Why You Were Taken (11 page)

The idea of meeting someone new at the bar, someone who doesn’t know any of her problems, Is tempting. She could pretend to be a different person. Be someone lighter: someone who didn’t think as much. Make up a fake name, live one of those parallel lives that loiter in her subconscious, if only for a few hours. Shake some yellow stars of adrenaline into her bloodstream. Have dirty sex.

But she knows she won’t do it; wouldn’t be able to live with the haunting guilt. She may have a dozen flaws, but she is not a cheater. Cursed at birth with honesty and loyalty. Not dissimilar to a Labrador, as Keke likes to say.

All relationships, she tells herself, have their rocky roads. She reminds herself to think with her brain, and her heart, and takes a definitive step in the direction of the late night bus stop.

In the distance a silhouette steps out from behind a car and Kirsten jumps.

 
Jesus!
She thinks, scrabbling for her mace.

The figure slowly approaches her. Her beer-clumsy fingers can’t find it so she decides to run, but the parking basement is in virtual darkness apart from the exit, and the creep now stands between her and the light. Kirsten squints, shields her eyes, tries to see the face of the stranger.

  ‘Hello?’ she calls, pushing her voice deeper, trying to seem strong and confident. The figure slows down, but keeps moving towards her, gliding silently, also cautious. With a zinging in her head, Kirsten realises that this is the person who has been following her all night. She sweats: feverish with fright.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ says a wobbly voice. Female.

  ‘What do you want?’ shouts Kirsten, an edge to her voice. She imagines herself waking up the next morning in a bath of dirty ice, with untidy green stitches (Seaweed Sutures) where her kidneys used to be. But that kind of stuff doesn’t happen anymore, she assures herself. They print organs now.

  ‘I have something for you,’ the woman says.

Kirsten can make out her face, cheek-boned but androgynous, with a matching haircut. Skeletal figure hidden in unflattering clothes: mom-cut jeans and a tracksuit top flecked with dog hair. No make-up on her dry lips or darting eyes. Clenched hands.

  ‘Stay away from me!’ shouts Kirsten. ‘Stay away!’

  ‘I have something for you,’ the woman says again.

Jesus Christ. What? A knife? An injection? A cold pad of chloroform to hold to my mouth?

  ‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ she says, scuttling up close in dirty sneakers. She has body odour: dried figs and BBQ sauce. The stink smacks Kirsten in the face: it’s a giant grey curtain, poised to smother. The woman has some sticky white sleep in her eyes. Kirsten is repelled, nauseated.

  ‘I’m here to warn you,’ her eyes flash from beneath her blunt-cut fringe. ‘There are people, people that want to hurt us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘You, and me, and the other four.’

  ‘Six people?’

  ‘Seven! Seven! One is dead already!’

Oh boy.

  ‘He was first on the list. He sang a song. Music man. Now he is dead. We were too late. Now I am warning you.’

Kirsten tries to step around her, but she blocks her way.

  ‘I didn’t believe it either when she told me,’ she rambles, ‘but she said I had to find you! Had to warn you. Had to give you the list.’

The woman takes her hand, and the feel of her clammy fingers makes Kirsten’s hair stand on end. The woman presses something cold into her palm and closes her fingers over them. A new wave of BBQ BO washes over Kirsten and she almost gags.

  ‘There is real danger. Don’t go to the police, they are in on it! They are pawns. Don’t tell anyone, don’t trust anyone. Like dominoes we’ll fall,’ she says, softly clicking her fingers. Click, click, click. ‘Dominoes.’ She clicks seven times. ‘Don’t trust anyone! Not even the people you love.’

Kirsten’s heart was banging around in her chest. Her watch alerts her to a spike in blood pressure. The woman turns and scurries away. After a few steps she turns and whispers: ‘Be careful, Kate.’

  ‘My name is Kirsten!’

  ‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘Your Kirsten is my Betty, Kate. Betty-Barbara. Kirsten-Kate.’

Kirsten looks down, opening her hand to reveal a small silver key.

  ‘Thank Christ!’ says Kirsten as she catches sight of James. Spooked by the delusional woman in the basement, she had called and asked him to fetch her, and was waiting for him in a bright 24-hour teashop around the corner from the bar. She gets up too quickly to hug him and sends her cup and saucer stuttering to the floor where they crack and break apart in slow motion. They move awkwardly to pick up the pieces.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, mid-crouch, eyes on the floor.

‘Me too,’ she says. ‘Well, sorry that we fought, anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

She’s too strung out to catch any kind of public transport, so they walk home. The pavement trips them up, but it’s a small price to pay. Kirsten tells him about Keke’s latest discovery: that there’s no record of her birth.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ James says. ‘There must be. Just because she can’t find proof … Look, I got your pills for you,’ he takes a plastic bottle of little yellow tablets (Lemon Zest) out of his manbag and hands it to her. After bumping him the prescription from the inVitro offices she had forgotten about it.

  ‘Thanks.’

He stops her, takes her by her elbows.

  ‘Kitty, are you okay?’

  ‘That … that stupid woman in the basement scared me,’ she says, childlike, vulnerable.

‘Creeps like that should be locked up,’ he says, anger grating his voice. ‘Instead of, instead of going around  … frightening people. We should report her.’

Kirsten knows she shouldn’t tell him about the silver key but it’s glowing hot in her pocket, in her brain. They are walking over a bridge when she takes it out and shows it to him.

‘I know I should get rid of it,’ she says, ‘but something in me says I should keep it. I mean, I
want
to get rid of it …’ She feels silly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I do,’ says James. He grabs the key out of her hand and throws it over the bridge. It glints against the dark sky and then is lost forever. Not even a sound as it lands: seconds, meters, stories, away. Swallowed by the night. Kirsten is shocked by her empty moon-white palm.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ James says, and marches on.

Journal entry

10 December 1987

Westville

In the news:
During a police raid on shacks in the
Port Elizabeth
area, they meet heavy resistance from the residents. The police drive a
Casspir
over the shack, killing four. Ireland is reeling from the Enniskillen Remembrance Day bombing.

What I’m listening to:
Faith! By George Michael

What I’m reading:
Kaleidoscope by Danielle Steele. I needed something light because the only time I have to read is when I’m half asleep and breastfeeding! The story is about three sisters who are separated by fate. I’m hoping they’ll be reunited.

What I’m watching:
3 Men and a Baby. Tom Selleck is gorgeous and hilarious.

Life keeps surprising me. After 18 hours in labour (an early labour and a very long 18 hours!) Sam Chapman (2.6kg) was born at 8:45. Ten minutes later – surprise! – A little girl arrived too. We have named her Kate (2.2kg).

We were totally shocked but actually my belly had been so big that everyone in shopping malls etc. kept asking if it was twins so we did have some kind of warning. P left the hospital once I fell asleep so that he could go get ‘emergency supplies’. It took us months to do up the nursery and here he is, having to double it up in a day!

Sam latched immediately but Kate was too hungry to try – she just screamed! – So P gave her a bottle to get her blood sugar level stable. They are so tiny; the nurses are keeping them in the warming drawers that look like Tupperwares. Pink tummies and tiny little toes that I want to kiss. I am exhausted and sore, all I want to do is hold my babies and sleep. Very tired, and relieved that we are all safe.

SHINING & SLIPPERY WITH SWEAT

10

Johannesburg, 2021

Seth saunters into the Yellow printer room.

‘Oh, hi Fiona,’ he smiles at the curly-haired woman. He acts surprised, as if he didn’t know she was in there. She blushes at him knowing her name. He brushes skilfully past her.

  ‘Hi,’ she smiles, holding her locket to her lips, warming the silver with her breath. They both watch the printer for a few seconds, as if willing it to print faster, but in fact both wanting it to take its time. She unconsciously pumps her high heels up and down, as if warming up for a race.

  ‘Our printer’s being repaired,’ he says. ‘It’s a dinosaur of a thing: still uses toner. That’s why I’m in Yellow.’

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ she says, her mind scrabbling desperately for something interesting/intriguing/funny to say. ‘Bummer.’

Fail.
She has to stop herself from facepalming.

  ‘Not all bad, though,’ he says, ‘getting to see you.’

She guffaws. After a while she says: ‘This won’t do, you know,’ hand on hip. ‘I know what you’re trying to do.’ Her freckles fade against the rose of her cheeks.

‘Really?’ he says, ‘and what is that?’

  ‘Trying to find out Yellow’s secrets.’

He moves closer to her.

  ‘Ah, so you
do
have secrets.’

  ‘We do,’ she says, ‘and we’re going to win this quarter.’ Her large breasts rise and fall under her unfashionable paisley blouse.

  ‘You don’t have a chance,’ he says, rubbing his hands together. ‘Red is so far ahead, there’s no way Yellow can catch up.’

  ‘But you’re wrong,’ she says in mock-seriousness. ‘We were just saving ourselves. We’ve got something massive planned. It’ll sell thousands of units.’

  ‘It’ll need to,’ says Seth. The printer stops then, as if to flag the end of their conversation. She pulls herself away, gathering up the A4 prints and holds them to her chest, pretending they are top-secret documents, even though they are just her latest holiday snaps: Bali. She backs – grudgingly – away.

  ‘Are you coming to the teambuilding on Friday?’ she asks. ‘I heard that we’re going to go on a 4D-maze tetrick treasure hunt.’

  I’d rather stick a fork in my eye, he thinks.

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Well, if you’re going.’

  ‘Yes!’ she fizzes. ‘Yes, I’m going.’

  ‘Then I’ll be there,’ he says.

  ‘Great,’ she says.

  ‘Great,’ he says, smiling, almost winking.

He turns to face the printer and presses PRINT on his Tile. The printer hums, then starts spitting out pages. She gives him a royal wave and walks away. He waits for a few moments, reading the moronic posters on the wall, then heads back to his office, leaving the blank pages in the printer tray.

*                  *                  *

Betty checks the locks on her door for the fifth time. She knows they’re locked, but checking them makes her feel safer. She has to do things that make her feel safer.

She sits in front of her blank homescreen but realises the remote isn’t working. She shakes the remote around a little, tries again. Then she opens up the back and makes sure the batteries are in place. Takes them out, puts them back in. Still the glass stays clear. Betty gets up to check its connections and sees that it’s unplugged. She picks up the plug and moves it towards the wall but stops when she reads an orange sticker covering the electricity outlet and switch: ‘Don’t watch TV.’ It’s in her handwriting.

Yes, she remembers, television is not good for me. She should really get rid of the screen, but it was expensive and she abhors waste. The voices are the reason she can’t watch any more. They tell her to do things. Soap opera stars, talk show hosts, newsreaders. They tell her that creeps are trying to kill her, blow up her building, decimate the country. They make her write letters to people, telling them that they are in danger. Politicians, local celebrities, airlines.

The police have been here before. They were rough until she showed them the doctor’s note she keeps in her bra. The paper is leathery, now. The voices speak directly to her. ‘Barbara,’ (for they had recently taken to calling her Barbara), ‘the next bus you take will be wired with a car-bomb with your name on it.’ That’s when she had stopped taking the bus. The communal taxi and individual cab drivers were also not to be trusted. They could take you anywhere and you’d never be seen again.

Disappear, she clicks her fingers, just like that. Click, click. She had started walking, then running everywhere. She’d get to the grind shining and slippery with sweat. She was losing a lot of weight. The running did it.

Also, food was a problem. She couldn’t run with all her groceries so she has to shop every day. She didn’t like shopping: too many people. Her psychologist said to try online shopping. Everyone’s doing it, she had said. But that would mean giving strangers her address and the hours she would be home. Even if the shop people were harmless, the information could be intercepted.

When she finally built up supplies she would end up throwing them away. The fridge door would look suspicious: like it had been opened by someone else. An intruder. She would try to work out exactly which food they had contaminated but could never stop at one item. Once the pineberry yoghurt had been binned, the cheddar looked suspect, after that, the pawpaw, the black bread, the SoySpread, the feta. The precious innocent-looking eggs, the vegetarian hotdogs, the green mango atchar, the leftover basmati, until it was all discarded and sealed tightly in a black plastic bag. The dumping of each individual item causes her pain, she so hates to fritter. This happens once a week.