by S. L. Grey
The tide of panic flows on, unstoppable, and washed up in the debris he can see not only Duvenhage – is there something he needed to finish with him? – but Alice swirling past, reaching out for him, begging for him to pull her out.
He won’t forget. He won’t turn back.
The walls are lined with colour-coded pipes and conduits, and the noise has become louder, growing subtly like contagion, until it’s become painful to his ears. There’s a thump-thump-thump and shrill whine and an exhalation and the stale air has become a wind riffling his hair. Still, beneath the noise he can hear something else – voices. Shrieking? Crying? The hubbub of conversation.
He rounds another bend and sees a doorway, double doors with thick black rubber aprons. Broad silver-foil tubes arc across the ceiling here and the air-conditioner’s motor, lodged in a large alcove, screams as it pushes to capacity. One of the tubes has come loose and it lashes like a gigantic spinning caterpillar as Ryan slides past it and opens the door.
He’s in the Mall, opposite the food court, and he can find his way back from here.
‘Was the penetration renewal optimal?’ Jane asks him when she comes into the flat. There’s a hardness to her tone, suspicion.
‘Yes, no problem.’
‘You didn’t tutor your class.’
‘Uh, yes, sorry. The waiting room was full. It took a while. You know how clinics are.’
She looks at him. ‘You know you’ll be docked for missed shifts?’
‘Docked?’ Ryan fights a spurt of adrenaline. He has to keep calm. If he’d had his penetration renewed, nothing would frighten him. ‘You mean... pay?’ he asks as nonchalantly as he can.
‘Yes, I mean pay.’ She walks towards him where he’s sitting with a glass of water at the kitchen nook. ‘What did you think I meant? Amputation?’ She laughs, that whimper-grunt he’s become used to. ‘You’re such a motherfucking brown, Mr Ryan. Amputation is a privilege, expensive. Sometimes tutors are given amputations as a long-service bonus. Disregard is not the way to earn amputations.’
‘Okay. Well... as I say, I couldn’t help it. The Academy Administration will understand, I’m sure.’
‘Understand? There are rules and the shifts are designated quite clearly. If you’re in breach, you’re in breach. There’s nothing to understand.’ Her tone is making him nervous. What is this leading up to? For all this time he’s fooled himself that she’s just a normal girl, but she’s not. She’s one of them... She lives here, and here they do things in a fucked-up way. He’s got to be careful, and at the same time pretend that everything’s absolutely fine. Staying in her good books and getting upside with the project unit is his only chance of seeing Alice again.
He shrugs. ‘Okay.’ But he can feel the hot blood in his face.
‘Oh, don’t be upset, Mr Ryan. I’m just – what do they say on the documents? – yanking your train. I’m pretending with you!’ She laughs again and Ryan is washed with relief. ‘I have primo dispatch. I spoke with Penter Ulliel.’
‘Yes?’
‘She says you can come with us and discharge your debt that way. She was impressed with your efficiency when you laboured in the precinct. She likes browns; they’re always so hard-working, she says. Except for the rat-breeding ones, of course. But you’re not a rat-breeder. So kark the Academy and Academy Administration! You’re on the Upside Relations Special Project team!’
‘Yes!’ He jumps from his seat and goes across to hug Jane, but something stops him before he does. The feeling that somehow it would be wrong to touch her... That she would be cold. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I won’t disappoint you.’
‘There is one stipulation, though.’
‘Yes?’
‘You know that incognito is part of the ethos of Upside Relations operations?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, to that end, Liaison Penter needs you to be modified before you join the team so that you will remain incognito.’
‘Modified? What does that involve?’ Although somehow he knows what it involves.
‘Oh, just a minor change to your physicals.’ She makes a vague gesture around her face and Ryan slumps back against the wall. He needs to stay calm. ‘The next Encounters project will be taking place near the same node as before, so there is a chance that you may be recognised. The modification will ensure that you are not.’
‘Uh...’
‘I see that you are concerned. Do not be concerned. Team members are regularly modified. I was modified before the pilot project, as were several of my colleagues. Father himself has been modified thirty-seven times and doesn’t he appear primo?’
Ryan’s mind is racing, and he concentrates on keeping his face passive. If this is the trade-off, a bit of plastic surgery, then he’ll have to accept it. Otherwise he’ll never see Alice again. Maybe it will be a good thing. He’ll be able to face everyone from his past and they won’t know who he is; he can start fresh.
He thinks of Father, how he looks like a soap star. It could be worse.
They’ve given him an injection of something and he can’t move as he’s pushed along the corridor in a wheelchair. Or it’s more that he doesn’t feel the need to move. He imagines that he could lift his arms, wiggle his feet, if he wanted to, but it’s just right, just like this. His muscles are absolutely relaxed, like he’s in the middle of a deep sleep. The knot of terror lodged in his sternum is wrapped up in cotton wool; he can feel it, but it’s far away.
The orderly shunts him into an elevator. The doors close and it starts moving. In his inert state, Ryan can feel which direction they’re travelling in. It’s definitely down, and slowly. His body feels like a mould of jelly, rippling with the subtle shifts in gravity. A mould of jelly floating through the sky on a parachute; no, a jellyfish drifting its way to the bottom. He giggles. The lift creaks and sighs. The orderly snorts back some mucus.
The doors open.
‘Thank you, orderly, I’ll take it from here.’
Ryan squints up at the woman’s face, and is shocked by how normal she appears. She looks like she belongs at home. A regular South African woman with all her parts in the right places. She has a pleasant smile, not the rictus twitch he’s become used to down here. She’s wearing a shiny medallion around her neck. ‘LOVER’ it says.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
She unclicks the wheelchair’s brakes and starts pushing him along a straight corridor lined with shining wall tiles, her medallion clanking on its chain as she walks. ‘My name is Nomsa Makgatho. I’ll be your modifying agent for the shift. You’re very lucky, you know, to have been accepted into an Upside Relations team. Up until recently, upside citizens have only been assimilated for labour or parts. Your diversion must be part of the new policy promulgated by the Administration in the last session. I must say you’d make a primo donor if you ever found yourself at a loose end.’ She appraises him. The knot of fear burns hotter inside him.
They stop at a door with an ideograph of a man in a welding mask holding what looks like a large electric carving knife or a small chainsaw.
The nurse knocks at the door and calls, ‘It’s ready, Butcher.’
Behind the door there’s a snuffle and clink. ‘Okay. Bring it in,’ a grouchy voice returns. The fear is starting to seep out of its package.
She starts to push him through the door and he halts her. ‘Nurse? Nomsa?’
‘Yes, Mr Devlin?’
‘What does... what will the modification involve?’
‘Oh, you know. Nothing to be nervous of. Just a nip and a tuck.’
Chapter 26
TARA
‘Tara?’ Stephen stands in the doorway, backlit by the entrance hall’s light, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts. He looks terrible, Tara thinks vaguely, before her legs buckle under her. He catches her under her armpits just in time, then wraps his arms around her, squeezing her so tight that for a second she’s unable to breathe. ‘Christ, I thought... Oh, Christ Jesus, baby! I thou
ght you were dead!’
She leans against him, buries her face in his chest, shivers as his fingers stroke her hair, run over her face. She hears his breath hitch and he pulls back, gently turns her head to the side.
‘Jesus, Tara. Who did that to you?’ He pulls her against him again.
‘Did what?’
‘There’s a cut – a wound – behind your ear. I can’t tell if it’s serious. We should get you to a hospital—’
‘No!’ She can’t go anywhere. There’s something very important she needs to tell Stephen. Something vital. If she could just...
‘You might have other injuries. You might...’ A muffled sob. ‘Tara... have you been... were you raped?’
She wishes he’d shut up. She’s almost got it. Then it comes in a flood. Martin... she’s seen Martin. She needs to tell Stephen. She knows where he is, if she could only just... ‘Stephen. Listen. Martin—’
‘Shhh,’ Stephen says. ‘Shh. It’s okay, baby. Where... where have you been?’
‘I’ve...’ Where has she been? Walking. She remembers walking. In the dark, all quiet. No traffic. She notices that Stephen’s staring down at her left hand in confusion. She follows his gaze, realises that she’s gripping Baby Tommy’s head so hard that her fingers are aching.
‘Let’s get you inside.’ Stephen snakes his arm behind her, steadies her as she shuffles through the hallway and into the lounge. She doesn’t resist. She’s aware that she’s beyond exhaustion, the muscles in her legs are trembling, her head feels... mushy; she can barely keep her eyes open.
Stephen helps lower her onto the couch and her limbs sigh with relief. She sinks back against the cushions. Struggles up again. Ugh. Something smells bad.
He switches on the light and she blinks as it stings her eyes. Dropping Baby Tommy into her lap, she looks down at her hands – they’re filthy, her nails chipped and ripped. And what did Stephen say about an injury? She touches the back of her head, just below her right ear. Feels a scab, about the size of a five-rand coin. Presses it. Mmmm. A pleasant buzzing sensation. Makes her feel woozy. Doesn’t hurt. Presses it again, then looks down at the rest of her body. Her jeans are chafing her thighs – they’re damp around the crotch. Has she wet herself? Is that the source of the bad smell?
All that doesn’t matter now. Martin. He’s... She knows where he is, she knows she does. She must tell Stephen. If she could just remember exactly...
Stephen paces in front of her, tugging at his thinning hair. He’s unshaven, his eyes are bloodshot. She’s never seen him looking so haggard. ‘Shit. What should I do first? I’d better call the cops, let them know you’re back.’
‘Back?’
‘They’ve been looking for you. Found your car out in Alex. Christ, baby. We didn’t know... We thought you’d been hijacked. Christ, you didn’t walk from there in the middle of the night, did you?’
Alex? Does he mean the township? But she left her car... Yes, that’s it. She left her car outside Jane’s house, didn’t she? ‘Stephen, listen to me. Martin... we have to go get him.’ He shakes his head, scrubs his hands over his face. She needs to make him listen. Why won’t he listen? ‘Stephen!’
‘Oh, baby. You don’t know? Jesus. You’re really worrying me now, Tara.’
‘Know what?’
‘About that headmaster. That fucker. Baby, it’s been in all the papers.’
‘What has?’
‘Wait. I need a drink for this.’ She watches as he takes out two glass tumblers from the drinks cabinet, pours several fingers of Klipdrift into each one. His hands are shaking violently – she doesn’t think the drink is his first of the night.
He pushes a glass into her hand. She takes a sip. The brandy burns her throat; she can feel it trickling all the way down to her empty stomach. Takes another. Jesus, she’s so thirsty.
‘This is not going to be easy to hear, Tara. After you left us... That day Olivia was here, remember?’ Tara nods impatiently. Of course she remembers that. ‘Well, the cops went to go interview Duvenhage again, about the Encounters group or whatever it’s called. Couldn’t find him. His wife said he was AWOL. Tracking company traced his car to the airport, and when they...’ He swallows, and Tara realises he’s struggling to hold back a sob. ‘And when they... when they looked inside it, the boot... it was... it was soaked in blood. Martin’s blood, baby. They tested it for DNA. There’s no doubt.’
Tara shakes her head. ‘But I saw him, I saw Martin.’ Where did she see Martin though? That house... that’s where. Wasn’t it? For some reason an image of a sewing machine pops into her mind. The brandy isn’t helping. It’s making her feel even fuzzier.
‘You couldn’t have, baby. They found too much blood, too much for him to have survived. There’s no doubt. I know – I know what you must be feeling, you want to believe he’s alive, but, Tara, he isn’t. He couldn’t be.’
‘I...’ She tries to make sense of what Stephen’s telling her. Duvenhage, that prissy busybody, a murderer? ‘They’ve... found him? Duvenhage, I mean?’
‘No. The fucker’s disappeared. They’re looking. They’ll find him. And it’s not just that, baby. They think he’s connected to that Ryan guy. That janitor.’
‘What?’
‘Ja. Some kind of kiddie porn racket. They found pictures, evidence that links the two of them.’ Another smothered sob. ‘We can only hope that Martin didn’t suffer.’
‘But... but when was this?’ Did she see Martin before Duvenhage took him? No, it can’t be. It feels as if she’s only just seen Martin – hours ago, minutes, maybe. ‘But when I left yesterday—’
‘Tara,’ Stephen interrupts, ‘you’ve been gone for five days.’
‘No. That’s impossible.’
‘Tara, baby, listen to me. We thought you were lost. I thought I’d lost you.’
She takes another sip, then drains the glass. Feels the brandy doing its work, clouding what’s left of her thoughts. Opens her mouth to speak again, but can’t muster the energy.
‘Here, baby, lie down.’ She allows Stephen to lift her legs up onto the couch.
She closes her eyes, and then, nothing.
‘... think Duvenhage might have something to do with her disappearance?’ Tara’s groggily aware that Stephen’s voice is floating into the lounge from the corridor.
‘Unlikely, Mr Marais. His car was left at the airport before she disappeared. But we are not discounting anything at this stage.’ A woman’s voice. Well-modulated, deep. Familiar. But Tara can’t quite place it.
‘It’s a coincidence though, isn’t it? Her disappearing around the same time? What about that Ryan bastard?’ Stephen again.
‘We will have to wait to hear what she says. But there is no evidence to suggest that. The location where her car was found points to a hijacking, a robbery perhaps. Our only witness reports seeing a white male, early thirties, driving the car.’ This time Tara manages to place the voice – Superintendent Molefi.
‘That Ryan’s white, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, Mr Marais, but he doesn’t fit this man’s description at all.’
‘Last night... she was confused. A head injury of some sort. Think she might have amnesia?’
‘Possibly post-traumatic shock, Mr Marais. She must go to a hospital to be checked out. You should have taken her last night.’
‘I know, I know. I was just so relieved to see her. Christ knows where she’s been. She’s filthy, lost weight...’ His voice fades away; they must have moved into the kitchen.
Tara sits up too quickly, the motion making her stomach lurch. She gags, tastes sour alcohol. Draws in a shuddering breath. Jesus, she feels like crap. Her head is throbbing, she’s dehydrated, recognises the beginnings of a major hangover. She lifts her hand to touch the wound behind her ear, realises she’s still clutching Baby Tommy’s head, her fingers stiff from cupping the curve of his scalp all night. She drops him on the coffee table, rubs her hands over her face. Tries to stand, wincing as her knees pop. Looks down
, sees that she’s dressed in her pyjamas. Her jeans and sweatshirt are bundled in a stinking ball at the base of the television stand. Stephen must have removed them last night, left her to sleep on the couch.
Her eye is drawn to a bunch of papers scattered on the side table next to Stephen’s La-Z-Boy. She inches her way over to it, grabs one of the pages. It’s a ‘missing person’ flyer, only the person missing is her: her black-and-white face grins back at her above the words ‘Have You Seen This Woman?’ She recognises the photograph, actually remembers the exact moment when Stephen took it. It was on their holiday to Cape Town, in the bar of the Mount Nelson, the day before she returned to that mall to buy her first Reborn – Baby Lulu.
She stretches her arms behind her head to rub her neck, grimacing as she’s hit with a waft of stale sweat. Jesus. Was she really gone for five days? How can that be? Was she in that house for that long?
Ignoring the ache in her thighs, she shuffles into the hallway, hesitates outside the kitchen doorway.
‘... nearer to finding him?’ she hears Stephen asking.
‘We’re doing all we can,’ Superintendent Molefi replies.
‘You think he’s gone overseas? What about his passport? Can’t you trace it?’
‘We found his South African passport in the safe in his office, Mr Marais. There’s no sign of him. It is almost as if he’s vanished off the face of the earth.’
Tara stumbles through the door. The superintendent looks up, slides off her stool, steps towards her. ‘Ah, Mrs Marais. I am happy to see you’re safe.’
Stephen gasps and runs around the breakfast counter. ‘Sorry, my baby, I didn’t know you were awake.’ He guides her towards one of the stools, helps her onto it. She can’t decide what’s more confusing, Stephen treating her like she’s made of glass, or the cotton wool that seems to have replaced her brain.
