Like Clockwork

‘Charnay… that’s a good name. Was it her real name?’

‘It was. Charnay Swanepoel.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘She was slim, tall, very long black hair. About seventeen. Apparently she was interested in making films too.’

‘I can’t remember. Maybe I saw her. Check our website. There are pictures of all the girls who have been in anything to do with Isis.’

‘I will,’ said Clare. ‘How old are you, Melissa? Where are you from?’

‘Me? I’m from Beaufort West. You can’t imagine how boring the platteland is. I came here when I was seventeen, but I’m nineteen now. But I look young still, hey?’ she pulled her mane of blonde hair into two pigtails and batted her eyelashes. ‘I do quite a lot of the barely-legal stuff – you know how many guys just freak for the schoolgirl look.’ She was thin, fragile even. In a uniform, without make-up, she would pass for fourteen. Or less.

‘Who is the new boss?’ Clare asked. Melissa’s effervescence was gone. The colour drained from her face, leaving her blusher starkly scarlet on her white cheeks. She fumbled with the glass she was wiping. Clare looked into the mirror behind her. Kelvin Landman stood in front of the thick velvet curtains.

‘Hello, Clare. You look lonely.’ He smoothed her hair. ‘I’m glad that Melissa has been keeping you entertained.’ His diamond cuff links glinted as he leaned against the bar and snapped his fingers – boldly displaying his power. A drink materialised and Melissa was gone, taking a tray to check on already scrupulously tidy tables. Landman picked up his glass.

‘Come through,’ he said. ‘The show is about to start.’

Clare followed him, bringing her drink with her. Landman held the heavy curtains aside and she went through. The room was an updated Moulin Rouge: the ubiquitous kitsch of commercial sex. The low stage was draped with plush red and gold. A low ramp thrust its way into the centre of the room. Men clustered at the tables, moving the chairs to be closer to the promise of the dancer’s ramp. The mandatory poles were present, painted shiny black and red. Kelvin Landman’s table was on a small raised dais, his entourage smaller than when Clare had met him at Otis Tohar’s party. ‘Where would you like to set up your camera?’

‘Here,’ said Clare, positioning the tripod so that the strippers would appear behind him when they came onstage. ‘This is perfect,’ she said, clipping the camera into place, checking batteries, tape, light. She pinned the mike under his shirt, startled at how smooth, how cold, his skin was. Then she sat back, watching him preen. The lure of celebrity that a lens promised was irresistible. Clare gave her standard caveats, that she was recording this interview, that he should answer in full sentences so that she could be edited out later, that he should look into the camera’s eye and not hers. She asked him to tell her who he was, where he came from.

‘Kelvin Landman. Born in 1968 in Cape Town. I grew up on the Flats. I had my troubles with the law. I was involved in street gangs where I lived in Manenberg. But who wasn’t, there?’ he grinned broadly at Clare. Then he remembered her instruction and looked back at the camera. ‘I had some trouble with politics too, so in the eighties I went overseas. Into exile.’

‘Where did you go? How?’ prompted Clare.

‘To Amsterdam. My uncle was in the merchant navy at that time. And as you can imagine, there are many places to hide on a boat, especially if you are a pretty boy. Which I was, in those days, believe it or not. I worked my way over and jumped ship in Amsterdam. I met some people working there, started at the bottom and worked my way up. Then I got asylum papers, so I was legal.’

‘What exactly were you doing there?’

‘A bit of import, bit of export – luxury goods. They’ve got it sorted there, I tell you. Hash bars and the women selling themselves with no problems from the police. I learnt how to run a business.’

Clare’s face was wiped clean of expression. ‘Explain the import-export thing to me.’

‘You figure out what is in demand and then you supply. You can get what you want as long as you are willing to pay the right price. That is the business principle I have applied since I came back to Cape Town. We import vodka and hot Thai chilli. And we have lots of sweet things to export – wine, peaches.’

One of the men sitting listening sniggered. ‘Shut the fuck up, Benny,’ snarled Landman. ‘Whose fucking interview is this?’ Benny held his hands up in submission and cowered into his seat. Turning to Clare, Landman took a deep breath. ‘Where were we?’

‘You were telling me about supply and demand. What about here? In this club?’

Landman looked around, genuinely proud. ‘I supply my clients with what they need.’ He pointed to the men waiting along the ramp. The music throbbed. ‘And I provide employment.’ He grabbed a passing hostess, her buttocks exposed in tight black hotpants. He twisted her flesh, his eyes holding hers, daring her to do anything less than smile delightedly through the pain. ‘What else would these girls find to do?’ he asked, dismissing her. Clare watched her retreat, a welt emerging on the smooth skin. ‘I suppose you could call me a philanthropist. I give men what they need and women what they deserve.’

The lights suddenly dimmed, releasing Clare from the interview. A pulsating drumbeat filled the air, the rhythm unmistakable. Clare turned her attention to the stage. A spotlight cut through the darkness, illuminating a girl, naked apart from the intricate metal bondage gear biting hungrily where her flesh was softest. She was tightly blindfolded. Her tongue glistened red behind her parted lips. Two corseted women, strapped into high, shiny boots, stepped out of the darkness to spreadeagle her and handcuff her to a pole. Both held whips that they flicked first across their hands and then across the girl’s breasts. The sound cracked sharply in the silence, and the girl’s nipples stood erect. Slowly, the music began to pulse faster, and the lights went up a little. The strobe turned slowly, tattooing the girl with flickering pornographic inanities. Each new word brought fresh blows from the stiletto-heeled dominatrixes. The girl writhed, either in faked agony or orgasm. Clare watched, mesmerised.

Landman touched the inside of her knee. ‘That is Justine. I see you like it. This is “Fetish Night” – very popular, as you can see.’ Some of the men were taking turns now, at a hundred rand a time, to bring a velvet horsewhip down on the bound body that now hung limp against the pole.

Clare shook herself, switching her mind from the degradation on the stage back to Landman. ‘Where do these girls come from, how do you recruit them?’

He turned his attention back to the camera. ‘Some are local. Quite a few are foreigners – they’re often better dancers,’ he explained, ‘more committed to the profession. Fewer piercings, fewer drugs, no families to worry about. But you can check, there are no illegals here. All of them have their papers. With the unique skills these girls have, it’s not so hard to get Home Affairs to comply.’

‘Your mother must be proud of you,’ said Clare. ‘You have done so well.’

Landman spat. ‘My mother was a dronklap who forgot to feed me when I was baby and who loaned my sister out to any “uncle” who’d buy her a dop. Right now she can’t remember her own name, let alone that she ever had a son.’ He paused and swivelled around to watch the show. It had shifted to a complicated harem scene that involved yashmaks and lapdogs. ‘But we are doing well.’

‘We?’ asked Clare.

‘My business partner has bought this building. And another one recently, in Sea Point, for the next Isis Club. We’re building a chain that will challenge the other operators. Much less tame, much more extreme. Our next move will be Isis Safaris – “Where all your wildest fantasies come to life”.’

‘That’s an expensive investment.’

‘Sex is a very lucrative business, Clare. The demand is always there and the supply is limitless.’

‘What has your strategy been?’ asked Clare.

‘We’re consolidating, branding our products, developing our niche market – for the connoisseur who thought he had it all. There’s so much growth potential: products, spin-off goods, movies. That’s where you make your money.’ Clare thought of the elaborate edit suite she had glimpsed at Tohar’s apartment. The memory called to mind Tatiana’s sobs as she huddled there, alone. Landman continued, on a roll with his newly acquired business-speak. ‘Movies are where you really make your money. You can, for one, sell the same girl over and over again. She doesn’t get tired, doesn’t get her fucking period, doesn’t get thirsty. It’s perfect. And because it’s the movies, you can make all sorts of things look as if they really happened – when in fact they didn’t. Some men pay a lot to see their darkest fantasies come alive.’ He laughed. ‘Or dead.’

A waitress brought a fresh round of drinks to the table and cleared away the ashtray and dirty glasses. Landman’s phone rang. He picked it up and checked the number. He didn’t answer. It rang gratingly four more