by Ekow Duker
Suddenly, Karabo heard a voice behind her. ‘Is that your dog?’
She spun around to see an elderly man in running shorts with red racing stripes down the sides. His white sleeveless vest was tucked into his shorts and gave his age away more surely than his withered cheeks or emaciated legs. A man his age should be in bed with a hot water bottle. Not jogging around Hereford Square and scaring the shit out of people.
‘Yes, he is,’ Karabo replied hurriedly. She picked the dog up like the French girls had done and buried her nose in his coat. He smelled awful, but she was too scared to put him down.
‘My neighbour has a dog just like that,’ the man said. ‘What’s her name?’
‘His name,’ she said. ‘He’s a boy.’ Simba’s legs were kicking wildly now and his little stubby gender was plain for all to see.
‘What’s his name then?’
He had the look of obstinacy that comes with privilege and he stepped closer to Karabo as if he were about to make a citizen’s arrest. Whether his intention was to apprehend the dog or to apprehend her, Karabo couldn’t tell. Then Simba bared his teeth and growled at the man in the most alarming way. In an instant the dog changed from a contented if malodorous creature into a frightening, snarling beast.
The old man’s eyes widened in alarm and he sprang away with surprising agility.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Karabo said. ‘He doesn’t like strangers.’
‘I can see that,’ the old man said, his earlier question forgotten. Dogs around here didn’t snap at old men, especially not when they were residents. He pumped his arms vigorously, then trotted backwards for a few steps. ‘Carry on then.’
Carry on? By the time Karabo put Simba down, the man had disappeared around the corner. He really was quite sprightly for his age. She should go home and leave all this madness behind.
Instead Karabo doubled back to Mrs Summerscales’ house with Simba trotting dutifully behind. His presence had made her a little bolder but she hissed at him to go away.
She made a shooing motion with her hands. ‘Go on! Go home!’
Simba just wagged his tail at her and sat up on his hind legs, pawing the air furiously with his forelegs. Then he let out a short bark and crouched down to the pavement with his tail stiff and quivering in the air. Karabo looked up at the windows, half-expecting to see them flung open in quick succession.
I say! There’s a black girl in our street.
Karabo sighed. ‘Come along then,’ she said to Simba. ‘But you stay close to me, do you understand?’
It had been simple enough to get hold of Nigel’s keys. She’d walked back with him to Earls Court and accompanied him downstairs to his little flat. There she’d kissed him goodnight and slipped her hand into his pocket and taken his keys. It had been as easy as that.
Karabo leaned her back against Mrs Summerscales’ door and looked furtively up and down the street. Then she turned and inserted Nigel’s key in the lock. The door swung open without a sound. Simba trotted in ahead of her.
‘Simba!’
His tail receded into the darkness, then disappeared altogether. She had to go in now, she couldn’t leave him alone in there, could she? She entered after Simba and pushed the door shut without engaging the latch.
‘Simba!’ she whispered.
Karabo tried to recall the layout of the house while her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. She should have given herself a steal-by-numbers lecture beforehand but she hadn’t even done that. At least she had enough presence of mind not to switch on the light. She felt her way like a blind woman, trailing her hand over a cabinet whose grey shape stood stolidly before her in the entrance hall. Then she realised she was leaving fingerprints and snatched her hand away. You’ve been here before, she told herself firmly. Your fingerprints have every right to be in this house. All the same, she kept her hands by her side and crept forward as best as she could.
Karabo’s earlier bravado had all but deserted her and she hadn’t advanced more than ten metres from the front door in all this time. It was bizarre to be alone in someone else’s house at this time of night. She could smell the wet earth of potted plants along with another odour she found more difficult to place. Karabo sniffed the air, then realised it was coming from her. It was a spirited odour, almost male in its pungency, and she pulled her jacket tightly around herself in a vain attempt to confine it.
It was coming back to her now. The umbrella stand next to an aerial picture of a snow-bound village. Pleated curtains hanging down to the floor in perfectly calibrated sweeps of linen. The wooden telephone station with the built-in seat and an old rotary phone with no cable coming out the back. It was as quiet in Mrs Summerscales’ house as a mausoleum.
The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar. The marble surfaces were ghostly clean and the curved profile of the stainless steel tap jutted swan-like out of the sink. Karabo looked again for Simba but the little dog was nowhere to be seen. She could almost taste the darkness now. She chewed her lips and her anxiety subsided in stages. It was remarkable how quickly familiarity could set in. She felt as if she’d been breaking and entering all her life.
Just ahead of Karabo, a curved wooden staircase marched silently towards the upper floors. She prayed Simba hadn’t gone up there. He might be licking Mrs Summerscales’ ear right now and telling her all about the intruder in her house. He looked like the kind of dog who wouldn’t think twice about turning her in for a scrap of dried meat.
The deeper Karabo pressed into the house, the colder it got. A breeze from an open window whispered icily against her face. She wished Simba were by her side, even if he was a turncoat. He’d probably forgotten all about Karabo and was doing whatever it was strange dogs do in other people’s houses.
She found him in the sitting room where she’d been with Nigel and his mother on her first visit to the house. She made him out in the darkness, a little ball curled up on the same sofa she’d sat on. Karabo felt a stab of annoyance that he would rather sleep than keep her company. She picked her way carefully around the obstacle course of stuffed chairs and tables, using a trailing hand to guide her. Simba opened an eye and looked at her for a moment, before closing it again in a clear sign of disinterest. Then without any warning, the Guadagnini was right in front of her. It seemed to have appeared all at once, magically pushing its way into view the moment Karabo was in range.
She glanced helplessly at Simba, thinking he might offer some advice. After all, weren’t dogs supposed to be cunning? Or was she thinking of cats? She tugged on the door of the glass cabinet and to her dismay it did not budge. She cursed and tugged harder and the door swung out towards her. The violin lay before her, propped up at an inviting angle with the bow by its side. Carefully, Karabo reached in and lifted out the violin, and then the bow. Now she was holding the Guadagnini, she was surprised at how small and delicate it was. The wood felt strangely warm and she cradled it like she would a small, misshapen child. She hadn’t brought a bag with her, so she tried to stuff it underneath her jacket but the edges dug painfully into her chest. The neck of the violin protruded out of her jacket and pressed awkwardly against her cheek. She couldn’t go outside like that. It would look like she’d stolen it for sure.
She looked around for the violin case and saw it on top of the gramophone. It was a pebbled, vinyl-covered case and she opened it quickly and placed the Guadagnini inside, easing it onto a bed of dark velvet. She was doing this for Nigel and she knew how thrilled he’d be to have the Guadagnini. Technically, it was his anyway, so it wasn’t really stealing. And Mrs Summerscales was such an awful woman, she didn’t deserve to have the violin. She was just going to sell it to keep up her gilded appearance anyway. What’s more, Nigel loved her, he’d said so just now. She could still hear the words he’d whispered in her ear. God, I love you. No one had ever said that to Karabo before, not in that breathless, all-or-nothing way. Not even Teacher. She had to do this for Nigel.
She hissed at the dog. ‘Come on, Simba!�
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He didn’t move until Karabo prodded him with the end of the violin case. Then he growled and stretched languorously, four paws in the air and his cock tight against his belly.
‘Don’t be silly, Simba!’
She swung the violin case at him again, and with more urgency this time.
‘Come on! I’m not playing.’ Simba’s eyes grew round and mournful, and he looked at Karabo like she’d done him a great injustice. He’d definitely shop her to Mrs Summerscales now. Then a sharp voice pierced the darkness.
‘Is that you, Nigel?’
It was Mrs Summerscales and she was coming down the stairs. Karabo could hear the wooden steps creaking, the pauses between them increasing as Mrs Summerscales approached. She must be as frightened as Karabo.
‘Is anybody there?’
Suddenly, Karabo felt ashamed of herself. There was no place to hide. Even if there was, what good would that do? She couldn’t explain what she was doing all alone in Mrs Summerscales’ house.
Actually Mrs Summerscales, I never left this evening. I fell asleep and I just woke up. Just this minute. Can you believe it? I can hardly believe it myself. I was just putting the violin back in its case. I didn’t want to wake you. Is that your dog? What a funny little thing. I found him asleep on the sofa next to me.
But Simba wasn’t on the sofa. He was trotting towards the sound of Mrs Summerscales’ voice, his tail as crooked as his heart.
‘Simba!’ she hissed.
He paid no attention to Karabo and disappeared through the open door.
‘My word, how did you get in here?’ Mrs Summerscales exclaimed in obvious relief. Karabo’s heart stopped its mad gallop and slowed to a canter. Maybe Simba was good for something after all.
Mrs Summerscales began talking to the dog as if he were a baby gurgling in a pram.
‘Did you find the door open? I could have sworn I locked it. It’s very naughty of you, walking uninvited into someone else’s home.’
Karabo could have told her all that cooing was wasted on Simba. All he wanted was a scrap of meat. Then Mrs Summerscales’ voice became taut and Karabo’s terror came racing back.
‘I swear, if you’ve shat in there …’
Mrs Summerscales’ footsteps quickened towards the sitting room. The swish, swish of her gown was unusually loud. There was only one place Karabo could hide and that was behind the curtains. They were made of a thick, tapestry-like material that hung from the ceiling to the floor in heavy drapes. She made it just before Mrs Summerscales entered the room.
‘Is there anyone in here?’
Mrs Summerscales turned on the light and, through a chink in the curtains, Karabo could see her and Simba. The dog was panting smugly by Mrs Summerscales’ side and looking up at her with false admiration. Her nightgown was loose around her body and framed her chest in a two-tone satin V. She seemed to have aged in the few hours since Karabo had last seen her. Her hair was dishevelled and the filigree of folds that criss-crossed her skin was leathery and more pronounced than Karabo remembered. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her breasts flopped tiredly against her chest.
Mrs Summerscales looked around the room. Then her nose began to twitch like a buck when it senses all is not well.
‘What’s that smell?’ she said, jabbing Simba with her foot. He yelped and backed away in surprise. Serves him right, Karabo thought. He should have stuck with her. Then Simba began to trot towards Karabo and her heart sank. He stopped in front of the curtain where Karabo was hiding and let out a surprisingly deep growl. He lowered his head and gripped the wooden floor with his front paws like he was about to pounce. As his paw touched the tip of Karabo’s shoe, she snatched her foot away. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed Mrs Summerscales hadn’t noticed anything untoward.
‘Come away from there,’ Mrs Summerscales said.
It took a moment for Karabo to realise Mrs Summerscales was talking to Simba and not to her. But there was a trembling in the woman’s voice that hadn’t been there before. And she was speaking more loudly now, enunciating her words carefully as if she had a class of slow learners for an audience.
‘There’s no one here. I think I’ll go to bed now.’
Mrs Summerscales turned her back on Karabo and began to make her way towards the stairs. She had one hand over her mouth as if to muffle a scream and Karabo knew she’d been seen. Mrs Summerscales was going to find her phone and call for help.
She didn’t mean to charge Mrs Summerscales from behind. She’d thought to run around her, race down the corridor and out into the street. But when she hit her in the back, Mrs Summerscales’ legs went all wobbly. She lurched forward with her arms flailing like one of those elongated inflatable men they have at funfairs. Simba barked excitedly and began to chase his tail, jumping up and down like this was the game he’d been waiting for all night. Karabo registered a muffled cry of pain but she didn’t stop running. She hurdled over Simba and flung the front door open. As the night air clawed at her, she gasped at the sudden cold. Then she slammed the door shut behind her and bit her lip hard so she wouldn’t cry.
CHAPTER 32
Karabo rang the bell to Nigel’s flat before she remembered she still had his keys. She let herself in and hurried down the stairs. She’d walked as fast as she could from Hereford Square and was out of breath. She hesitated outside Nigel’s door, then knocked.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me! Karabo.’
He sounded puzzled. ‘But you left an hour ago. Are you all right?
‘For fuck’s sake, Nigel! Just open the door!’
‘Did Karim let you in?’
Karabo howled in frustration. ‘Please, Nigel. I’ve got something for you.’
He took his time opening the door and when he finally did, he looked annoyed.
‘You took my keys,’ he said accusingly. ‘Why did you take my keys?’
‘I only borrowed them.’
‘What for? Why did you take my keys?’
He sounded petulant, like a spoiled child. He had on a pair of pyjama bottoms but no top, and his torso was pale and willowy in the lamplight.
‘I brought you something,’ Karabo said. ‘Something you’ll like.’ Her hands were behind her back. He hadn’t seen the violin. ‘May I come in?’
‘Yes, come in,’ Nigel said, standing aside. ‘But I still don’t understand why you took my keys.’
It was a small flat, with everything, the fridge, the bed and a miniature cooking area, squashed into one room.
‘You’ll thank me in a minute,’ Karabo said. ‘Now close your eyes and hold out your hands.’
He protested a little but did what Karabo asked. She placed the violin case carefully on the floor and took out the violin. Then, gently, she laid the Guadagnini across Nigel’s palms and pressed his fingers around the neck. She was tingly with anticipation but when Nigel opened his eyes, they grew large with horror. His mouth fell open and for several moments he could not speak.
‘What the fuck have you gone and done, Karabo?’ he said at last.
Karabo clapped her hands in delight. ‘I brought you the Guadagnini! I saw how much you wanted it and it’s yours now, Nigel. It’s really yours!’
‘You mean you stole it?’ he said slowly. He staggered backwards until he collided with the bed. ‘That was why you took my keys?’
His displeasure made Karabo falter. ‘I thought you’d be happy.’
He looked at her despairingly. ‘Tell me my mother gave it to you. I don’t know why she’d do that but tell me that’s what happened.’
‘Of course she didn’t, Nigel. I went to her house and I took it.’ She struck him once on the chest, then harder the second time. ‘The way you said you wanted to. I did it for you!’
‘For me?’ he cried. ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! You can’t go around stealing other people’s stuff, Karabo. This isn’t South Africa, for fuck’s sake!’
She flinched as though he had spat on
her. When she spoke, her voice was low and deliberate.
‘I thought this was what you wanted.’
‘What will I do with this?’ he asked coldly. ‘Where will I keep it? Did you think of that? I could never play it in public. You do realise that, don’t you?’
‘But you said you’d kill to get the violin. I thought it would make you happy.’
Nigel slapped his forehead in exasperation. ‘Please stop saying that! It’s not about being happy. It’s about doing what’s right! How did you get it anyway? The cabinet’s always locked.’
‘It wasn’t locked when I got there. Look, I brought you the bow as well.’ She held it out to Nigel but he recoiled from it as if it were cursed.
‘You can’t simply break into another person’s house. You could be arrested for that. And don’t …’ He held up his hand to stop Karabo from speaking. ‘Don’t say you did it for me.’
‘Do you want me to take it back?’ Karabo asked in a small voice.
‘You’re damned right I want you to take it back!’ Then his eyes narrowed and he looked at her with sudden apprehension. ‘Did my mother see you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that!’ He held the violin out to her. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take it back. Right now.’
‘You really don’t want it, Nigel? Are you sure?’
His lips twisted viciously and this time he really spat at her. ‘Are you a fucking cretin, Karabo? I can’t keep it. You’ve got to take it back.’
‘You didn’t call me a cretin two hours ago in the park.’
Nigel’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘Two hours ago you hadn’t stolen my mother’s violin!’
‘All right. I’ll return it. I’ll leave it on the doorstep.’
‘No!’ he cried in alarm. ‘The violin’s worth a lot of money. Someone might steal it.’
‘I’ll ring the bell then. Your mother can come down and fetch it.’
He was mulling this over when his cell phone rang. The handset was closest to Karabo and she handed it to him.