The Mall (3 page)

‘What sort of kid? Did they—’

Simon stands across the counter from me. He reeks of highproof, low-quality alcohol and halitosis.

‘What’s your name?’ Simon asks me.

‘Daniel.’

‘You see a small kid anywhere? Uh, eight, nine. Black. We’ve got this… uh… lady… in the office who says you saw her with him here.’

‘When?’

‘An hour ago, she says.’ Behind him Sipho shifts uneasily, not sure what he should be doing. Intimidating me, tearing up books, strip-searching the customers, whatever they teach you
in security guard school. So he starts fiddling with the products on the counter.

‘I don’t know. Lots of people come into the shop.’

‘You’ll remember this… lady,’ Simon lowers his voice a fraction, glancing at Khosi loading the window. ‘
Blerrie boemelaar
. Bald and scars and
everything.’

‘Oh, ja. I did see her. But I don’t remember any child with her.’

‘Okay,’ says Simon. ‘Nobody saw anything here.’ I can see this investigation is exhausting him and he just wants to go back to his office and have another drink.
‘Thanks, Chief,’ he says to Sipho, who jerks around to escort him out and knocks over a stand of Nelson Mandela commemorative fridge magnets on his way out.

I can’t help but remember that weird-looking woman. She was in the store about an hour ago. There are certain customers who just make me want to run the moment I see them, and they are the
ones who always, without fail, end up at my till. This one was a youngish black woman with an unconvincing English accent she was obviously putting on to make her sound posher than she was. Because
she had a shaved head and dressed like a bum. On the side of her face was this huge scar, the sort of scar you don’t know how to look at. She was hanging edgily around the counter, smelling
of smoke and sweat, but I could see she wasn’t going to buy anything. I didn’t want to help her, but I wanted her to go away and stop lurking around where I could see her. That scar was
making me uncomfortable.

So I said, ‘Can I help you?’

She took a long look at me, appraising me up and down like I’m some sort of freak show, her lips curling in disgust. Then she said, ‘Fuck you’, and walked a few paces away,
jittering, her eyes twitching from door to shelf to floor to counter.

Now I wonder if the missing child could be the boy I saw in the service corridor. It can’t have been the same one. Hers is a black kid, right? The boy I saw was white, Greek or Portuguese
or something. Although it’s quite a complex route from the back of the bookshop, there’s no way out except back into the mall. That kid would never have got lost back there. It’s
not worth worrying about. He’s probably sleeping in his parents’ car on the way home by now.

I start picking up the Mandela magnets and tidying the other junk that’s mixed up on the counter. Nine twenty-five; five minutes to closing. Jesus, what a long day. I need a drink.

I go into the orders cupboard and flick the lights to signal the time to the remaining customers and Bradley follows me in.

‘Hey, Daniel, buddy.’

‘Yes?’

‘You mind locking up for me tonight?’ he says, handing me his shop keys.

What the fuck, arsehole? I’d rather you do the hour’s extra work you’re paid triple to do and leave me the fuck alone. ‘Ja, sure, no problem.’

‘You are working tomorrow morning, right? So you’ll have to get here first to open up. Seven thirty?’

‘Okay.’ I know I’m being a bloody pushover, but what am I supposed to do? If I cash up regularly and always keep the keys safely, maybe Bradley will make me supervisor. I could
really do with the extra money.

Bradley skips over to where Josie is waiting and says, ‘We’re on.’ She smiles and they go to the back office to collect their stuff.

The safe key isn’t on Bradley’s bunch so I follow them. I tap in the code and open the back office door.

‘I knew he’d—’ Josie’s saying and then she stops and blushes.

Bradley’s laughing, then turns his back when he realises I’m there.

I smile at Josie. ‘Oh, hi.’ Then tell Bradley that I don’t have the safe key.

‘Oh, sure. Here.’ Bradley fishes the key out of his pocket.

I try to stay calm as I walk back to close the front door, but I have visions of ramming Bradley’s long safe key up his fucking nostril.

chapter 3

RHODA

There are fewer places to hide in malls than you’d think. I squash myself in between an abandoned cleaner’s trolley and one of those giant, pointless plant pots,
scrunching my knees up to my chest. The stench of dirty rags and bleach makes my eyes water, and the damp stinking tendrils of a mop brush against my cheek. I pull out my phone, click it onto
silent, hold my breath and wait.

The clip-clop of Fingerling’s boots echo past me, then, just as I’m sure I’m safe, he hesitates. Fuck. He’s so close I could reach around the pot and grab his trouser
cuffs. The mall’s muzak cuts out abruptly, and his walkie-talkie erupts into a hissing buzz of static, making me jump. Yellow Eyes’ voice cuts through the crackle, saying something in
guttural Afrikaans that I can’t understand. Fingerling responds with a sigh and the words: ‘Nee, boss.’

My lungs are aching from the frantic chase earlier, and the shallow breaths I’m sucking in through my nose aren’t helping. Christ. I should’ve got the fuck out of here when I
had the chance. I’d easily lost Yellow Eyes after I’d dodged into the parking garage (fat bastard), and I’m pretty sure Simon the Sadist must still be curled into a ball on the
filthy carpet in the office, clutching his bollocks.

There’s no sign of the cops yet, but even if the South African police are as hopelessly crap as I’ve heard, I probably only have five minutes at the most.

Fingerling’s heavy tread backtracks towards the escalators, and I breathe out in relief and shift my position to ease the cramp in my thighs.

Should I? Why the hell not? I reach into my pocket, pull out the envelope and pick open one of the wraps. I dip my finger into the powder and rub it over my gums. It’s heavily cut with
baby-powder, but weak shit or not, it’s as if a breeze of cool oxygen has blasted into my brain, instantly clearing my head. It tastes bitter and familiar, and I start to breathe easier, the
stitch in my side fading.

I peer out from behind the pot, and shuck forward on my knees to get a better view of the bookshop’s entrance. The doors are closed, the windows darkened and blank. A couple stalks past,
the guy pressing his hand into the small of the woman’s back, pushing her onwards. They don’t glance in my direction, too intent on getting the hell out of here. I don’t blame
them. Maybe it’s the blow messing with my head, but the mall seems to have taken on a seriously creepy atmosphere. I hate malls at the best of times, but now that I’m surrounded by
lifeless shop windows, deserted aisles and empty moving escalators I can see why
Dawn of the Dead
was such a mind-fuck.

The bookshop’s glass doors finally crack open, and the blonde bitch emerges, laughing at something the guy next to her is saying. Even from here I can tell that she’s not really
listening to him, too busy thinking about the next thing she’s going to say. She flicks her hair over a shoulder, runs her hand through it and adjusts her shoulder bag. They push through the
blue door opposite the shop, the guy checking out her arse as she walks through in front of him.

But where the hell is the lying bastard? If he’s left already, I’m fucked. My last chance. If I don’t find the kid there’s no way I can go back to Zinzi’s place.
Would Jacob help me out? Not much hope of that. If I clear out my account I’ll have enough cash for a couple of tanks of petrol, but that’s it. Nowhere near enough to get me to Cape
Town. And forget buying a ticket home. Even if I had the cash there’s no way I’m going back there.

But I don’t have a choice. I can’t hang around here any longer.

I stand up carefully, stretching my feet one at a time to shake out the pins and needles. Slipping behind a pillar, I check both directions. No sign of Fingerling or Yellow Eyes. Taking another
pinch of blow to fuel my escape I prepare myself to leg it.

There’s a rattle of keys and the bookshop’s door screeches open again. I crouch back down.

Thank fuck. It’s him.

He peers up and down the corridor as if he’s looking for someone (as if that blonde bitch would give a twat like him the time of day), his shoulders slump and he mutters something under
his breath. He pulls out an iPod, sticks the earphones in his ears and slouches across the aisle to the door opposite. I count to ten and race across the aisle, slipping into the stairwell behind
him. I take the stairs two at a time, making sure that I keep one level below him at all times, but it looks as if he’s going all the way to the top. I hang back when I hear the exit door
banging open, then leg it up to the top of the stairs and push my way out into the night.

The roof is deserted, the empty parking spaces illuminated by yellow lights, and after being inside the stuffy mall I’m momentarily disoriented. The bunker shapes of the various mall
entrances cast deep shadows around the flat concrete roof, and the neighbouring buildings loom uninvitingly in the distance.

But where the fuck has he gone? It’s not as if there’s anywhere to disappear to. I jog a few metres away from the exit, and then I see him. He’s trudging towards the far end of
the lot, back hunched, muttering to himself again. He doesn’t even glance around as I close the distance between us, ears probably full of Nickelback or whatever toss wankers like him listen
to. He’s heading towards the only car – a crappy red Fox with rusting hubcaps and bald tyres – which is half-concealed behind a pay station. While he fiddles with the door lock I
race up behind him, grab his left arm and shove it up behind his back.

‘What? No!’

‘Shut up!’ I say, pushing his arm higher and using my weight to slam him into the side of the car. He bellows in pain.

‘Keep quiet and I won’t hurt you,’ I hiss.

‘No, man, please! You can take it. Whatever. You can…’ His voice is way too loud. I yank his earphones out and they dangle out of his pocket. A faint tinny trace of music
pulses out.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ I say. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘Let me go!’ He wriggles again, and I’m forced to yank his arm up even higher. Air hisses out of his mouth as he gasps in agony, and his knees buckle and smash against the car
door. He’s way taller than me, has a good few kilos on me as well, but the flesh on his arm feels flabby beneath the fabric of his shirt.

‘What do you want? I haven’t got any money!’ His voice is panicked, almost tearful. ‘Please don’t hurt me. You can take the car.’

‘I don’t want your piece of shit car,’ I say to him. I lean my body into his. He reeks of some sort of cologne – the sort you get free in magazines.

‘What do you want?’ His voice escapes in a squeak, which would be comical if I felt like fucking laughing right now.

‘I’ve got a few questions for you,’ I say.

‘I’ll do what you want. Just let go of me.’

I release my grip on his arm, and he falls forward against the car. He swivels his shoulder and rubs his arm. I wait for him to turn around to face me.

‘You!’ he says, eyes wide with recognition. ‘It’s you!’ His face is paler than before, and his cheeks are trembling with fear or shock or both. For a second I
almost feel sorry for him. He’s a good head taller than me, and from the way he suddenly clenches his jaw and tenses his body it’s clear that he’s realised this. But I
don’t wait for him to react. Lashing out with my right foot I slam it into his crotch. He drops instantly, writhing on the ground, rolling in the tarmac, the edge of his T-shirt trailing in a
pool of oil.

He gasps desperately for air, face scrunched up in pain, tears streaming blackly down his cheeks as his eyeliner smudges. He gags and a thin stream of white puke dribbles out of his mouth. I
pull out my cigarettes and light up while I wait for him to stop moaning, puking and coughing. My hands are trembling, but I can’t let him see any sign of weakness.

‘What did you do that for?’ he says when he can speak. He struggles up onto his hands and knees, then sinks back down again, clutching his balls. ‘Fucking psycho!’

‘Why did
you
do it, eh?’ I say, blasting smoke in his face.

‘What do you mean? Do what?’ he whines.

‘Tell them you didn’t see the kid.’

‘What? I don’t under—’

I boot him in the stomach, slightly harder than I’d actually meant to. He makes a ‘whoof’ sound and whips his head around desperately, clearly searching for someone to come to
his aid. Not much chance of that. There’s the roar of an engine below us, the screech of sirens in the distance and steam billows out from one of the air-conditioner vents. But the parking
lot remains desolate.

I drop to my haunches and look down into his eyes. ‘Let’s try this again,’ I say.

‘Ugh – please, what do you want?’

‘Why did you lie?’

‘I didn’t… I don’t know wh—’ I place my foot over his hand and press down gently, letting him know I could stomp on it at anytime.

He puts his free hand up in surrender. ‘Okay, okay.’

‘Did you see where the kid went?’

‘What kid?’

For fuck’s sake. ‘The kid I was with when I came into the store. You saw me. Don’t pretend you didn’t.’

Something stirs in his eyes. ‘White kid, right?’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘He was really with you? But he looked so…’ He wisely leaves the word ‘respectable’ unspoken.

‘Did you see him?’

‘Yeah.’

Thank Christ. ‘Where?’

‘In the corridor behind the shop.’

‘Was he with anyone?’ He doesn’t answer immediately and I press my foot down with more force.

‘Hurts!’

‘Was he with anyone!’

‘No. I thought he was just playing around.’

‘Why didn’t you stop him?’

‘I told you. I thought he was just messing around.’ Now there’s a flash of impatience in his voice that surprises me. I’d better take charge again, take a different
tack.