by Smith, Roger
If she feels a rush of revulsion she is not alone. The soccer mom mutters some blandishment and bolts for the door, her absurd heels drumming her off the Good Ship Exley. Gladys quickly busies herself ferrying in cups of tea from the kitchen. Shane Porter takes refuge in a glass of wine. Only the rent-a-cop stares at the screen, transfixed.
“Sir?” he says to Exley.
“Nick,” Exley says.
“Nick. This,” pointing a blunt brown finger at the screen, “this isn’t no video, right?”
“No. It’s computer animation.”
“Like Avatar, kinda?”
“Something like that.”
“And you done it?”
“Yes, Vernon, I did.”
“It’s beautiful. Beautiful.” Coming out as bewdie-fool in his strangled accent.
Caroline can take no more of this and she heads for the stairs, rushes into the bedroom and slams the door, suddenly needing to pee so badly that she can feel drops escaping into her knickers. She grabs her phone on her way into the lavatory, lifts her dress and squats, speed-dialing as she drills a noisy stream into the toilet bowl.
Vlad’s voicemail again. The vitality drains from her body and it is all she can do to wipe herself dry and drag herself to the bed where she falls face down and allows sleep to take her.
Chapter 18
Exley feels barely tethered, like a helium balloon that the slightest gust could lift and set on a course for the sun that pummels the house. He stands with Vernon Saul and Shane Porter. The dark man sips noisily from a teacup, his eyes on the monitor.
Port inhales a glass of white wine. “Jesus, Ex, I can’t imagine how you feel, mate. I’ve hardly got any shut-eye since the night when… Since that night.”
“It’s been hell, Port. The reality still hasn’t hit home yet,” Exley says, longing for a Scotch but reaching for a safer option, a beer.
“I wish there was something I could’ve done, you know, to help. But I’m an Outback boy, always been a crap swimmer.”
“There was nothing anybody could have done. Not even Vernon.”
Exley points his beer bottle at Vernon Saul, who can’t drag his eyes from the dancing Sunny.
“Yeah, he was a Trojan.” Porter empties the wineglass and Exley takes it from him.
“Can I fill you up?”
“Against my religion to refuse a drink, mate, but I’ve got to get moving. Some business in the city.” He shakes Exley’s hand. “If there’s anything I can do, Ex, all you have to do is shout.”
“Thanks, Port. I appreciate it.”
Porter slaps him on the shoulder, nods to Vernon, and heads off into the brightness of the day. Gladys is in the kitchen, washing up. Caroline is in hiding upstairs and Exley is alone with Vernon. This big man in his cheap jacket, check shirt and tie looks like a plainclothes cop but Exley is pleased that he’s there. Something about Vernon Saul reassures him.
The brown man speaks without taking his eyes from the screen.
“Could you do me, like this? In the computer?”
“I guess. It’s a lot of work, of course.”
“I understand. I understand.”
Exley lifts another Grolsch from the table and pops the cap. “Would you like a drink, Vernon?”
“No, thank you.”
“You’re not on duty?”
“No, I’m pulling the nightshift.”
“Then have a drink with me. Keep me company.”
“Okay. A beer.”
Exley hands him the bottle and leads the way out onto the deck, sitting down at the table in the shade. Vernon takes the chair opposite him and lifts the beer in salute. “Better days.” He chugs from the bottle, then inspects the label. “This is imported, right?”
“Yes.”
“Nice.”
Exley drinks and feels the alcohol go straight to his head. He has to concentrate not to spin off into some interior monologue and focuses on Vernon’s broad face, watching him drink.
They sit in awkward silence for a moment. Then Exley’s cell phone rings inside and he stands. “Excuse me.” He walks into the house.
Vernon swigs from the bottle. Too sweet for him. He’s not much of a beer man and he’s used to South African brew with its bitter, chemical taste. Still, it’s good to park here on this deck, watching the ocean, drinking expensive booze.
Not a life he desires. No, not for him this fancy shit, but he’d like to develop his relationship with Nick Exley—finesse it—so that he can drop in like a friend, have a drink and a chat. That would be nice.
He’s used to controlling people out on the Flats. People made vulnerable by poverty. Or people desperate to avoid punishment for their crimes. Too easy. But this is something he’s always dreamed of: exerting power over a rich man. A man who wears his wealth like a suit of armor. And Vernon has broken through that armor.
Exley returns, looking pale, his eyes red behind his glasses. As the sun catches the whitey’s face, Vernon sees livid tracks down one side of his neck. Scratch marks. Wonders what hell this pathetic bastard has been living through these last days. Almost feels sorry for him.
“You okay, Nick?”
“Yes, sure. People from overseas. Condolences, you know?”
“Of course. A trying time.” Vernon nods, sips. “So, what are your plans?”
“I expect we’ll pack up and leave, as soon as possible.”
“But you don’t want to?”
Exley looks at him in surprise. “No, I don’t suppose I do. I’m not really sure why.”
Vernon uses the neck of his beer bottle to describe an arc, taking in the house and the beach. “This place, of course, is full of bad memories. But it’s also the last place you saw your little girl alive. Maybe you want to hang on to that?”
Exley nods, his hair flopping down over his forehead like a kid’s. He pushes it away with a skinny hand. “Yeah, yeah. That’s it exactly. Is that weird?”
“No, no. Not to me.” Vernon settles back, finding a groove here. “Nick, there are two schools of thought.” Where did he get this smooth bullshit? “One is to get away and forget. The other is to feel your pain and work through it, travel a journey, sort of. In my experience, the second is better.”
“And what’s your experience?”
“I was a cop for twelve years. I seen a helluva lot of grief.”
Exley drinks, nods. “Your leg? That end your career?”
“Ja.”
“I don’t mean to pry—”
“No, no. It’s cool.”
“What happened?”
Vernon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stifling a burp.
“I was a detective, out on the Cape Flats. You know about the Flats?”
“Not much. But I hear it’s a dangerous place.”
“More dangerous than a bloody war zone, I’m telling you, Nick. Gangs. People crazy on tik—what you call meth. Not just the youngsters, neither. Grandmas vacuuming their houses half out of their minds. A place where you gotta watch your back. Serious.”
“I’ve seen the crime stats on TV.”
“Under-reported, believe me. And I dunno if you heard, but there’s this child abuse epidemic out there on the Flats? Bad shit you won’t believe, excuse my French. Anyways, about a year ago I get a call that a piece of rubbish is raping his toddler daughter.”
The white man flinches and Vernon struggles not to laugh. Shit, he should be a bloody writer.
“I go over to the house and the bastard’s locked in the bedroom with the kid, so I kick in the door and the fucker’s got a gun and he plugs me four times, leg and chest. Before I go down, I take him out. Permanent.”
Exley stares, wide eyed.
“Next thing I’m lying on stomach and I’m looking at my blood soaking into the carpet and everything goes all quiet and dark. And then…” Vernon pauses to drink, milking the moment. “Then, honest to God, Nick, I go into this light. A big, bright, shining light. And it’s beautiful. Beautiful. And I
know if I just keep on going into the light, I’ll be in a better place than anywhere I ever been before. But, Nick, you know what?”
“What?’ Exley asks, sitting forward in his chair.
“I say to myself: Vernon, it’s not your time, my brother. So I turn my back on that light and head into the darkness, and I wake up in hospital next day full of bullet holes and me not a cop no more.” He shrugs. “That’s it.”
Exley shakes his head.
“You don’t believe me?” Vernon asks.
“No, no, I do. I believe you.”
Vernon shrugs, manufactures a bashful look. “Ja, that experience changed me. I used to be a pretty hard bugger, you know? But now, I dunno, I’m just a bloody softie.” Laughing quietly, like he’s embarrassed.
Exley checks him out. “Vernon, I really appreciate all you did the other evening.”
“I wish I could have done more.”
“You’ve been a true friend. I mean it.”
The whitey chokes up and there’s an awkward moment and then he stands and in a sobby little voice says he’ll get them more beer and ducks into the house.
Vernon sits, relaxed as all hell, well satisfied with his performance.
He’s got Exley now, reeled him in. But exactly what he’s going to do with him, Vernon isn’t sure. He drinks and stares out over the ocean. Let it play out, my brother. Just let it play out.
When Exley gets to the living room he finds that Gladys has cleared away the drinks, so he walks through to the kitchen. The bulky woman stands at the sink with her back to him, hands lost in soapy water.
“Mr. Nick?” she says.
“Yes?” Exley replies, lifting two green bottles from the fridge.
“That thing you are making of Sunny…” She stops, setting a glass in the drying rack.
Exley crosses to her, staring at her profile. She doesn’t look at him.
“What’s wrong, Gladys?”
“That thing you are making, it is very bad luck.” She stops again, scrubbing at a plate, and Exley feels a stab of irritation.
“Bad luck how, Gladys?”
“It is like you are trying to bring her back.”
Exley colors. “Come on, that’s crazy.”
She looks at him now, clasping her hands, soapy water dripping from her fingers. “Some of my people are doing such things. They are using photos or clothes of the dead who have just passed. Taking them to the sangoma, the witchdoctor, to use for muti. Witchcraft. Very bad, Mr. Nick. Very bad. It is keeping her here, Sunny, not letting her go.”
Exley can find nothing to say. She’s right. That’s what he’s doing. Behaving like a primitive. Trying to bring his daughter back.
Exley turns away from Gladys and retreats out onto the deck to where Vernon Saul sits staring over the ocean, his awkward bulk barely contained by the chair, his wounded leg thrown out to the side. The big man sneaks a look at his wristwatch. Suddenly Exley doesn’t want him to go, doesn’t want to be left in the house with these two disapproving women.
Exley dredges up a smile. “Hey, Vernon, were you serious about me animating you?”
The dark guy nods. “Ja, man. It would give me one hell of a kick.”
“Okay, come on, then.”
“What? Now?”
“Yeah. We can do the first part. The motion-capture. Bring your beer.”
Exley leads the way into the chill of the studio and fires up the workstation.
Vernon looks around, taking in the computer gear and the monitors, and lets out a low whistle. “So, Nick,” he says, “this is where you make your magic?”
“Yep. This is the place.”
“State of the art, hey?”
Exley shrugs, opening the steel cabinet where a few mo-cap suits hang, and selects the largest one. He holds it out to Vernon. “Here. Strip down to your underwear and put this on.”
Exley sits at the computer, booting up the motion-capture software, his back to Vernon, hearing zippers and grunts, smelling overheated flesh.
At last Vernon says, “Done,” and Exley turns, seeing for the first time how big this man is. The tight material stretched across his barrel chest, his shoulders square and wide, his good leg thick and muscled. The runt at its side has withered away to half its size.
Exley opens the studio’s sliding door and beckons. Vernon lumbers through onto the tiles, moving awkwardly in the tight suit, his limp even more pronounced.
“So, how’s this work?” he asks.
“Those sensors on the suit translate your movements into digital impulses and send them to the computer.”
“Okay,” Vernon says, blank. “And what do I do?”
“Anything you want,” Exley says. “I’m capturing you right now.”
Vernon walks, looking awkward, dragging his weak leg. Then he loosens up and pretends to draw a gun, bending his knees, doing a James Bond thing. He beats his chest like an ape. Sails into a waltz with an invisible partner.
Exley is amazed to hear himself laughing. The big man joins in. “So, how’s that?”
Exley says, “I think we’ve got it, Vernon,” and he stops the capture.
He wheels another chair to the computer and gestures for Vernon to sit. He selects the segment of Vernon drawing the weapon and marries it to a 3D skeleton, the wireframe’s movements a perfect replica of the rent-a-cop’s.
Vernon sits, entranced, his breath coming in snorts. “Fucken amazing, Nick. Awesome. How did you learn to work all this stuff?”
“Well, I designed the system.”
“You telling me you made this machine yourself?”
“Yes,” Exley says.
“Jesus, you’re a fucken genius.”
“Nah, just a little gimmick.” He crosses to the steel cabinet and removes a plain brown cardboard box, one foot square in size. No fancy branding, no adornment, just the words LIFE IN A BOX stenciled on the top. He opens the box and tilts it so Vernon can look inside, showing him the small metal-cased driver unit that jacks into a computer and the mesh of low-cost sensors that transmit the data. “I built this thing so anybody can do motion-capture. There’s no magic to it, believe me.”
Vernon waves this away. “No, no. Don’t come with that.” Watching the figure on the monitor. “So, what’s it like, sitting here playing God?”
Exley shakes his head. “If only.”
Vernon looks embarrassed, hesitates. “Nick?”
“Yeah?”
“You gonna make some kinda model of me, have me walking and stuff?”
“Yes, over the next while.”
“Can you fix my leg? Make me, like, normal again?”
Exley stares into Vernon’s eyes and reaches out a hand and puts it on his shoulder. “Sure, I can do that for you. No sweat, my friend.”
Caroline’s mobile startles her awake. She battles to open her eyes and when she tries to move her limbs she feels as if she’s swimming through treacle. As her fingers fumble for the phone, doing its little dervish dance on the dresser beside the bed, it falls mute. Caroline checks her missed-call list and when she sees Butcher—her code name for Vlad—her body is jump-started by panic. Sudden terror that she has missed her last chance to connect with him.
She sits up, her sweaty hair dangling in damp tendrils across her face. The room is suffocating, the sun flooding through the open curtains, advancing on the bed. Caroline squints against the glare and turns her back to the window, hitting the speed dial, knowing that she’ll get his voicemail again.
But the phone purrs in her ear. “Come on,” she whispers.
“Yes?” It’s him.
“Vlad? Caroline here.”
“Yes. Yes. I try you.”
“I know. I was asleep.”
“This thing with your child. I am sorry.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I can’t come this morning. Business, you know?”
“I understand.”
“What happen? With the child?”
“I’l
l tell you when I see you. When are you free?”
Vlad hesitates and she hears his breath echoing, remembers it hot against her ear as he came. He says something that she can’t catch.
“What? I lost you?” she says.
“I am in car, by mountain. Maybe now you need some time. With your husband.”
Exactly what she doesn’t need. “Vlad, let’s meet. Please.”
“You think?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
A wash of static and she thinks she’s lost him again, visualizing the signal bouncing off that gray anvil-shaped heap of rock and out into space. Then his voice is in her ear, clear enough for her to hear his lack of enthusiasm. “Okay, tomorrow. Lunch. I phone in morning, okay?”
“Okay. Yes.”
The mobile is dead in her hand and she drops it on the rumpled duvet and goes into the bathroom, splashes her face. She feels better, knowing that she will be with him tomorrow. Refuses to let a few tentacles of negativity—nasty little voices whispering that he’ll make an excuse or, worse, stand her up—take hold. She leaves the bathroom and sits cross-legged on the bed and boots up her computer. It grunts and moans and she knows it’ll take forever to grind itself awake.
She decides to go down and brew some filter coffee, to jolt the last of the sleep from her body. She pads downstairs, barefoot, hoping that Nick is locked in his studio. But he lies on the sofa in the living room and looks up at her and stands. As she heads toward the kitchen she feels an unwelcome flash of sympathy for him.
“How are you doing?” he asks, following her.
“How do you think I’m doing?”
He stands with his back to the fridge and she can’t quite suppress a twinge of pain when she sees one of Sunny’s crayon drawings beside his head, held in place by little magnets in the shape of cartoony suns.
“Caro, talk to me, please. I can’t do this alone.”
Caroline looks at her husband and unbidden an old memory surfaces, like something captured on glass, of how he was when she first met him. His shy smile. His goofy sweetness. Caroline realizes she’s in danger of succumbing to her emotions, feeling an urge to confess, to tell him what happened in this very kitchen with Vlad. How she sent their child to her death.