by Ilze Hugo
Do with it what you will, use it as you think best. But pray, before you decipher the rest, you have to take a moment to help yourself. The young lady, Persephone, is your anchor, your way back. You need her. Helping her will help you to remember who you really are. By the time you read this, she will have already opened Pandora’s box. So please, for all our sakes, make haste.
With all my heart,
Anna de Koningh
Anna de Koningh. The Anna de Koningh. Faith had been searching for this book off and on for years. It was the Holy Grail of puzzle books. And she wasn’t only holding a passage from it in her hands, but it was addressed to her. How could this be?
Back in the van, she stowed the vial under the seat. The words in the letter coiled through her mind in a loop. The Laughter. A cure? Tomorrow. And Pandora’s box? Was the whole thing some kind of elaborate setup?
She was putting the keys in the ignition when she noticed the glove compartment. The unclipped latch. She reached over and lifted the flap.
The gun.
The little rat had stolen her gun.
She should have known something was up when the kid had come begging for a lift as if nothing had happened between them, then asked her to check the tires, all sweet. It was all so obvious, looking back.
But why? Why did she steal it? To sell? No. The kid wasn’t the type to commit suicide, either, at least not with a gun. That left only the convent. The nun.
- 76 - MAJOR
The world was going tits-up crazy and Major needed a drink. Someone had sent one of the sisters video footage of the protests happening in Roeland Street. So many people. Who knew the city even had that many living, breathing souls left? Everyone and their mother seemed to be on the streets. The crowds were going crazy. Breaking windows, throwing things, burning tires. Laughing.
One of the mobs was passing the convent now. Major had seen more than his fair share of protests in his day, but nothing like this. The crowd wasn’t shouting and chanting slogans. They weren’t waving placards about. They were cracking up. Laughing hysterically. Every single one of them. What the hell? Had the whole damn city caught the bug? Some of the sisters were freaking out. Talking about the apocalypse. If Major was religious at all, even just an ounce, he’d agree with them. He’d say the mob was possessed.
Some of the cackling protesters were throwing petrol bombs. A flaming petrol comet landed in the garden, setting fire to the grass. One of the younger, less bright sisters had tried pouring water over it, which naturally made the blaze worse. Major had shouted at them all to go inside; wait this thing out in the convent’s dining hall. He was putting the fire out with a blanket when he saw the girl at the gate. She was an adorable little runt, about the age of his niece, with freckles and puppy eyes.
“Please, oom,” said the tyke with tears in her puppy eyes. “Please help. It’s really scary out here. Can I come in, just for a while, until things quiet down?”
Now, Major wasn’t the bleeding-heart type. Not even close. But what kind of monster would he be if he left the tyke outside? It was the end times out there. Besides, Sans’s little tirade about karma on Friday had touched a nerve or two. So, after taking her temperature to make sure she wasn’t about to go all giggly on him, he let the kid in.
He was picking up the charred blanket from the grass, rolling it up, his back to her, when she pulled it out. It was dark and hard to see properly, but he could swear it was a gun. Yes. My God. The little rat was holding a gun to his chest. And not a toy one, either. No, he was pretty sure it was the real deal. He’d been a bit of a skollie in his day; he knew a thing or two about guns.
“The matron,” said the little tyke holding the gun. “Take me to the matron.”
“Huh?” said Major. Not smooth, sure, but what the hell, the kid had caught him off guard.
“The head nun.”
“Or what? You won’t shoot me, kid. You don’t have the balls.”
“You’d bet your life on that?” It was her eyes that did it. That look. It spooked him even more than the cackling crowd outside. Cold. Hard. Not an ounce of hesitation in sight. The tyke would pull that trigger, wouldn’t even blink. He was sure of it.
So he walked her to Mother’s office. What else could he do?
- 77 - SANS
He was pulling at the door handle, his fingers numb and useless with shock. It was stuck. The fucking door was stuck. He could hear Blue groaning in the seat beside him. But he didn’t look back. Just focused all his energy on the handle; put his shoulder into it. The door flew open with a start, catching him off guard, and his body rolled out of the car and onto the tar, one arm pulling the blue backpack behind him. His shoulder ached from the impact but he brushed the pain aside. Run. He had to run. Which way? Right—into Oranjezicht. Suburbia offered better camouflage than the open streets. Lots of gardens and trees and walls to hide behind.
He was pulling himself up from the tar when he felt something brush his arm. Soft, gentle. Like the feel of perfect Pantene hair on skin. He jolted. Not now, Sans, not now. Don’t start hallucinating now. You have to run, for fuck’s sake. He brushed the vision away with his head, with his hands. But when he touched the spot on his arms that the vision had brushed, his fingers caught hold of something real, something firm. And whatever it was, it was grabbing him right back. At first he thought it was Blue, but thank fuck, it wasn’t. It was her.
“Sans,” his unicorn said, in that sweet, perfect voice. “Sans.” He could see her now. Her face framed with indigo black.
“No.”
“I can help you,” she said again. “Please. Listen.”
He stuck his fingers in his ears like a two-year-old. He didn’t have time for this. He had to go. He had to run.
“Sans. Just listen. You’ve got to listen.”
“No. You listen. I don’t know what the hell you are—whether I’m sick and hallucinating or crazy or you’re some long-dead psychic slave with a sick sense of humor—but I’m tired of all this hocus-pocus. My life has been one big crazy crapshoot since you came along. And I’m done with it. I’m out.”
“I can help you,” his unicorn said again. “Follow me.”
“Why should I trust you?” He was pulling the bag onto his back when he saw the driver’s-side door open. Someone climbed out. Blue’s forehead was a river of red. Fuck.
“Why not?” said his unicorn. Why not. “There is a price, though.”
“There always is.”
“Hold on to my hair,” she said. “Now!” What more did he have to lose? He grabbed hold of a clump of inky strands, and it moved and writhed like a hundred skinny snakes and began to coil around his fist. Then his unicorn’s face and body melted into a soft mist, until all that was left was a trail of moving, floating, dipping, diving hair, tugging at his wrist like some kind of possessed GPS.
He followed his vision. One hand leashed to her ropy indigo hair, deeper and deeper into the depths of suburbia. Every now and again he’d glance back to see Blue still following. His lungs were on fire. His leg, too. He didn’t know how long he could keep going like this.
There was a white wall to his left. Low, no electric fence in sight, with a garden the size of fucking Kirstenbosch. All cut grass and fancy flowers. The hair was trailing over the wall now, tugging him to follow. It seemed like a bad idea. What if the rich yuppie fucks who owned the place still lived there, what if they hadn’t flown the coop?
But Blue was slowly gaining on him, his blasted bum leg hurt like a mother, and he didn’t have any better ideas.
So he jumped. Followed the strands over the wall.
On the other side, his feet planted into the wet grass—he could see trees, a wooden guard house to the left, and to the right, an empty swimming pool. Then he heard something snarl. And a giant thing of a dog appeared out of nowhere like magic, so out of left field that he almost slammed into it. Wait, not a dog. Fuck. The hyena. From the comedy club. And his handler. There was a gun slung over the man’s sho
ulder. The beast at his legs was whooping and growling, tugging at its chain, baring its fangs, while the tall man held it back.
“You’re Faith’s friend,” said Sans, blowing out panicked air in relief. “We met the other night.”
The hyena was still growling. The tall man patted it on the head like a puppy. “Down, boy,” he said. And the beast backed off. “You’re not supposed to be here. This is private property. You’re lucky my boss isn’t here. He’d probably want me to shoot you.”
Sans looked from the man to the beast to the gun, and back to the gun. “There’s a man back there. He’s going to kill me. Please.”
The hyena man looked. Saw Blue Bag man approaching down the street, on the other side of the wall. His face tightened; he seemed to be considering what to do. Then he curled his lips inwards to meet his teeth, and reached for his gun. “Run,” he said. “There’s a gate at the back. That way. Go. I’ll hold him off.”
So Sans did. He ran. Kept running. At some point he thought he heard screaming. And gunshots. But he didn’t stop. Not yet. When he got to Buitenkant Street, he sank to his knees, panting. The rope of magical unicorn hair that had wound itself around his fist was tugging him hard, but Sans didn’t budge.
“You’ve got to keep going,” he heard her voice at the back of his mind.
“Why? He’s not following me anymore. Hasn’t been for a while now.”
“You need to go on. I told you before. There’s a price.”
“Listen here, whoever you are. I’ve been running forever. I need to rest. My leg’s killing me. It’s busted, or haven’t you noticed yet? And before you ask—skiing accident.”
“It’s Anna. My name’s Anna. And I told you there would be a price.”
“Yes. How could I forget? So say I don’t pay it? This price of yours . . .”
The voice in his mind seemed to be sighing. “You heard what the librarian said. This book. It holds answers. It could be the cure. It could heal this city. Don’t you care?”
“Please. This city can’t be healed. Everyone knows that. It’s fucked. Broken from the get-go. From the day that first fucking fruit tree was planted in that garden back there. And besides, why would I want it all fixed anyway? I liked the way things were. I’d grown used to its fearful fucking symmetry. Well, that’s before you showed up, that is, and started fucking everything up.”
The voice was quiet now. The strands hung in his hand, limply, like wet spaghetti.
“You haven’t even asked me yet,” the voice whispered. “What it is I want you to do. Aren’t you even curious? After everything.” The strands around his fist spun tighter again.
“No! Yes . . . Okay. Fine. I’m listening.”
“Find Faith.”
“What? Like God or something? I tried, but that’s not really my thing.”
“No. The dead collector. Faith. Find her. Give her the book.” The magic hair gave a quick pull to the left, towards Roeland Street. Sans watched it tugging in the wind like a horde of possessed balloon strings. Ridiculous. To think this morning when he woke up, he’d thought his life couldn’t get any weirder. And all this because of a book. He stuck his empty fist in his mouth and bit back the giggle brewing in his throat.
“That’s it?” he told the voice, his own voice sounding almost hysterical by now. “That’s all? Ha! Sure. Fine. That doesn’t sound too hard, I guess. Just let me go home and take a nap, okay? Change out of these sweaty clothes. Have a drink. Or three. I’ll sort this whole thing out for you tomorrow. Give the damn dead collector your musty old book.”
The strands gave another yank, harder this time, much harder, the magic hair cutting red rivulets into the skin of his fist. “No. Now,” urged the voice. “It has to be now.”
“Of course it does. Listen here, you crazy Anna whatever you are. Stop pulling me along with your magic hair like I’m some kind of puppet. I’m nobody’s fucking Pinocchio. I’ll dangle my own damn strings, thank you.”
“This isn’t about you,” the voice was getting louder now, begging, desperate, almost screaming at him. “It’s much bigger than that.”
“Oh, really.”
“Stop. Stop pretending that you don’t care about anything. Your leg. The car accident. Your father. Your mother. You think it was your fault. You’ve let your grief shape your memories; twisted them all up. Now you go around pretending that nothing matters. That you don’t feel. But you do.”
“Hey! Whatever you think you know, lady, you don’t.”
“I know you want to help her.”
The hair was hurting him now. His fist burning from the pressure. His bum leg burned and he was tired. So fucking tired. “Fine. Let’s say I do this. Will you stop haunting me?”
“Didn’t you listen to the sin-eater? I’m not a spirit.”
“Ghost, seer, mind-fuck . . . who cares. I do this, you stop torturing me?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s get it over with, then.”
- 78 - FAITH
Outside the gate to the Company’s Garden, the crowd was a beast, baying for blood, carrying her along like a current.
Smoke everywhere. Black smoke. Bodies. Sweating bodies. Angry bodies.
A row of armored Casspirs was blocking the road to St. John’s Street, where her car was parked. Police in riot gear were forming a human chain, to cordon off the street. Four men and a woman. All of them not a day older than twenty. She could see their faces behind their helmets. They looked scared. She had to go that way, she had to get out.
She had to find a way to get to them, show them her medpass, tell them she was a dead collector, that she needed to get to her van immediately. Maybe they’d listen. She had to try. Get out of here, to the convent, to Tomorrow.
Her hands felt in her coat pockets for the little plastic rectangle. Shit. Nothing in her pockets. Her pass? Did it somehow fall out? Was it in the car? It had to be in the car. Her car behind the human chain. What now? Tomorrow. She had to get to Tomorrow. Before . . .
Something was happening. The crowd heaved. Like it was sighing. Like it was breathing. One last big breath before . . . She was sure the others felt it, too. Everyone. That moment. Before a pot boils over. Before a dam cracks. A quiet. The calm before . . . Then it happened. Something burst.
Laughter. Horrible laughter. Hysterical laughter. So much laughter. Everywhere. Everyone.
Shots ringing out. (Rubber bullets. Please, God, let it just be rubber bullets.) Screaming, running. Police, protesters, bystanders, one gigantic human soup. A tall man in a red hoodie to her left throwing a fist at a Veep. The Veep swinging his baton. The man falling, sinking into the crowd, holding one hand out like he was drowning. More fists. More shots. People running. Trying to run. She was running, too. Almost tripping. Something beneath her feet. A discarded shoe? A backpack? No. A hand. A leg. A stomach. A head. Oh, God, bodies. Bodies lying on the street, curled up like babies, cackling hysterically. Bleeding. So much blood. Don’t fall, Faith. Don’t let the wave drag you down. Don’t drown. Keep running.
Running.
A hand on her back. Pulling at her. No. Let me go, you motherfuck—
A voice above the roar. “Faith!”
Hope.
Hope.
She turned towards the hand. Pony Boy. It was Pony Boy.
Follow me, Pony Boy mouthed, stretching out his open hand.
She grabbed it. Gripped with all her might. Don’t let go, his lips mimed above the roar. Don’t.
Then the whole world went up in smoke. Her eyes were on fire, her nose was streaming with snot, her throat was burning, closing up. She was blind. She couldn’t stop coughing. She tightened her grip on the ponyjacker’s hand, and followed him blindly, stumbling, tripping, running away, coughing, coughing, tears streaming down her teargassed face. They were running up a side street on the edge of the crowd, heading towards the mountain, when her eyes started seeing again.
“No!” She coughed. “Wrong way! We have to go down! I need to get
to Sea Point! I need to—”
Pony Boy stopped, bent down, vomited onto the road. “Won’t work,” he said after wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “There’s no way we can make it through that crowd.”
Her lungs were still burning from the gas and the words struggled to come out. “Have to! I have to—”
“I know. Get to Sea Point. I’ve been told. I can help. Trust me.”
“Trust you?”
“Unless you have a better idea.”
A manhole cover; he was bending down, pulling at a manhole cover. Had he lost the plot?
“Just trust me, okay? And if you can’t trust me, trust Anna.”
Anna.
They were inside a tunnel. Water was trickling beneath, soaking her shoes and ankles. Pony Boy spread his legs wide, one on each side of the stream, waddling like a penguin. She followed his lead, pressing one hand against the wall for balance.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said, turning his head back to look at her.
“Why?”
He pulled out his cell phone, lit up the screen, and shone the light on the walls. Cockroaches—the walls were covered in cockroaches. She pulled back her hands, fought the urge to scream.
“What is this place?” she asked instead. “Where does it lead?”
“All the way to Strand Street. This used to be an open canal. The Dutch built these babies to channel water from the freshwater springs in the mountain all the way to the harbor. Then the fuckers polluted the water in the canals so badly that they just built over it. Forgot about it. Now most of this water just ends up running into the ocean. What a waste. Pretty fucked up, isn’t it?”