times. ‘We just have to keep our main man steady.’ He put the phone back into his pocket. ‘Keep him convinced that teamwork is the best.’ The interview was over. Clare repressed the urge to down her whiskey. Instead she packed up her camera, hoping that Landman would not notice that her hands were shaking.
‘Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘You have been most informative.’
‘Sure,’ said Landman. ‘Any time. You let me know.’ He slapped her bottom. ‘You’re going to make me a star, aren’t you, baby? Move over, Patrice Motsepe, Mr Oppenheimer. Watch this space: here comes Kelvin Landman.’
Clare zipped her bag closed and said through clenched teeth, ‘I don’t know about being a star. But probably famous for a day or two.’
She desperately needed to get out. The cool night air was cleansing, and she gulped it in as soon as she was outside. She felt complicit in Landman’s misogyny and ambition. And defiled by her own fascination with what she had watched, by the pulse she had banished from between her legs only after it had left its wetness behind. She opened her window wide, hoping the sea air would blow her clean. She would have another shower, scrub herself, as soon as she got home.
But the road home took her past the turnoff to Riedwaan’s house. Clare took it without thinking. She slowed as she descended the steep one-way road where he lived. The lights were on, and before she had even thought about what she was doing, she’d parked her car and knocked on the door. Riedwaan opened it and drew her inside without a word. His hands were on her body before he had latched the door behind her. He pushed her against the wall and kissed her, obliterating from her mind what she had watched all evening. The tension that had held Clare so taut melted away. Then Riedwaan led her to his unmade bed.
Later, Riedwaan got up and poured them both whiskeys. He lit a cigarette and pushed Clare’s hair aside, stroking her naked back from shoulder to flank.
‘Isn’t it your birthday tomorrow?’ he asked.
Clare turned her head to look at him. ‘How did you know?’ she asked.
‘I remember these things.’ He leant over and kissed the curve of her waist. ‘What shall we do? Croissants? A walk on the mountain?’ He flipped her over, moving his hand down her belly towards her thighs. She didn’t resist when he put his glass down and pulled her on top of him again. She couldn’t give him an answer because he was kissing her again. Like a drowning man. He fell asleep as soon as he had come, but Clare lay wide-eyed long into the night. She was not looking forward to the hours she’d have to spend over the next few days listening to the recording of Landman’s voice, transcribing and editing until she had every nuance ready for her documentary. And, of course, she also had her date with Mrs Ruiters, who had called earlier to say that Whitney had to be moved somewhere safe. She had insisted Clare meet with her. She wanted her to record her statement, and she was too afraid to tell her over the phone.
Clare thought of that coming Sunday, her birthday – and hoped she and Riedwaan would spend it together. They would get coffee, sweet winter oranges, newspapers, and then return to the bed that held the mingled traces of their desires. They would read and doze and make love. They would do normal Sunday things together. They could maybe start again and this time she would make it work. She turned to him and fell asleep.
Clare was wide awake at five. Riedwaan was sprawled across the bed: one hand at home on her hip, the other curled under her hair. He knew she couldn’t sleep if the nape of her neck was exposed. At six she inched out of his embrace. The pull of Constance was irresistible, and so Clare chose her twin. She slipped out of bed. Riedwaan awoke while she was dressing in the dark, searching for her keys. He watched her in the darkness, saying nothing as she slipped out of the room. He held her pillow tight against his chest, but her warmth was already gone. Traces of her perfume taunted him. He got up and made coffee, taking it into the cold courtyard to watch the sun rise.
28
Across town, in a leafy, cloistered suburb, Cathy King sat cradling a phone, her shoulders bony under her cashmere cardigan. She drew up her knees, sharp beneath her fawn trousers, as she stared straight ahead. Her untouched teacup was dwarfed by the over-sized coffee table. It looked ridiculous. Much like she did on the enormous blue wave of a sofa. The French doors were open, the sage carpet blending with the luxurious sweep of lawn rolling down to the pool, its great, dead eye staring unblinkingly at the sunless sky. Cathy hated the swimming pool, and never swam in it. Neither did India.
The thought of her daughter was a knife twist where her most recently cracked rib was healing. Her doctor had raised an eyebrow when she went to him. ‘Again, Mrs King? You must be more careful.’
Indeed, she must. Cathy stared dry-eyed at the swimming pool. It stared back. She had tried so hard to be careful with India. Last night she had waited up all night, pacing, pacing. The beautiful daughter, who she loved with an aching intensity, had not come home. Cathy knew she had failed her daughter – her broken rib told her that. So did the burn scars down the inside of her thighs. Despite her love, she had failed India. Now she forced herself to phone Brian to say that she was worried about India. He hadn’t come home either. He never did on Saturdays. It was her one night of respite.
‘You idiot,’ he snarled at her. ‘That little slut is probably fucking herself silly. Just like her dumb bitch of a mother would, given half a chance. Make sure you do nothing to embarrass me. I’ll see she learns her lesson when she does come home. You don’t fucking move. You hear me?’
‘Yes, Brian,’ she whispered. She kept from her voice the steel forming where her heart had once been. ‘I won’t.’ And she waited humbly, as always, for him to cut the connection. Then she looked at the
It was light now. She closed her eyes and, gathering the remnants of her strength, she pressed ‘call’.
‘Faizal.’ The voice was guarded, rough in her ear. She was quiet. ‘Who is this?’
Cathy gritted her teeth, did not cower. ‘My daughter is missing. This is Cathy King.’
Riedwaan felt the strap of tension tighten across his shoulders. ‘Mrs King, why are you reporting this to me?’
‘She looks like the girl in the newspaper. The one you found. Amore Hendricks.’ Her voice was almost inaudible, as if the air had been sucked from her lungs. The terror she had held at bay all through the darkness overwhelmed her now. She heard his voice again. It sounded muffled, as if she were deep inside a well.
‘Can you come to the station?’ he was saying. ‘Mrs King? Immediately? Can you bring a photo of her – a recent one? Shall I send a patrol car? Or is there someone who can bring you? Your husband?’
‘No! Not my husband. He’s not here. I’ll come straight away.’
Cathy fetched her handbag and went upstairs to India’s room. Her school tights, left hanging on a chair, carried the outline of her slim legs, the grubby marks of her toes. She must have been walking somewhere with no shoes on. Just her lovely stockinged feet. Cathy picked up the tights and put them into her bag. A photo of India was propped next to the bed. Cathy slipped it into her bag, nestling it with the tights. She would not cry yet. She had to find her child. If she let go, even for a second, she would shatter finally. So she held the shards of herself together.
Downstairs, she took a second Valium. She checked her face in the hallway mirror. The skin was pale, smoothly sculpted over her cheekbones. She remembered to put on her lipstick, grateful that her face was unmarked this time. She went to the garage, hating the flashy little car Brian made her drive. She reversed and drove down the oak-lined road. The houses here were so far apart that no sound you made would ever carry to your neighbours. She took in nothing of the drive around the mountain to Sea Point.
The police station that Captain Faizal had directed her to was ugly, a squat face-brick building, the windows covered with anti-hand-grenade mesh. Riedwaan Faizal made her feel better. His face was hard, but the eyes had a vulnerability to them that comforted her. He escorted her to the untidy cubbyhole that served as an office.
She accepted the cup of milky tea he gave her, and then told him what she thought he needed to know. That India was sixteen. That she had gone to watch a friend at a theatre rehearsal. That the friend should have dropped her home at eleven. She did not tell him that none of India’s friends ever came inside the house – why should she? She did tell him, though, that her daughter had not come home. That her daughter had not answered her calls. Yes, she had contacted her mother. She had SMS’d to say she was having a great time and might be late. Cathy had
