The Future of Horror

by Jonathan Oliver

  I dumped the chemicals in the kitchen and joined her in the hallway. I was already sweating like a bastard under my protective gear, but I’d rather melt than take a chance – hepatitis is no joke. “How long before the body was discovered?”

  “Four or five days,” Lindiwe said. “Apparently he died in bed, nothing suspicious, suspected heart attack. Client said the cops took him away yesterday.”

  “That long in this heat? Then maggots are the least of our worries.”

  “Yeah,” Lindiwe huffed. “There’s going to be maggots and goop. My favourite combo.”

  My phone vibrated in my jeans pocket. I ignored it; no way was I going to strip off my coveralls to answer it. Probably just my sister again. She’d been calling me non-stop since she got back to Cape Town. She could wait.

  We clumped down the corridor, pausing to peer into a dusty bathroom, a spare room containing nothing but a daybed, and then, in startling contrast to the rest of the house, an office space stuffed with clutter.

  “I think we’ve reached New Age central,” I said, checking out the astrological charts tacked up on the walls, the dream-catchers hanging from the ceiling and the shelves heaving with polished stones. Leatherbound books and catalogues with photos of crystals on their covers were stacked in piles on every available surface. Judging by the titles, most seemed to be in German.

  “Check,” Lindiwe said, nodding at a woollen robe draped over the corner of a shelf. “You think he was a Jedi?” I knew what was coming next. “Search your feelings, Rachel,” she said, breathing heavily into her mask and putting on the Darth Vader voice she uses at every opportunity. “I am your father. You know it to be true.”

  I snorted. I’ve heard it a million times, but it always cracks me up.

  I opened the door at the end of the corridor, a cloud of flies gusting out to greet me. Ground Zero.

  The room contained nothing but a pair of mismatching side tables and a double bed, overfed maggots squirming lazily in the duvet’s folds. The bed linen was black with decomposition fluid, and I was relieved I’d remembered to change my mask’s filter and couldn’t smell the aftermath of what had to have been a lonely death.

  Lindiwe lifted up the duvet to assess the extent of the damage.

  “Wait,” I said. The corner of what looked to be a passport was peeking out from between the mattress and the base. As I pulled it out and flicked through to the back cover, a piece of paper fluttered out of the centre pages and drifted onto the floor. Lindiwe retrieved it while I stared at a photograph of a middle-aged man with watery blue eyes. “Dead guy was Austrian,” I said. “Named August Schuller.”

  “Yeah? Whoever he was, he clearly had problems.”

  She passed the piece of paper to me. The words, ‘If I die, kill my cat,’ were scrawled on it in shaky handwriting.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Lindiwe shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to be buried with it or something.”

  “You see any sign of a cat?”

  “Police might have taken it away.”

  “Yeah, well I hope they didn’t follow his instructions. You want to start bagging the linen? I’ll go get the rest of the stuff.”

  I headed back towards the kitchen, pulling off my gloves and hood to wipe away the rivulets of sweat trickling down from my scalp. I piled the chemical bottles on top of a hazmat box, freezing when I heard a faint noise. That couldn’t be right – it sounded almost like a baby crying. I held my breath. It couldn’t be coming from outside; the flats that flanked the house were still under construction. No – it appeared to be emanating from behind the door on the other side of the kitchen, one we’d missed when we’d done the recce.

  I yanked it open, yelping as something shot out towards me. I retreated, looked down and into the eyes of a small black cat. It mewled at me. It was super cute, but also super thin, the ridges of its spine and ribs clearly visible under its coat.

  “Rach?” Lindiwe yelled. “You okay?”

  “I found the cat.”

  Lindiwe swished her way towards me. “Where was it?”

  “In here.” I peered through the door, fumbling on the wall for the light switch. Strip lights hissed into life, revealing a small garage, empty but for the remains of a ripped bag of cheap dry cat food. I spied a small bathroom and toilet nestled in an alcove. If the cat had been trapped in here since its owner died, at least it’d had water. The cops probably figured it was too much of a schlep to deal with it. Bastards.

  It snaked its body around my legs and I picked it up and carried it over to the kitchen counter. “Shame,” I said. “She must be starving.” I found a tin of tuna in the cupboard and unearthed a tin opener and a bowl.

  “How do you know it’s a she?”

  “I checked.”

  “We’d better call the SPCA.”

  “You ever been to the SPCA, Linds? It’s like Belsen for four-leggeds.”

  “So what do you suggest? Shall I call the rental agency, get them to deal with it?”

  “They won’t give a shit. Maybe the dead guy’s family will want her.” I could try contacting whoever was listed in the ‘in case of emergency’ section in the back of August Schuller’s passport. It was worth a shot. If not, I could call a cat sanctuary that had a non-euthanasia policy.

  While Lindiwe started shoving the soiled bed linen into incinerator bags, I searched the house, looking for a cat box. Nothing. Not even a cat bed. Using a screwdriver, I stabbed holes in the lid of a hazmat box, and stowed the cat inside it with a bowl of water.

  WHEN WE SHUFFLED out of the house, arms full of equipment, two guys dressed in identical slick suits were leaning against the side of our van. Their gold jewellery glinted in the afternoon sun; Ray-Bans hid their eyes.

  “Not again,” Lindiwe sighed.

  The taller of the two, a fellow with faint acne scars and a disarming grin, stepped forward. “Madam,” he said to me. “I hope you are having a fine day. I represent a certain party who would be interested in conducting some business with you.” He bent down to inspect the hazmat cat box.

  “Don’t touch that!” I snapped.

  For the thousandth time I cursed Lindiwe’s insistence on displaying our ‘Crime Scene Cleaners’ logo so prominently on the side of the truck. It’s a magnet for unscrupulous muti sellers who believe that adding body parts to herbal remedies will enhance the power of the ‘medicine’ they sell to promote wealth, luck and better erections. It was the second time that week we’d been approached by agents eager to purchase the biological waste we collect. They weren’t fussy – anything would do: brain bits, fingers, even teeth.

  “You’re wasting your time,” I said. “We’re not interested.”

  Undaunted, the guy increased the wattage of his smile. “But madam, this is an opportunity for you to–”

  “You’re sick, you know that?” Lindiwe jabbed a finger in his face. “Now fuck off before I call the cops.”

  The muti agent’s smile snapped off and he and his sidekick slunk away. A minute later I saw them roaring past in a shiny black Mercedes sedan, an Orlando Pirates sticker on its bumper.

  I whistled. “Nice car. We’re in the wrong business.”

  “They make me sick.” Lindiwe glanced at me. “You haven’t told your sister pricks like that are stalking us, have you?”

  “Are you crazy? She already thinks I’m infested with evil spirits as it is. Keeps nagging me to go for a cleansing.”

  “So have one. How could it hurt?”

  “Are you serious? Since when did you start believing in all that ancestor crap? I thought you were into Jesus.”

  “Whatever.” Lindiwe turned her back on me and stalked back into the house to fetch the rest of the gear. Me and my big mouth. Religion is one subject we tend to avoid, and for good reason. Lindiwe is well aware of my hardcore agnostic tendencies and rarely discusses her own beliefs. Mopping up after murders, hijackings and suicides takes its toll, and I suspect her weekly church visits are
her way of coping with the horrors we encounter on a daily basis.

  I deal with it in my own way: vodka and mindless reality television.

  The atmosphere between us still frosty, we heaved the ruined mattress into the van to drop off at the incinerator, and set off towards Kloof Nek Road, air-con cranked to full power.

  We’d barely driven a kay, when the traffic in front of us slowed to a crawl.

  “Rush hour?” I asked.

  “Accident,” Lindiwe said, as we inched past the cops setting out cones along the side of the road.

  A policewoman signalled for us to stop. A tow truck hauling a concertinaed mass of black metal pulled off the hard shoulder in front of us. As it shuddered away, I caught a glimpse of an Orlando Pirates sticker stuck to a dented bumper.

  “Think it’s the same guys?” Judging by the state of their car, they couldn’t have escaped uninjured.

  “Instant karma,” Lindiwe said. But she looked shaken just the same.

  VICTOR, ONE OF the Nigerians who lived in the flat directly below mine, appeared in his doorway as I struggled past his flat, juggling the hazmat cat box, a litter tray and the cat food I’d bought en route home from the incinerator. The delicious aroma of spicy stew wafted out his doorway, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten all day. “Yo, Rachel,” he said. “There is someone waiting for you outside your flat. I let her through the security gate. Strange chick.” He shrugged. “She said she was your sister.”

  Great. As if the day couldn’t get any shittier. I slogged up the stairwell, found Naomi sitting cross-legged outside my door, wrapped in a colourful blanket. She looked every inch the white sangoma: barefoot, dreadlocks threaded with beads and goat-hair bracelets looped around her wrists.

  “What is that?” She nodded at my makeshift cat box.

  “Hello to you too, Naomi.”

  “Sorry. How are you, Rachel?”

  “Fine. Bit tired.” I decided not to mention the dead Austrian Jedi, and I definitely wouldn’t be bringing up the probably dead muti guys.

  I unlocked the door and gestured for her to follow me inside.

  She started in on me straight away. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  “Been busy.”

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s important that we talk about your spiritual–”

  “You’re right, I don’t want to hear it. Can we please just have a conversation that doesn’t involve any witchdoctor bullshit?”

  She flinched, and I instantly regretted snapping at her. Accusing a sangoma of being a witchdoctor is pretty much the worst insult there is. But since Naomi received her calling from the ancestors and started dreaming of goats and chickens, I just didn’t know how to act around her. I didn’t get it. Two years ago she was a straight-laced accountant from the suburbs who didn’t speak a word of Xhosa, and practically had a heart attack if she missed a Pilates class. It’s not that I think she’s appropriating African culture or anything like that, it’s just that I like to think of myself as an equal opportunities agnostic. I don’t buy into any faith, be it Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, African spirituality or the New Age crap the dead guy was clearly into. And I’d always assumed Naomi felt the same way.

  I forced a smile. “How about some coffee?”

  “Fine.”

  I filled the kettle, sniffed the milk to make sure it wasn’t too far out of date. She peered at the box. “Is there an animal in there?”

  “Yeah. A cat. I need to find her a home. You interested?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Abandoned at a scene.”

  She shook her head. “You must get it out of here, Rachel. I have told you before about the bad spirits your work attracts–”

  “Jesus, Naomi. It’s a cat, okay? A cat.”

  I angrily unclipped the lid, and the cat leapt out onto the kitchen counter, padded over to me, and pushed her face into my hand. Naomi backed away from her, murmuring to herself.

  “I don’t believe this shit, Naomi.”

  “I can’t stay with that here.”

  “Then go. I didn’t invite you anyway.”

  The cat shimmied down from the kitchen counter and sashayed off to explore the rest of the flat. I suddenly remembered I’d left the bathroom window open. If the cat got out, she would be toast – my flat overlooks the busy Green Point main road. I raced after her, but I needn’t have worried; she was busy making herself at home on my futon.

  I heard a door slam. When I returned to the kitchen, my sister had gone.

  TRYING TO BLOCK out the aftertaste of Naomi’s visit, I poured myself a hefty slug of Absolut and logged onto Skype, typing in the number at the back of August Schuller’s passport.

  A gruff voice answered on the third ring. “Hallo?”

  “Um hi. Is this Mr Schuller?”

  “Ja?”

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Rachel Greenberg.”

  “Who?”

  “Rachel. I’m so sorry about...” I took a gamble. “Your brother.”

  A pause. “Thank you. You are a friend of his?”

  “Not exactly... we had more of a business relationship.”

  He sighed. “For many years my brother, he has a heart condition. His death was not unexpected.”

  “I see. Um, he had a cat.”

  Silence.

  “I was wondering what you want me to do with it.”

  “You are from the police?”

  “Er... no.” Mentioning that I was the one who cleaned up his brother’s body fluids probably wouldn’t go down well.

  “There is nothing I can do with a cat.”

  “Shall I try and find her a home here, then?”

  “Ja. Please.”

  I knew I was being nosy, but I couldn’t help myself. “Mr Schuller... I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but what did your brother do for a living?”

  A pause. “You do not know?”

  “We weren’t that close.”

  Another sigh. “I suppose now it does not matter. He is – was – a druid.”

  Jesus. “A what? What was he doing in South Africa?”

  He broke the connection. I thought about ringing him back and decided against it. I’d had enough kak for one day.

  I took a shower, poured another drink and slumped down on the couch to catch up on American Idol. The cat jumped onto my lap, kneaded my thighs with her paws, then curled into a ball, paws cupped over her face.

  I stroked the ridge of her spine. “Why would your owner want to kill you? You’re so cute.” She needed a name. I decided to call her Muti; that would piss Naomi off.

  I WOKE WITH a jolt, flooded with panic. Something was pressing down on my chest – I couldn’t breathe. I opened my eyes, looked straight into bright yellow orbs. It was just the cat. I brushed her away and sat up, gulping air. My head throbbed, and for a second I was sure I was going to throw up.

  Drinking on an empty stomach again. My own bloody fault.

  “Sorry, cat.” She didn’t seem to be at all affected by my rude treatment of her. She sat at the edge of the futon, contorting her body in order to wash her tummy. I scrubbed a hand over my face. I felt like death; my mouth tasted as if I’d been licking a crime scene.

  My cell phone trilled and I blearily checked the caller ID. Lindiwe. “What’s up?”

  “Hey,” she said. “You sound terrible.”

  “I feel terrible. Think I might be coming down with the flu.”

  “Eish. You want me to do this one on my own?”

  “What we got?”

  “Suicide.”

  “Hotel room?”

  “You got it. The Radisson on Buitenkant Street again.”

  “Male or female?” I asked.

  “Female.”

  Women tend to kill themselves in a tidier fashion than men. The job shouldn’t be too arduous. “I’ll be cool. Meet you there in an hour.”

&n
bsp; I dry-swallowed three extra-strength Disprin, and topped up Muti’s food bowl. She rubbed her face against my hand and chirruped at me. I reminded myself to call a humane cat shelter after work. I couldn’t get too attached to her. Keeping her imprisoned here would be cruel.

  THE SCENE WASN’T as tidy as I’d hoped. The woman had cut her wrists in the bath; a pool of jellifying blood stained the floor tiles and bathmat. The remains of a smashed bottle of Stoli lay at the base of the sink. Every scene tells a story – hers said she’d needed a bottle’s worth of Dutch courage to go through with it.

  We suited up in the bedroom, and Lindi carried the hazmat box and the goop scoop into the bathroom while I set up the steamer.

  I’d barely begun spraying the bedroom when I heard a thump, followed by, “Shit!”

  I darted into the bathroom. Lindi was lying on her back next to the bath, holding her left wrist above her head. A jagged piece of glass from the smashed vodka bottle protruded from her arm.

  “I slipped in the blood,” she said.

  “How the hell did you do that?” She was usually ultra careful. We both were.

  “God knows. My legs just went out from under me.”

  Trying not to wince as she pulled the shard out of her arm, I helped her step out of her gore-soaked coveralls and led her into the relatively bacteria-free bedroom.

  I dug out the iodine we kept on hand for incidents like this, and mopped her up as best as I could. The wound wasn’t deep, but anything could be lurking in the victim’s blood. “We can’t deal with that here, it’s not sterile. I’d better take you to see the doc.”

  “I can take a taxi. You cool to finish up here?”

  “Yeah. I’ll cope.”

  AS I HAULED the equipment out of the lift and lugged it towards the van, a shadowy figure loomed out from behind one of the underground parking lot’s pillars, making me jump.