by S. L. Grey
He presses send. He’s pleased with himself – Ziggy will really help, maybe stop this happening to these kids. He’s done a good thing here.
He closes the Crossley folder and places it to the side of the blotter, where it was when he came in. He’s making for the study door when he hears a thump in the passage outside. He scans the room; there’s a built-in cupboard where he can hide and he ducks inside and closes the door behind him.
It’s dark in the closet but he feels space around him, can smell perfume and paint thinner, more of that wet-clay odour. As his eyes adjust, he notices that he’s in a large space like a walk-in closet, lined with shelves. His phone beeps. It’s a reply from Ziggy.
The pictures? Which pic— Oh, fuck... Duvenhage’s drive. Fransie must have made a copy. Christ, they think they’re his. The pictures of the kids’ bodies...
Oh, God, what must they think of him? Has Alice seen them? They’d never show them to Alice, would they?
But he’s not sure. Karin could use them as the ultimate poison against him. They’d never believe a word he said.
He grabs his forehead with his hands and slumps back against the wall inside the cupboard. A light comes on and dazzles him for a moment.
At first he’s not sure what he’s seeing. The shelves are lined with transparent plastic boxes. There should be shoes or jewellery on display, but in each one is a dead baby.
Ryan tries to pull his eyes away; his mind wills his body to get out, to face whatever’s outside the study door, but his hand is raising the lid of the first coffin, his fingers are trailing over the first baby’s blue skin. It smells of cotton wool and dust, of perfume and vinegar. Its skin is as warm as the room, and smooth but slightly tacky. He presses his fingertips into its cheek and the flesh gives slightly.
He can see the veins underneath its skin, can feel the softness of its eyelashes and eyebrows. There’s a fluff of peach down on its lip, on its jawline under its ear. She’s dressed in a pink-striped babygrow with a smiley face and ‘Be Juicy’ printed across it.
The baby is dead. The baby is fucking dead.
He looks up and away from this little girl, drops the coffin lid and backs away.
He doesn’t want to count them; he doesn’t want to see any more.
He just wants to go home.
He backs out of the closet and opens the study door.
Jane’s on the landing, standing in the dark, looking at him. ‘Come and see,’ she says. ‘It’s gonna be legen... Wait for it...’ She stands there holding up one finger.
This is all too much. Ryan must get his things and go. His head is eating itself from the inside.
‘Come and see,’ she says again. She walks a few steps down the corridor to the next closed room. The same sign on the door: ‘Trespassers will be corrected.’
‘No. I should go,’ says Ryan, but Jane opens the door and goes inside. This is the bare room he saw from the window. A shape of light falls across the brown carpet.
‘This is my bedroom,’ Jane says.
‘But there’s nothing in it,’ Ryan says. Apart from, he now notices, rows of jars stacked underneath the windowsill. Oh, fuck... Jars full of insects and the stiff body of a rat.
‘See?’ She opens the door of a closet. Hangers with identical school dresses, the shelves stacked with neat piles of white blouses, navy cardigans and tan skirts. ‘I can go in here,’ she says, crouching down below the dresses.
She sleeps in the closet? Jesus Christ.
She doesn’t come out, and Ryan ducks down to look for her. She’s gone.
He notices a darker space in the back of the closet. It’s a tunnel or a room. A panel’s been shifted away beside it; she’s gone through there. He crawls into the closet and peers into the darkness.
‘I know what you do,’ she says, her voice further away than it should be. ‘I’ve seen you. It makes me... interested.’
It’s time to go, Ryan.
He shuffles on his hands and knees into the dark. There’s the feel of dry brick dust on his hands, a damp, earthy odour; the sound of scraping.
Scuffling. Is it Jane crawling further down the tunnel, or something else? He’s crawled into the tunnel now, perhaps three metres in. He hears his own breathing, nothing else.
‘Jane?’ he says softly. ‘Where are you?’
He hears a noise behind him, out in the room. He looks over his shoulder at the rich copper light from the room. A shape falls across it. The light goes out.
Jesus. Someone’s locked him in here. The tunnel’s too narrow to turn in so he backtracks on his hands and knees. ‘Jane. Where are you?’
It’s dark. He’s scrabbling backwards and the dust tunnel turns to smooth melamine. He’s back in the closet. The doors are closed; he kicks at them.
‘Hello, mister?’ Mother’s voice.
‘Let me out. What the—’
‘Why are you in here, mister? I did instruct you not to transgress on this level.’
‘I was invited in. By, by...’ He points into the closet. All he sees is the closet’s white back panel. The tunnel’s been closed up.
‘By what?’
‘By...’ Fuck it. And what were you doing following my daughter into a closet? ‘Sorry. I got lost. I didn’t know where I was.’
‘Come. Look at this.’ This is a new voice, a man’s voice, powerful, but somehow false, like it’s been amplified electronically. The door opens and Ryan looks up, from where he’s kneeling beneath the dresses, at Mother and the man. This must be Father, the gangster, the foreign minister, whatever the fuck he is. The man who keeps pictures of children’s corpses and a collection of dead babies. He’s wearing a navy three-piece suit, black trainers and a grey tie. He has a massive lantern jaw and a tiny pinched nose, unreal somehow, like a Ken doll. His little eyes squint at Ryan myopically and emotionlessly. ‘Come,’ he repeats.
Ryan has no choice but to follow him out of Jane’s room and back along the passage.
‘What is this?’ the man asks, pointing to the door to the study.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t see,’ Ryan says.
‘Here,’ says the man, pointing at the doorknob. It’s too dark, but Ryan can see enough. Shit. He looks at his hand where the blood from the cut has made a muddy paste with the brick dust. Even in this light Ryan can see that the brass doorknob is stained.
‘You saw the notification?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. I... I’m sorry. Let me just go. I’ve appreciated the work but can accept responsibility. You’ve been kind. I should go.’
‘You do not “go”,’ Mother says. ‘Jane has chosen you wisely. She knows that you can educate.’
‘Educate? Educate who? I don’t teach...’
‘Jane says you are forespecial with halfpints. You have no place to “go”. You will come with us. You will educate,’ Mother says. ‘You are in our debt.’
‘What? I’ve worked for the money you’ve paid me. I don’t need this. Just let me go.’
‘You purloined from my associate,’ the man says. ‘Mr Doowenharger.’
Ryan feels faint and he has to lean against the wall to avoid falling.
‘You have trespassed against notifications, you have purloined,’ the man says. ‘You have been chosen. You will come with us.’
Ryan weighs up the chance that the man has a gun against his desperate need to run, and running seems like a good idea. He takes off down the corridor and when he gets to the stairs without being shot he thinks he’s made it.
But Jane is standing in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs and touches him with something. All his muscles stop working at the same time in mid-stride and he clatters to the floor, face and elbows and chest and shins first. He skids along, leaving drool and blood in his
wake.
Jane crouches over him and for a moment he sees her touching her fingertips to the cut on his hand. She looks at the blood with that same curiosity he saw all that time ago, sniffs it, rubs it on her white school blouse.
That’s the first time she’s touched me, Ryan thinks, before everything goes quiet inside. Her fingers are cold.
Chapter 20
TARA
Tara hasn’t felt this level of anxiety since... well, since it all blew up back in Jersey. Her palms are clammy, her clothes feel as if they’re two sizes too small, and she can’t dislodge the feeling that whatever has happened to Martin is somehow her fault. If only she’d made it to the school five minutes earlier, if she hadn’t left her phone back at the house, Martin might now be safely up in his room or sitting slouched in the lounge playing Diablo VII.
Stephen’s holding onto the hope that Martin’s just run away, that he’s decided to give them all a fright, but in her gut Tara knows this isn’t the case.
Despite the things she’s heard about the South African Police Service, so far she’s been impressed by how efficiently Martin’s disappearance has been handled. She has no way of knowing if this is how the SAPS usually reacts to a missing child, or if it’s because Stephen’s pulled all the strings at his disposal. For the last hour, Superintendent Molefi, a beautiful, apparently unflappable woman with tired eyes and French-manicured nails, has been trying to inject some calm into the atmosphere with practical, solid questions. It’s not working. Both Olivia and Stephen have responded snappishly, as if they blame the policewoman for Martin’s disappearance.
‘Mrs Marais.’ The policewoman turns her attention to Tara. ‘When you dropped Martin off at school yesterday morning, did you notice anything unusual about his behaviour?’
‘We went through all this last night!’ Olivia interrupts. ‘How many more times? Martin is a good white boy from a good home, it’s not as if he’s some common street kid addicted to drugs. Why won’t you people listen? He has not run away!’
Superintendent Molefi doesn’t lose her composure at this outburst. ‘We are doing everything we can to find your son, Ms Marais—’
‘It’s Mrs, can’t you even get that right?’
‘My apologies. It can be confusing as there are two of you here with the same name.’
Stephen rolls his eyes. ‘No wonder this country is such a fuck-up if you can’t even get that straight.’
Ignoring Stephen’s comment, the policewoman fixes her gaze on Tara again. ‘Mrs Marais?’
Tara clears her throat, glances at Olivia, who’s squinting at her through the smoke wafting out of her mouth. The coffee cup she’s using as an ashtray is brimming with butts – she’s been chain-smoking ever since she showed up last night and the air is hazy with smoke. ‘Well... he has been acting differently lately. More subdued than usual.’
‘Don’t listen to her,’ Olivia snaps. ‘What does she know?’
‘Have you spoken to that bloody arsehole Duvenhage yet?’ Stephen jumps in. ‘About those bloody meetings?’
‘Martin should never have been there in the first place,’ Olivia says, shooting another hate-filled glare at Tara.
Superintendent Molefi sighs. ‘I assure you, we are doing everything in our power to get to the bottom of this.’
Stephen snorts. ‘What about the other kids? The other kids who were at the meeting. Have you spoken to them?’
‘Yes, Mr Marais. As I said before, they insist that Martin left the meeting when they did.’
‘Well, someone must have seen something. What about the bloody people who were running the group?’
For the first time since she arrived, a flicker of uncertainty dances over the policewoman’s features. ‘We are trying to contact them, sir.’
‘Well, you’re not trying hard enough.’
The policewoman stands up, gathers her belongings together. ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll be in touch if I need to speak to you again.’
Olivia sighs. ‘Bloody typical,’ she mutters, angrily stubbing out her latest cigarette.
Tara follows the policewoman out of the room. ‘What about that maintenance man? That Ryan guy?’ she asks, keeping her voice low so that Stephen and Olivia won’t overhear. ‘Have you found him?’
Superintendent Molefi sighs. ‘Not as yet, Mrs Marais.’
‘Could he have anything to do with this?’ Although, to be fair, if what Jane told her yesterday afternoon – that he was there at the time, tending the garden – was correct, Tara can’t see how he would have managed to leave the house in time to abduct Martin. He could hardly have been in two places at once. But it’s not just Martin who’s concerning her. If the allegations about Ryan are true, then Jane could still be in danger.
‘We are looking into it, Mrs Marais.’
‘And what about that house? Jane’s house. She said Ryan was working there.’
‘We’ve been to the house, Mrs Marais. It’s deserted.’
‘It can’t be! They were there yesterday.’
‘I understand that you are upset, but I assure you, there is no one in that house.’
‘What house?’ Stephen asks from the doorway. ‘And who’s Ryan?’
Shit, Tara thinks. She’ll have no choice but to tell him now. She’s not looking forward to the consequences. Stephen and Olivia will be furious that she didn’t mention this last night. ‘A guy working at the school. Apparently he has some sort of criminal past.’
‘What kind of criminal past, Tara?’
‘Interfering with children.’
‘What?’ Olivia shrieks.
Stephen rounds on Superintendent Molefi. ‘For fuck’s sake. And this pervert was working at my son’s school? What’s wrong with you people?’
‘Mr Marais. There is no connection between this man and the disappearance of your son, I assure you.’ Stephen opens his mouth to speak again but she holds up a hand to forestall him. ‘Now, if you want me to continue my investigation, I must leave. Please, contact me immediately if Martin gets in touch with you.’
Stephen grudgingly unlocks the security gate, and Superintendent Molefi heads out into the morning.
‘And you knew about this, Tara?’ This from Olivia. ‘How could you know something like this and only tell us now?’
‘I only found out yesterday.’
Olivia jabs a newly lit cigarette in Tara’s direction. ‘This is all your fault. I told Martin he shouldn’t go back to that group. But you blatantly ignored my wishes.’
‘Calm down, Olivia,’ Stephen says.
‘Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down.’
‘It’s not Tara’s fault. Although why she didn’t tell us about this—’
‘You see, Stephen? You see what sort of a woman you married? I hope you’re happy now.’
Trying to block out Olivia’s shrill accusations, Tara races up the stairs to her sanctuary, slams the door behind her. She paces around the room, stares up at the Baby Tommy collage above her desk, feels the tears sliding down her cheeks.
Her phone beeps. She snatches it out of her pocket, praying that it’s Martin, remembering too late that she found his iPhone on the floor of the hall. Surprise, surprise, it’s another message from Batiss.
‘Fuck you,’ she mutters.
She glances up at the Baby Tommy photo again, slides open Baby Paul’s drawer and takes out Tommy’s little charred head. For some reason, holding it comforts her. She wipes away her tears, breathes in deeply.
Was that policewoman telling the truth about Jane’s house? How could they have all disappeared so quickly? If anything’s happened to Jane, Tara knows she won’t be able to live with herself. Bad enough that she destroyed Baby Tommy, that she wasn’t there for Martin when he needed her.
No. She needs to see for herself.
&nb
sp; She hurries downstairs. Stephen and Olivia are still screaming at each other in the lounge, and she prays they won’t hear the click of the security gate as she slips out.
She climbs into the Pajero, glad that she parked it in the street in front of their small front garden rather than in the garage. As she executes a swift three-point turn, she sees Stephen stomping down the driveway towards her, face distorted with fury. She turns up the radio so that she can’t hear whatever it is that he’s yelling at her, accelerates away, forcing him to jump out of her path. She puts her foot down, scraping the side of her car on the edge of the intercom stand as she shoots into the main road.
The house’s gates are slightly ajar. If she wanted to, she could easily slip inside.
But she doesn’t go in immediately. She spends several minutes sitting outside the house in her car, watching, waiting. She isn’t certain what she’s expecting to see. A couple of police cars doing surveillance maybe, like in the movies. But there’s no sign of any police presence, and today there doesn’t appear to be anyone on duty in the security booth of the complex across the road. The lack of sleep is catching up with her. Her eyes feel gritty, her empty stomach churns. She opens her bag, looks down at Baby Tommy’s head. She’s still not sure why she brought him with her. Some sort of talisman, she supposes. She rubs off some of the soot, again regretting that she’ll never get the chance to see what he’d look like whole.
Steeling herself, she slings her bag over her shoulder and climbs out of the car. Walks slowly towards the gates and slips between them. She turns to double-check that no one has seen her trespassing, feels a stab of jealously as a series of luxury cars zip past on the road, their drivers oblivious to how she’s feeling, all of them on course for just another ordinary day.
The house’s facade casts a long shadow across her path, and she shields her eyes and peers up at the cracked statues staring down at her. The grimacing cherubs and other horrors seem to be laughing at her. Suddenly overcome by the feeling that she’s being watched, she hurries towards the front door, bangs her fist on the wood. ‘Hello?’
