Entwined (15 page)

“That’s not true,” I protest, but an uncomfortable feeling has settled in my stomach. Thuli tends to drift from one person to another, but that’s just because he’s picky! Everyone has the right to decide who to spend their time with. “What about Simon and Mothusi? He’s been friends with them forever.”

“They’re not friends, they’re minions,” says Rakwena bitterly.

He sounds so petulant that I have to laugh. “You’re just biased. Did he do something to you? Come on, tell me.”

He glares at me but refuses to respond. That suits me just fine – I don’t want to hear my friend trash my future husband. Rakwena is just going to have to get used to the idea of Thuli and metogether if he wants to continue to be part of my life.

He snatches the timetable out of my hands. “Tuesdays and Fridays are best.”

“Good.” I snatch the timetable back and mark my Tuesday and Friday afternoon slots. “Anything else?”

“No.” He picks up his bag and stands up stiffly. “See you later.”

I watch him leave and shake my head. Lebz returns a moment later, taking advantage of Rakwena’s absence. They get along, but they’re not exactly buddies.

“What was that all about? You looked like you were having a fight.”

I click my tongue. “He was being an idiot.”

“I’m not surprised.”

For once I’m not going to jump to his defence. Rakwena hasn’t really had much experience with friends, and I don’t think he likes the idea of sharing me. Well, too bad. I’ve waited three years for Thuli and there’s no way I’m letting Rakwena spoil it.

Rose is already on the bench when I arrive the next morning. Her face is drawn and there are circles under her eyes. Even from a distance I can tell how worried she is.

“Hi.” I sit beside her and lower my bag to the ground.

She turns to me. “I’ve thought about it. I’m going to tell you as much as I can.”

My initial relief dims a little. “What do you mean, as much as you can? Did someone threaten you?”

“No, I just can’t remember everything.” Her index finger and thumb are moving in little circles over the top button of her shirt. “There are too many blank spaces in my head. I think –” She gulps and throws a glance over her shoulder, as if expecting the Puppetmaster to leap out from behind a freshly pruned bush. “I think he does that on purpose, to make sure we can’t reveal what we do.”

Her fear is contagious. I take a few deep breaths and try to take a mental step back, but. I’m pulled back into her swirling thoughts and emotions. “Who’s ‘he’?”

“The… our…” She gives her head a helpless shake. “I don’t know.”

“It’sOK.” I pull her hand away from her shirt and hold it tight. “Start from the beginning. Do you remember when all of this started?”

She nods, but hesitates for a long moment before responding, as if trying to smooth over the rough edges left by the Puppetmaster’s magic. “It was a few months back. I had just joined the group and got my necklace. We have to wear them every day. One Saturday we were all at her house and she asked for the necklaces back to get our names engraved on them. She said her boyfriend would bring them back on Monday. He’s the son of a minister – I’m sure you’ve heard.” Her voice drops to an embarrassed whisper. “He’s six years older! It’s business. An alliance. It’s so old-fashioned.”

I can’t imagine what a nineteen-year-old would do with a kid, no matter how pretty or well-connected she is. What do they talk about?

“He’s not her proper boyfriend,” adds Rose. “They don’t kiss or anything. She likes someone else and he likes someone else, but they’re supposed to end up together.”

I heave a sigh of relief. “Go on.”

“Amantle took the necklaces and on Monday we got them back. But something was different.” She stops to lick her lips. “I mean… they were the same except for the engraving, but…. We used to put them away when we went to bed or took a bath or went swimming, but after we got them back we didn’t want to take them off at all. Since then I’ve never taken it off. I don’t want it out of my sight. That’s not normal, is it?”

“Definitely not,” I reply gently. “I think your necklaces are bewitched. Someone is using them to control you.”

Her eyes widen, but she knows it’s true. The jewellery designer seems like the obvious suspect, but something tells me she’s not the person I’m looking for. It has to be someone who had access to the necklaces between the time Amantle got them that weekend and the time she returned them on Monday. But who?

“You mentioned someone who makes spaces in your head so you can’t remember everything. Who is he?”

Rose’s hand grows stiff in my grip. “I don’t know.”

“Rose, tell me the truth.”

“I don’t know!” She raises her head and looks at me. “Really, I don’t.”

I’m confused. She seems to be telling the truth, or at least she’s convinced herself it’s the truth, but I see a shadowy figure in her head. She’s seen the Puppetmaster more than once. “OK. What about his voice? Have you heard it in your head, telling you what to do?”

“I…” Her thoughts are hazier than ever. “I think so. I don’t know. I hear… I hear
my
voice.”

This guy is good. “That’s fine, don’t worry about it. Do you remember what you girls do when you go out?”

“We…” She lapses into silence. Distorted images float around in her head – getting dressed, getting dropped off at the mall, buying batteries and energy drinks, eating out, getting into flashy cars… and then darkness and fog. “We hang out. We buy things. We…” A figure in a suit handing out money, an expensive camera cell phone, a leering voice… and more darkness.

She gives up with a weary sigh. “I don’t know, but I know it’s bad. Things I would never do, but I’m doing them!” She bites her lip and her eyes fill with tears.

“It’sOK.” I squeeze her hand. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise. Can I take another look at the necklace?”

She pulls her hand out of mine and removes the necklace from under her shirt.

“Can I see the engraving?”

Rose flips the locket over to reveal her name, engraved across the metal in cursive. It looks so innocuous, a nice little trinket from one girl to another, but the energy it gives off is strong and murky, like tendrils of toxic smoke.

“I’d like to take a closer look.” I look into her eyes. “Would you mind giving it me for a second?”

“I’m not taking it off.”

“I just want to see –”

“No!” she growls, and shoves the necklace back inside her shirt. “We don’t take them off. I told you.”

Now I see what she means. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head and groans. “No,
I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just can’t take it off. I have to keep it safe.”

I’m not going to get through to her while she’s like this. Whatever
muti
the Puppetmaster has used on these necklaces is super-strong. What I have to do now is figure out how to get Rose’s necklace. Then Ntatemogolo can take a look at it and figure out how it works. “It’sOK, I understand. We don’t want anything to happen to the necklace.” I stand up slowly. “We’ll talk some more tomorrow.”

“But you
are
going to help me.” She looks at me with pleading eyes. “I need to get away but I don’t know how. You can find a way, I’m sure you can.”

I bend over to give her a hug. “I’ll get you out, I promise. I just need a little time to come up with a plan. And in the meantime, I want you to be very careful.”

She nods, but I’m not sure she’s registering my warning. She doesn’t have any control over whether she’s careful or not – not when the Puppetmaster is in charge. My gaze drops to the necklace hidden beneath her shirt. That pretty little present is full of some seriously ugly magic. I don’t know exactly what I’m up against but I know it’s not child’s play. There’s no way I can deal with this alone.

“Do you realise that I still don’t know your surname?” I ask Rakwena.

He takes his eyes off the road to look at me. “You could have asked. It’s Langa.”

“Langa.” I roll the name around on my tongue and spit it out. “Langa. No. Sorry. It doesn’t work.”

He laughs. “It doesn’t have to work. It’s just a name.”

“It doesn’t suit you!” I run my hands along the dashboard of his car. “I’d rather just call you Lizard. It sounds so much more interesting.”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and grins. “Rakwena comes from crocodile, and a crocodile is a lizard, in case you forgot.”

I shake my head. “Were your parents obsessed with lizards, too?”

“Were
your
parents obsessed with weeds?”

“My father’s bright idea.” I roll my eyes. “He liked the idea of a plant that transcends oceans, a symbol of nature’s resilience, or some such nonsense. And my mother allowed it. I don’t know what she was thinking.”

We pull into a cul-de-sac and stop in front of a high black gate. From the outside the house is just what I expected; sprawling, one storey high and surrounded by a white wall topped with an electric fence. Rakwena reaches for the remote and the gate swings open, creaking in welcome. Once we are safely parked in the driveway, I release my seatbelt from its buckle and climb out of the car. Nice lawn. A pretty, well-kept flower garden – though I can’t picture Rakwena getting soil under his nails. There’s a huge tree in one corner that looks perfect for climbing.

“No dogs?” I ask, peering round the corner of the house.

“No,” says Rakwena wistfully. “I’d love one, but they don’t seem to like me.”

I glance at his scar. “Don’t take it personally. Dogs can tell straight away when someone’s not normal.” I follow him into the house.

There’s a lovely living room, decorated in muted earth tones. Silvery statues are set up at various points around the room – flowers and abstract, androgynous faces. Rakwena fits right in, the quintessential metrosexual. If people knew what he was really like, his reputation would be in tatters. At the far end of the room, above a side table, is an exquisite painting of a woman. She’s not classically beautiful, but there’s a warmth and character to her features that makes her attractive.

Rakwena pre-empts me by saying softly, “My mother.”

“You look nothing alike,” I marvel. “I guess your father had some strong genes.”

Rakwena’s expression turns blank. “Are you hungry? I can make you something.”

Why does he get so weird when I mention his father? I’ll have to figure it out, but not today. “You cook?”

“I have to eat, don’t I?” He puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me towards the kitchen.

I toy with the spotless taps. “I’ve never seen a kitchen this clean.”

He closes the fridge door with his foot and deposits an armful of food on the counter. “I like cleaning. It calms the mind.”

It calms the mind? Where did this guy come from? “So you don’t have help?”

“The estate manager, Rra Sechaba, and his wife come in a few times a week to check on me. He’s the only person my mother trusted. He was our gardener for years. He still takes care of the garden – plants tend to do strange things when I touch them.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “Do they wither up and die?”

“Sometimes,” he replies with a rueful grin. “Sometimes they just start growing uncontrollably. Weeds, for instance.” He frowns at the assortment of food in front of him. “What do you want?”

“Well, I’m not really –”

“I’m starving,” he declares. “I’m going to grill some fish. You eat fish, right?”

“Yes, but –”

He heads to the freezer and removes a packet of fish, which he promptly pops into the microwave.

“Rakwena, you really don’t have to cook a whole meal.”

He ignores me and puts aside seven huge potatoes. Seven! I watch in stunned silence as he peels the potatoes. He works so fast that he’s halfway through before I have the sense to ask if I can help.

“You can cut the vegetables for the salad,” he says with a grateful smile.

I wash and chop up the lettuce, tomato, cucumber and beans, and toss them into a bowl that magically appears on the counter when my back is turned. By this time, Rakwena has already cut up the potatoes, marinated the thawed-out fish and set everything in an oven dish. I watch as he cuts up the polony and selects a roll from the pack. Then comes another roll, presumably for me. Then another, and another. Then the last two.

I clear my throat. “Are you expecting company?”

“No.” He stops to lick a drop of mayonnaise off his finger. He sets the six rolls on a massive platter, then opens a cupboard and takes out two jumbo-size glasses. I watch in dismay as he opens the fridge and produces an unopened bottle of Coke. “Do you take fizzy drinks? I have juice.”

“Coke is fine,” I croak, watching him tip the bottle into the two glasses.

“Could you bring the plate?” He puts the glasses on a tray with the half-empty bottle, then goes to the fridge to get another.

I’ve heard of the addictive powers of soft drinks, but this is ridiculous. I pick up the platter and follow him to the living room.

“Help yourself,” he says, snatching a roll before the platter touches the table.

“Thanks.” I take one roll and bite into it. By the time I swallow, his first roll is gone and he’s reaching for another.

In seconds it has vanished into his mouth and he grabs the glass of Coke and drains it without even stopping to take a breath. Then he fills the glass again. To the brim. I know boys eat a lot, but this is scary.

It’s only when there’s one roll left and he’s on his third glass of Coke that he notices my silence. He swallows. “Don’t you like the food? I can get you something else while we wait for the fish.”

Oh, Lord. I forgot that there was still more to come. “I’m fine.”

He smiles and reaches for the last roll, then jumps up, disappears into the kitchen and reappears with a giant slab of chocolate. He breaks off a row of chocolate squares and hands it to me, then takes his seat and munches away. I always have room for dessert, but Rakwena’s making me wonder whether it isn’t time to go on a diet.

“Oh,” he says suddenly, turning to look at me. “You’re not used to people eating this much, right? This isn’t normal.” He puts the chocolate down on the empty platter.