by S. L. Grey
Rosen guides one of the trolleys to the back of the car. ‘In here,’ he says. We heft Glenn’s and June’s naked and marked bodies over the edge of the trolley and they slam in like the simple flesh they are. They’re just meat.
Rosen takes a small ledger out of his briefcase and fills in a page in carbonised quadruplicate then passes the book to me. ‘Here you go, Mr Farrell. I’ve entered your policy number here, assessment numbers here, date and time here, and all I need is your signature here. Congratulations, Mr Farrell. You have settled your debt with the Ministry of Modifications.’
He extends his half-hand and this time I have no objection to shaking it. He gets back into the car and before I join him I peer over the lip of the trolley for one last look at Glenn’s and June’s bodies, their shallow breathing reorganising their flesh against each other. June lets out an unconscious whimper.
I turn away. My problems are solved.
Chapter 26
LISA
Something flutters on my cheek.
‘Rise and shine!’
I groggily register the feel of Farrell’s lips on my forehead and breathe in the smell of freshly brewed coffee.
I open my eyes and struggle to sit up. Farrell’s standing in front of me, dressed in a fashionably rumpled black suit and white T-shirt. He smiles down at me.
‘What time is it?’
‘Nine.’
‘What time did you come to bed?’ It wasn’t before 4 a.m., I know that for sure.
He grins and rolls his eyes boyishly. ‘Stayed up all night. Me and Eduardo had a couple of drinks in Melville. Turned into an all-nighter. I would have called only… I lost track of time.’
He doesn’t look like he’s been up all night. He looks fresh. Hair flopping over his forehead in that Robert Pattinson way, eyes sparkling. I’ve never seen him this happy and relaxed before.
‘Did you see that guy? The guy from… that place?’
‘Yeah.’ He leans down and kisses me again. ‘All sorted.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. Nothing to worry about.’ He places a mug on the nightstand. ‘Here. Made you coffee,’ he says.
‘Thanks.’
He touches the top of my head, wraps a strand of black hair around his finger. ‘You forget to take this off last night?’ I twist my head so that the hair flops over the disgusting side. ‘Don’t look so worried, Lisa.’
‘I’m not worried.’ I try to smile at him but fail miserably.
‘Yes, you are.’ He tries to brush the hair away from my face and I flinch away. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that I must look awful this morning. Didn’t get much sleep.’
‘Well, you look gorgeous to me.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
I watch him carefully, but he doesn’t seem to be lying. I know I should tell him about what’s happening to my face – to her face. But how can I expect him to understand? No one does. No one ever has. Not Dad, not Sharon, not even Dr Meka.
‘Lisa? You listening?’
‘Sorry. Were you saying something?’
‘I was saying, I think this is going to work out just fine.’
‘What is?’
‘You know. You and me. Our arrangement.’
I know what he’s going to say and I don’t want to hear it. I take a sip of scalding coffee.
‘Look, I’ve been thinking,’ he says. ‘Maybe… now that things are sorted out with Glenn, you could stay here a bit longer.’
It takes a second for what he’s just said to register. ‘Really? You mean with you? Here?’
‘Yeah. I like having you around.’ He runs his fingers along the inside of my arm, and I shiver. ‘Me and Katya… we had some problems. But… Look, we’ll talk when I get back. I’d better get out of here, got a lot of stuff to catch up on at the studio.’
‘Wait.’ I grab his wrist and pull him back towards me.
He smiles. ‘Later, okay? Much as I’d like to, I’ve got to go.’
Blood rushes to my cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean that. That man you met with last night… It’s really going to be fine?’
He glances at his watch. ‘Absolutely. Tell you what, I’ll stop at Woolies on the way home, grab us a bottle of bubbly, cook us a Thai curry. We can talk then.’
‘Okay.’
He pauses as if he’s about to say something else. Then he smiles, shrugs and leaves the room. I can hear him whistling as he strolls down the passageway.
I lie back and think about what he’s just said. Could I really stay here? Live with him? Be a permanent part of his life? Could I? My limbs feel tingly and a strange, pleasant warmth swirls in my belly.
How cosy. You, Farrell and Katya’s face. The perfect love triangle.
It could work. I could make it work. And now that Glenn thinks that Katya’s fine…
But you’re forgetting something, Lisa. You haven’t fooled everyone, have you?
June. How could I forget about June? If Farrell finds out that she doesn’t believe I’m Katya, will he change his mind?
Of course he will. He’s not stupid.
I kick the covers off, grab one of Katya’s kimonos and wrap it around my body. I stare down at my feet to avoid catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The thought of seeing my reflection makes me feel physically sick. I pull the wig off my head, dump it on the floor and head towards the lounge area.
Her lounge. Her shrine with its walls of framed photographs. I’ve been avoiding them, but I have to look at them closely sometime. And I have to stop seeing her as a threat. The last thing she said to me was that she was sorry. She must’ve done something to hurt Farrell. Betrayed his trust, maybe. And I would never do that. Maybe it’s me – the real me – Farrell wants, and not her.
I step towards a large black-and-white studio portrait of her gazing moodily at the camera, eyes glistening, her head thrown back, and try to ignore my shadowy reflection in the glass, my flat blonde hair weakly superimposed over her long black tresses. She’s perfect, flawless. A dream woman.
How can I compete with that?
The phone in the hallway shrills. It dies and then rings again. I’ve always ignored it before, but what if it’s Farrell? And if it’s not him, I can always hang up, can’t I? Hesitating for a second, I pick up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
A pause. ‘It’s June.’ I almost drop the receiver. ‘Hello?’ she says. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’
I fumble for something to say, wondering if there’s any point in disguising my voice now. ‘Hello. How… um… are you?’
‘I’m…’ There’s a gasp as if she’s been crying. ‘I’m not… I’m…’ She clears her throat. ‘Is Glenn there?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No. I mean yes, I’m sure.’
‘He didn’t come and see you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m outside in the car. I’m coming in.’
Oh God! ‘No!’
But I’m talking to a dial tone.
Oh God, oh God. Shit. What should I do? I need to talk to Farrell. But my mind has gone blank and I can’t for the life of me remember his number.
Think!
I’m sure I’ve seen one of his business cards in one of the drawers next to the bed. I stumble blindly into the bedroom. I’m not looking where I’m going and I skid on the wig and crash onto my hands and knees. I crawl to the chest of drawers, yank it open and root through it, finally locating the card underneath a pile of flavoured condoms.
The doorbell buzzes.
I scramble down the hallway and press the intercom button. ‘I’ll be with you in a second.’
I tap the number into the phone with numb fingers. It seems to ring forever and then goes to voicemail. I babble out a message: ‘Farrell. It’s me. Please. You have to come home. June’s here. What should I do?’
The door buzzer goes again.
It’s completely
pointless for me to pretend I’m not here. I’ll have to let her in. I take my time unlocking the security gate and she bursts in the second the door opens, heading straight for the kitchen. She sits down at the breakfast bar and slaps her handbag onto the counter in front of her.
‘Something happened last night,’ she says. ‘To me. To Glenn.’
I slowly sit down opposite her. She looks terrible. She’s dressed in a baggy velour tracksuit, and her hair is standing up in sweaty clumps.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s missing. He’s gone.’
‘Gone? Gone where? ’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘How would I know?’
Then she seems to really see me for the first time. Her eyes widen and her face contorts into a mixture of disgust and loathing.
‘What?’ My hand automatically flies to my face, but that isn’t the problem.
She’s staring at my hair. Oh shit. The wig is still on the bedroom floor. I’ve forgotten to put it on.
‘Katya always wanted to know what she’d look like as a blonde,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Now we know.’ Seconds pass while we just stare at each other. ‘How much did it cost?’ she says finally.
‘How much did what cost?’
‘The hours you spent under the surgeon’s knife so that you could make your face like hers. That’s it, isn’t it?’ She screws up her face as if she’s thinking hard about something. ‘That has to be it. But I can’t figure out why you’d do that.’
I don’t know what to say. She’s closer to the truth than she realises, but I can’t openly admit that I’m not her daughter. I just can’t. I wrack my brain for something to say. ‘Would you like some tea?’ God. Where did that come from?
She jerks back in surprise. ‘Yes, please,’ she says, touching her lips after she’s spoken as if, like me, she can’t believe we’re actually going to be doing something as mundane as drinking tea.
I flick the kettle on and fuss about with mugs and the sugar pot and teaspoons so that I won’t have to look at her. The panic has evaporated, leaving a strange, airy mood in the space.
‘You know what I’ve been thinking ever since Wednesday night?’ she says. ‘Maybe I am going mad. Maybe I’ve got some rare disorder that’s making me believe that my relatives are actually imposters.’
I keep quiet and stare into the kettle’s curved metal side. I can see her distorted reflection without having to turn around.
‘There is a condition like that, you know. I googled it. Just before…’ There’s a long pause and then she clears her throat. ‘But now I know better.’
I dump the teabag in the sink; fetch the milk from the fridge.
‘You know, there’s no rule that says you have to love your children,’ she says as if we’re just two old friends catching up on gossip. ‘There’s not a law that says you have to get on with them. Does that shock you?’
Still keeping my back to her, I shake my head.
‘What’s your mother like?’ she asks.
‘You’re my mother,’ I whisper.
She snorts in disgust and mumbles something I can’t catch.
The phone rings in the background.
‘I should probably—’ I make a move to head into the hallway, but she grabs my wrist as I pass.
‘Leave it,’ she says. Now I’m up close to her I can smell the stale sweat and vomit wafting out of her pores. Her eyes dart and dance over my face, but they don’t seem to be focussing properly. We both listen in silence until it stops ringing. She loosens her grip and, not knowing what else to do, I head back to the sink and carry on making the tea.
‘Katya was always more Glenn’s child than mine. Even when she was a tiny girl. “Daddy” this and “Daddy” that. I was just the person who made the food and told the maids what to do. I knew even then that she didn’t think much of me.’
Still floating on the tide of unreality, I hand her a mug and pass her the sugar and milk. She starts spooning sugar into the mug, spilling granules all over the counter. She stirs it as if in a trance. Without looking at me, she says, ‘Is she dead?’
Oh God. It’s as if all my insides have been vacuumed out, leaving a cold empty space. But June doesn’t seem to expect an answer. She digs in her bag and pulls out a bottle of prescription pills, shakes three of them into her palm and knocks them back, dry-swallowing.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
There’s a beeping sound and she starts rooting in her bag for her phone. She finds it, frowns down at the screen and then answers. ‘Hello? Yes, this is she.’
There’s the rattle of the key in the door. ‘Li— Katya?’
It’s Farrell. Thank God! I race past June and cannon straight into his arms.
‘Is she here?’ he says.
‘She’s in the kitchen. She knows, Farrell,’ I hiss into his ear.
‘Knows what? What does she know?’
‘That I’m not Katya.’ I’m expecting him to flip out, or snap at me for forgetting to wear the wig, but he doesn’t. His breathing hitches momentarily, but that’s all. ‘And she says Glenn is gone or missing or something.’
He steps back and grips my upper arms tightly. ‘Is that all she knows?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She hasn’t said anything else?’
Then it dawns. ‘Did you have something to do with Glenn’s disappearance?’
‘No!’ But he doesn’t look at me as he says this.
‘Farrell, please…’
He gazes past me. ‘Oh, hello, June.’
I turn around. She’s standing in the kitchen doorway, clutching her phone and staring at us, eyes glassy. ‘What’s going on, Josh?’
‘Nothing, June. Everything’s fine.’
She looks from me to Farrell and back again. I’m expecting her to start accusing us of murdering Katya, to scream and threaten us with the police, but she merely waves the phone at us. ‘They found his car,’ she says. ‘The tracking company. They just called me back.’
‘Glenn’s car?’ Farrell says.
She nods.
‘Where?’
‘The airport. Lanseria.’
I watch Farrell carefully. He almost looks relieved. ‘He must have gone on a business trip.’
‘No!’ she says. ‘He wouldn’t do that. Not without telling me. We were supposed to meet Marina for breakfast. And his wallet is still next to the bed.’ She scrubs her hand over her face. The pills must be kicking in because she’s sounding increasingly groggy. ‘And it’s not just that. Last night—’
‘What about last night?’
‘Something happened.’
‘What?’
She shakes her head as if she’s trying to clear it. ‘I’m… It’s so strange. I don’t remember going to bed. And Glenn’s side of the bed… it was untouched. And then I woke up and I couldn’t find him and his car was gone and…’
‘And that’s all you remember?’
She nods.
Farrell smiles reassuringly at her. ‘Like I said, he probably had to go to Cape Town on business and forgot to tell you.’
‘You really think that could be it?’ She’s beginning to look defeated, and I feel a perverse desire to stick up for her.
‘Why are you so worried about him anyway?’ I say. ‘He treats you like crap.’ Farrell stares at me. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘I know how he treats me,’ she says. ‘It’s not right. I know that. But… something’s happened to him. I just know it.’
‘I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,’ Farrell says in that same comforting voice. ‘What does Marina say?’
‘She thinks I’m just being paranoid. I do get confused sometimes and…’
We’re not that dissimilar, she and I. I reach for her hand. She smiles at me gratefully and then something clicks in her eyes and she snatches it back.
‘I’m going to go now,’ she says, speaking stiltedly.
‘Yes. You’ll let me know if you hear from him, won’t you?’
‘Of course, June.’
Farrell walks her out.
There’s the murmur of voices, followed by the sound of the security gate slamming shut. Farrell strides back into the kitchen and thumps his fist on the counter. ‘Fuck! Fuck. Fuck!’
‘Farrell, calm down! I don’t think she’s going to—’
‘It’s not that, Lisa. No one’s going to believe her anyway. It’s… It’s… Fuck. I am so screwed. Fuck.’
The security-gate buzzer trills making both of us jump. ‘Don’t answer that,’ Farrell says.
‘But what if it’s June again?’
‘It’s not June.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do.’
The buzzer blares again, and Farrell’s phone beeps at the same time. He reads the message, chucks the phone on the hall table and runs his hands through his hair.
‘You think it might be Glenn?’ I ask.
‘I fucking hope not.’ He presses the intercom button and shouts into it. ‘Fuck off and leave me alone! I did what you said.’
A smooth male voice I don’t recognise says, ‘There is an issue with your quota, Mr Farrell. Please allow me access so that we can discuss.’
‘Fuck off.’
A chuckle. ‘Upside disregard! That’s so karking funny!’
‘Just go away.’
‘That is not an option for either of us, Mr Farrell.’ The cold humour is gone from the voice. ‘Allow me access immediately.’
‘Fuck off or I’ll call the police!’
This time there’s no response.
Farrell turns to look at me.
‘Who is that?’ I whisper. ‘Is it the man you met last night?’
‘You don’t want to know, Lisa.’
‘Do you think he’s gone?’
Farrell opens his mouth to answer. The front door swings open with such force that the mirror in the hallway shatters shards of glass all over the floor.
Chapter 27
FARRELL
‘Go into the bedroom,’ I snarl at Lisa. The bevelled and hand-ground Deknudt mirror Katya had shipped in from Milan is scattered in slivers across the parquet. I look down, catching a montage of myself staring back up. I look like shit; I’m fucking pale. I can’t avoid thinking it: seven years’ bad luck.
