Side Kick
Adeline Radloff
Tafelberg
For Wynand and Orange Lili
Prologue
I wake up shivering, my feet freezing. Oh, come on. Not again.
I’m going to kill Finn.
Hoping it will be over quickly this time, I pull on a pair of thick socks and burrow deeper under the duvet. But the cold is too intense and after a couple of minutes I have to get up to look for my coat.
Now this may sound like a pretty simple undertaking, but that’s because you don’t get how cold it really is. And also because you haven’t seen the state of my room. Plus, at first it’s always difficult for me to move around in untime – the air seems too thick, somehow, too solid. Everything is so still.
I think I hate the stillness even more than the cold.
Maybe not.
It’s a toss-up.
I find the stupid coat, finally, by chucking everything else out into the passage so that in the end it’s the only thing left on the floor. By this time I’m moving more naturally so I shrug easily into the thickly lined leather – which is just as well, as by now my teeth are chattering and my hands are beginning to turn blue. My gloves are inside the deep fleecy pockets where I always keep them, and after warming my icy fingers under my arms for a while I manage to pull them on.
Summer in Africa. What a blast.
Walking back to my bed, I swear loudly into the stillness. It’s not like anyone can hear me anyway. Three times in one week! One of these days I’m going to get frostbite or gangrene or something, and it’ll be Finn’s stupid fault.
I am going to kill him, I really am. This is seriously NOT funny.
I always leave a nightlight on for situations like these because electrical appliances can’t be manipulated in untime: what’s switched on stays on, and what’s off stays off. So I try to read for a while in the dim light, but somehow I just can’t concentrate.
Truth is, even though I try not to, I worry about the guy. Finn can be so clueless sometimes, it’s scary. Especially when he’s helping some damsel in distress. (Note the extreme sarcasm, please. The women Finn usually feels compelled to protect are about as helpless as great white sharks.)
I sigh in irritation as my eyes skim over the words on the page. The man simply has no sense of self-preservation. Not to mention common sense. He knows he shouldn’t stay in untime too long. He promised me …
The Transmitter next to my bed bleeps, the sound almost comically loud in the depth of the surrounding silence. I grab it, trying not to panic.
“Finn!”
“Relax, angel, everything’s okay.”
“You promised me, you promised! You said that –”
“Katie! Slow down. Listen to me. I can finish this job quickly, but you’ll have to help me, angel.”
I snort rudely. He only ever calls me angel when he needs my help.
“Where are you?”
“Sea Point.”
“I’m taking the Porsche.”
He sighs, acknowledging that he hasn’t got a leg to stand on. Then he gives me the address and puts down the phone.
I pull on some jeans and a sweater, lace up my warm boots, and shrug back into my coat as quickly as I can. Seriously, you won’t believe how cold it is. Because of the whole electricity thing, I stay away from the lift, taking the stairs down to the garage. Then I open the door manually, grab the keys off the hook, and get into my favourite of all Finn’s specially modified cars. Sweet.
There’s nothing like driving through Cape Town’s narrow streets when I’m the only one moving on the road – it’s totally awesome actually, like being alive inside a computer game. I drive along Kloof Road, the one that curves around the mountain like a snake, Lion’s Head on one side, the Atlantic Ocean on the other, and I take the turns as fast as I can. (Which, okay, I admit, isn’t that fast – the thickness in the air slows down the Porsche quite a bit, but it’s still way cooler than any game, trust me.) I don’t encounter a single soul until I get to Bantry Bay.
The streets are quiet this time of night anyway, so even when I get to the busier parts of town I only pass the odd clubber, two bergies and a few cars, all weirdly suspended in that unnatural way I’ve become so used to over the years. On High Level Road, a few blocks from the address Finn has given me, I see a couple of police cars, their blue lights spookily static so that I can clearly make out the determined expression on the cops’ faces in the eerie glow.
I’m kind of glad the police are involved this time.
Finn’s waiting for me outside. “You drive like a maniac. God knows how you got your licence.”
“What licence?”
“You don’t have a driver’s licence?”
I roll my eyes. “You only get that once you turn eighteen, remember?”
“Stupid rule.” But his attention is already elsewhere.
“Tell me about it. So what’s the problem this time?”
“Better have a look yourself.”
Okay. So it’s going to be one of those nights.
For what feels like an hour I help Finn to move bodies around, clean up some blood, wipe surfaces, remove the bullets from several guns and stash half a dozen AK47s in the boot of the Porsche. (I replace them with bananas – a little sidekick humour.)
Finn won’t let me go into the bedroom, and by this time I’ve learnt not to argue with him about stuff like that – I’m pretty tough, but I value my sanity as much as the next person. Still, before he closes the door I catch a glimpse of long blonde hair and a pair of killer stilettos draped seductively across the satin sheets. So my whole “damsel in distress” theory is looking more convincing by the minute.
Idiot.
When we’ve finished I get back into the car with a quick wave, not wanting to talk, tired of his excuses. Still, I call him as soon as I get home. And sigh with relief when the heat of a Cape Town summer suddenly slams into me.
I begin to sweat almost within seconds, so I take off my gloves, my coat, my jeans, my sweater, my boots and my socks. Then I get back into bed, kick off the duvet, close my eyes and try to relax.
I’ve got a chemistry test tomorrow, and I really need to get some sleep.
Chapter 1
Life is pretty bizarre. I’m sure most people feel that way, including you, and I respect that. But my life is really bizarre, and mostly in a totally random way. Let me just give you one simple example.
My surname is Holmes.
Of course, you might think that this sounds like a perfectly reasonable kind of name, and normally I’d agree with you (there was a Julia Winterbottom and a Marius Badcock at my old school, so I realise I should count my blessings).
The thing, though, is that my first name is Katie.
I’m Katie Holmes.
Now for years nobody had much of a problem with my name. That is until another Katie Holmes – one I’m definitely not related to – went and married this insanely famous, totally wacko American movie star, and suddenly, just like that, my life became a nightmare.
I mean, how random is that?
Anyway, whether people like it or not, Katie Holmes has been my name for as long as I can remember, and I don’t intend changing it any time soon. Or ever. So, no jokes about Oprah’s couch, or Scientology, or Suri’s wardrobe, or Batman’s girlfriend, or anything like that, please. Believe me, I’ve heard it all before.
The bottom line is that it might have been hijacked, but it’s still my name, and that’s that. So, to make it easier for you to tell the difference between the real Katie Holmes (me) and the other one (Mrs Tom Cruise), I have provided the following short list:
Ways in which the other Katie Holmes is different from me:
1. I am not old.
2. I a
m not famous. In fact, I’m probably the most un-famous person who ever lived. Officially, I don’t even exist! (Don’t get me wrong, I am registered at school, I go to doctors, I even have an official, government-approved ID – actually, I have three. Only, none of these are in my own name. It’s a long story.)
3. Not only do I not live in Hollywood, I’ve never even been overseas! I’ve hardly even set foot outside the Cape Peninsula!! This is not by choice!!!
4. Okay, I do have dark hair and green eyes. But, trust me, nobody is ever going to accuse me of being cute and unthreatening in that girl-next-door way. The word I think guys normally use to describe me, unfortunately, is “scary”.
5. I am not an actress. I do have a few hidden talents of my own, though. If you can call them that.
Right. So now we’ve gotten that straight, let me tell you a bit about my life.
I live in Cape Town, South Africa, a place I hope you know. Even if you don’t know the city that well, actually, it’s quite easy to explain. Close your eyes quickly, and imagine Table Mountain. (Surely you know Table Mountain? If not, do yourself a favour and look it up on Google Images.)
(And shame on you! It’s a national treasure!)
(Actually, it’s a World Heritage Site, so it’s an international treasure.)
(I’m going to stop with the annoying parenthesis thing now. Sorry.)
(But to get back to the mountain …)
Now I’m no artist, but hopefully the image you saw behind your eyelids looked something like this:
Okay. So you see that weird bump on the right-hand side? That’s called Lion’s Head. I live on the other side of that, the side you can’t see on the picture, the side that slopes down directly to the sea. (Apparently it’s called Lion’s Head because, well, it’s supposed to look like a lion’s head. People around here can be kind of literal that way.) [1]
Anyway, I live in an incredibly cool house that clings to the mountain in an unlikely way, so that it looks a bit as if the house is actually sliding down the mountain. Seriously. It has so many different levels that you need a lift to get around. It’s been featured in magazines and stuff, and it’s usually called “an architectural masterpiece”. Every room has views of Clifton beach and the Atlantic Ocean, and every level has its own huge balcony.
What can I say? It’s awesome.
The reason I can tell you this without being all conceited (I’m not) is because it’s not my house. Obviously. (To live around here you need to have a gazillion bucks, and the last time I checked my savings account I had the princely sum of R87,42.) I only live here, sadly, because my mom is the housekeeper. [2]
My mom is just about the only normal thing in my life, but then again she’s so ridiculously normal that she borders on abnormal. I’m not kidding; it’s like she’s trying to win some award for The Most Normal Mother in the World.
To give you an idea, my best friend, Mandi, reckons my mom is really a robot, like Nicole Kidman in The Stepford Wives. This is not because my mom is brainless, evil or mechanical (she’s not), but because she’s always so perfectly dressed, and nice, and because she bakes chocolate-chip cookies and packs lunchboxes with sandwiches and home-baked muffins and everything. (Mandi’s stepmother is a neurotic ex-model who is forever trying to put Mandi on a diet, so she tends to have some jealousy issues when it comes to my mom.)
Personally, I suspect my mom is in deep denial about the weirdness of our lives, and that she tries to neutralise this by being The Perfect Mother.
Let’s just say that sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t.
The other thing I should probably tell you right away is that my mom isn’t really my biological mother. I was adopted when I was little. She loves me and I love her – a lot – but sometimes I wonder who my real parents are, I won’t deny it. Nobody knows what happened to them, and I can’t remember anything although I was already four years old when I was abandoned.
Yes, that’s right. Abandoned.
When people find out this about me, they always pull that face – you know, the one that says “That’s-so-awful-I-just-can’t-wait-to-tell-everyone!” Still, I don’t have too many issues about it, mostly because my mom is so great and maybe also because she has forced me to see this therapist for years and years. Mona, my therapist, has been incredibly helpful, I must admit, but that’s mostly because she’s such a wackjob that she makes me feel really grounded and sane in comparison.
Anyway, I just thought I’d tell you about the whole “being abandoned” thing right up front, because it’s not some kind of dark secret or anything.
I’m so over it. Really. Whatever.
* * *
The owner of the house we live in is this guy called Finn.
He’s … Well, it’s kind of difficult to explain.
For now, let’s just say that Finn seems quite young for a guy with so much money. (He looks about twenty-five, but heaven alone knows how old he really is.) He’s also kind of famous, especially in Cape Town, but he’s one of those people who’s just famous for being famous, if you know what I mean. Every single girl I’ve ever met thinks Finn is the most gorgeous man alive, and this is not only annoying but also really awkward because I’m always having girls begging to sleep over at my house. (Well, not so much any more. But I used to.) Also, it’s hugely irritating that he’s so good looking, because everyone thinks I must be crazy in love with him.
Huh?
Finn drinks a lot, is always in a bad mood, and usually stalks around the house like a bear with a sore head. He claims that he’s from Ireland, but although he speaks with a pronounced Irish accent, I don’t believe that for a second. Sure, he might have spent some time over there once, but as for actually being Irish … I doubt it.
Finn has long black hair, black eyes and the kind of chiselled, dusky face that makes you think he should be hunting buffalo on the American plains, his face smeared with war paint, named something like Wind-In-His-Hair.
Wind-In-His-Hair O’Reilly? Doesn’t work for me either.
My mom (who, incidentally, is the only person in the world who can boss him around) says that Finn has “unresolved issues”.
This is putting it mildly.
When people ask me what Finn does, I’ve been told to say that he works as a “consultant”. Loosely translated, this means that he solves people’s problems for them. [3] Finn’s methods are a bit dodgy and usually err on the side of violence, but he’s a good guy – even if he doesn’t believe it most of the time any more. (I know he’s a good guy from personal experience, which is why I mostly put up with him.)
I kind of work for him too, but this is a major secret, so I’ll tell you all about it later.
At the moment it’s only the three of us living in the house, but for a long time Simon lived here as well. He died last year.
Simon used to be the father figure in my life, I guess. He was wonderful, and kind, and hardcore, and wise, and scary. But it’s difficult to describe Simon, and not only because my vocabulary is like, whatever. It’s difficult because the adjectives that describe most people just don’t do him justice. Once, when Mom was angry with him, she called him a “second-rate, knock-off, wannabe African Jedi Master”, or something along those lines. (You don’t want to mess with my Mom, believe me.)
We all laughed about that later, even Mom. But I thought that in a way it was kind of true, because Simon did have that whole mentor/wiseman/warrior thing going for him. There was nothing second-rate or wannabe about him though.
Simon was like the most amazing person ever.
I don’t know where Simon came from, [4] or why he chose to stay with us for so long. But for almost as long as I can remember he was always just there, looking after us. He couldn’t go into untime, but he could do other things, and he knew absolutely everything about everything.
Except how not to die, I guess.
I miss him, and so does everyone else around here, but we never talk about it.
* * *
Anyway, I used to go to a fancy private school, but after a series of unfortunate events at the end of last year, I kind of got kicked out. I now go to a normal government school, where I have no friends and everybody hates me.
Actually, that’s not completely true. Some people are all right, but they’ve been in their own groups for so long that nobody wants to include me now, suddenly, in our final year. When we do group or pair work they’ll talk to me and be okay and everything, but then when I sit with them during break everyone goes all funny.
Oh well. With only Finn and my mom as role models these days, I guess it’s no wonder I don’t have any social skills.
The school itself is not actually so bad. I expected it to be all guns and knives and tik, but the teachers are just as strict as they were at my old school and we’re basically learning the same stuff. The only difference, really, is that there’s not as much religion and the teachers don’t check your homework very often because the classes are much bigger. [5]
My only friend at school is a girl called Lelicia, who’s okay, although she can be really boring sometimes. Mostly I still hang out with Mandi, my oldest and best friend. She still goes to my old school but we see each other almost every day because she lives just down the street. Her dad is some kind of German sock millionaire (i.e., his business produces socks – probably the ones you’re wearing now), and her stepmom is an ex-model from Cape Town. Mandi’s also adopted, and we see the same therapist, so we have a lot in common.
I don’t have a boyfriend.
Don’t ask.
Chapter 2
I’m never very hungry in the morning, but Mom always insists we eat breakfast together. I don’t even bother arguing because, quite frankly, there’s no point once she’s set her mind to something. (Imagine a Rottweiler in Woolies casual wear, and you’ll begin to understand what I’m dealing with.) Also, we usually eat outside the kitchen on the fourth-floor balcony, which means I can check out the waves (and the surfers) while I force something down. Sweet.
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