The Down Days

by Ilze Hugo

  “Hey,” said Ash. “That was that weirdo ponyjacker, did you see him? What do you think was up with him yesterday?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was acting like a total straitjacket. Didn’t you notice? Oh, wait. You didn’t. You were off in one corner reading that conspiracy tabloid again.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You were getting your Daily Truth fix on.”

  Faith rolled her eyes, like they did in the movies. Ash always made her roll her eyes sooner or later.

  “Anyway,” Ash said, “so we were all standing there, playing cards. And that guy, Sans, was on a roll. Winning, you know? But sweating buckets, which was kind of weird, because it really wasn’t all that warm. Then all of a bloody sudden, he looks up from the game, says ‘Quarter past eight,’ mumbles something about a drink, drops his cards right there on the boot of the car, and takes off. Just like that. Didn’t even say goodbye. Weird, huh? You think he’s caught the Joke?”

  “Nah, I’m sure he’s not sick. I mean, the postboxes would have picked it up, wouldn’t they? And he wasn’t laughing, was he?”

  “No. Not even a giggle. He was serious as serious itself. But still, it was weird.”

  “Poor guy. Maybe someone close to him succumbed. Grief affects us all in different ways, I suppose.”

  “Ag, please, man. Why do you always have to go sounding like a fortune cookie and spoiling a perfectly juicy story? Everyone’s a ‘poor guy’ to you, aren’t they, you little bleeding heart. Except when it comes to relationships. Then your empathy seems to go right out the door.”

  “Seriously. You’re bringing that up again?” Faith dug her nails into her thighs. She and Ash had had a two-day fling a year ago. A silly thing, really, a mistake, even by her standards. Truth be told, there was a fifteen-year age gap between them. Positively a chasm. And the kid still couldn’t let it go. Seemed to take the whole thing personally. Didn’t get it. Any of it. So there was no point in explaining. Thing was, the way she saw it, the Down Days didn’t just bring death and plummeting interest rates. It drew some kind of invisible line in the sand. They were all halved somehow.

  Faith’s heart now was a coin with two sides. There was a Then side, a Now side, and a skinny, grooved slither in between. Her Then side was more conventional, believed in the institution of marriage, even monogamy. There was a someone back Then. He was her everything. And that was good. Very good. Until his insides turned to mush and the ground swallowed him up and all Faith was left with was raw, raw pain. Her Now side knew that the secret to all those happy endings in fairy tales was that they ended in the middle and skipped all the long, drawn-out excruciating bits towards the real end, that matrimony was a bitch and that this particular world wasn’t made for monogamy. That this was a don’t-think-just-do-it-and-suck-the-marrow-out-of-life kind of world they were living in. And that . . . that was fine.

  Ash was different. He was younger. His Then side was smaller, his heart shaped differently. He didn’t remember much from before—beyond the taste of chocolate, soda, chips. She envied him for that. He had his own demons, his own line to deal with, sure, but at least his heart wasn’t a coin with a groove in the middle like a tear that would never quite heal, always itching and puckering and raw to the touch. Yes, she envied—sometimes even hated—him for that.

  There was a hole in her black tights. A pebble of smooth skin peeked through the gap. Faith stuck her finger into the hole and tugged at the loose threads lining the fleshy stone. Focusing on the feel of the thread, she fed the tear. Trying to breathe. Calm down. “I’m sorry. But we’ve been through this, Ash. You know my feelings on monogamy . . . Are you really still angry?”

  “Nah. Guess not.” The boy ran a hand through his ratty hair, flicked the strands back. “Buried with the fishes. Water under whatever water is supposed to go under and all that. Fuck it. Seems the space suits are packing up. Doesn’t look like there are any grinners to load. But let’s check with the suit in charge and go get another coffee somewhere. I’m buying.”

  - 21 - SANS

  After the night he’d just had, he wasn’t quite ready to go to sleep. The all-night café down the street from his apartment was empty, save for a doe-eyed couple by the window and an old man with a beard that was threaded with soup. A sign behind the bar announced that the café now catered to foodists (ASK YOUR WAITER FOR MORE INFO). Sans opted for a table in the corner, next to the wall. In restaurants, as in life, he preferred skirting the edges.

  As he waited, he spent his time toying with the salt shaker and studying the wall where framed photographs and newspaper clippings skimmed the cracks in the plaster. For a moment he wondered about all the bodies that had sat there before him, watched over by the yellowing photographs, their fancy frames matted with dust.

  “Morning,” said the waiter, breaking his trance. “Can I get you anything?”

  “A coffee. With something extra in it. Double whiskey, or whatever else strong you’ve got.”

  “Hey. This isn’t the Ritz. No whiskey here. Moonshine okay?”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Sans watched the waiter retreat, scuffling away to the kitchen with his bedhead hair, the thin line of beard that hugged his chin like a noose. The torn jeans pocket from which a dirty dishcloth wilted. Then he turned his attention to the café wall. Next to a sepia-tinted print of the café circa 1902 hung rows and rows of copies of archive photographs and portraits and prints. His eyes scanned the images of faces long forgotten, and for a moment he imagined his face one day gracing a wall like this, a hundred years from now. The span of one’s whole life reduced to décor. A depressing thought. Rows and rows of somber, bleached faces, standing stiff like action figures. He wondered what stories they would tell if someone could listen.

  The bedhead appeared with the coffee, ruining his trance once again by plonking the cup onto the table. Black liquid pooled into the saucer. Sans was soaking up the spilt coffee with a serviette when his pocket vibrated. He looked down at the light blinking on his cell. Like those blinking red lights on bombs in movies seconds before they exploded.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” he asked the bedhead waiter, who was busy washing a table to his right.

  “Through the kitchen.” The waiter pointed his dirty dishcloth towards a red door half-hidden behind a jungle of a potted palm tree, its green fingers splayed this way and that. “Hey, man. You’re limping. You okay?”

  “What? Oh. It’s nothing. Fell off my bike and sprained my ankle.”

  On the toilet door was an ad for rum. He pushed the door open and stepped into the tiled cube. He was standing in front of the urinal, looking at the wall, where a mosaic of grubby flyers fought for attention. One of them, an A5 square, stood out from the fray. “Money problems? Lost love? Phone Fred 078 555 5679.”

  Double jackpot. Two birds with one stone. What were the chances? He’d never phoned one of these things before—they were all a bunch of scams, weren’t they? Promising the desperate everything they wanted: girls, money, health, abortions, big penises. But man, for the first time in his life, he was feeling pretty desperate. That blinking red light on his cell hadn’t been good news. A message from those lovely Korean business partners of his. Wanting to know where their ponies were. Sounding pretty pissed.

  That’s what you get for trusting people, he told himself. A missing bag of cash and a couple of angry Koreans, who are known to own some pretty big guns, breathing down your neck. Rumor had it that one of the local enforcers his bosses liked to employ was a member of the 27s—a real fierce fuck with a bleeding dagger tattooed onto each cheek and GOOD LUCK BITCH etched onto his forehead. He’d heard the guy liked to play with his victims first, that he would continue doing all sorts of creative things to your body for days until the pain got so unbearable that most people just begged him to shoot them. Nice. If he cleaned out all his savings, he’d still be at least fifty thou short. Screwed.
Lucky. Where are you, you little fuck?

  - 22 - PIPER

  Piper unclasped the padlock and the heavy garage door swung heavenward. It sighed as it swung, letting out the dark. She parked the van inside and walked across the grass glitter-bombed with morning dew. Past the empty courtyard swirling with smog. To the wooden door.

  Piper pressed her knuckles against the grain, all gnarled and knotted like her junkie veins. Footsteps hammered down the narrow stairs. Major opened the door. He fiddled with the belt of his dressing gown.

  “Delivery,” she said.

  “You’re late,” said Major, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You were supposed to drop the van off last night.”

  “I had some errands to run.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the garage. I tried the door, but someone latched it from the inside again.”

  “Give me a second to put some pants on.”

  Piper waited, pulling at the cuticles of one hand with her teeth, rubbing her arms. The caretaker appeared and together they made their way to the garage.

  “The package?” asked the caretaker, after pulling at the rope to lower the door. One lone light dangled from the ceiling, throwing a cliché spotlight over his face.

  “They woke up a while back,” said Piper. “There was shouting and screaming at first, but it’s been quiet in there for the last thirty minutes or so. I think they’re sleeping.”

  The caretaker knotted his brows. She could smell stale alcohol on his breath. Piper said nothing.

  “You can’t keep bringing them in kicking and screaming like that last one. That baby from yesterday morning was a real earache. My eardrums were ringing until noon. Keep at it and next thing the neighbors will start asking questions.”

  “Yes. I know. Sorry.”

  “This is a good neighborhood, you know. Nice and clean and quiet. I like it here. I like it very much. But because it’s a good neighborhood, and folks want to keep it that way—nice and safe and clean—they get nosy real quickly. A person as much as walks skew around here and they alert the police or the neighborhood watch. They’ve got those WhatsApp groups that let everyone know if someone as much as farts. That doesn’t mean they will come—the police, I mean, when someone phones . . . When do they ever come these days unless you’re infected, hey? But still, we don’t want to attract any attention. It’s bad for business.”

  The caretaker cleared his throat, then shuffled over to the back of the van. He was wearing flip-flops—black. On each big toe a tuft of fur sprouted like a mini bonsai. “Let’s see what you have for us today then, sweetheart. Open it up.”

  Sweetheart. The word grated.

  But Piper bit her tongue, turned around, and did as she was told. (She’d always been the obedient type, a curse of personality that she reflected upon as she fiddled with the lock.) The white doors of the van swung open to reveal the huddled lumps inside.

  “Hmm,” said Major. He picked up a metal rod that was lying in a corner on the floor and poked one of the lumps, which curled up tighter into itself like a startled millipede. Major dropped the stick. It clattered as it hit the concrete. The millipede flinched, shrank smaller. He picked up the other lump. The girl lump. The one that was still sleeping. And he slung her across one shoulder like she was nothing. The girl lump stirred, whimpered like a puppy. One eye opened, but clamped shut again when it caught Piper looking.

  “Keep an eye on that one while I’m gone,” said Major and carried the lump up the stairs.

  “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” Piper whispered to the millipede as the man left through the gnarled door.

  The boy uncurled slightly, just enough to lift his head. Turned his face towards her. Frowned. “Don’t I know you?”

  “No.”

  For a moment, the garage was deathly quiet, as the millipede’s brown eyes searched hers.

  “I . . . I remember now,” he said, his voice soft.

  “Remember what?”

  “Wh-where I know you from.”

  “All right, all right. The therapy bar.”

  “No,” he whispered, “not the therapy bar.” He pushed himself up into a sitting position with his hands. “B-b-before that. We met before that. You held my hand.”

  “What are you talking about? We met yesterday. At the therapy bar. Shared a pipe. I never held your hand.”

  “Y-yes you did.” His face was changing, the fear melting to make way for something else. “At the sanatorium. When my mother succumbed. A year ago.”

  “You must be confusing me—”

  “No. I remember now. You held my hand. You held my hand. You told me everything was going to be okay. That it would t-take time, but that I would heal. You told me I would be okay.” His stammer was smoothing out now, his voice becoming stronger, louder, more assured. “The other doctors, they made me sit outside in the corridor. Wouldn’t let me in to see her. Then you came. You brought me some tea. Held my hand. Didn’t even have your gloves on. Told me that you believed she was in a better place now. And that I would be okay. It was all bullshit, though, wasn’t it? Greeting card stuff. But it helped.”

  “I . . .”

  “And now you’re here. Where is here? I don’t get it. What’s going on? Why are my wrists tied up?”

  “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “Were you abducted, too? Why aren’t you tied up? You’re going to untie me, too, right? Help me get out.” Then he seemed to remember that she was the one who had drugged him.

  The millipede was squirming now. The betrayal was eating away at his fear. He was trying to get up, using the wall of the van as support. “Sorry doesn’t explain this.” He held up his bound wrists.

  Piper looked away. She folded her arms around her waist like a straitjacket, her fingernails digging into her itching back. She wanted to leave, just go. Find her fucking man who’d stood her up last night and get nice and dull and low and slow and sweet. Float. Far away from this kid with his eyes that stabbed, stabbed, stabbed. To her nothing place, where everything was plasma.

  Too late, it was too late. The millipede had straightened out now and was staring at her with his saucer eyes again. “Please. Let me out. Help get me out of here.”

  A sound in the distance. Like a drumbeat. Growing stronger. Footsteps. Coming down the stairs.

  “Please,” said the boy again. “Please.”

  The caretaker entered the garage. He bent down and wrapped his arms around the millipede. Piper’s eyes trailed the ground below her feet as Major carried the boy out.

  “Please, Doctor,” the millipede tried again, but Piper stayed mute.

  “It’s not going to be okay, is it? You lied to me.” The millipede was changing tack. Screaming now. His voice growing louder. Louder. LOUDER. Bouncing off the walls.

  “Shut up,” said the caretaker, squeezing the millipede tighter with his inked arms. “Shut up. The neighbors. You’ll wake the neighbors!”

  A hand reached for Lucky’s mouth. Tried to clamp it shut. But the boy wasn’t scared anymore. He curled his neck back like a cobra. Rammed his head into Major’s chin. Didn’t stop.

  “You said it was going to be okay! You held it! You held my hand!” The screaming carried on all the way up the stairs.

  A smack. A whimper. The screaming stopped. And Piper was alone again with the itch she couldn’t scratch.

  - 23 - FAITH

  They were playing poker on the curb again. The card gods were frowning on Faith. She was losing. But she didn’t care. Her head wasn’t in it today. She couldn’t concentrate. The anniversary was coming up. Of the day when They had . . . you know . . . moved on. Maybe that was why her head was feeling so thick and her heart so dead? Or maybe she was just tired. Tired . . . This job had an expiration date. You could do it for only so long, that’s what everyone said. Hanging around dead people all day had a habit of messing with anyone’s psyche.

  “Hey, lady. Are you playing or swaying?” said Ash.

  “What?
”

  “Come back from la-la land, please. You’re acting weirder than that loony jacker did yesterday. The cards aren’t going to play themselves.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s your turn!”

  “Oh. Sorry. Just a sec.”

  “What did you get up to last night? Or should I rather ask who did you get up on?”

  Muted laughter from the other players. More jibes were sent her way. She was telling them all where to put it when the radio crackled. A callout to some yuppie’s house against the mountain; one of those Victorian numbers just off Kloof Nek. So they folded their hands and went to work.

  * * *

  The house was exactly as she’d visualized it. Gray, Victorian, double story, with broekie lace and the works. Faith parked the van against the curb across from a deserted play park. There was a sign against the fence that read: COVER YOUR HANDS. COVER YOUR MOUTH. DON’T LAUGH. And below that: PUBLIC LAUGHTER IS A CRIME. OFFENDING MINORS WILL BE DETAINED; THEIR PARENTS FINED. The empty swings swayed in the wind in a ghostly kind of way that gave her the creeps and made her think of Then again. How weird to think there was a time when parks like these rang out with the sound of giggling children. A knot formed at the back of her throat. She gulped it back as best she could and pushed at the wrought-iron gate.

  At least it wasn’t a code red, so she didn’t need to wear her suit. She hated wearing the thing. The ugly, uncomfortable waterproof smocks, taped up at the wrists and the ankles, with a double layer of gloves, goggles, shoe covers, leg coverings, and that damn N95 mask she had to put on instead of her regular mask as soon as she got to a scene. A claustrophobic nightmare that made it hard to breathe, forced her to suck in the same recycled breaths on repeat.