“Lots of people have been saying that lately.”
“I’m assuming that if you’re here, it’s about getting your old job back again.”
“Something like that.” I keep my expression neutral.
“It’s not a great time of the year to be doing this kinda work. It’s not like I’m short-staffed. Why should I want to take you back? You caused a lot of trouble before you got hit by that car and it’s all very convenient for you to claim you don’t remember, but not everyone’s going to buy that story.”
“It’s all about easing back into life again,” I tell him. “Something will be better than nothing and I hope familiarity with this place will help jog my memory.”
He frowns at me. “You speak funny, Ash. Looks like that car accident fucked up your brains real good. Sure you haven’t had a personality transplant or something?”
For a moment I freeze with the shock but then figure he’s just trying to have me on. Damn. How the hell am I going to fool people who knew the real Ash? My foot starts tapping and I struggle for words, trying really hard not to squirm beneath this man’s gaze. “I’m hoping you’d take me back because I don’t know who else to turn to. My life’s a mess. I need to put things together again.” I put my hands palm down on the table, maintaining eye contact with the man though every part of me wants to jerk away.
“That’s no reason for me to want you back.”
“I’ve changed. I’m not going to stir trouble like I used to. How about just on probation? Let me prove my worth.” It’s difficult keeping a wheedling tone out of my voice. For some reason it’s become extremely important to me to get back Ashton’s old job, as if I can take ownership of the man by stepping into his shoes on a figurative level as well.
At that point a diminutive woman with pixielike features and a mop of rainbow-hued dreadlocks knocks and enters. She freezes when she sees me, her lips drawn into a taught line before she hands Gavin his beer. Without a word she turns on her heel and leaves the office.
Gavin laughs. “As you can see, Lisa’s anything but happy to see you again.”
I stare at him blankly.
“You don’t remember her?” He quirks a brow, searching my face.
“Of course I don’t remember her,” I snap. “Look, Gavin, I’m at rock bottom. I’m trying to piece together my life and at least if I start here, it’s in an environment I’m supposed to be familiar with, surrounded by people who can hopefully offer me some details about my past.”
Gavin draws hard on is beer, all the while examining me. He presses his fingers into his temples, massaging so hard I’m sure it must hurt. “I’m going to regret this,” he mumbles. Then he straightens, reaches for a pack of cigarettes and lights one.
I watch him blow a plume of lazy smoke, my knees dancing now as well. Is this even the right thing to do? Should I bother? What other options do I have? In the distance the throbbing beat of some heavy rock song filters through the walls.
Gavin coughs. “Fine. I’ll give you three shifts a week. Keep your nose clean.” He taps the side of his nose for emphasis, as if I should know what he’s getting at. “Don’t stir shit and we’ll see where we can take it from there.”
I let out a breath. “Thank you.”
“You’ll get Monday and Thursday day-shifts, with Saturday late-shift, which runs from ten at night until closing at two the Sunday morning. You’ll be paid your wages on Sundays but keep tips split from the staff pool each day.”
“That’s fine.”
Gavin starts laughing. “You should see your face, dude. You look like some kid that’s sitting in the headmaster’s office. Are you on drugs or something? You’re more fucked up than I ever thought.”
I frown at this. How the hell am I supposed to respond? I can only assume that the old Ashton would never have been so formal with this rat of a man. They must have some sort of shared history of debauchery I don’t know whether I want to guess at.
“Fuck this. You’ll come right, I’m sure.” Gavin rises and holds out his hand. “It will be like old days soon.”
This is easy enough. I follow suit and shake.
“Come downstairs with me so I can break the news to Lisa. She’ll be thrilled.” He laughs again, wheezing on the last few cackles. “She’s the manager. You’ll answer to her, understand? No bullshit. She’s your boss, after me.”
I should be grateful but it’s with some dread that I follow him downstairs for the rounds of introductions. Lisa is anything but happy to have me here. Gavin vanishes back upstairs, I take time getting acquainted with the job. Although not officially starting today, I’m nonetheless given the rundown and introduced to the rest of the staff, and end up working anyway, since I’ve nothing better to do with my time.
The same questions dog me for most of the morning: “So, you don’t remember anything? Nothing at all? What was it like being in a coma for so long?”
Those nightmares resurface, but I fake a smile and shrug, saying something along the lines of, “Oh, it’s just like getting a good night’s rest,” which is absolute rubbish, but then they don’t need to know what has me screaming myself awake almost every time I drift off.
And things do get busy ’round about lunch time, when student-types come in to shoot pool, eat greasy baskets of fries and take advantage of the noon-’til-two happy hour. It’s uncomplicated work. It’s easy being friendly and turning on the charm. There’s something to be said for keeping the hands busy so the mind doesn’t go off on tangents leading to fruitless speculation.
When a curvaceous flame-haired lady comes around the bar counter to knee me in the groin, I’m caught completely unawares. Now I discover firsthand why men are so precious over their privates. The world turns bright white for a few heartbeats then contracts to a narrow point centred on the redhead’s face as I slide down against the bar counter to land with my backside in a damp patch.
She stands above me, arms akimbo, her short black skirt not doing much to hide her knickers, though why my gaze is drawn there I’m not really too sure, maybe because from this angle it can’t be helped. At any rate, it’s not going to matter, at least not until the pain lessens enough for me to stand. That’s if the crazy woman lets me get to my feet.
“I heard that you’d come back!” Her voice is tight with rage. She has the traces of a Russian accent I would have found beguiling under a different set of circumstances. “I had to come back and see that for myself because I couldn’t quite believe it.” She aims to kick at me, but Lisa, bless her little cotton socks, grabs the crazy redhead around the waist and pulls her out of range before she can deliver a fatal blow.
“Cut the crap, Isabelle. He doesn’t remember anything.” Lisa’s voice is a beacon of calm and reason. “Don’t you think he’s gone through enough? Must I get Pierre to chuck you out and ban you? Again? You know he doesn’t like manhandling chicks.”
Isabelle struggles against Lisa’s grip, but the tiny bar lady’s size is deceptive. Although my assailant manages to take a step forward, Lisa holds her in check.
“You’re a poes, Ashton! I can’t believe you’d dare show your face around here again.” Isabelle’s voice goes up an octave. Tears shine at the corners of her eyes and her complexion has gone from snow white to flushed.
All I can do is gape at her, my mouth opening and shutting while I cradle my injured parts. The pain shoots its horrifying ache right through me, making it almost impossible to breathe, let alone speak. Whatever Ashton did to her, it must have been something horrid.
Pierre, my blond friend at the door earlier, comes to the rescue. With the struggling, weeping woman’s arms pinned behind her, he guides her outside while she hurls insults, using the most dreadful expletives I’ve ever heard issued from a woman’s lips.
“You okay?” Lisa helps me stand.
I lean heavily on the bar counter, aware of how my own face is warm. Too many heads are turned in our direction, patrons momentarily distracted from their drinks and star
ing at this little drama that has just played itself out.
“What was that all about?”
Lisa presses her fingers to her temples then shakes her head. “Oh, sweet Jesus, Ash. You don’t remember, do you? It was a great big scene here about six months ago. You were shagging Isabelle. Everyone knew about it except Marlise, and she had to find out in the worst possible way when you knocked Isabelle up. You told her to go get an abortion and would have nothing to do with her after that. She went through with it, but something went wrong. She started bleeding really badly, and the doctors say she can’t have kids anymore. She apparently pitched up at your digs asking you to take her to hospital, but you never answered the door.” The reproach in her tone is obvious.
My knees buckle and I struggle to hold myself upright. It’s a genuine horror story. This Kha has blood on its hands. “And everyone knows this except for me?”
Lisa’s expression turns to one of pity and she nods.
I’m a murderer. By default.
“I think I need to go sit down.” I stagger to the empty table nearest the bar and rest for a long while breathing deeply, my face in my hands. My skin alternates between hot and cold.
Of all the dreadful things this man could have done, this has to be the worst. It’s murder. Some would like to reason about predestination; that a soul in the womb terminated before birth was going to die anyway. There are too many people, they argue. But killing is killing, whether it is a bundle of cells or a grown man. That Ashton could be so callous…
Unclean. This Kha is unclean and my Akh has fused with this dreadful man’s flesh, bones and blood. I dig into the muscles of my upper arms as though I could somehow rip that terrible stain out of the body, but it’s impossible. I try to conceptualise that poor woman’s anguish, of standing there in front of a closed door, probably bleeding, weeping and crying out for him to help her, to show some understanding.
Bloody bastard. Conscious that others are watching me, judging me for the way I shake, I knuckle my eyes and hold trembling hands over my face. Murderer.
Lizzie never could have children. A hollow ache sucks its way up through my belly, a terrible sense of loss that threatens to pull tears from my eyes and I have to breathe deeply to maintain some possession over this reaction.
Some of the pain in Isabelle’s glare flashes back at me, the way she snarled when she lashed out at me with clawed hands. I understand. I would have done the same, if not more in the same situation.
Bastard. How could you?
It stings even worse knowing that Marlise hasn’t told me this horror story. What, did she think I’d come here and the tale wouldn’t bite me in the backside? Or is this her little piece of revenge for the grief I’ve caused her? It’s bad enough that Ashton cheated on her so openly, and worse, indicative of his callousness that he’d expect the woman to clean up his mess on his behalf. Then again, she could have used birth control as well… Or perhaps she had tried to trap him in some way, which was entirely possible.
What’s even worse is that I’m stuck with his identity. It’s surprising no one’s tried to kill me yet. That car accident… What if it wasn’t as accidental as everyone seems to think it is? Ashton Kennedy, what am I to do with you?
“You okay?” Lisa sits opposite me, leaning on an elbow. Her dark eyes are full of genuine concern.
“I didn’t sleep with you, did I?” I blurt.
Lisa laughs so hard a bunch of people at the nearest tables turn to stare. “Do you honestly think I’d sleep with the likes of you?”
Should I be pleased at her admission? For a moment I’m affronted. “Well, that’s a relief then. Is there anything else I need to be aware of, apart from the fact that I’ve been a monumental bastard?”
“I’m sure you’ll still bump into a few of your old buddies.”
I groan and grab at my hair. “Do I want to?”
She spreads her hands. “Hey, it’s a small scene. I’m sure by now, especially after Isabelle’s spectacular display, that word will spread.”
“That’s just perfect.” I hang my head.
The rest of the afternoon passes without further incident, for which I’m eternally grateful. Lisa proves to have a rare streak of humour, which bolsters what remains of my flagging confidence. Her attitude toward me has shifted since the incident with Isabelle. Later one of Ashton’s friends and a fellow barman show up and, once again, I end up repeating the Routine, as I’m calling the briefest summary of Ashton’s saga of pain and woe. I’m gratified to note that Davy, much like Lisa, doesn’t seem to care too much for Ashton’s dirty past.
I knock off early, shortly after happy hour, with just enough time to catch the train back to Rosebank to meet Marlise. Lisa’s kind enough to share some of the tips from the day’s takings, though fifty rand is hardly enough money, by her estimation.
“Glad to have you back on board,” she says.
“Really?”
“Just kidding. Now fuck off. I’ll see you on Thursday.” She’s smiling, though.
By the time I arrive in Rosebank, I’m exhausted. Evidently this body isn’t quite ready to cope with being up and about. I wait by the front gate of the college, allowing myself to breathe and be. My clothing stinks of cigarette smoke. This doesn’t please me. The students exiting the building look so young and it’s difficult conceptualising that I’m in inhabiting the body of a twenty-one-year-old male. I’m not that much older than them.
The looks the young people give me as they walk past tell me they think I’m disreputable, bad news. At some point I’ll have to shave, do something about my appearance. I’ve been of two minds about the hair, but after spending the day inside The Event Horizon, I reckon I’m going to keep it. None of the men there had short hair, and Ashton fits right in. Now that thought elicits another shudder. What have I come to? I’m no better than a thug.
It’s perhaps the sense of being watched that has me look up. Marlise stands at the front door of the college with two female students, but she has eyes only for me. She waves, her face alive with joy. I return the gesture. My heart twists at the knowledge that she’s said nothing about what happened between Ashton and Isabelle. That knowledge weighs heavily, and I’ll need to get it out.
After hurriedly saying goodbye to her friends, she trots along the pathway to stop a few paces before me. My expression must communicate my displeasure, because she frowns then tucks an auburn curl behind her ear.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” Marlise shifts from foot to foot. “You found out, didn’t you?”
“You could have told me about Isabelle.”
“I didn’t know how to. Oh, Ash, I’m sorry.”
“And I suppose sorry from me should do. You didn’t have to help me, but you did. Thank you.” I do mean exactly what I say. The mortification of knowing what the old Ashton did weighs heavily.
Marlise sighs then passes me to unlock the car. “We’d best go then. Tell me about your day while we’re driving.”
This isn’t quite the reaction I was expecting. If she’d been angry, I could have dealt with this somehow, but the quiet resignation? This only makes it worse.
Chapter 5
At Loose Ends
Thursday and my first official day as a barman at The Event Horizon comes ’round a lot sooner than I anticipate. In that time I’ve gone through about a quarter of the Van Vuurens in the white pages. There must be close on two hundred in Cape Town alone, including Janse van Vuurens, whom I decide to call as well, just to make sure. So far, no luck. I’ve encountered one geriatric Katrina van Vuuren, who stays in a retirement village in Durbanville. An awful crawly sense festers at the back of my mind. Although my fellow Inkarna assured me the process should occur seamlessly, there was always a chance a Kha could perish before an Inkarna could take over.
Catherine van Vuuren was a near-drowning that left the body in a coma. All I had to go on was that she had been three years of age in 2007. Where was my Akh during those five
years if I wasn’t in Per Ankh? Is there some sort of nebulous no-man’s-land? For surely, if I’d been completely immersed in the Sea of Nun, I wouldn’t be back, would I? Spend too much time there and one loses all sense of identity, returning to nothingness. How easy it would have been to be lost forever. Has that time left its mark on me? Is this why I have terrible nightmares? So many questions and not enough answers.
I resolve to finish working my way through the list of names first. Afterward I can start checking newspaper archives and the like. If I can track down representatives of one of the other Inkarna Houses, I’m sure I’ll be able to get their help. But it’s a case of finding them. Each House guards the location of its chapter house jealously, and we’re not the type one could look up in a telephone directory.
Worse luck is the attorneys. They’re not listed, and Marlise helps me run a search on the internet—something about which I don’t want to give away too much of my ignorance—only to discover the firm was liquidated two years ago amid some sort of scandal attached to a pyramid investment scheme.
“That’s not good,” says Marlise.
I have to agree, though I can’t go into the finer details as to why this upsets me deeply.
Damn. I’m back to square one, and this isn’t helped by the frequency and growing ferocity of my nightmares. I wake two or three times a night, gasping, as if something heavy is trying to smother me. If I’m not drowning in my sleep, I’m floundering through a grey morass, unable to see, hear or taste. And always the whispering of voices, calling my Ren, beckoning and hinting at tastes of darkness and despair.
By Thursday morning Marlise threatens to sleep on the couch in the house, but neither of us wants that. Her shadowy family, whom I’m yet to meet, would welcome that as a sure sign of a doomed relationship. Not that we’re in a relationship, that is, but right now I’m happier letting people assume things until such time I can afford to put a roof over my head.
We’ve done the best we can with my physical appearance. I only nicked myself once this morning. Shaving Ashton’s face gives me the horrors, still so alien whenever I glance in the mirror. I sneer at myself, try to recapture that expression so common in the photographs of him, the man I’ve become.
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