The question hung in the air between them as she handed the photograph to Clare. Mrs Ruiters only moved when summoned by her daughter’s plea: ‘Mammie, come.’
In the hallway there was a picture of Whitney radiant at a school dance – she was with a boy wearing a suit. Clare let herself out. She got into her car, ignoring the three men pimp-rolling slowly down the pavement away from number twenty-three, and made her way back home. Dropping her things on the hall table, she went to tidy the spare room. Clare turned back the duvet. The shell-curl of Whitney’s body was still there in the slight impression on the sheet. On the white pillow was the indentation her head had left, and also one long black hair. Clare straightened the bed and pushed back the curtains. She glanced around the room, the used glass in her hand.
The only thing out of place was the top row of the bookshelf. Her books were so tightly packed that she could see at once that a book was missing. It was the one she had written about Constance. She sat down on the bed; her head slumped onto her knees. She hoped that her sister’s story would help Whitney, although she doubted it. Constance was still trying to read, to get others to read, what had been scripted with such violence onto her naked body twenty years before. Clare thought of Mrs Ruiters’s question about her daughter’s spirit. Hot tears, shocking because so rare, slid down Clare’s arms, running between her fingers. She had been too late, she had failed to help. The guilt she usually assuaged with her crusading journalism dragged a moan from her hidden self. She did not know how long she had sat there, rocking herself, but she was stiff when she got up to answer the shrill phone. She did not recognise the number that flashed on her caller ID, so she waited to see if there would be a message.
‘Hello, Dr Hart, I was waiting for you to get home.’ The sibilant voice was familiar. ‘Just to remind you that we have a date. See you at eleven. Give your name to the doorman. He’s expecting you, and he’ll bring you up to me.’ Clare felt sick. Kelvin Landman and his Isis Club. ‘I hope you enjoyed your little drive.’
Clare had forgotten about him, could not bear the thought of being anywhere near him. She was about to call back and cancel, when she noticed the flash on the machine telling her there was another message waiting for her. She pressed ‘play’. It was from her producer in London.
‘Hello, Clare. I need rough footage to prove that you’ve reeled in your pet gangster. We’re not going to swing it without that. I’ll have it some time on Monday, won’t I, darling? Lovely weekend – weather’s lovely here. Bye.’
‘That’s it, then,’ said Clare to herself. She showered, feeling soiled by the phone message. Landman’s timing was uncanny.
For once, she found it difficult to decide what to wear. In the end she settled for plain black. No jewellery. She called Riedwaan at home.
‘I’m going to interview Landman,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘For my documentary,’ said Clare. ‘I am meant to have another life, remember?’
‘It’s no coincidence that he’s talking to you just after you take that girl home. Be very careful,’ said Riedwaan.
‘I will. I’ll be in public with him.’
‘Watch your back.’
‘I’m always careful,’ said Clare. ‘Will you be at home later?’
‘Maybe. Why?’
‘Just wondering,’ she replied.
27
Its gold door handle distinguished the Isis Club from the halfhearted businesses that operated on the shabby eastern fringe of the city. Blackened windows prevented people from looking in. The doorman appeared when cars arrived. Some he directed to an empty parking lot. For others, a snap of his fingers summoned a valet. Clare decided that she would take the risk and park in the street. She was surprised at how self-conscious she felt going to a strip club alone, and was glad for the weight of her camera bag. It grounded her, announced her occupation to anyone who might stare at her. The doorman opened the door before she reached the handle, leaving her hand raised uselessly. She let it drop back to her side, disconcerted.
‘Clare Hart?’ he asked. The muscles around his neck bulged against the stiff-collared dress shirt.
‘That’s me,’ she answered, relieved that she did not need to explain. ‘I’ve come to see Kelvin Landman.’
The bouncer nodded, picked up his cellphone. ‘She’s here. Will someone come down?’ An eager press of men was gathering behind Clare. Her back prickled uncomfortably.
‘Miss Hart, do you mind stepping into the bar and having a drink? Mr Landman will be with you shortly.’ The bar counter was a majestic sweep of gleaming russet wood. Clare took the leather stool she was offered and ordered a whiskey from a girl tagged: ‘Melissa. I know I can help you’. The weight of the name tag made her transparent top sag strategically, to expose a rouged nipple.
Clare looked around the room as she waited for her drink. Opulence was blended with restraint. On the dark walls hung a range of erotic prints, coy French maids beckoning, black and white Japanese illustrations with strategically placed slashes of crimson, leering English squires bending rosy-cheeked milkmaids over rustic fences – it was a connoisseur’s collection. Deep leather armchairs in gentleman’s-club green and red huddled around low tables, were occupied by groups of paunchy, slack-mouthed men. A few had awkward wives with them. More animated than these were the guests with unabashed young women draped over them.
‘Hostess service,’ said Melissa, bringing Clare an excellent single malt. ‘Three hundred an hour for one. Five hundred for two. Meant to be no touching.’
‘That must be difficult,’ said Clare. She was watching a short-skirted blonde work her breasts up a man’s bare arm as she moved her pouting lips against his ear. Whatever she was saying made his tongue – wet and pink – protrude.
‘
‘Who’s that girl?’ asked Clare.
Melissa followed Clare’s gaze. ‘Cornelle, I think. She’s new. Do you know her?’
‘We’ve met before,’ said Clare.
‘Do you want to speak to her?’ asked Melissa. Cornelle turned, sensing that she was being watched. She blanched when she saw Clare.
‘I don’t think she wants to talk to you,’ said Melissa.
‘I think you’re right.’ Clare took a sip of her drink.
Melissa looked Clare up and down. ‘We don’t often get ladies,’ she said. ‘Hardly ever on their own.’
‘Who do they come with?’
‘The older ones come with their husbands usually, hoping it will stop him getting bored with their saggy tits and everything. The younger ones come with their bosses. They quite often buy the underwear. Would you like some? I can give you a catalogue.’
‘Thanks,’ said Clare. ‘I would like one.’
The girl reached under the counter and handed Clare a brochure; embossed in gold on its cover was the outline of a woman’s sumptuous body. ‘Cool, hey,’ said the girl. ‘They’re new. The whole place is going upmarket. The new owner bought all those expensive pictures to hang. And our movie catalogue is going to be great too.’
‘I didn’t know Isis made films,’ said Clare.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Melissa. ‘We used to just order from America or Holland and then sell them on. Now we’re making them here. Cape Town has such a great film industry. Really skilled technical people, you know. And that will make things much more professional for us.’ She wiped the counter and set out dishes of stuffed olives.
‘What sort of movies are you making?’
‘It’s all under Isis Productions. I’ve been in two already. I got to choose my own costumes too. But those were only soft-core. There’s also hard-core, girls-only
‘Did you ever meet a girl called Charnay?’ asked Clare.
