsten. ‘Stay away!’
‘I have something for you,’ the woman says again.
Jesus Christ. What? A knife? An injection? A cold pad of chloroform to hold to my mouth?
‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ she says, scuttling up close in dirty sneakers. She has body odour: dried figs and BBQ sauce. The stink smacks Kirsten in the face: it’s a giant grey curtain, poised to smother. The woman has some sticky white sleep in her eyes. Kirsten is repelled, nauseated.
‘I’m here to warn you.’ Her eyes flash from beneath her blunt-cut fringe. ‘There are people, people that want to hurt us.’
‘Us?’
‘You, and me, and the other four.’
‘Six people?’
‘Seven! Seven! One is dead already!’
Oh boy.
‘He was first on the list. He sang a song. Music man. Now he is dead. We were too late. Now I am warning you.’
Kirsten tries to step around her, but she blocks her way.
‘I didn’t believe it either when she told me,’ she rambles, ‘but she said I had to find you! Had to warn you. Had to give you the list.’
The woman takes her hand, and the feel of her clammy fingers makes Kirsten cringe. The woman presses a cold object into her palm and closes her fingers over it. A new wave of BBQ BO washes over Kirsten and she almost gags.
‘There is real danger. Don’t go to the police, they are in on it! They are pawns. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t trust anyone. Like dominoes we’ll fall,’ she says, softly clicking her fingers. Click, click, click. ‘Dominoes.’ She clicks seven times. ‘Don’t trust anyone! Not even the people you love.’
Kirsten’s heart bangs, her watch alerts her to a spike in blood pressure. The woman turns and scurries away. After a few steps she turns and whispers, ‘Be careful, Kate.’
‘My name is Kirsten!’
‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘Your Kirsten is my Betty, Kate. Betty-Barbara. Kirsten-Kate.’
Kirsten looks down, opening her hand to reveal a small
silver key.
‘Thank Christ!’ says Kirsten as she catches sight of James. Spooked by the delusional woman in the basement, she called and asked him to fetch her, and has been waiting for him in a bright, 24-hour teashop around the corner from the bar. She gets up too quickly to hug him and sends her cup and saucer stuttering to the floor where they crack and break apart in slow motion. They move awkwardly to pick up the pieces.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, mid-crouch, eyes on the floor.
‘Me too,’ she says. ‘Well, sorry that we fought, anyway.’
‘Yes,’ he says.
She’s too strung out to catch any kind of public transport, so they walk home. The pavement trips them up, but it’s a small price to pay. Kirsten tells him about Keke’s latest discovery: that there’s no record of her birth.
‘That’s impossible,’ James says. ‘There must be. Just because she can’t find proof... Look, I got your pills for you.’ He takes a plastic bottle of little yellow tablets (Lemon Zest) out of his manbag and hands it to her. After bumping him the prescription from the inVitro offices she has forgotten about it.
‘Thanks.’
He stops her, takes her by her elbows. ‘Kitty, are you okay?’
‘That... that stupid woman in the basement scared me,’ she says, childlike, vulnerable.
‘Creeps like that should be locked up,’ he says, anger grating his voice. ‘Instead of, instead of going around... frightening people. We should report her.’
Kirsten knows she shouldn’t tell him about the silver key but it’s glowing hot in her pocket, in her brain. They are walking over a bridge when she takes it out and shows it to him.
‘I know I should get rid of it,’ she says, ‘but something in me says I should keep it. I mean, I want to get rid of it...’ She feels silly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I do,’ says James. He grabs the key out of her hand and throws it over the bridge. It glints against the dark sky then is lost forever. Not even a sound as it lands: seconds, metres, storeys, away. Swallowed by the night. Kirsten is shocked by her empty, moon-white palm.
‘It’s for the best,’ James says, and marches on.
Journal Entry
10 December 1987, Westville
In the news: During a police raid on shacks in the Port Elizabeth area, they meet heavy resistance from the residents. The police drive a Casspir over the shack, killing four. Ireland is reeling from the Enniskillen Remembrance Day bombing.
What I’m listening to: Faith! By George Michael
What I’m reading: Kaleidoscope by Danielle Steele. I needed something light because the only time I have to read is when I’m half asleep and breastfeeding! The story is about three sisters who are separated by fate. I’m hoping they’ll be reunited.
What I’m watching: 3 Men and a Baby. Tom Selleck is gorgeous and hilarious.
Life keeps surprising me. After 18 hours in labour (an early labour and a very long 18 hours!) Sam Chapman (2.6kg) was born at 8:45. Ten minutes later – surprise! – A little girl arrived too. We have named her Kate (2.2kg).
We were totally shocked but actually my belly had been so big that everyone in shopping malls etc. kept asking if it was twins so we did have some kind of warning. P left the hospital once I fell asleep so that he could go get ‘emergency supplies’. It took us months to do up the nursery and here he is, having to double it up in a day!
Sam latched immediately but Kate was too hungry to try—she just screamed!—So P gave her a bottle to get her blood sugar level stable. They are so tiny; the nurses are keeping them in the warming drawers that look like Tupperwares. Pink tummies and tiny little toes that I want to kiss. I am exhausted and sore; all I want to do is hold my babies and sleep. Very tired, and relieved that we are all safe.
Chapter 9
Shining & Slippery with Sweat
Johannesburg, 2021
Seth saunters into the Yellow printer room.
‘Oh, hi Fiona.’ He smiles at the curly-haired woman and acts surprised, as if he didn’t know she was in there. She blushes at him knowing her name. Seth brushes skilfully past her.
‘Hi.’ She smiles, holding her locket to her lips, warming the silver with her breath. They both watch the printer for a few seconds, as if willing it to print faster. She unconsciously pumps her high heels, as if warming up for a race.
‘Our printer’s being repaired,’ he says. ‘It’s a dinosaur of a thing: still uses toner. That’s why I’m in Yellow.’
‘Okey-dokey,’ she says.
‘Not all bad, though,’ he says, ‘getting to see you.’
She guffaws. After a while, hand on hip, she says, ‘This won’t do, you know. I know what you’re trying to do.’ Her freckles fade against the rose of her cheeks.
‘Really?’ he says, ‘and what is that?’
‘Trying to find out Yellow’s secrets.’
He moves closer to her. ‘Ah, so you do have secrets.’
‘We do,’ she says, ‘and we’re going to win this quarter.’ Her large breasts rise and fall under her unfashionable paisley blouse.
‘You don’t have a chance,’ he says, rubbing his hands together. ‘Red is so far ahead, there’s no way Yellow can catch up.’
‘But you’re wrong,’ she says in mock-seriousness. ‘We were just saving ourselves. We’ve got something massive planned. It’ll sell thousands of units.’
‘It’ll need to,’ says Seth. The printer stops then, as if to flag the end of their conversation.
She gathers up the A4 prints and holds them to her chest, pretending they are top-secret documents, even though Seth knows that they are just her latest holiday snaps: Bali.
‘Are you coming to the teambuilding on Friday?’ she asks. ‘I heard that we’re going to go on a 4D-maze tetrick treasure hunt.’
I’d rather stick a fork in my eye.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Well, if you’re going.’
‘Yes! Yes, I’m going.’
‘Then I’ll be there,’ he says.
‘Great!’
‘Great.’ He smiles, almost winking.
He turns to face the printer and presses print on his Tile. The printer hums, then starts spitting out pages. She gives him a royal wave and walks away. He waits for a few moments, reading the moronic posters on the wall, then heads back to his office, leaving the blank pages in the printer tray.
Betty checks the locks on her door for the fifth time. They’re locked, but checking them makes her feel safer. She has to do things that make her feel safer.
She sits in front of her blank homescreen but realises the remote isn’t working. Betty shakes the remote around a little, tries again. Then she opens up the back and makes sure the batteries are in place. Takes them out, puts them back in. Still the glass stays clear. Betty gets up to check its connections and sees it’s unplugged. She picks up the plug and moves it towards the wall but stops when she reads an orange sticker covering the electricity outlet and switch: ‘Don’t watch TV.’ It’s in her handwriting.
Yes, television is not good for me. She should really get rid of the screen, but it was expensive and she abhors waste. The voices are the reason she can’t watch any more. They tell her to do things. Soap opera stars, talk show hosts, newsreaders. They tell her that creeps are trying to kill her, blow up her building, decimate the country. They make her write letters to people, telling them that they are in danger. Politicians, local celebrities, airlines.
The police have been here before. They were rough until she showed them the doctor’s note she keeps in her bra. The paper is leathery, now. The voices speak directly to her. ‘Barbara,’ (for they have recently taken to calling her Barbara), ‘the next bus you take will be wired with a car-bomb with your name on it.’ That’s when she stopped taking the bus. The communal taxi and individual cab drivers are also not to be trusted. They could take you anywhere and you’d never be seen again.
Disappear. She clicks her fingers. Just like that. Click, click. She has started walking
, then running everywhere. She gets to the grind shining and slippery with sweat. She is losing a lot of weight. The running has done it. Also, food is a problem. She can’t run with all her groceries so she has to shop every day. She doesn’t like shopping: too many people. Her psychologist says to try online shopping. Everyone’s doing it, but that will mean giving strangers her address and the hours she will be home. Even if the shop people are harmless, the information could be intercepted.
When she finally builds up supplies she ends up throwing them away. The fridge door looks suspicious: as if someone else has opened it. An intruder. She tries to work out exactly which food they have contaminated but can never stop at one item. Once the pineberry yoghurt has been binned, the cheddar looks suspect, after that, the pawpaw, the black bread, the SoySpread, the feta. The precious, innocent-looking eggs, the vegetarian hotdogs, the green mango atchar, the leftover basmati, until it is all discarded and sealed tightly in a black plastic bag. The dumping of each individual item causes her pain; she so hates to fritter. This happens once a week.
Sometimes she needs to check the cupboards, too. Sometimes it’s not just the open things in the fridge that may have been tainted. She’ll get an idea, a name, in her head, and those things will have to go too. Last week it was Bilchen—pictures in her head of factorybots polluting the processed food then sealing them in neat little parcels, ready to eat. It is as if someone is shouting at her: Bilchen! Bilchen! Like a branded panic attack. Then she has to check every box and packet in her cupboard and toss everything with the Bilchen logo. Not much is left over.
She chooses a lonely tin of chickpeas, checks the label, and eases it open with an old appliance. She polishes a fork with her tracksuit top and eats directly out of the can. Canned food is relatively safe. She reaches for the kosher salt pebbles, but before she starts grinding it she sees the top is loose. She pictures arsenic, cyanide, a sprinkling of a strain of deadly virus, and puts it back without using it. Washes her hands twice and sprays them with hand sanitiser.
