Moxyland (27 page)

   'Yeah, well, neither am I.' And I know I check it too. I've got the shivers and the damp sweats and I can't stop scratching, like a junkie with no fix in sight.

   'Man,' he sighs, with resignation, 'don't make me call in a defuse at this time of the morning.'

   'Go right ahead. I don't have a fucking phone, my friend.'

   He looks sceptical. 'Well, that's even more reassuring. Do you know what kind of shitsville liability you are to me in here?'

   'Come on. Give me a break. The quicker you let me use a machine, the quicker I'm gone. As opposed to standing in here, breathing my disease all over your establishment.'

   He is unmoved, starts reaching for the phone.

   'It's designer. It's worth thirty-k at least new, fifteen secondhand. Cost you maybe two to get it rewired. Five minutes, man. Doesn't sound like a raw deal to me.'

   'How do I know it's not stolen?' He shakes it out, cursory, looking for bloodstains.

   'Aw c'mon, like you care? And besides, I got the sneaks to match. You get a lot of colour coordinated scumbags in here hawking previously owned?'

   'Okay, okay. Five minutes.'

   'Thirty.'

   'You just said–'

   'Yeah, but I got stuff to do. Takes longer than five. And you only get the coat after.' Send Lerato a chirpy, check the newscasts to see what's already out there, upload my own footage off the BabyStrange while I've still got it.

   'Whatever. Just do me a favour and take one of the consoles at the back.'

   'So I don't freak out the paying customers?'

   'Sharp as your sense of style,' he quips, pinching the sleeve of my coat with a proprietary gesture. I feel a twinge of loss. Or another coughing fit about to hit.

 

Is it perverse to feel liberated? Not just ditching that asshole, just another Jonathan, but the grounding of being disconnect that separates me from the swirl of the city around me. The dissociation is real for once, not artificially imposed and filtered through my camera. I'm a stranger among the commuters and people opening up the storefronts. It's beautiful. And totally impractical, the squeeze in my stomach reminds me.

   I realise I'm not so far from District Six, but without my SIM ID, the front door to Mr. Muller's subterr doesn't recognise me. It takes a long time for him to answer the intercom.

   'Who's that?'

   'It's me, Mr. Muller. Kendra.'

   'Kendra! Why don't you just come down, my girl?'

   'It's my phone, Mr. Muller. It's…' My voice cracks. There is a brittle pause. I haven't seen him since the exhibition. I should have called, just to see if he was okay, but I've been preoccupied.

   'Come down. I'll put on the ultra.'

   By the time I get down, it's just starting to infuse. And he has food. A slightly stale bagel with peanut butter. But no Ghost. I wonder if I can convince him to get me one from the building's café, when he points to the news footage, which he has maximised so that it's playing all over the walls, tuned to different channels.

   'Did you see this? The bombing?'

   I haven't.

   The footage focuses on the wall of the old city library, where a mural of a soccer ball and two hands forming a heart shape with the fingers has been painted. The words UBUNTU appear above it, spangled with glitter – no, lightbulbs, LEDs forming lightshow patterns. The soccer ball becomes a globe, a skull, a heart. And then the bulbs suddenly all pop, not exactly co-ordinated, with a noise like firecrackers, spraying twinkles of glass, so that people below cringe and duck.

   A few of them sort of run away, hands up above their heads before they catch themselves and look back. The bulbs crackle and snap for another few seconds and then a thin drift of chemical-coloured smoke peels off, leaving the wall cratered and pitted.

   'If they had an agenda, I might be able to understand, but this nihilism… Six dead, nineteen wounded. What are they protesting, anyway? Capitalism? As if there's an alternative. Where do they think their fancy technology comes from?' Mr. Muller is in full rant mode.

   I'm not really paying attention. Most of the channels are playing footage from what looks like a warzone. Rubble, people screaming, broken glass and blood, a torn-apart car – like the truck in Mr. Muller's photograph.

   'And don't get me started on the fantasy of economic equality,' he says. 'Society has always been structured by privilege. This is the best we've had it. You work hard, you put your back into it, you get to claim the rewards. Freedom is a state of mind, Kendra. How old are you? Too young to remember what it was like.'

   The footage plays back in slow-mo. A line of people, with the desperate look of refugees or Rural, wait outside a glass box marked Casualty. There is a twist of tar leading up into the parkade, like a loll of grey tongue in a butcher's window, an ambulance parked outside. A soccer ball floats surreally towards the building and, more surreal, the doors slide open to let it in. A woman smiles, delighted and points. And then the building turns itself inside out. I sit down heavily on the couch. It's too much.

   'Compared to living in fear, terrorised by criminals, the hijackings and shootings and the tik junkies ready to kill you, shoot you, stab you, for a watch or a camera, I'll take those modified dogs and the whaddayacallit, the cellphone electrocutions, any day. But these people don't understand what they're trying to achieve.'

   Every channel comes back to it, on constant repeat. Like the chorus of a terrible song.

   'Anarchy? Undermining our way of life? And what's that going to prove? More to the point, what's it going to change? This is only going to lead to more severe controls. But we need them, Kendra, I'm telling you, humanity is innately damaged. It's a flaw in the design code. We're weak. We're fallible. We need to be told what to do, to be kept in line.'

   He notes me shrinking deeper into the couch.

   'Forgive me, I'm ranting. You know what happens when I get started. What's this about your phone?' The sudden generosity of all his attention makes me want to weep with gratitude, so I fumble over my words.

   'It's dead. They blew out everyone's phones. I don't know what to do.'

   His voice takes on a sharp note of query. 'When was this?'

   'Last night. The station. There was a protest. I guess it dropped off the scanner in light of… this.' I wave my hand at the overwhelming visuals cramming into the lounge.

   Mr. Muller's face solidifies around his jaw. 'You can't stay here. You have to get to a, whatsit, immune centre. You're sick.' The word strikes me like an accusation. It's not only the associations of the superdemic; it feels like a personal attack on my genetic potential, the dark rotting tumour waiting to flower in my gut, like my father.

   'But I'm not. The nano…' but suddenly it feels like too much to explain. And can I really explain?

   'Are you part of this? Are you associated with those terrorists? I know what art school is like. And my God, that thing at your exhibition. You are part of this. If you don't leave my house immediately, I will call the authorities. There's a number. On TV. I'll call them. I won't be an accessory, Kendra. I'm an old man.'

   'Mr. Muller, please,' I laugh, despite myself, at the quaver in his voice, at the absurdity. 'Look, whatever they said on the news, it's not the full story. Did they say it was a complete over-reaction to a peaceful protest?'

   'Those kids had weapons. They showed it. Hacking up the dogs. People were next.'

   'You talk about controls, but this wasn't control. This was a…' I cast around for the right word, and as soon as it's out, I know it's a mistake, the end of our rational discussion: 'A holocaust.'

   He takes out his phone and starts hitting the keypad, his hand shaking so hard I'm sure he's going to drop it. 'I'm calling them, Kendra. I'm calling.'

   It's more pity than fear that incites me to leave.

 

I leave a voicemail for Lerato. And send a msg. And an email. But there's no response. Of all times. The manager guy comes over. 'Hey, man, listen, I changed my mind. I really need you to go now.'

   'What the fuck? I've still got four minutes.'

   'It's on the news, china. You should… wow. You need to get medical attention.'

   This is not exactly a revelation, kids, although I have to tell you, I'm feeling a little more up about the whole thing, probably due to ditching that little princess Kendra. Course, I'm gonna have to find her again, cos this is exactly the kind of shit I should be getting on cam. Documenting how the nano cleaned her up like a Catholic in confession. I scratch my beard.

   'Fine. But then I'm keeping the coat. And gimme that whisky.' I say, pointing to one of the bottles up behind the bar counter.

'What? Hey, come on, man. That's not cool.'

   'Neither is Marburg. Wanna risk it that it's really not contagious?' I cough for dramatic effect. He doesn't need to know it's faked.

   I'm prowling the street, swigging openly from the Fish Eagle, trying to figure which direction Kendra would have taken, when the same damn street kid from before sidles up to me.

   'You Toby?' he says, uncertainly.

   'Look, kid. Seriously. Now is not the fucking time. Piss off.'

   'Jussus. No need to be so rude, my larnie. I got someone wants to see you.'

   'Oh, look. I appreciate the sentiment. But I got my preferred dealers. And I really don't like buying my illicit streetside, especially here with all the cams. Tell your friend he may want to consider relocating to a less heavily watched area.'

   'Toby. You're Toby. Come with me.' The runt is so insistent, I follow him down the side street into a parking lot, half underground, quiet on a Sunday, with a CCVTV system that's looking a little fritzy, judging by the frayed wires swinging from the cam by the entrance boom. We go deeper in, between the cars, to find Tendeka huddled in a convincing impression of a bergie, a hoodie pulled low over his face. He looks like shit. It's the texture of his skin, sort of murky beige like clay that might slough off his skull. The street kid is on the point of tears.

   'Okay, I did it. Can I go now?'

   Tendeka waves, tired, dismissive. 'Yes, Whitey. Thank you. If you see Zuko. Or Ashraf… No. Never mind.'

   The kid waits, squirrelly on the balls of his feet in those oversize shoes, to see if there's gonna be more, and then scuttles away, too fast to be polite. The motivation right there, kids? I'd say that was fear.

   'He's frightened. I've lost everyone, Toby. I don't know where they are. When I saw you, across the street…'

   'Jesus, Tendeka. You are pretty fucked up.'

   'Not looking so great yourself.'

   'You could hit me. That always seems to make you feel better.'

   'I would if it helped. But it doesn't work. You're still a fucking prick afterwards.'

   He smiles. And I know what will make it even better. I hand over the bottle. We get shitfaced. Not a bad way of killing a coupla hours, all told. Only catch is that while the cheap scotch makes me bouncier, it's bringing Ten down bigtime.

   He says it's the end of the world. We've got a difference of opinion here. 'Sure, we might feel like death set on defrost,' I tell him. 'But how else are they going to make it seem authentic? It's a bluff and I'm calling it. I'm not going to roll over and hand myself in at one of their immunity centres. Immunity from the virus supposedly about to chow down on my spleen, but not from the nice officers waiting to arrest me for illegal activities.' And I know it's a hoax because it's letting up, although I'm still itching like crazy. The inside of my wrist is red from scratching.

   Tendeka agrees that we shouldn't go in. But see, this is where we part ways, because he's swallowed the hoax wholesale. He tells me it's exactly what they planned, him and his chomma in Amsterdam. He tells me he's going to die. Because that's the only way to expose it, for the outside world to know it's real. He yaks on about some bomb thing, can't believe I haven't seen the footage, but when have I had a chance to kick back with TV? So he set off this bomb, cos he says if it's just him dying from this bug, they can cover it up. But the bombs will focus attention on this thing. It'll stop people getting the vaccine. They'll die. In the limelight.

   He's fucked. It's hilarious. So when he asks me if I'll come with him and bring the BabyStrange, cos his camera-phone's fucked from the station fry-up, and he needs to get this down, who am I to say no, kids?

 

It's not so hard. Without Toby looking sketchy and virtually dying at my side, it only takes four tries at sugar-coated grovelling to get someone to let me make a call.

   'I dropped it down the stairs,' I tell the lady at the bookstore, who flutters in the stacks nearby to ensure that I don't make a duck with her phone. As if it would be any use to me without her unique bio-sig. I dial Damian's number from the flyer he gave me. I'll be damned before I phone Jonathan.

   Vix answers. She seems less than stoked to hear that it's me. 'You didn't rock up, hey?'

   'I know. I'm sorry. Please can I just speak to Damian? It's urgent.'

   There's a scuffle and then Damian comes on, sounding sleepy. 'Hey, Ghost girl, you missed out.'

   He hasn't heard about the bombs or the station 'incident', as they keep referring to it on the news. He hasn't even got up yet, and it's already afternoon.

   It takes a lot of work to convince him to come pick me up and take me to Andile. And when his car pulls up outside the bookstore, a classic Ford Anglia done up with decals of skulls and bunnies, Vix is sitting in the passenger seat.