by JT Lawrence
3
The Curse of Stone
Written by the (fictional) MillenniarellaBot AI after being fed classic fairytales and American stand-up comedy.
(Inspired by “The Christmas on Christmas” by Keaton Patti, who fed his bot thousands of Hallmark Christmas screenplays and then instructed him to write his own.)
Once upon a time there lived a cold queen who was as beautiful as an Alaskan husky-hound and as cruel as minimum wage. She’d pay you in snow if it weren’t illegal.
“I need a man,” she said. “I need him to curse me.”
Her bed was made of icicles, and her baby pouch was made of stone. It was like carrying around an iceberg in an apron made of skin.
The royal advisor was a crone, short and old as a tree trunk. You could count the centuries on her face.
“Come here,” said the queen. “I want to count the centuries on your face.”
“Stop your lip-noise,” said the advisor. “You need a man to curse you.”
“I have a plan,” said the queen, and applied red mouth wax and tightened the laces of her breast-corset until she felt desirable.
“You don’t know how to seduce the wolves,” said the crone. “Your face is a bowl of sadness.”
“I need to shape up for summer,” said the queen, looking into her magic mirror which was not doing the right job. “I need to eat less and exercise more.”
“Even the deadbeat ghetto birds think you are too cold,” said the crone.
“I will eat them in a pie,” said the queen. A lightning bolt smashed into the castle and zinged through the stone walls. Some of the turret guards outside were electrocuted by the sky-blast and tumbled into the moat below. The surviving guards pointed and laughed. The wrong-job mirror cracked in half ... he's in therapy now.
The queen smiled; she felt curse-worthy now. Her eyes were ice-cubes with lashes.
The old advisor was still breathing. She bent over into a question mark. “What is your plan?”
“I’ll go to a restaurant that serves breakfast at any time and ask for Eggs Benedict during the Industrial Revolution.”
“That sounds good,” said the crone, picking her teeth with the sharpened edge of her magic wand. “That is a good plan.”
The queen arrived at the deli and went straight to the sandwich counter. There was a man counting sandwiches.
“I need a man to curse me.”
The man looked confused but happy, like a hungry parking meter.
The queen put her frost-hands on the counter. “But first I need bacon.”
“You are my kind of queen,” said the sandwich man.
The queen looked deep into the man’s eyes. “It’s easy to be confident when you have a full head of hair.”
“I like the way you wear your red mouth wax.”
“This plan is succeeding,” said the queen. “I can feel it in my baby pouch.”
“Please be patient. I will get your bacon.”
“Don’t forget the factory sauce,” said the queen. “It must taste like smoke and ashes and small children stuck in chimneys.”
The sandwich man brought the queen her Eggs Benedict, generously seasoned with sweatshop tears and sprinkled with soot.
“The bacon is average,” the queen said, wiping her mouth with her dreams.
The man was pleased; he recognised a compliment when he heard one.
“Do you need marriage with your breakfast?” asked the sandwich man.
“Will I need to pay double?”
He thought about it for a while and then nodded. They shook hands.
“I believe in the idea of marriage,” said the man. “I’ll keep trying till I get it right.”
“Look,” she said, showing him the world inside her purse. “I have enough money to last us the rest of our lives.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Unless you buy something.”
A man of the cloth arrived with two suits.
“You should never trust a preacher with more than two suits,” said the man.
“God is a squirrel,” said the queen.
“God is not a squirrel,” said the pastor. “He is just an underachiever.”
"You are a precious frozen thing," said the sandwich man to the queen. "For this reason, I will not put you in my pocket."
The salad garnishes began to shiver and dance; the cherry tomatoes were pinballs.
“Let us begin the marriage,” said the sandwich man. “This queen is cold and needs a man to curse her.”
“Here,” said the pastor. “Take these magic mushrooms.”
“No thank you,” said the queen. “I’ve already had bacon.”
“Then drink this lemonade. It is LSD.”
The old crone walked into the deli. “If you drink the open-mind juice you’ll see that all matter is one.”
“Yes,” said the pastor, leaning on the counter and taking a bite out of a crustless tuna mayonnaise sandwich. “Life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves.”
“I can’t drink the open-mind juice today,” said the queen. “It will be bad for the curse.”
“I like the centuries on your face,” said the sandwich man to the crone.
"She is my greatest godmother," said the queen. "We couldn't decide if we should bury or cremate her, so we let her live.”
“Death is not real,” said the pastor. “She doesn’t exist. Even if you wish she did.”
“Has the marriage begun yet?” asked the sandwich man.
“It feels like it,” said the queen. “Will you curse me now?”
“The sandwich man can’t curse you,” said the greatest crone. "You are a bag of cheap party ice, and your baby pouch is made of stone."
The queen began to cry. The tears hailed down her cheeks, shooting to the floor and rolling like ice marbles on the freshly swept linoleum. The man took her in his arms and kissed her, and the queen began to defrost. He yanked off his sandwich apron and cursed her three times.
The queen’s baby pouch warmed and softened and turned into flesh, and in that flesh-balloon a baby began to grow like a magic bacon bean. The deadbeat birds arrived to sing. The pastor threw black pepper in the air, and they all sneezed. The greatest godmother danced to the ghetto birdsong, which was cheerful because they liked not being in a pie. The pastor swung the old crone around and kissed her skin-centuries.
For the first time in her life, the queen felt warm. Settling into the sandwich man’s arms, she felt the curse swell inside her.
And they all lived happily ever after.
4
The Green Silk Scarf
Thanks for coming in,” says Captain De Villiers, standing up and rubbing his stubble. He’s looking rougher than usual, more unkempt. His face is as crumpled as his shirt. What he really means is: Thank you for not making me come and get you from that damned sheep farm of yours, all the way in the fokken Free State.
“You promised me we’d catch a wife-killer,” Robin Susman says. “How could I resist?”
“Usually you’re bloody good at resisting,” says De Villiers. “You must be getting soft in your old age.”
“Speak for yourself.” Susman eyes the box of Calmettes on his desk. Since when did Devil need tranquillisers? De Villiers follows her gaze and scoops the pills off the table, dropping them in the open drawer below and slamming it shut.
“They’re natural,” he says, under his breath. Susman doesn’t reply. She assumes the captain’s wife has insisted on them. The Devil she knows is not one for herbal remedies.
“If the case is so open-and-shut, why do you need me?” Susman asks.
Khaya suddenly appears at the door. “You’re back!" He grins at her but knows not to hug. Hugging comes with the risk of being stabbed by a ballpoint pen. Robin Susman has boundaries.
She nods. “Sergeant.”
“I’ve just made the captain some coffee,” Khaya says, passing it to Devil. “Would you like some?”
Susman laughs. “From th
is place? No. Thank you.”
De Villers takes a sip and pulls a face. “Good call.”
“You guys need to get with it,” says Susman. “You need a decent coffee machine. I live on a farm in the middle of nowhere. I churn my own butter for God’s sake … and yet even I have a proper espresso maker.”
“Certainly,” says Devil, batting his short brown eyelashes and gesturing at the grubby surroundings. “Shall we order the gold-plated one, to match the rest of the office?”
Robin doesn’t have to look around to capitulate. She knows by touch the thin walls, the cheap furniture, the broken ceiling fan that has been hanging skew for years. No matter how hot it becomes in the confined space, the officers know to never switch it on, or face the imminent threat of decapitation. Susman sighs. She knows there is no budget for anything; as it is, the police station is critically understaffed and has been for years.
But what do you do when a woman is missing? There's no time to complain about slow software or cracked windows. You just get on with the job. And in a city like Johannesburg, there is no shortage of missing persons cases.
Robin sits down, and Captain De Villiers passes her the file. MEGAN ELIZABETH SHAW.
“Shaw disappeared two weeks ago. Both her husband and parents reported her missing when she didn’t come home on the night of the 22nd of May. The husband—David—had seen her that morning and said she was her usual self. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Susman pages through the file, reading snippets as she listens to Devil’s brief. There is a photo of Megan Shaw: brunette, average height, hazel-eyed and friendly-looking. She was wearing heavy makeup and a spotted silk scarf knotted at the neck.
“She looks like a film star from the 50s,” says Susman, picturing those actresses who would don cat’s-eye sunglasses and wrap their hair in a designer scarf before riding in an open-top sports car somewhere in California or St. Moritz.
“It’s in her profile,” says Khaya. “The scarves. Her friends say she had—and I quote—a ‘scarf addiction'. Her mother said she'd never have left them behind. That's how she knows Shaw didn't leave on her own accord; when we checked her house, the scarves were all there."
“How would she know? That they were all there?”
“Marie Kondō,” says the sergeant.
Susman frowns. “What now?”
“Ha,” says De Villiers. “I had the same reaction. Shaw’s mother said that the weekend before her daughter went missing, she had helped her sort her closets.”
“Decluttering,” says Khaya. “It’s trending hard right now.”
“They had given away all but her favourite scarves, and kept fifty.”
“Fifty,” said Khaya, giving her a pointed look, as if owning fifty scarves was scandalous. “And when we checked her place out, there were forty-nine. She was wearing her favourite one—green silk—the day she disappeared.”
Susman began tapping the leg of the desk with her boot. “Remind me why this is significant?”
“Because she never packed a bag. Her toiletries are all still there. And she never packed any of her scarves.”
“Sounds to me as if you guys are reaching.”
Khaya stares at her. “So you think she did do a runner?”
“I don’t think anything yet. All I’m saying is basing a case on a silk scarf seems sketchy at best.”
“But you always say—”
“I know what I always say.”
Susman always says The Husband Did It. Most of the time, she’s right.
Blom sticks his head through the doorway, and his face lights up when he sees Robin.
“Susman!” he says. “Can I make you some coffee?”
“I’m getting the feeling you guys actually don’t want me to stay.”
Khaya laughs, showing off his perfect teeth.
“I have news,” says the tall Dutch detective who they call The Flying Dutchman.
“Body?” asks De Villiers.
“Negatief," says Blom. He's chewing gum, and Robin watches as his jaws work away at it. "I finally got through the red tape. They released her bank statements to us. Megan Shaw withdrew all her money the day before she disappeared."
Robin sits up a little straighter. “That’s interesting.”
“All her money?” Devil has a sip of his coffee and then has a regretful expression.
“Every cent. Savings, current, access bond, you name it. She maxed her cash withdrawal and sent the rest to PayDay. It’s an international payment service based in the US. We can’t access those records.”
“Yet,” says Devil. “Get on it.”
“Yes, Captain.” Blom retreats, giving Susman a wave. Khaya leaves, too.
“I don’t understand why they’re always so bloody happy to see you,” moans De Villiers.
“Oh, please,” says Susman. “They get to look at my face instead of yours for a few days. I’m surprised they’re not throwing a party.”
Devil purses his lips.
“Where is the husband?” asks Susman. “David Shaw. I’d like to speak to him.”
When Robin Susman had been a detective in Devil’s squad, she had cracked suspects in half with her interrogation technique.
It’s not a technique, she used to say. I just ask questions.
That’s what life’s about, though, isn’t it? Devil had said in one of his more reflective moments. Asking the right questions.
“I’ve tried already,” he says. “Shaw doesn’t answer a thing. Just says he’s innocent and hides behind his attorney.”
“Smart,” says Robin.
“He was willing to do a lie-detector test.”
Susman looks up at him.
“He passed. We’re holding him, but don’t have anything. Not really. We’re going to have to charge or release him in a few hours, and we're running out of time." He reaches for his jacket. "Want to go for a walk?"
They stride over the broken paving of the sidewalk, stepping over tree roots and potholes. Susman trips over the nub of a tree stump, and De Villiers catches her hand without thinking. She regains her balance and snatches it back.
“Sorry,” he says. She thanks him in an annoyed way and plunges her hands back into her pockets and they keep walking.
Pigeons, pecking at the stale breadcrumbs near an overflowing rubbish bin, look up at them and scatter. Cars dodge and overtake, and aggressive drivers lean on their horns. Robin can taste the carbon monoxide in the air. Farm air is not without its stink, but she’d take compost and sheep dung over exhaust fumes any day.
“Nice to get some fresh air,” jokes Devil.
Susman smiles at him, the sun’s glare reflecting off the traffic and making her eyes water. “Tell me about the blood spatter.”
“No blood spatter,” says De Villiers.
They dodge weeds, rocks, and loose gravel. There is graffiti on the dirty brick walls, and an old empty chip packet glints as it’s pushed along by the lazy breeze.
“I want a new forensic team checking her house.”
“I can’t authorise that. We don’t have the budget.” De Villiers runs his fingers through his hair. “Strictly speaking, we can’t afford you on this case, either.”
Susman stops walking to look him in the eye. “And yet, here I am.”
The duo stand inside Megan and David Shaw’s lounge. The captain’s compromise was to get a junior forensic to comb the house again, and Susman could do her own search. After ninety minutes of careful inspection, they agree the lounge is clean. In Susman’s mind, it’s suspiciously clean. Susman snaps her latex gloves off to give her perspiring hands some air.
“Satisfied?” asks Devil.
“No.”
Susman makes her way to the bedroom the couple shared and carefully looks through their things. She uses her borrowed UV light to check for blood residue, spraying Luminol as she slowly works through the room. The carpet smells of shampoo, the walls were recently scrubbed. Robin stops when she sees the scarf collection. Takin
g out her phone, she records a voice note saying how she thinks the room is too clean.
“Susman!” De Villiers calls. “We may have found something.”
Susman turns to leave, but something is still bothering her. She spins around and looks again, her eyes scanning the room.
“Susman!” yells Devil.
Robin remembers the hairline crack in the clay stand of the bedside lamp. A sign of a struggle? She walks towards it, picks it up, and looks at the bottom. She doesn’t need the Luminol to see the blood spatter. It’s there: a fine spray of brown on the grey felt.
She wends her way back to the captain and the junior forensic.
“It might be nothing,” says the intern, holding up a sealed evidence bag. It looks empty. “But we found what looks like female hair on the husband’s outbound dry-cleaning. It was in the closet near the front door, ready to go.”
“Long and blonde,” adds Devil. “So, in other words, not his wife’s.”
“Good work, Junior,” says Susman. “Now come upstairs, and bring your UV light.”
They uncover three more patches of blood spatter: in the central light fitting, behind the wall-heater, and underneath the closet door.
“Someone cleaned this up really well,” says the junior.
“Not well enough,” says De Villiers, looking grumpy. Maybe he was disheartened that his original team had not found anything. Maybe he needs to be harder on them. Robin can tell he’s been distracted lately.
While the forensic packs up the samples and the rest of his kit, Susman looks out of the window at the peaceful suburban scene outside. Indigenous trees, green lawns, kids riding bikes, and thinks what an illusion it all is.
“It’s probably enough to charge him,” says Devil. “But not to prosecute. No body, no motive, no weapon.”
“An outsider wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to clean up.”
De Villiers nods in agreement.
“The blonde hair could point to the motive,” says Susman. “Let’s find out who the owner is.”
