by S. L. Grey
As she sits down, she’s hit with a vague image of Martin smiling blankly at her. Sitting at a desk. Where though? At school?
‘I know you’re exhausted, Mrs Marais,’ the superintendent says gently, ‘but can you tell me what happened to you?’
‘Can’t we do this later?’ Stephen says, with a trace of his usual irritability.
Superintendent Molefi ignores him, continues to fix her gaze on Tara. ‘Mrs Marais? Are you up to talking to me?’
Tara nods. Steadies herself by gripping the counter top. Takes a grateful gulp of water out of the glass Stephen hands to her. ‘A man... a man in a hat. I was looking for Martin, and he... did something to me.’
‘Was it Duvenhage, baby?’ Stephen jumps in.
Superintendent Molefi shoots him an exasperated glance. ‘Was this while you were driving, Mrs Marais?’
‘No.’
‘You were parked? You were in your car?’
‘I... I can’t remember. I parked my car at the house...’ That’s it. She’s getting warmer, she can feel it! ‘He’s in there somewhere. That house.’
‘Which house, Mrs Marais?’
‘You know which house. Jane’s house.’ She looks across at Stephen. ‘Stephen, tell her. You know which house I mean. The one with the statues.’
‘I don’t, my baby.’
‘The one I told you about... Where the pervert, Ryan, was hiding.’
‘And what about it, Mrs Marais?’
‘That’s where he is!’
‘Who? Ryan? The man who hurt you?’
‘No! Martin! Martin’s there.’
Stephen slumps. ‘Tara... Martin’s dead.’
She stands up. ‘He’s not. He’s not. Let’s go. Come on.’ Stephen moves as if to take her in his arms, but she pushes him away. ‘We might not have much time.’
‘You need to get her to a hospital right away, Mr Marais,’ Superintendent Molefi insists. ‘She is not well.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Tara. I know you feel guilty that you didn’t connect with Martin when he was alive, but—’
Jesus! ‘I know where Martin is. Why won’t you listen?’
‘Mrs Marais—’
‘Please. I can show you. Please.’
Stephen sighs. ‘If we go with you to the house, then will you go to the hospital?’
‘I don’t think this is a good idea, Mr Marais,’ the policewoman says.
‘Yes, yes, anything.’ Tara jumps in. ‘I swear, but please, let’s go.’
Stephen glances at Superintendent Molefi, sighs again. ‘Wait here, I’ll get you some clothes.’
‘This way,’ Tara says, checking to make sure that Stephen and the policewoman are still following her.
The house smells even mustier than she remembers. The air is thick with dust motes, the paintwork appears to be flakier, shabbier, as if the house has given up, as if it’s dying, crumbling in on itself.
Tara hurries down the corridor, opening doors at random. She knows the room has to be on this level, she’s sure of that much.
‘Tara,’ Stephen says. ‘Please, baby. Let’s go back to the car.’
She ignores him, pushes open the door at the far end of the passageway. ‘Here!’ She’s found it! The room with the jars. But... but where is he? Where’s Martin? She was sure he would be in here, but apart from that horrible insect collection, the room is empty.
‘Christ,’ Stephen mutters, glancing at the bottled rat at the end of the row. ‘What the fuck is this shit?’
Tara’s eyes dart around the room, fix on the cupboard. Yes, that’s where he is. She knows it with a solid certainty. He’s in there. She races over to it, yanks open the doors.
‘Tara? What are you doing?’
A white wall stares back at her. ‘This can’t be—’
Has she got the wrong room? No. It’s definitely this room. She remembers stumbling out into this space. From where though? And... It must be a false wall. Yeah, that’s it. She bunches her fist and knocks against it, listening for a hollow rap like she’s seen detectives do in the movies. All she hears is a dull thunk.
‘Mr Marais?’ she hears the policewoman saying. ‘We must stop this now.’
‘Tara, come on, baby,’ Stephen pleads. ‘We need to get you to the hospital.’
She ignores him, knocks on the wall, harder this time. Bunches her fist and punches. Again. And again.
She feels Stephen’s arms wrapping around her waist, tries to twist out of his grip. ‘Baby, what are you—’
‘Martin!’ she screeches. ‘Martin!’
As Stephen and Superintendent Molefi finally manage to drag her away, the last thing she sees are the bloody smears her ragged knuckles have left on the paintwork.
Chapter 27
RYAN
Ryan buttons up the light-blue shirt and knots his tie. He can’t remember the last time he wore a tie. A funeral probably, or maybe even when he got married to Karin. Could it have been that long ago?
The shirt is light and silky, the dye like a Tuscan sky. When he’d asked for smart clothes, pointing to a picture in a magazine, Penter had smiled. The next morning there was a box and a suit bag from A Camisa.
He tucks the shirt into the slacks and cinches them with a narrow leather belt, the type he would never have worn. But this evening he’s dressing to impress.
He runs a slick of gel through his cropped hair and musses it, glances across at the mirror just long enough to check that the hair is okay. Deliberately avoiding, as he’s quickly learnt, looking at his face.
It will be all right. He shrugs on the jacket. Its casual styling clashes with the rest of his smart outfit, but that can’t be helped. He flips the hood over his head and leaves his room.
The new house is far more anonymous than the mansion the Encounters team squatted in last time. It’s an old Kensington house that looks like any of the dozen others on the block: beige seven-foot wall topped by four perfunctory electric strands, a lavender bush by the front gate, red-tiled roof and blushed paint job. A far better way to blend in than that grotesque eyesore up on Excelsior Avenue.
Ryan tries to bring himself to care what will happen to the scouted children once they’re taken, but he can’t. That’s not his business. He’s not responsible for any of it. If you want to blame anyone, blame the school principals, just like Duvenhage, willing to sell their souls and their children for some seriously good money. Or blame the teachers, blame the parents, blame society. Blame fucking capitalism; you may as well bash your head against a brick wall. It’s none of his business. Ryan was as good as dead, but he’s made this arrangement to come back home for one reason only: to see Alice. Beyond that, nothing’s important.
He runs his hand through his spiky hair one more time, feels the new contours of his cheeks. It will be okay; clothes maketh the man. He gets into the station wagon. He’s collected Jane from school already and the rest of the afternoon and the evening is all his.
As he backs the Volvo out, he suppresses a wave of panic that he’ll be stopped. But he never is. There’s nothing preventing him from just leaving; they haven’t even been renewing his shunt since he’s been back up here. He’s in total control of his mind; he has his free will back. There’s nothing preventing him from taking the car and driving as far as he can. They’ve even arranged a new driver’s licence to match his new face and his new name – follow the local laws, avoid conflict and detection at all costs. He could take a bundle of cash from Penter’s desk and just go. But he always comes back. For now it suits him. He has a house to live in, he’s protected, he has a job... He has a family, he laughs to himself. But after tonight, things might change.
He’s not fooling himself; it might take a while to earn Alice’s trust again, but once he’s made a good impression tonight, that will be on course. And when the team packs up and goes back down, he has no intention of going with them. If Penter knew that, would she be so lax with him?
He shrugs off the question.
It doesn’t matter to him. One day at a time. That’s how he’s always lived.
He pulls into a rooftop parking spot at Bedford Centre, tugs the hood low over his head, locks the car and walks over to the entrance, concentrating on exuding confidence, walking as if he belongs here. He’s a rich businessman from upstairs in the office tower, sauntering entitled through the mall. He looks at the shine on his crackling new Italian loafers as he walks. Rich businessmen have a free pass.
But when he looks up, a paunchy, scarred security guard at the roof entrance is looking at him rudely. He’s just jealous, Ryan tells himself. Of course he’s got an issue with rich people. He walks on, keeping his face down, the hood blinkering him.
A small child with a balloon skitters across his path, looks up at him and freezes. Ryan has to stop suddenly, the smooth-bottomed shoes sliding on the travertine, to avoid ploughing over him. The balloon is decorated with a clown advertising a pizza franchise. It slips from the boy’s grasp. The boy looks into Ryan’s eyes, his mouth widening, and then he flushes red and starts screaming.
Ryan shifts around the kid and hears his mother trotting up as he jinks right down another corridor. He doesn’t look back.
Stay calm, he tells himself. It’s just a kid and a security guard. It’s not that bad. Surely. It will be okay. If he’s in luck, Alice and Karin will be here soon.
He checks his wrist, but he’s not wearing a watch. Come to think of it, he can’t remember the last time he wore one. What happened to his watch?
He goes into a phone shop. There’s a woman in a white blouse and black suit jacket sitting behind the counter. She’s wearing a yellow scarflet around her neck like an air hostess. She’s looking down at her keyboard.
‘Hi. I wonder if you can tell me the time.’
She looks up at his face and gasps, but professionalism constrains her. He watches her frightened eyes scan the cut of his shirt, the weave of his tie and calculate his worth.
‘It’s... it’s uh...’ She swallows something down and checks her watch. ‘It’s twenty to six.’
‘Thanks.’ Ryan tries to smile his reassuring smile, but it doesn’t work so well any more. If Karin and Alice are coming tonight, they’ll be here soon. He turns to leave.
‘Anything else I can...?’ The sentence trails off behind him, the woman obviously relieved she won’t need to finish it.
Ryan hurries down the escalator and takes up his place on the bench on the mezzanine level. An old wino clutching tiredly onto a bottle in a brown plastic bag shifts away from him unconsciously but doesn’t look over at Ryan.
Ryan keeps his head down as more children and parents walk by and as security guards circulate, thinking only about the end of their twelve-hour shift. He peers at the escalators from under the lip of the hood until, at last, he sees Karin’s thin form riding up to the top level. But where is Alice? Ryan lifts his head and scans the atrium, ignoring the double-takes and hastened steps of the passing shoppers who notice him.
He almost doesn’t recognise Alice when she passes close by him, far behind Karin’s wake. She’s dressed all in tight and too-short black, her hair dyed darker than he’s ever seen. She’s carrying a single red rose. Worst of all, she’s clutching the hand of a tall and pimply boy in faded black jeans and T-shirt. His mousy hair’s in a failed coxcomb and he’s walking slightly ahead of her with a confident swagger he simply has no reason for.
‘Alice!’ Ryan jumps up and follows them up the escalator, elbowing a bag-laden woman aside, forgetting everything he’s prepared. ‘Alice!’
She turns around and her face curls in disgust. She stumbles at the top of the escalator and walks away, scanning ahead for her mother. The geek strides along with her.
‘Alice, wait! It’s—’ He wanted to do this somewhere quieter, somewhere he could explain to her why his face has changed. She’s almost running now. She glances back at him, not a hint of recognition in her eyes. He tries to catch up and she ups her pace.
‘Mom? Mom?’ she’s saying, and now she pulls her hand out of the boy’s. They’ve rushed into a corner between the bookshop, a jewellery shop and a pizzeria. She has to turn around.
Ryan holds his hands up. He stands still, tries to sound calm. ‘Alice. It’s me.’
The boy steps forward. ‘Listen. Just leave her—’ he squeaks, losing his nerve when he gets a good look at Ryan’s face.
This boy was not part of the plan. ‘Fuck off!’ he hisses at the boy. The kid looks like he’s about to wet himself. He takes two steps backwards, and Alice takes two towards him. Some space is better than none.
‘It’s me. Dad.’
She looks at him. Stares at his face longer than anyone has since he got it. She shakes her head, backs away, holding up the rose like a talisman, like a crucifix to a vampire.
‘I promise, Alice. I’ve just... I’ve just had... I can explain. Can we sit somewhere?’
She’s still shaking her head. She steps back to the boy and grabs his hand again. ‘No. Leave me alone, you fucking freak,’ she says.
‘Alice. Come on. You know it’s me.’ Ryan walks towards her. He reaches out and takes her arm.
She drops the rose and Ryan steps on it as he advances, feeling the soft crush of the bud under his thin-soled shoe. ‘Leave me alone!’ she screams in a shrill yell. ‘Mommeeeeeee!’ She sounds like a five-year-old. Ryan’s never heard her so afraid. He lets go and turns, and walks straight into Karin, who knees him in the groin. It doesn’t hurt Ryan, now he’s been fixed, and he stumbles on, trying to get past her. Karin rakes a sharp shoe point down his shin, grabs a clawed handful of hood and face, and twists.
‘You don’t fucking touch my daughter!’ she’s yelling, high on adrenalin. He can see the sweat beading on her top lip. She has no idea who he is.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he’s saying as he shakes himself loose from her grip. He’s trying to make for the exit when a weight smacks him from behind. He’s hauled over and pepper spray jets into his eyes. Someone’s sitting astride him, knees paralysing his arms. He can’t bring his hands up to cover his face, and more of the stinging liquid is sprayed onto it. Someone else kicks him in the groin before he’s hauled up. Ryan could almost laugh.
Later, after the security guards have made him wait in a sweat-smelling, windowless cubicle, have taken a photo of him and loaded it and the details they’ve found on his new driver’s licence laboriously onto their computer system, they cut him loose.
‘Nobody’s pressing charges,’ the scarred security man says. ‘But you don’t come back here.’
Ryan feels a magnetic pull back to the house, back to Jane. She never screams when she sees him. But it’s almost too simple. The tang of predestiny – as if they knew all along he wouldn’t stray far and that’s why they don’t care if he goes out – sparks a last little ember of rebellion in him. He doesn’t go where people tell him to go, he tells himself, but it’s a small voice, feeble and unconvincing. Maybe it’s time to grow up, get real, make the best of his restricted circumstances. That’s something he’s avoided throughout his life. Maybe that’s something only kids do, that constant kicking against authority. He’s nearly forty, for fuck’s sake, and he’s still floating around in the world, completely untethered. Especially now. His last anchor, Alice, is gone. So maybe Jane’s right. He belongs there; he has a job.
That last little voice of independence inside him turns the Volvo left at Sovereign Street instead of taking him straight across. He’s going to try one final time to revisit his past, to regather those pieces of himself that he’s lost.
He parks a few houses down from Ma Beccah’s house and walks the rest of the way. The night air is cold now and he tugs the hood down over his head and pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. A shower of plane leaves falls around him as the breeze gusts.
As ever, the front door is unlocked. Ryan pushes through and goes down the passage and to his room at the back, hoping Ma Beccah won’t see him. He tells himself that he�
�s here because he just wants to collect the rest of his things, but somewhere else inside, he wants to be where he was – who he was – before this all started. If he had just kept his nose clean at the school, if he hadn’t been so stupid as to get involved with the girl next door, if he hadn’t—
But he stops himself. He knows it all started a long time before that.
He’s so used to this dark path through to the small room, the floorboards creaking here and there as they always did, the smell of the tenants’ cheap meals clinging to the air, that he’s surprised when his door doesn’t open. He instinctively pats his pockets for the keys before he remembers he’s been gone for too long. He rattles the doorknob as if it will miraculously open.
‘Out! Out!’ Ma Beccah’s standing in the doorway to the sitting room. Just like she protects her house, she protects herself without hard, aggressive metal, without locks and gates and guns, but through the sheer force of her will and righteousness.
‘Ma Beccah,’ he starts, then swallows the rest of his words. He draws the cowl over his head and retreats without another word or a glance.
‘There’s nothing here for you.’ Ma Beccah’s voice follows him.
The last strand of habit holding him here turns him right at the gate and along to Fransie’s house. The light’s on at the porch, but the old man’s chair is empty. As his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, he notices a slight movement in the shadows. The space beside the house has been cleared; Tess’s fantasy castle, what she thought was her safe space, has been deleted. Nonetheless, the girl stands there in a dark fleece top, her arms folded close around her chest. Ryan remembers their previous encounter; she seemed light, charmed. Now she stands sullen and scrapes her shoe at something on the scrubby patch of lawn, unsmiling, disengaged. Some light has gone out in her. He could make her happy, couldn’t he?
