Unravelled (26 page)

“He’s always away,” says Lebz.

I shake my head. “This is different. Lately he’s
never
home, and he’s lagging behind on his work for Salinger, too. He’s busy with something, and it must be big. I just wish he would tell me!”

“I wish we knew what Emily was after,” Wiki muses.

“I wish life could go back to being simple,” mutters Lebz.

I smile wistfully. I’m betting our lives will never be simple again.

Chapter Twelve

The weeks drag by. Without Rakwena life seems lopsided, but I’m grateful he’s respected my wishes and kept his distance. I’m still not sure how to deal with our situation. The one good thing about this is now I’m more focused on school. I have to be – it’s the only way I can distract myself from thinking about him. I still haven’t spoken to any of the other drifters, either. I guess Reetsang was right all along – asking me to mediate between them and Rakwena was a bad idea.

Ntatemogolo is consistently unavailable, and Dad’s initial irritation is building up to an inevitable eruption. Ntatemogolo’s Salinger report, due weeks ago, is still outstanding, and the man is missing in action. I’ve stopped calling him. When he gets back from wherever he is, he’ll make contact. I’m trying not to worry, but knowing that Emily is lurking around, doing who knows what, isn’t making it easy.

We’re down to one week before finals, but despite the pressure and stress there’s an undercurrent of anticipation rippling through Syringa’s Form Five group. There’s still one big event left before we end the year, and it’s the biggest event of our short lives to date. Prom.

Everyone is talking about it. I can’t escape no matter where I go. Even Lebz won’t shut up, though she knows how I feel about it now that I no longer have a tall, dark and handsome prince to dance the night away with. It seems like a meaningless social convention in the midst of everything else. The world is a shambles. How can I think about prom?

“I’m wearing red,” she declares, leaning back on the bench. “Bright red.”

“I thought you were going with purple,” asks Wiki. I don’t understand why he’s contributing to this discussion – he should be focusing on the Maths book in his lap.

“I was,” says Lebz with a theatrical sigh, “but Tebatso’s already got a dress and it’s lilac, so I want something totally different. Besides, our theme is Sexy Single Ladies and there’s nothing sexier than red.”

Wiki nods. “Speaking of colours, is blue OK for a suit?”

“What kind of blue?”

“Navy.”

“Mmm, sounds good. Shoes?”

I tune them out and try to keep my attention on my Setswana notes.

“Connie, you should really think about coming,” says Lebz gently. “None of us are bringing dates. It’ll be all girls. And Wiki.”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure you want to miss your own prom?”

“Yep.”

“You might regret it later,” Wiki points out.

“Doubt it.”

Lebz sighs. “What if I got you a dress?”

I lower my notes. “That would be a terrible waste of money, and I’d be furious. Don’t even think about it.”

She lifts her shoulders in a shrug and turns to Wiki, who gives her a look that clearly says, “Hopeless case”.

“Shouldn’t you both be studying?” I remind them.

They pick up their books silently, and I return to my notes, ignoring the stab of guilt. I don’t mean to be difficult, I’m just sick of hearing about prom. I plan to spend that night at home with the one thing that never lets me down – movies.

***

Two days before finals, I have the dream again. It’s exactly the same as the last couple of times; every word, every visual detail. I wake up with a jolt, swing my legs over the side of the bed and stare around my dark room, my mother’s voice still echoing in my head.

I reach out to turn on my bedside lamp. I’m afraid. Of course, I can’t really be sure the person Mama’s referring to
is
the Puppetmaster. He doesn’t feature in the dream, but when things turn dark and my mother mentions “him”, this terrible feeling of foreboding comes over me, and he’s the one person I associate it with.

I replay it in the safety of my warmly-lit bedroom, going over each bit. My mother wants us to play a game which involves her teaching me something. I’m very young at the beginning, but then I grow up and everything changes. It’s not a game anymore. It’s dangerous. “We can’t let him see…”

See what? Is my mother trying to tell me something, send me some sort of message from the grave? She’s never done it before, but there’s a first time for everything. Perhaps when I was younger there was no need for ghostly intervention. Now that I’ve come into my gift, now that I’ve tangled with the Puppetmaster, maybe I need her guidance.

I sigh. I wish I knew what the dream meant, but I can’t figure it out. Is it possible that the Puppetmaster is keeping tabs on me somehow? Is that what Mama means? And if so, how can I stop him? He could have spies watching my every move, and there’s not much I can do about that. I bite my lip nervously. Well, at least he can’t read my thoughts from a distance.

I freeze on the edge of my bed, my hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Oh, no. What if he can? I already know he’s a powerful telepath – what if he’s powerful enough to stretch his gift over borders and even oceans? What if he’s reading my thoughts right now?

I glance around my room in panic, as if expecting to see some sign of psychic surveillance, but of course there’s nothing out of the ordinary. My stomach turns and I experience a sudden inexplicable chill. I climb back under the covers, my fear blossoming with each breath. Is it possible? Can he read me over great distances?

The more I think about it, the more certain I am that I’m on the right track. This must be what my mother was talking about in the dream. I take a deep breath and check the time on my phone. 2:11. Just a few more hours until daybreak.

If there’s even the slightest chance that the Puppetmaster can eavesdrop on my thoughts from wherever he’s hiding, I have to find a way to stop it.

***

I call Ntatemogolo early in the morning, and for the first time in ages he actually picks up. I leave for Bontleng an hour later. It’s Saturday, so Dad is sleeping in. I leave him a quick note.

When I get to Ntatemogolo’s house I hear voices coming from inside. I pause at the door, surprised. Usually he prefers to go to his clients rather than have them come to him. I push open the front door and step inside, hoping the visitor is wrapping things up. I open my mouth to greet them, and the words fizzle on my tongue.

Rakwena is standing in Ntatemogolo’s living room. Shock and sadness hit me in the centre of the chest. It’s so clear and strong that I wonder how I could ever have doubted it. I love him. Not in the best buddy, guy who’s saved my butt a few times kind of way. In that
other
way. That way that makes Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” start ringing in my head like the soundtrack to a chick flick.

I turn around and walk out. I don’t know what comes over me – it’s just too much, staring into his face, seeing the terrible mixture of hope and pain in his eyes. I can’t do it. I have love songs playing in my head! I stand in the yard with my back to the door, catching my breath. This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a love-struck teenager! Oh, wait, I
am
a love-struck teenager.

“Connie.”

His voice slices through me. Why does it affect me this way, the voice I’ve heard so many times, the voice I know as well as my own? I’m supposed to be over this, over him. He’s just a
boy
!

I don’t move. I stand still, willing him to pull me into his arms so I can feel the tingle again. I miss it. I miss
him
. But of course he doesn’t. I hear his footsteps as he leaves. I turn to watch him, and the premonition comes so fast that I gasp and double over, clutching my stomach against the pain. Images burst into my head, flashing behind my eyes too quickly for me to make them out. Blue light. Rakwena’s face. Anger, so fierce that I can barely contain it, and pain that makes tears run freely down my face. An agonising burning sensation spreads throughout my abdomen and snakes into my limbs. Then, as suddenly as it started, it’s gone.

I remain in that position for some time, one hand on my knee, the other on my stomach. I’m struggling to breathe. Rakwena is at my side and my grandfather is touching my arm, talking to me, but I can’t focus on his words. Slowly I pull myself upright. That was intense. My gaze slides to Rakwena’s face. I don’t understand what I just saw. Is that what he’s feeling?

“Are you OK?” He looks frantic with worry.

“I’m fine. Premonition.” I clear my throat and drop my gaze to his chest. “Are
you
OK?”

“No,” he replies in a ragged voice.

Of course not. Stupid question. I force myself to look at him, and the second our eyes meet my walls go up. I can’t help it – it’s the only way I can function properly in his presence. My voice sounds calm and offhand. “It was about you. The premonition. You were upset and…it was bad. So, um, be careful. Don’t get too worked up. Just …” I sigh. “Be careful.”

His features slide into that familiar mask of composure. “Thanks for the heads up. I should go.” He walks away without looking back.

I feel as though I should say something, but I don’t know what. All the right words have left me now, and between us there’s just this awkward crackle, like the spark from an electric appliance about to blow its fuse.

“You’re going to have to pull yourself together, my girl.”

Slowly I turn to face my grandfather. I forgot he was standing there. “I just didn’t expect to see him here. I didn’t see his car!”

Ntatemogolo eyes me with a mixture of pity and disapproval. “The car is being serviced. Come in; stop standing here like a fool.”

I follow him inside, still gathering my scattered wits. How long has it been since the last time I saw Rakwena? A month or so. Too long. No – not long enough.

“You said you needed help,” says Ntatemogolo, once we’re in the consultation room.

Yes, but now I don’t know where to start. The dream, Emily, the premonition. “Where were you?” I blurt out. “I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. And Dad…the Salinger project…you just vanished!”

“I had things to take care of.”

“But there’s so much happening right here! Emily – ”

He heaves an impatient sigh. “I told you to let me worry about that. It is under control.”

“What’s under control? What’s going on?”

“Conyza!” His voice is stern and brooks no argument. “I think you have enough trouble on your plate; don’t go looking for more. Now, when you called this morning you mentioned a dream.”

My shoulders drop. He’s not going to tell me anything. I experience a flare of fury. What is it with these men who refuse to tell me things? They are the two people I trust most, the people I turn to with every dilemma, yet no matter how hard I try I can never earn their trust in return. When will they learn that I don’t need to be protected? You can’t protect someone from the truth – you can only delay the inevitable.

“Stop sulking, Conyza. It is beneath you.”

“That’s not fair,” I mutter.

“Life is not fair,” he counters. “The dream. Tell me.”

I’m reluctant to tell him anything now, but I don’t see any way to get out of it. I explain the dream.

His features settle into a thoughtful frown. “It is clear what needs to be done. You must learn to block.”

“I know how to block.”

“Not properly. You can block someone if they try to get into your head, but that’s not enough. You must learn to put up a permanent barrier.”

“Like Rakwena’s?”

“Rakwena’s barrier comes naturally; all drifters are difficult to read. I meant more like mine.”

I give him a dubious look. “You told me it took years to build your barrier.”

He smiles. “I’m not a telepath.”

I’m quiet for a while. It sounds like a great idea, but… I don’t know where the “but” is coming from, yet I can’t ignore it. The Puppetmaster is out there, and I don’t want him nosing around in my business. So why am I hesitating? “I have exams.”

The menacing silence tells me my grandfather is unimpressed by the feeble excuse. When have I ever let school get in the way of developing my gift? “We’ll begin immediately.”

My heart sinks. I feel uneasy, and confused. Something isn’t right. Maybe Emily planted something dangerous in the house, or perhaps the Puppetmaster is spying on us right now. I don’t know what it is, but something’s got me on edge and the last thing I want to do is lower my defences, even for Ntatemogolo. He’s so unyielding today that I don’t dare voice my concerns. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should start immediately. The longer I go without improving my blocking, the more vulnerable I am to attack.

He pauses, then I hear the crinkle of plastic as he fumbles for his cigarette pack. The action seems almost like an afterthought. A moment later his lighter flares and the cigarette glows as he lights it and inhales. “Look at me. Focus on my eyes and put up your barrier. Now listen very carefully. Creating a round-the-clock barrier is not easy. You have to train your mind, and every time you get distracted it will slip. But once you perfect the skill, it becomes second nature.”

I nod warily. My barrier is up, solid and strong.

“I am not a telepath, so I can’t try to break through your barrier. However, I can tell when it slips. Count to fifty.”

I count in my head, and the barrier remains firmly in place. Too easy.

“Now count backwards from fifty to one.”

Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight…oh, wait. My barrier slips, fading away into the shadows of my mind like dissipating storm clouds.

Ntatemogolo grunts. “You’ll get there. Come, try again.”

By the time he finally lets me go, my head is throbbing. I can barely walk.

“Push through the pain,” he instructs me mercilessly. “It’s just another mental barrier. I’ve been too easy on you, and that’s going to stop. If you are going to be ready for the Puppetmaster, you have a lot to do.”

As I walk down the street I can almost see cartoon stars whirling around my head. Well, one thing’s for sure. Whatever was making my grandfather erratic and distracted is gone. I’ve never seen him this focused. I tell myself this is a good thing…but that nagging feeling of unease just won’t go away.