Blood Rose

Margie Orford Blood Rose

A book in the Clare Hart series, 2007

For my parents Jock and Rosie

Walvis Bay

22.95°S, 14.50°E

Here is a place of disaffection

T. S. Eliot, ‘Burnt Norton’

scorpio rising…

No moon. The desert wind knifes down the gully, rattling the dry grass. Stars hang heavy above the dunes. To the east, the sky is clear. In the west, the retreating fog hovers over the sea. The vehicle crests the dune, its lights malignant twin moons. Car doors open, spilling a peal of laughter, music, the tang of tobacco.

Later, the heft of a pistol in your hand. Perfect. Circled forefinger and thumb slide down to trace the blind eye. A fingertip dipped inside the barrel fans desire, warms your cold body. Pace back one step, two. He watches, the target. Hands bound. Breath held. Eyes riveted. Filled with the hope that you mean something else. Not this. Not you.

Your finger curled round the trigger anticipates the weight needed to fire. Uncurls, extends the ecstasy. Your eyes on the metal marker, an erect nipple on the barrel. Breathe out. Your breath mists the desert air. Breathe in. Breathe out as you beckon. Release. The force of it explodes through your arm, chest, head, groin and erases everything.

Turn and reach for a cigarette. The match flares into the night, filling again with calls and stars. The cigarette glows; the nicotine stills the choppy sea that is your blood. You yearn for what is coming.

Oh. His final breath tongues up your back. You turn to look. Wonder lingers in the unblinking eyes, almonds above the high cheekbones. The crumpled whorl of the ear is innocent of the blood marking the forehead. The open eyes glaze. You go home to sleep, tail lights red in the dark.

Scorpio’s tail is poised over the numinous star at its base. Winking in the centre of the constellation, the star-eye mocks the dead face. The blood soaking into the sand summons the first wave of tiny scavengers. Insects, flies, bacteria marshal themselves for the onslaught.

one

The sound sliced open Clare Hart’s Monday morning, dragging her out of a catacomb of sleep. She sat up, heart pounding, and pushed a tousle of hair from her face. It was her cellphone writhing on the bedside table. She reached for it, knocking over a glass of water. She shook the droplets off the phone and onto the sleeping cat. Fritz hissed and dug her claws into her mistress’s bare thigh. Clare caught the tiny bead of blood on her nail before it trickled onto the sheet.

‘Witch!’ she hissed. The cat strutted out of the room, flicking her tail in regal affront.

‘Dr Hart?’ the phone crackled.

Clare pulled the duvet around her naked body. ‘Who is this?’ The reception was always bad in her bedroom.

‘Captain Riedwaan Faizal. South African Police Service.’

Clare sat up, zero-to-panic alert. ‘Where are you?’ The other side of her bed was empty.

‘I’m downstairs. Buzz me in.’

‘You bastard!’ Clare could not hide the relief in her tone.

‘Tell that to my mother.’

‘Where’s my tea?’

‘Come on, Clare. It’s freezing out here and the security guard is getting suspicious.’

‘You know the deal, Riedwaan. You get sex and a bed for the night; I get tea as I wake up.’

‘I’m trying to break your habit. I’ve got you a cappuccino and hot croissant instead.’

Clare wrapped her gown around her body. ‘Fair enough. Hang on.’ She pushed the red button on the intercom, listening for the thud of Riedwaan’s shoulder against the glass door. He came upstairs, bringing with him a blast of cold dawn air and two steaming coffees.

‘Giovanni’s. My favourite.’ Clare took the coffees from him and led the way to the kitchen.

Riedwaan followed her down the passage. ‘Maybe you should give me some keys. I could have brought you this in bed.’ He tipped the croissants onto a plate and opened the microwave.

Clare opened the plastic coffee lid. ‘Maybe.’

She snatched the Cape Times he had clamped under his arm and went back to bed. Clare had allowed her defences to be breached once, long ago. The consequences had been devastating. It would take more than breakfast in bed for her to lower her defences a second time.

But Riedwaan pinged the microwave optimistically a second time and put his coffee and the croissants onto a tray.

In the bedroom, Clare had propped herself up against the pillows. The soft fabric of her wrap fell open as she leaned over to get a croissant.

‘I love this about you.’

‘What?’ asked Clare, her mouth full.

‘That you wake up ravenous.’ Riedwaan reached forward, cupping her breast on an upturned hand. The air seemed thin, as if there was only just enough oxygen, which he would have to use judiciously. He moved his hand down her body, onto her hip. Clare put her cup on the table and slid down the bed. She pulled him towards her, practised hands undoing buttons, seeking the satin warmth of the skin on his belly, his back.

‘I’m glad you came back,’ she whispered.

Riedwaan smiled down at her. ‘I’ll be back any time for a welcome like this.’

When he reached for his coffee again, it was cold…

‘It’s time to get up,’ said Clare.

‘Stay a bit.’ Riedwaan tightened his arms around her. ‘You’re going away.’

‘I’ve got things to do.’ Clare slipped from his grasp and went to the adjoining bathroom.

Riedwaan listened to her hum as she splashed and opened and closed cupboards. ‘Do you hum when I’m not here?’ he asked.