The humming stopped. ‘None of your business.’
He rolled over and looked out at the grey sea heaving itself against the rocks. He had meant to tell Clare last night about his wife’s decision to return to South Africa.
When she came out of the bathroom, she was wearing a tracksuit. ‘You coming?’ She bent down to put on her running shoes.
‘You must be joking.’
Clare reached under the duvet, her hands cold on Riedwaan’s chest. ‘I’m not. You need to do more exercise than occasionally getting it off with me.’ She turned towards him at the door, sunlight catching her face and the trace of a smile.
‘Clare, I wanted to-’
‘What?’ She raised an eyebrow.
But Riedwaan could not spoil the happiness he had coaxed from her. ‘Your eggs, fried or scrambled?’
‘Hardboiled would be apt, don’t you think?’ Then she was off, two steps at a time.
‘Feed Fritz,’ she yelled up the stairs. ‘Then she won’t attack you.’ The door slammed and she was gone.
two
One thousand six hundred kilometres north, as the crow flies, Herman Shipanga lay waiting, the cold biting through his thin mattress. The houses hunkered together for protection from the wind that moaned across the exposed dunes of the Namib Desert, only breaking into its hyena-laugh when it slunk between the houses. The wind probed cracks in the bricks, places where doors and windows had shrunk from their frames; it sought out and found tender limbs uncovered in sleep.
At last it came: the siren’s wail, tearing through Walvis Bay. Shipanga threw back the covers, his damaged hip protesting. He stepped over the huddle of children asleep on the floor, filled a bowl with water and went outside to wash. As he threw out the icy water, the siren wailed again. The fishmeal factory looming over the pinioned houses belched yellow smoke. Shipanga gagged at the stench.
His wife was up, stirring porridge on the two-plate. ‘You should be used to it by now. The smell of money,’ she said by way of a greeting as she handed him a bowl. He shovelled down the porridge without appetite.
He pulled his jacket on over his blue overalls. The children stirred, puppies burrowing back into the warmth of each other’s bodies. He bent down to stroke the smooth forehead of his youngest before leaving.
Outside, he broke into a steady trot, footsteps echoing down the empty streets. The viscous fog parted for him. A dustbin, a chained bike, a woman walking her dog materialised just in time for him to avoid colliding with them. He took a short cut through the alley running between the sandy yards. It spewed him out at the back of the school. Walvis Bay Combined School was perched on the edge of the town. Here, the shifting red sand shored against the perimeter fence as if looking for a way in. Shipanga slipped through a gap in the fence and fetched a rake from his caretaker’s shed.
He made his way to the youngest children’s playground and closed the tall wooden gate behind him. The jungle gym reared up in the mist. The swings hung mute beneath their frames. Vacant, except for the last one.
The child’s knees were drawn close to his chest. He was leaning, with adolescent nonchalance, against the chain looped around the yellow swing.
‘What are you doing?’ Shipanga called.
The boy did not answer. These swaggering older boys always taunted Shipanga, mimicking with pen marks on their own pocked cheeks the ritual scars on his face. The triple verticals were the last trace of the home Shipanga had left to seek his fortune in this sunless port.
A cat’s paw of wind buffeted the swing, but still the boy remained silent. Anger welled hot and painful in Shipanga’s chest. He grabbed the chain, turning the boy to face him.
The startled insects paused only for a moment before returning to their busy feasting. Where the forehead should have been, a third eye leered.
Shipanga’s rage gave way to horror. He backed away, his eyes riveted by the swing’s cargo. When he reached the gate, he turned and ran towards a pair of lights raking over the parking lot.
‘Mr Erasmus,’ he gasped, his chest raw with exertion and shock.
‘What?’ The headmaster was unlocking the boot of his car. He did not bother to look up.
‘Someone’s there.’ Shipanga put his calloused hand on the man’s arm. ‘On the swings.’
‘Speak to Darlene Ruyters. She’ll deal with it.’ Erasmus took his briefcase out of the boot.
‘It’s a child, sir.’ Shipanga blocked the man’s path, anger returning. ‘Another boy.’
‘The same as the others?’ asked Erasmus, looking at the caretaker now.
Shipanga nodded. Erasmus walked towards the enclosed play area, opening the gate to reveal the figure twisting on the bright-yellow swing.
‘Who brought him here?’ Sweat beaded Erasmus’s forehead.
‘I don’t know.’
‘The first one in town,’ Erasmus said, flicking open his cellphone. Calling an ambulance sustained the illusion of hope. ‘Go and wait for the police, Herman. I’ll watch him. And don’t let anybody through the gates.’
Shipanga walked towards the gate, the corpse’s staring eyes prickling his back with dread. The leaden sky was silvering the truck approaching the gate. George Meyer, always first, rolled down his window. ‘What is it?’ asked Meyer.
‘An accident,’ Shipanga explained. ‘In the playground. We’re waiting to see what the police say, Mr Meyer.’
‘Thank you,’ said Meyer. He shot a sidelong glance at the small red-haired boy sitting next to him. Oscar was craning his neck forward to see what was wrong. Mrs Ruyters was Oscar’s teacher. Her car was there. That part was right. Herman Shipanga stopping them at the gate wasn’t, even though his familiar smile was a comforting white flash in his face.
A shiny new Mercedes Benz skidded to a halt behind them. Herman Shipanga stepped forward as a man hurled himself from the driver’s seat and planted his hand on the caretaker’s chest. Shipanga cracked his knuckles and stood his ground. Twenty years on fishing trawlers gave him the edge over a manicured man who spent his days in a heated office.
‘Why is this car blocking my path?’ demanded the man.
‘No school today, Mr Goagab,’ Shipanga said. ‘You must wait here, please. There was an accident at the-’
‘I must speak to Mr Erasmus.’ Goagab pulled out his phone. Before he could dial, Erasmus appeared, attracted by the noise.
‘Explain this, Erasmus,’ Goagab shouted. ‘Why can’t I drop off my sons? I demand an explanation.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Goagab, but you’ll have to wait. Everyone will have to wait. The police are on their way. They’ll decide.’
Erasmus was relieved to see a blue light glowing in the distant mist. A pair of cars pulled up. Two men got out of a white 4x4. Elias Karamata was dark, shaven-headed and compact, just the hint of a beer belly pushing at his crisp khaki shirt. Kevin van Wyk was lithe and precise. In the right light, he could pass for a movie star.
‘Who’s in command?’ asked Erasmus, looking from one to the other.
A woman heaved herself out of the other car, a clapped-out bakkie. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘Captain Tamar Damases.’
Erasmus suppressed a sigh and took her hand. It was smooth to the touch. ‘Thank you for being so quick. You know Mr Goagab?’ he asked.
‘I do. Good morning, Calvin.’
‘What about my meeting? I’ve got to get to the mayor,’ bellowed Goagab.
Tamar Damases’s jaw set hard under her soft skin. ‘You’ll wait here. Either in your car or outside. You choose.’
‘I’ll report you to Mayor D’Almeida, Captain Damases,’ said Goagab.
‘Would you?’ she said. ‘I’m sure that he’ll appreciate the time to tell the media that we’ve a third dead child to bury within the same number of weeks.’
