Siren

by Kuli Roberts

  ‘Staggered to your car, more like,’ Vusi pointed out.

  ‘Walked, staggered – what’s the difference?’ She looked at Richard and wondered when he was going to say something.

  Anger flared in Vusi’s eyes. ‘You were clearly drunk, you got into your car and drove home. It’s all there.’

  ‘How do you know I was drunk? I was wearing fucking high heels. That’s why I nearly fell.’

  ‘It’s had nearly a hundred thousand hits online. People have seen it. Our viewers have seen it.’

  ‘So what? They’ve seen a whole lot of other shit too. Doesn’t really add up to much.’

  ‘You were drunk and you drove home. That adds up to something.’

  ‘Even if that was true, which it’s not, what has it got to do with you?

  Suddenly Richard found his voice. ‘It has a whole lot to do with us. You are an ambassador for the show when you’re out there.’

  ‘Oh, is that right?’ Siren asked, her anger building now. ‘An ambassador? Thanks for telling me, because all this time I thought I was a fucking actress.’

  ‘You’re playing games,’ Vusi chimed in. ‘Your behaviour reflects on the show. And in light of all that’s happened –’

  ‘You mean my stupid husband driving drunk and killing himself, along with our child? You mean that?’

  ‘If you have to put it like that, yes. We are in a ratings war and there are standards we have to maintain. This reflects badly on all of us.’

  ‘Alright,’ she said, holding out her hands in surrender. ‘Sorry. I won’t do it again. Now can I go?’

  ‘We can’t leave it there,’ Vusi said. ‘We have to dock your pay.’

  ‘My pay?’ Siren said the words as if they were foreign to her. ‘You want to rob me of my hard-earned money because I went out one night and got drunk?’

  Vusi leapt on that. ‘So you admit you were drunk.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ Siren shouted, her chair careering backwards as she stood and turned to Richard. ‘And fuck you too, daddy-oh.’ She looked at Vusi, enjoying his puzzled expression. ‘Oh,’ she said, bringing her finger up to her chin. ‘I see your beloved boss didn’t know. The Trigger has been a family affair all this time, and he didn’t have a clue. Ah well. I guess that’s just how the cookie crumbles.’

  ‘Sit down, dear.’ There were tears in Richard’s eyes as he spoke. ‘We can sort this out.’

  ‘No, Daddy, no. Don’t think so. I’m not gonna hang around and let you guys fire me. I quit.’ And with that she walked out, with as much elegance and pride as she could muster.

  Just as Siren was turning her back on The Trigger, Keenan Thompson’s movie The Edge of Everything was released worldwide. It tanked at the box office, the biggest flop of his career.

  Chapter 26

  IF WALKING AWAY from her job and her major source of income gave her pause, it was only for a moment. Even Vusi suing for breach of contract, the papers sent to the house via courier, did not make much of a difference.

  ‘You can’t just walk away like that,’ Brenda told her over the phone. ‘They’ll come after you, and then where will you be?’

  ‘I’ll be wherever I’m supposed to be.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ A loud, exasperated sigh from Brenda. ‘Look, I know you’ve had a hard time, but you can’t ride the wave of sympathy forever.’

  ‘I don’t want sympathy,’ Siren shot back. ‘I never asked for it. I just wish everyone would fuck off and leave me alone.’

  ‘You should have stuck it out on The Trigger. The word’s out in the industry. They’re saying you’ve lost it, you don’t have it anymore. Nobody wants to work with you.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. You’re my agent, and you’re telling me you can’t find me work?’

  ‘I’m not saying I can’t, but it won’t be easy.’

  ‘Well, I’ll make it a whole lot easier. You’re fired.’

  A large intake of breath down the phone line, and then: ‘Fuck you. Nobody fires me. If you think I’m going to hold your hand while you piss your career away, you’d better think again. I’m Brenda fucking Archer and don’t you fucking forget it.’

  The line went dead, all contact lost, another bridge burnt.

  With Cynthia often in tow, Siren went into full party mode, intensifying her levels of pleasure-seeking. And when she wasn’t with Cynthia, she was with Asanda; it was as if they were competing for her attention. With Brenda out of the picture, she’d need representation, and who knew where she’d turn?

  One of the parties she attended with Asanda was at the home of a prominent advocate, and there it was, laid out on the glass coffee-table in neat lines. Of course she’d seen it before, at the Yellowbone parties and other places, but had never thought to indulge. Now, everything was different. To say that Siren took to cocaine like a duck to water would be an understatement, and before long she was sourcing her own supply through Asanda’s channels, paying way over the going rate. She loved the feeling of well-being the drug gave her, despised the lows when the effects began to wear off. And then she’d be off looking for more to feed her habit. It was something she had to have, and money was not a hindrance.

  Siren’s work had been the foundation of her life, and now it was gone there was little to anchor her to reality. Probably at Richard’s instigation, Mabel travelled up from Camps Bay to try and talk to her daughter, make her see some kind of reason, but Siren was in no mood for chitchat. ‘Mother, really, you’re wasting your time. Everything is fine, I’m fine. There is nothing for you or anybody else to worry about.’

  To Mabel, it was clear that everything was far from fine. For one thing, Siren never called her ‘Mother’, it had always been ‘Ma’. It was a way of distancing herself, venturing out on her own, except she was walking a very thin tightrope with no sign of a safety net. ‘At least talk to someone,’ Mabel pleaded. ‘You need to get it all out.’

  ‘Get it all out?’ Siren balked at this. ‘What do I need to get out? There really is nothing to get out.’

  ‘It can’t hurt to talk,’ her mother said, knowing as she spoke that nothing was penetrating.

  The night Mabel returned to Camps Bay, Siren celebrated by accepting a last-minute invite to the launch of a new Mercedes sports car at the Sandton Country Club. And as it was a car launch, she decided she would go in style.

  Driving the Ferrari through the streets of Jozi endowed her with a strange sense of power. On the motorway she put her foot down and opened it up, marvelling at the way the car hugged the tarmac. As she watched the speedometer go easily past 120 to reach 140 and then nudge 160, she dared the cops to stop her, to put a dent in her enjoyment. The lines of coke she’d hoovered up her nostrils before her departure gave her a charge, preparing her for any eventuality. All the weariness of her life fell away, and she embraced a feeling of supreme confidence that nothing would shake.

  There were other sports cars on display in the parking lot when she pulled up outside, Lambos, Maseratis, more Ferraris, and she felt a twinge of disappointment that her own car did not stand out. Still, she felt supremely confident as she joined others going into the venue. Her gold lamé dress clung to her skin as she walked, and she knew how she looked, that everyone was watching her, even though they tried to hide it.

  The event itself was garishly spectacular. At the centre of the space was the sports car, in fact a dozen different variations of it, and around them were arranged a series of ramps down which male and female models paraded, wearing the latest collection of Cedric Sabata, one of South Africa’s most innovative fashion designers – though word on the street was that he was being sued by a major label for ripping off their designs. Siren had worn his clothes on a number of occasions.

  And there he was, being photographed with the Mercedes execs in front of the cars. Wearing a subtly customised Madiba shirt, fingers bedecked with rings, but with his hair combed out to resemble a bizarre bird’s nest, he had none of the élan and style of his cre
ations.

  The usual collection of celebs was on show, mixing with the business execs and car enthusiasts, who fluttered around the product on display like moths to a flame. Siren also looked at the cars, but before long they bored her, and she cast her gaze elsewhere.

  If the introduction of cocaine into her life had done anything, it had re-awakened her sexual desire, absent since the passion of Keenan Thompson and the events that had followed. She hadn’t really missed it, something once so important and vital in the life of Siren Sedibe rendered extinct. Cocaine brought it back with a vengeance, and it would not be ignored. She had not acted on it, but here at this event she felt its presence, as strong as ever.

  Several of the male models caught her eye, and watching them parade their wares on the catwalk stirred her passion. She took a seat close to one of the ramps and watched as they paraded past, trying to maintain her sense of detachment.

  There was one in particular, dark, muscular yet lean. Something about the way he walked made her think of a panther stalking its prey – primal. All models were taught to walk in a certain way, but this guy seemed to do his own thing.

  Afterwards, she did her best to mingle. Word of her departure from The Trigger had spread, and that was what people wanted to talk to her about. ‘What are you doing now?’ was the question on everyone’s lips, and it made her want to scream, tell them how stupid they were to ask such a question. Couldn’t they see, wasn’t it blatantly obvious? This was what she was doing now: living life, enjoying herself. Except right at that moment she wasn’t enjoying herself quite so much, because of all the fucking stupid questions.

  There was a tap on her shoulder, and she turned. ‘Hi. Aren’t you Siren?’

  It was him. The model from the catwalk. The panther. ‘That’s right. And you are ...’

  ‘Franc.’ He pronounced it ‘Fronk’, in the French way. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’

  ‘Good to meet you too,’ she said, shaking his hand. After all the outrageous outfits he’d worn on the catwalk, he was now dressed soberly in a crimson shirt and black slacks with sandals.

  ‘I saw you watching the show,’ he said. ‘I hope you enjoyed it.’

  ‘What’s not to enjoy?’ she asked. ‘It was wonderful. I particularly enjoyed you.’

  ‘Really?’ This seemed to amuse him; his chuckle was sensual. ‘And what did you enjoy about me exactly?’

  ‘Everything.’ It was all she could think of to say. What else could it possibly be? He was smiling in that all-knowing way of men who have it all.

  ‘I have a car outside,’ she heard herself saying. ‘It’s a Ferrari.’

  ‘Ferraris are nice cars.’

  ‘I’ve always thought so.’

  His smile widened, and then he lowered his head almost shyly. ‘I have to stay close to the venue.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘But I could use some fresh air.’

  ‘What a coincidence. So could I.’

  It wasn’t the first time she’d had sex in the Ferrari. A few days after giving it to her, Sipho had coaxed her in. It hadn’t been totally successful then, and this time wasn’t a whole lot better.

  There were her panties, hanging from her ankle – no time to think about protection, though there was probably a condom or two somewhere in her handbag. At least she got to feel him, the sheer girth and length of him, as he entered her. He smelled so good, and his kisses were vaguely satisfying, but she wanted him to linger inside of her, to feel his hardness churn at her insides. She tried to slow him down, get him to take his time, but he was thrusting faster, harder, and moaning so loudly they probably heard him inside the venue. And then it was over, and he was breathing hard, a dead weight on top of her.

  ‘Get off.’ She said it softly, and he hardly moved. ‘Get off!’ she shouted, and only then did he shuffle to one side, spearing himself on the steering column.

  ‘Ow! Fuck!’

  ‘Sorry. You were squashing me.’

  ‘Cars are not meant for such things.’

  Hooking her panties with the other foot, she pulled them up and tried to straighten herself out. Failing miserably, she opened the door of the car and crawled out, almost stumbling as she found her feet. Fastening his trousers and buttoning his shirt, Franc followed her out. ‘Hey, can I have your number?’

  She looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Why would you want my number? Are you crazy? No ways.’

  Franc shrugged as he fastened his last button. ‘OK. Thought we might get together again.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Who knows? A little fun, maybe.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

  As Siren tried to smooth out her dress there was a flash, and there was Franc, his phone raised. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘What does it look like? Taking a picture, of course.’

  ‘No pictures! What the fuck is wrong with you?’

  She made a grab for the phone but he waved it away, out of her reach. ‘Hey, cool it. Got the message. You don’t have to be such a bitch about it.’

  ‘I’m not being a bitch. I just think you should ask someone before taking their picture. Please, erase it.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because I’m asking you.’ Once again she reached for the phone.

  ‘Hey! Leave off, bitch!’

  ‘Don’t call me that!’ She lashed out with her hand, a nail catching on his cheek, breaking the skin.

  ‘Fuck!’ His hand went straight there, feeling the wound and looking at the specks of blood on his fingers. ‘What did you do that for?’ With both hands he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed. She stumbled backwards, teetering on her heels, tumbling onto the grassy kerb.

  He just stood there. She could see him in silhouette, looking down at her. ‘Fucking bitch! Look at you now. Not such a big star, hey. And one lousy fuck.’

  She watched him walk away before daring to stand up.

  Fucking bastard.

  Don’t you fucking know who I am? I’m Siren fucking Sedibe, don’t even try to fuck with me.

  In a wild swirl of anger she got back into the car, the driver’s seat this time, and with the passenger seat still lowered turned the key, the engine roaring into life. She backed out of the parking space, then pressed the accelerator and let out the clutch, the wide tyres skidding on the tar. And then she was on her way, exactly where she had no idea, but she was done with it all – she was driving towards another life, whatever that turned out to be.

  The headlights were on, but she was battling to see anything too far ahead, and the corners were coming up way too fast, causing her to turn the wheel quickly, almost violently, tyres shrieking.

  Where was she anyway? This road was too narrow, not the same way she’d come. No street lights, the browns and the greens of deep bush on both sides. And just as she half made up her mind to find a place to turn around, there was another corner, and she knew she was going too fast but she was beyond caring, and as she turned the wheel the car was skidding, moving freely across the road, so she turned the wheel the other way, but this time too much, and the car was off the road and there it was, in the harsh glare of the headlights, a tree rushing towards her, its trunk wide and threatening ...

  Won’t be long now ...

  What would it be like, being consumed by fire? Surely it would hurt, your flesh crinkling like paper. She’d read about burn victims not feeling a thing until much, much later. Except for her there wouldn’t be any later, this was it, everything about to end.

  Come on. Get it over with. Don’t play with me, just finish me off. I’m ready. And you’d better do it now, because I will never be more ready than this. Come on, fire, make your body cold. Where had she heard that? Maybe she’d read it somewhere, she couldn’t remember. A whole family wiped out in car accidents. There was some kind of crazy logic to that.

  What was that? Smoke, must be. That’s it, the smoke will get me before the fire. But this
smoke wasn’t like smoke at all, it was thicker, more solid. More like foam. And the fire, it was smaller now, not so intense.

  And then there was the knock on the window. She turned and a man was standing there in some kind of uniform, and he was gesturing, trying to tell her something. Get away from the window. So she turned and put her head down on the passenger seat, where she’d been lying with that asshole not long before. There was the sound of breaking glass, and hands were all over her, pulling her up, pulling her out. Her dress was getting caught, but then she heard it ripping and she was clear, out of the car, arms holding her, and she was sitting on the coolness of the brown dirt and looking at her wreck of a car, not really burning any more as a fireman aimed his fire extinguisher at it.

  There was no explosion.

  Chapter 27

  TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS SHE’D done.

  Twenty-eight days. Not all agony, but pretty much.

  It was the least she could do for herself, the least she could do to honour the memory of her son. Of her husband also. She missed them both, oh so much. Every day in rehab, she could not help but think of Sipho and how he’d experienced everything she was now going through. She asked herself why she hadn’t gone to see him; maybe if she had, everything that came after would have been different.

  Somewhere there in the mists of rehab, while trying to reconnect with her best self, she forgave her dead husband.

  On the last day, her mother was there to fetch her, having driven up with Barney. Walking out, Siren remembered all she’d been told: that she was on the way to being well, but it was still all up to her; that she would always be what she was on this day – a recovering addict, taking the rest of her life one challenging day at a time.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Mabel said, hugging her close. ‘We all just want you well.’

  ‘I am well, Ma. And thank you for everything.’

  As they headed for home, she truly wanted to be well, especially after the doctor had knocked her sideways with the news of the little person growing inside her, getting bigger every day.