Daddy Long Legs (9 page)

Little Kobus van Jaarsveld was the
man
.

Hell yeah.

It was a dark and gloomy Tuesday. Above, a gray sky splattered with wispy stratus clouds heralded the first cold front of May. In the winter-empty trees that lined Erasmus Street, Ring-necked Doves called to each other while in the distance an impatient driver leaned heavily on a car horn. Besides that, there were no other sounds in the southern residential sector of Hope. And an eerie quiet hung over the suburb that lay immediately to the south of the Hope Primary and Secondary School.

But Kobus could not have been less concerned about the curious quiet. He ambled slowly down the dusty backstreet of Hope. His Grade-six school satchel slung over his shoulder with measured carelessness. He was, after all, the man.

Well...

He stopped and pulled a handful of Chappies from his pocket. And ripping the wrappers from the cheap bubblegum he stuffed a few in his mouth. He may have been sporting some serious attitude. But mom was mom. And she would
not
appreciate the smell of cigarette smoke on her eleven-year old boy. Satisfied that this final anti-mom counter-measure would kill the last traces of the Chesterfield, Kobus resumed his leisurely swagger. Chomping hard on the impossibly large wad of chewing gum in his mouth.

Immediately his mind wandered back to his favourite topic. Marietjie Delport.
Aaaah
. Marietjie. Despite his stuffed mouth, Kobus managed a dreamy smile. Marietjie was like, the coolest girl in the world. Ever.

Hell yeah.

Kobus kicked a rock lying in the dusty dirt road and watched it skitter into someone’s backyard with great satisfaction. Yeah. Marietjie was like ice cream on a hot day. No wait. She was like ice cream on a hot day. With a tot of rum. Yes. Yes! Kobus smiled at his metaphor. Yes. Marietjie was exactly like ice cream with a tot of rum. Or whatever alcohol it was that went well with ice cream.

After all, wasn’t she the one who was teaching Kobus how to smoke?

Hell yeah.

Kobus repeated the phrase to himself. Hell yeah. He wasn’t sure exactly what it meant. But it conjured up images of gangsters in big sprawling American cities, driving big ‘ole Cadillacs or whatever they drove while listening to rap music and pulling out
gats
on people. Like so much else from the last few weeks, it was a phrase that Marietjie had taught him. She had learnt it from (where else?) American movies. The kind of movies Kobus’s mom would never let him watch in like, a million years. But Marietjie’s mom let her watch whatever she wanted. And let her stay up ‘till whatever time she wanted. Marietjie said her mom didn’t care what she did. As long as Marietjie didn’t bother her and her boyfriends.

Wow. Marietjie’s mom was
so
cool. Kobus wished his own mom was more like her.

In the distance, Kobus could see the corner of their house. Suddenly, with the prospect of seeing his mother, he became less sure of himself. For good measure, he stuffed another two Chappies into his mouth. And smelled his school shirt.

Blikskottel
. That was the thing he really loved about Marietjie. She always made him feel like a man. Not like a stupid little Grade-six boy. And so what if the other kids in class thought Marietjie was a bad girl. Kobus knew that none of the girls wanted to be her friend. And he knew what they whispered behind her back. He didn’t care. No ways. And so what if Jannie Beukes said she had lifted her skirt and showed him her thing behind the woodwork class. No, sir. He didn’t care. In fact, he would be proud if Marietjie showed
him
her thing.

Hell yeah!

Kobus thought Marietjie was super cool. She was like ... wise. Like a grown-up in the body of a twelve-year old. (She had failed Grade-six last year). And she was funny. Oh yeah. Marietjie was so funny. Even funnier than Gert Fritzburger who made milk come out of his nostrils. Hahaha. Yeah. Marietjie was really funny. In like, a clever adult way.

If Kobus hadn’t been so caught up in his thoughts he would have seen a dirty car with tinted windows come to a stop a few metres behind him.

But instead Kobus thought back to their meeting at the water tower earlier that day. Marietjie had stolen two cigarettes from her mother’s new boyfriend. The creepy one who was always
so
eager to touch her. And they were sitting on a large boulder. Smoking.

A tall man climbed from the interior of the car. And with surreptitious quiet began following the young boy.

Despite trying his best not to cough on the acrid smoke, Kobus couldn’t help watching Marietjie with slavish admiration. She had the coolest way of smoking. Just like an adult. She would throw her head back and bring the cigarette slowly to her lips. With the cigarette slightly tilted she would take an exaggerated drag. Eyelids fluttering shut. And then. With delicious intent. Slowly opening her eyes. She would release the smoke in the air. Forming her lips into a perfect ‘O’. Kobus had an idea she was doing it all for his sake. But with a girl like Marietjie you could never be sure. Whatever the case, it was so, so .... what was the word? Well, whatever it was. It always made Kobus feel a tiny explosion in the pit of his stomach. Wow. Marietjie was
soooooo
cool.

Undetected. With dark stealth. The man moved closer to Kobus.

With the cigarette in his right hand. Trying his level best to be cool ... and adult. Kobus had moved closer to her. ‘Hey, Marietjie,’ he said. ‘You smell nice.’ She had smiled at him with those droopy eyes of her. Trying to go in for the kill, he had continued. ‘So, what is it?’

In a way that only Marietjie could pull off she smelled her armpits. Then said, ‘Cat pee.’

The two of them had rolled about on the cluster of boulders, laughing hysterically. Oh man. Marietjie was so funny.

The Van Jaarsveld residence was now fast approaching on his right hand side. And Kobus steeled himself for the inevitable meeting with his mom. If only –

And then.

Kobus heard a twig crack under a heavy weight. And smelled a sharp chemical odour. And before he could turn around. Before he knew what was happening. A sordid darkness had enveloped his world. And his childhood was forever at an end.

Hell.

Yeah.

Little butterflies.

Little
tweetie
birds.

Cute little kitty
kats
. With pink whiskers and purple stripes.

With a good lacquer, the correct application of crackle polish and a little Swarovski here and there. Well...

Sigh
.

It felt so good to be an artist. A real artist. Not like that little Pep Stores tart, Lorraine. With her
kômmin
designs straight out of the advertorial pages of
Huisgenoot
.

Mitzi Croukamp held her left hand aloft. And twirled her fingers this way and that. So that the afternoon light could illuminate and enliven the leopard prints on her nails.

Leopards were all the rage in Hollywood. Magda at the salon said at least two of the Kardashians (God, how many were there?) were sporting leopard
manis
this summer.

Yes, she thought, surveying the alternating black and tan lines on her nails, it sure did feel good to know you were a real artist. She had every reason to think that she had finally found her destiny. This was real. Nothing like that
Bedazzler
fiasco a few years ago. Even Magda said she had real potential to go ‘pro’.

Sighing with self-satisfaction, Mitzi re-positioned her chair behind her desk and eyed the wall clock for the hundredth time, wondering when this dull day would finally see its behind.

God
. It had been one of the most boring days ever. Right up there with a church sermon on Easter Friday. Or one of those National Geographic shows. Oh well. What could you do, she thought, consoling herself. Even the great artists like Ina Myburgh had to have a day job at one stage or other. And for now, she supposed, a dump like the
Hope Gazette
would do.

In the office behind her, Gerhard Volkers (son of the deceased Johan and Susan Volkers) farted. This was followed by a grunt. Then he vigorously moved his swivel chair to and fro behind his desk, making the old chair creak and groan under his considerable weight. He always did this after farting. To try and conceal it. As if, after seven years of working for him, Mitzi didn’t know the difference between a Volkers fart and a leather swivel chair.

Sigh. You
had
to suffer for your art. It was true.

Mitzi pulled the red lace panty from her sweaty crack. Of course there was that too. As if working in the dreary confines of the
Hope Gazette
office
wasn’t bad enough. There was that too. The panties had been a gift from Gerhard. Like virtually her entire lingerie collection had been. And it was a collection to be sure. In addition he kept at least another three of her panties in the various cluttered drawers of his desk. Well-worn. Had been his instructions. Make sure they’re well-worn. ‘I want at least three days of
pussy
,’ the sophisticated instructions had been. He liked to pull one from his desk drawers and, shoving it against his pudgy face, inhale deeply. And then, invariably, she would be ‘summoned’ to the office, where with sweaty hands and the lingering reek of KFC on his breath, he would rip her red panties (yes, he had a thing for red panties, our Gerrie) from her tight little tush and fuck her from behind (Mitzi insisted). She sighed. The travails of an artist never ended. Well ... Okay. Maybe it wasn’t that bad, she thought, as she stroked the expensive Fossil watch on her wrist. The gifts and the month-end bonuses sure did go a long way. And it wasn’t as if Gerrie was such a bad lover either. Though, of course, his true talent lay further north. In that muscled tongue of his. Lean and mean. Strengthened with years of American-style fast foods. Oh yes. Gerrie could give head like no-one else. Not even that Coloured boy she used to see during her Matric year could bring her to climax like Mr Volkers. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t all bad, she thought, wondering if it was too early in the day for some oral exploration.

The phone rang. And changed her life forever.

Mitzi looked at the thing as if it had made a negative comment about her lacquer mix. Oh God, really? It was almost lunch time. Couldn’t this wait?

The phone rang.

‘Can someone get the
blêddie
phone,’ Gerrie shouted from behind his desk.

Mitzi threw him a disparaging look. And taking her liberal time, slowly picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ she said. It was less of a greeting and more of a reprimand. A schoolgirl reminding a friend that she had just said something ludicrous and totally uncool.
Hellooooo
. If Mitzi thought her trained disdain would intimidate the caller or maybe impress upon him

that a call after lunchtime would be much more appropriate, she was sadly mistaken. If anyone could have viewed Mitzi’s face at that moment, they would have been confronted with the comical sight of her gaping mouth, frozen halfway through a word. Her large bulging eyes. And a face instantaneously drained of all colour. What they wouldn’t have seen was her right leg, shaking uncontrollably.

It was a voice. Speaking with such easy menace. With such a comfortable malevolence. That with the very first word he had managed to grab Mitzi’s attention in an iron grip. And as his effortless words flowed through the speaker of the phone, she felt herself sink further and further into a dark pit of terror.

Take a pen. He said. And waited. Knowing she wouldn’t.

Mitzi stared ahead. A trembling upon her forehead. Her eyes misting.

‘Take a pen, sweetheart. Don’t make me ask again.’ And as in a dream. She had taken a pen. And not looking where she was writing. What she was writing. She captured his words. Such ugly. Terrible words. She captured his words on her writing pad. The sing-song words. She would never forget. And when he was done. She stared straight ahead. The receiver still pressed against her ear. There was only the tone of a dropped call. But she held onto the phone. Her knuckles white with the exertion of clutching the ugly thing in her fist. Gerrie shouted at her from his office. But there was no response. He tried again. ‘Hey! Who was it?’ And then. As if finally shaken from her dark reverie, Mitzi stood up, dropping the phone loudly onto the plywood surface of her desk. She turned and walked to Gerhard Volkers’s office, the notebook clutched in a shaking hand. Volkers almost flipped his chair when he saw her. ‘Jesus! Mitzi! What’s wrong? Mitzi?!?’ Mitzi held out the notebook to him. Held it out like a dirty thing that she regretted touching. She dropped the little fluttering notebook as her ineffectual fingers lost their grip. Her mouth opened into a huge silent scream. ‘He’s back,’ she whispered in a hoarse rasping croak. ‘He’s back.’