Like Clockwork

‘I took a very nasty video from his house,’ Clare revealed. ‘A film of him orchestrating the gang rape of his wife.’

‘Did she lay charges?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘I doubt it,’ said Clare.

‘There’s not much to be done until she does.’ Clare reached for the remote. ‘Don’t show it to me,’ said Riedwaan. He pulled her away from the video machine. ‘I’ve had enough for today.’ He traced the underside of her jaw, down the soft curve of her neck. Clare leaned into the enclosure of his arms.

‘Are you going to stay?’ she asked

‘I am.’ Riedwaan pulled her to her feet. ‘For a while. Let’s go to bed. I’m too tired to eat.’

He was asleep by the time Clare was out of the bathroom. She slid in next to him, unused to moving so quietly in her own bedroom. He reached for her without waking. With someone breathing beside her, it was so much easier to relinquish her body to sleep.

39

It was just past four when Clare awoke, drenched in cold sweat. She had dreamt that she’d stumbled into a vast hall of mirrors. She stared back at herself in each mirror, her eyes wide open, each image reflected to infinity in every mirror. The shattered repetition of herself was dizzying. She hunted desperately for the door where she had entered, but it was gone. She tried to calm herself within the slow horror-time of the nightmare by staring down her own reflection. She was naked, suffused with shame at her body exposed and slug-like in the harsh light. As she tried to cover herself she realised that her hands were bound with blue rope. She tried to cry out but no sound came. When she opened her mouth, she saw that she had no tongue.

Clare sat up, switched on her bedside light, and calmed her breathing. She delved back into the nightmare as it receded. There had been a ghost with her in the mirrors. Hovering over her image had been the outline of a man with a camera, filming her shame and terror. Her hands had been painfully bound. She flexed her fingers and then smoothed out the bed where Riedwaan had lain. The indentation of his body was already cold. She curled up under her duvet. The touch of his hands lingered on her body, but she was glad to be alone.

‘They make a picture of me. Like a dog I must beg for them to hurt me,’ Natalie Mwanga had told her.

Clare pushed the duvet off and went to the lounge. The video she had taken from King was still in the machine. She pressed ‘play’ and watched it through to its bitter, humiliating end. Chilled, Clare went back to bed. ‘He was a director… he was telling them what to do… when they hurt me… he would make them do it again.’ Whitney’s soft voice whispered to Clare in the dark, ‘Why?’ Clare had no answers. She got back into bed and drifted into a troubled sleep just before dawn broke.

40

Whitney waited, fully dressed and wide awake, for the siren to blast across the valley. It came, summoning Dinah de Wet from the saggy warmth of her bed. Whitney lay under her blankets listening to Dinah cough. The kettle boiled for Dinah’s tea. The toaster browned her single slice of white bread, the door banged shut. A tractor roared into life, taking everyone to work. Whitney heard the muffled morning shouts receding towards the orchard.

With the return of silence, she was up. She made herself some coffee for now, and jam sandwiches for later. She thought about writing a note. ‘Dankie, Tannie Dinah, vir alles…’ is what she would have liked to say. But she didn’t. Instead, she picked up her packed rucksack and headed for the door before it got any lighter. There was nobody around. She slipped between the houses and found the path that curved around the dam. A ghostly swathe of white arum lilies guided her to the farm road. Here she walked faster, hands deep inside her pockets, head down against the wind. There was snow somewhere, it was that cold.

Three kilometres later, the dirt road met the tar. She turned towards the west, trusting that her heart would guide her. The sun was up behind her now. It shone bleakly, not warming her at all. She crossed the N2, taking a road that skirted Cape Town. She had worked out her route by studying the old school atlas Dinah’s daughter had left behind. After she’d walked for more than an hour, a truck pulled over. Whitney looked at it warily. There was a man in it, alone.

‘Where you going, girlie?’ He smiled. He seemed nice. A farmer, she guessed.

‘To near Malmesbury,’ she answered, standing close to the passenger window he had leaned over to open.

‘Come, meisiekind. It’s blerrie freezing outside. I’ll give you a lift.’ He opened the door. Whitney looked down the road ahead of her. It was a long way to walk. She slipped her rucksack around in front of her and climbed in.

‘I’m Johan,’ he said, turning the radio on.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’ The warmth of the heated car enveloped her immediately. She didn’t want to tell him her name, and he didn’t ask.

They drove through the awakening farmlands and the small satellite towns that were spilling cars into Cape Town. Just before Atlantis, they joined the N7. Whitney had nearly fallen asleep when she saw the sign. She sat up. ‘Can I get out just after the turnoff, please?’ she asked.

‘Where exactly are you going?’ asked Johan.

Whitney decided to tell the truth. ‘I’m looking for a place called Serenity Farm,’ said Whitney. Her hands traced the outline of Clare’s book beneath the fabric of her bag. ‘Do you know it?’

‘Ja, I’ve seen the turnoff just past Atlantis. It’s mos that farm for mad people. Larney loonies, hey?’ Whitney didn’t say anything. ‘Why are you going there?’ he asked.

‘I’ve got a friend,’ she said. ‘She lives there.’

‘Oh.’ He glanced at her but he didn’t say anything more. They drove on in silence until he pulled over. The small wooden sign pointed up the dark avenue of trees. ‘Good luck, hey,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ she said as she got out.

‘You should smile more, you’re a pretty girl when you smile. You could give me a blow job for the petrol?’ Whitney froze. Her hand crept towards her rucksack. ‘Hey, relax. I was only asking. You never know when you’ll get lucky. See you.’

Whitney did smile as she walked between the welcoming trees. She had slung her rucksack onto her back again. The gun nestled against her. She had hidden it below the book, right at the bottom. She pictured it, calm and grey and smooth. It had been waiting for her in the farmhouse when she had gone with Dinah to do the cleaning yesterday. It had beckoned her from the farmer’s cupboard, gleaming among socks and condoms and small change. It had fitted so snugly into her hoodie’s deep pocket. And now here it was, giving her courage as she walked along the endless lane of trees.

Clare’s book had told her things – things that Clare had not known she was disclosing about Constance. It had told Whitney things that she thought only she knew. Whitney knew where to find Constance. She had to find her. She walked down the path, the sound of her footsteps loud in the quiet of the dawn, towards the sequestered cottage. She knocked quietly. The door opened as if someone had been expecting her. Constance stared at Whitney, startled but not afraid. Whitney took the older woman’s thin shoulders and turned her around. She pulled down Constance’s white shift, exposing the lumpy mass of scar tissue across the width of her back. Whitney wet her finger on her tongue and traced the marks like an artist tracing a pattern she knew by heart.

‘You can read it?’ asked Constance. Whitney nodded. Constance’s breath was warm on her neck as she leaned forward to kiss the scars. She took her hand and drew the girl inside, locking the door behind them.

41