and beyond that the mountains, softened by distance. Clare imagined the road she would have taken up to Namaqualand, to see her twin. She felt the old tug deep within her. ‘Tell her I’m not coming.’
‘You and your twin,’ Riedwaan sighed. ‘I watch you, but don’t ask me how your minds work.’
‘It’s one mind,’ said Clare, ‘divided in two.’
She closed the front door behind him and walked through her apartment, picking up clothes, CDs and books that Riedwaan had discarded. Before she realised what she was doing, she had bundled his things into a bag. She dropped it at the front door, feeling lighter. The thought of a working journey felt good, right; this holiday idea, going to stay in the middle of nowhere with Constance, had not. Two birds with one stone, you could say. Clare took a deep breath, releasing the tension in her neck, and went to phone her twin.
As she dialled she pictured Constance as if she were with her. The hip-length curtain of dark hair; the shoulder blades and angular hips jutting against the seamless white she always wore over her scarred body. Clare let the phone ring three times. She put it down. Redialled. Another three rings. She hated these subterfuges, this pandering to a neurosis so deep it had worked into the marrow of her sister’s existence. And her own, she thought, irritation and hopeless love welling up together.
‘Constance,’ said Clare, envisaging her twin in the dim farmhouse of their childhood.
‘Are you all right?’ Her twin’s voice had the same soughing as wind in pine trees. You had to lean in to her to hear her. Which meant that when she spoke, which was rarely, everyone stopped, leaned in close, listened.
‘I’m fine,’ said Clare.
‘You aren’t coming.’ Constance laughed, a silvery peal. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to call.’
‘I’m sorry, Constance. Something came up. A work thing. I have to go.’
‘The dead boys.’ Constance said it simply, a statement of fact.
‘How did you know?’ Clare’s skin crawled.
‘Television. We pick up the Namibian broadcasts here sometimes. I saw a snippet about a boy on a swing in a school in a desert. I thought, she’ll go to him, instead of coming here to me.’ The mocking, musical laugh again. ‘I thought, he’s waiting there for Clare.’
seven
Early the next morning, Riedwaan picked up the picture on Clare’s hall table. The mom-dad-me-and-my-dog drawing, a gift to her from her little niece. He was overwhelmed with longing for his own child. Yasmin. His daughter. The undoing of his heart and his career. When she had been kidnapped, the husk of his desiccated marriage had blown apart, and he had signed the emigration papers that allowed Shazia to take Yasmin to Canada. Yasmin used to draw him pictures like the one before him now, but the drawings she sent from her new country were less exuberant. She had told him proudly that she could colour inside the lines now. Shazia would like that: getting Yasmin to stay within the lines. Riedwaan unlocked Clare’s front door. That’s what he liked about Clare, her disregard for limits.
It was cold on the street, and his breath misted and hung on the dawn air as he hefted Clare’s suitcase into his old Mazda. The boot was temperamental and had been since a drunk in a Porsche had rear-ended him. As he slammed the boot, he felt cold metal against his carotid artery, warm breath on the back of his neck. Fury whipped him around, his fingers gripping the wrist, twisting hard. It felt wrong. Plump. Soft.
‘Still fast, Captain.’ A giggle, not a grunt. ‘That Bo-Kaap skollie in you.’
‘Rita.’ Riedwaan dropped her wrist, angry, out of breath. ‘You’ll get shot doing that.’
She laughed again. ‘You trained me, Captain. But I’m younger and faster, so watch your back. Is Clare upstairs?’
‘She’s there. Go up, it’s open.’
Sergeant Rita Mkhize sauntered to the front gate. Riedwaan knew, without rancour, that she would out-captain him soon. That was how things worked now.
‘I’m here, Clare,’ Rita called through the intercom. ‘Sorry to be late.’
Clare met her halfway down the stairs. ‘Here are the keys. Fritz’s food is where it always is. The vet’s number is on the fridge. I made a bed for you in the spare room.’ She gave Rita the keys and a thick envelope. ‘Those are the things that Fritz likes. I thought it might be useful. Don’t tell Riedwaan about it.’
‘It’s our secret, but you’ll owe me big time,’ said Rita, keeping a straight face. She handed Clare a much thinner folder.
‘I’ve put together everything that Captain Damases sent for you.’
‘Brilliant, Rita,’ said Clare, flicking through the file. ‘Use my car if you want to.’
‘I’ll walk,’ said Rita, picking up the cat and following Clare to the gate. ‘The station’s three blocks. It’ll be a pleasure not being shot at coming to work. I’ve had enough of this taxi war.’
‘Thanks for taking care of Fritz for me,’ said Clare. ‘She’s not as fierce as she looks.’
‘Don’t believe her. Look at this.’ Riedwaan showed Rita a scabbed scratch on the back of his hand.
‘He teased her,’ said Clare.
‘I’m sure he did,’ said Rita, stroking the cat purring in her arms. ‘Don’t let him tease you.’
‘Get in,’ said Riedwaan. Aeroplanes always made him irritable. Clare let her hair swing forward to hide her smile as she slammed the door shut. ‘It’s international, so you need some time.’
Clare put her hand on Riedwaan’s knee, moving it up his thigh. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ she said, her breath warm in his ear.
‘Hey, let me drive,’ he said, smiling. ‘You’ll make me have an accident if you do that.’
Riedwaan drove along the elevated highway that cordoned off the city from the harbour. The lanes were already clogged, and overloaded taxis weaved between the cars as they raced into the city. Clare checked her face in the mottled mirror dangling from the sun visor.
‘Have you got a comb in here?’ she asked, opening the cubbyhole.
Riedwaan stretched across to close it. ‘Leave that,’ he said, swerving to avoid two schoolboys dashing across the highway.
A torch, a bar of mint chocolate, bills, letters, a map and a comb spilled onto the floor.
‘Are you planning to live in your car while I’m away?’ Clare asked. She bent down to pick up the scattered papers. ‘When last did you do any admin? Rates. Water. Electricity. Telkom. Insurance.’ She smoothed out the papers on her lap. She bent down to retrieve the last one, swearing as she bumped her head on the dashboard. A scrap of lilac paper fell out from between the stapled sheets. The childish script caught her eye, and she read, almost without thinking:
Clare looked at Riedwaan. His profile had set. A muscle on the underside of his jaw jumped. She smoothed the piece of white paper that had held Yasmin’s handmade card and stared down at the unfamiliar handwriting. This time she read deliberately:
Clare folded the letter and put it back into the cubbyhole. The comb lay forgotten on her lap. She opened the window, the air cooling her hot face.
‘You weren’t meant to read those,’ said Riedwaan.
‘You didn’t tell me she was coming.’
‘I did tell you Yasmin might come.’ Riedwaan knew he was clutching at straws.
Clare turned to him, anger flaring from the spark of hurt. ‘I’m glad that you’ll see your daughter,’ she said, teeth
