Zoo City

scratched, hemmed in by low-rise chocolate brown leather couches. Two tall, slim speakers, designed to be fuck- off low-key, pump out syrupy R amp;B.

'Here we are,' Carmen says, pushing open the glass doors onto the pool-side patio. She stoops to brush leaves off the cushions on the fussy ironwork chairs arranged around a matching table under a vine trellis. The very pretty view looks over and up at the koppie, which is covered in scrub brush and succulent aloes. There is a low bunker-style building with glass sliding doors across the way at the foot of the hill. Definitely not original Herbert Baker.

'That's where the magic happens,' she says, wafting a hand sales-model-style at the bunker. 'The Moja studios. If you ask nicely, maybe Odi will give you the tour.' She winks, adorably. 'Be right back!' and clip-clops away into the cool dark of the house.

The pool is an enormous old-fashioned square, with mosaic tiles and a classical water feature of two maidens pouring out a jug of water. But the tiles are chipped, the lapis-lazuli blue faded to a dull glaucoma. The brackish water is a vile green, a skin of rotting leaves cloying the surface. Lichen has crept over the two maidens. Moss clogs the folds of their robes and the crooks of their elbows, blanking out their features like a beauty mask gone wild. Like someone ate their faces.

I shrug Sloth off onto the table. He sprawls on his belly and curls his long claws through the ironwork curlicues. The Marabou folds herself into one of the dainty chairs, leaning forward so as not to put any weight on the Stork strapped to her back.

'You ever take him off?'

'It's a she. And only when I sleep.'

'What happened to her legs?'

'She had a run-in with another animal. She came off worse. It wasn't a dogfight, if that's what you're thinking.'

'I wasn't. I'm surprised it doesn't happen more often. Herbivores and carnivores all mixed up together. We should probably segregate.'

'Mmm,' she says, her attention drifting.

'What was the book?' I say, just making conversation. But the Stork raises its head sharply, looking down its beak at me.

'The book?' Marabou is off-hand, in stark contrast to the Bird's reaction.

'One of your lost things.' I concentrate on the strands, but this time the image is frustratingly blurry. I can't read the writing on the gun anymore or make out the detail on the gloves, and the book could just as well be a piece of old brick. I fudge from memory. 'The cover is torn. The pages are mouldy and swollen with damp. Something about a tree?'

'Is that how your talent works, you can see things?' She looks amused. 'How practical. I don't know what the book was called. But one of the other girls used to read it to us in the container.'

'Container?'

'They shipped us over. Packed like tuna fish.' She strokes the Stork's throat and it rucks its head in appreciation. 'Some of the tuna fish died. I started a different life.'

'I could try to figure out what the book is. If you wanted. You could get another copy.'

'What if it is not as good as I remember? Some things are better left lost.'

'I hope you're not talking about my girl!' Mr Huron, I presume, emerges onto the balcony with a flourish. He's not so much a barrel of a man as a bagpipe, all his weight loaded in front, straining a t-shirt that bears the legend Depeche Mode Rose Bowl Pasadena 1987. He's balding on top, but he's grown the rest of his hair and pulled it into a thin scraggly ponytail. The genuinely powerful, unlike the Vuyos of this world, don't give a fuck about making an impression.

'Sorry to keep you waiting. Amira. You're looking lovely. Botox working for you? Maybe you should try some on the bird. And you, you must be the new help,' he says, engulfing my hand in his giant paws, like Mickey Mouse gloves. 'Only kidding,' he winks. 'Mostly.'

With a little moan, Sloth clambers off the table and into my lap. He's seeing what I'm seeing, belying the bigshot producer image – a black tumour of lost things hanging over the man. A tumour that's eaten an octopus, but the fat black tentacles have been amputated, so all that's left are stumps. Dozens of them, squirming obscenely.

It's one of the worst hack jobs I've seen. There are ways to cut the threads. A good sangoma can do it. But they'll eventually grow back thicker and coarser than ever. In the shadow of his black halo, his skin looks sallow, his jowls sunken, his eyes bright and flat.

'What's wrong with your animal?' Huron says, collapsing into one of the chairs and fingering a hole in his t- shirt.

'He's just shy around strangers,' I say, stroking Sloth's head to calm him down.

'Amira and Mark brief you already?'

I have to force myself to look at his face rather than the writhing black stubs around his head. I concentrate on his fleshy lips, the large nose, slightly skew, as if he once broke it in a rugby game or a bar fight. 'Actually, Mr Huron, I'm still waiting to hear what this is about. Before I make up my mind as to whether I even want to be briefed.'

'Call me Odi, please. Short for Odysseus.'

'Sure. Odi.'

We're interrupted by Carmen holding a red plastic tray that looks like it was moulded out of the same material as her shoes. She sets down a clipboard and a pot of evilsmelling tea.

'Don't worry, it's non-alcoholic.' Huron pours a cup and hands it to me with a smirk.

'You've done your research.'

'Yes, I've heard all about your nasty habit. But it's not just you. Moja Records has a policy. No drink. No drugs. No neural spells.'

'No interference.' I take a sip gingerly. It tastes as foul and pungent as it smells.

'Buchu and mustard seed. Good for detoxing.'

'Lovely.' I smile and heap in five spoons of sugar. It makes the brew only marginally more tolerable. What does it take to get a decent cup of tea? 'I'm not sure I can even help you, Mr Huron.'

'Call me Odi. Really.' He puts an envelope on the table. 'Open it.'

I do. Sloth cranes his head to see. It contains a cluster of crisp blue R100 notes. I put it back on the table.

'What's this?'

'Two large, just to hear me out. If you like what I have to say, you take the job and consider this an advance. If you don't, you take the money, you don't repeat any of what I told you, we're all friends.'

'This all seems very serious. Are you sure you have the right girl here?'

'Mark and Amira think so.'

'Just in case I'm getting the wrong end of the microphone here – you do know I can't sing?'

'Like that ever got in the way of a pretty girl getting a record deal. Autotune is a beautiful thing.' He laughs, but his eyes are cold. 'Let me assure you, you are here for your other skills.' He watches me closely. I take the envelope and slip it into my bag, ignoring Sloth scratching at my arm, the halo of black stumps waving around Huron's head.

'All right, good. Now, you're no doubt familiar with iJusi.' He waves his hand impatiently at my blank look. 'The twins? Song and S'bu?'

The name sounds vaguely familiar, another life glimpsed on the TV at Mak's, maybe on the cover of an old Heat magazine at the spaza shop. A boy and a girl. Twins. Beautiful. Wholesome.

Huron sighs, exasperated. 'Well, you can do some research.'

'Has something happened to them?'

'Officially, no. Absolutely not. Everything's just fine. They're keeping a low profile because they're in studio, writing new songs. The new album drops in three weeks. We've got a big party planned.'

'And off the record?'