Capture

by Smith, Roger

  “Yes.”

  “Like I won’t let her get used to things and then lose them. I know you’re on some crazy grief trip and you see me and her and you think, okay, this could work, and maybe you even mean well, but what if down the road you wake up and go: hang on, I’m Nick Exley, what the fuck am I doing with that colored whore and her bastard kid?” He tries to protest but she wields the cigarette like a weapon, shutting him up. “Wait. I want you to know what that would do to Brittany. I want you to really think now. I’ve told you what I am. I’ve told you what I won’t let happen. So, you got second thoughts just walk out that door, no hard feelings.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, ashamed she can read him so well.

  “Okay, then.” She exhales smoke, left breathless by this outpouring. “But, Nick, you ever hurt Britt and I’ll kill you. I’m not kidding. I will.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.” Dawn crosses to the closet, opens the hanging door and starts throwing clothes and underwear onto the bed. She points to a cheap suitcase leaning against the wall. “Don’t just stand there looking cute, get packing.”

  Exley lays the suitcase on the bed and unzips it and starts to cram in a jumble of female clothing, some large, some small. Almost as if he has a family again.

  Vernon, slumped behind the wheel of the Civic, blows a succession of smoke rings, each one more perfect than the last. He sits up when he sees Dawn and Exley leave the building, the whitey wheeling a suitcase.

  Exley collapses the handle of the case and stows it in the trunk of the Audi and opens the passenger door for Dawn. Vernon has to catch a cackle at that, Exley treating this street whore like she’s a lady. Then Exley’s behind the wheel and the Audi’s floating its pretty German ass down Voortrekker and gone.

  No kid. Beautiful. Upstairs with the old Porra babysitter.

  Vernon feels a surge of adrenaline that gets his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He has to force himself to wait ten minutes, making sure Exley and Dawn don’t return. He locks the Civic, ducks across the road and drags himself—leg paining and stiff from the time in the car—up two flights of stairs. He bangs loudly on the old woman’s door, knows she’s deaf or maybe just pretends to be when it suits her. Bangs again and hears shuffles and scuffs but the door stays closed.

  “Eh?” A muffled voice from inside.

  “Mrs. de Pontes, my name’s Vernon Saul. I’m a friend of Dawn’s.”

  “Eh?”

  “Please open, she wants me to bring Brittany to her.”

  “I not know you. I not open.”

  Vernon’s about to give the door a kick when he chills himself and reaches for his wallet and pulls out a fifty-rand note. He moves his withered leg aside and kneels down, grunting, and slides the banknote halfway under the door. It disappears in a flash.

  “She tole me to give you one more, when I get the kid,” he says, using the doorknob to haul himself to his feet, panting as if he’s just run a city block.

  There is a clanking of chains and the turning of locks and the door opens far enough for him to see a little face wrinkled as a tortoise staring up at him. “Dawn she send?”

  “Ja, I tole you. There’s been a change of plan with her and Nick. They want me to drop Britt off with them.”

  “Why she not phone?”

  “Her airtime’s finish. Come, please, I’m late.”

  The old woman opens the door and Brittany stands beside her, holding a little brown bear. “You know him?” the old bitch asks, pointing a claw at Vernon.

  “Ja, it’s Uncle Vermin.”

  “I phone Dawn,” the old woman says, digging into her dress pocket and fishing out a huge black Nokia as ancient as she is.

  If the kid wasn’t there Vernon would put the old bitch’s lights out, permanent, but he can’t freak out the girlie, needs her docile and cooperative.

  So he switches on a smile and says, “You won’t get Dawn now. They gone to the movies.”

  “Movie?”

  “Ja. I’m meeting them when they done. At the Waterfront.”

  The old Porra looks suspicious, then Vernon gives her a glimpse of his wallet and greed wins the day.

  She lowers the phone. “Okay, give money.”

  Vernon lays another note on her, and the woman gets Brittany’s bag and Vernon takes the kid’s hand and walks her down the stairs.

  “We going to the Waterfront, Uncle Vermin?”

  “Ja,” he says.

  “To Mommy and Uncle Nick?”

  “Ja.”

  Once they’re on the sidewalk he points to a take-out joint. “You wanna juice?”

  She nods. “Guava.”

  Vernon stands by the hatch and orders the drink. The zit-faced boy behind the counter fills a plastic cup from a glass container of bright pink slush, and gives Vernon the drink with a corrugated straw sticking out the top.

  Vernon gets the kid into the rear seat of the Civic, tells her to buckle up, and while she battles with the seatbelt he stands by the driver’s door, balances the drink on the roof of the car and finds Doc’s little bottle in his pocket. He loosens the cap, squeezes ten drops into the juice and stirs it with the straw. He screws the cap back on the bottle and stows it, then slides in behind the wheel, the kid still fighting the seatbelt, her tongue sticking out in concentration.

  “Here,” he says, giving her the juice, clicking the seatbelt home for her. Watches as she takes a good, strong hit of the spiked drink.

  Vernon starts the car, forcing his way into the traffic, checking the kid out in the rearview. By the time they’ve driven two blocks her eyes are starting to droop. He stops at a light and frees the plastic cup from her fingers and tosses it out into the gutter. The light turns green and he drives on, watching her in the mirror. She’s gone, chin on her chest, head rocking with each bump.

  “Doc,” he says, “you fucken beauty.”

  Chapter 53

  God only knows how Yvonne Saul’s going to get through the day. The sun is high and fierce, pumping in through the living-room window, sweat running between her breasts and down her thighs as she sits on the sofa. She forces her eyes to focus on the blinking green display of the DVD player, sees that it’s past four in the afternoon and she doesn’t know how long she’s sat herself here, not moving.

  Yvonne feels weak. Disconnected. Her body craving insulin. Her supply is finished and she hasn’t injected herself in nearly twenty-four hours. She’s been phoning Vernon since yesterday, leaving messages on his voicemail, begging him to stop by the chemist. He never called her back and now she’s out of airtime and doesn’t have a cent to her name.

  When she stands to go get herself some water, she feels dizzy and has to put a hand on top of the TV, knocking a teacup to the floor, where it shatters. She shuffles her carpet slippers through the mess and into the kitchen. At the sink she opens the faucet, the water warm as blood when she puts her hand under it. She lets it run, feels it cooling slightly, but never going to get cold.

  She wets a dish towel and puts it to her face, covering her forehead and her eyes, sees bright lights like falling stars. Yvonne breathes deep and lets the cloth drop, looking out the kitchen window. Knows she’s really seeing things when that sick little jailbird from next door comes walking up, carrying a plastic bag, and pushes open the broken door of the shack and goes inside. No sign of the woman and the child, but he’s back. Bailed already.

  Yvonne gets herself away from the window, battling for breath, terrified that he’ll see her and know it’s her that called the cops. She walks slowly back to the living room, supporting herself on the wall, barely making it to the sofa.

  She feels her heart beating too fast, and her head feels too light on her shoulders. The armpits of her dress are wet with sweat and she can feel the salt itch between her thighs. She closes her eyes, the banging of the blood in her ears almost drowning the rumble of Vernon’s car.

  She says a little prayer of thanks, listening to his footsteps on
the pathway and his key in the door. Please God, let him have the blue chemist packet in his hand. But when he pushes open the door with his foot he’s not carrying no packet, he’s carrying a child. A white child with blonde hair, flopping like a dead thing in his arms.

  He kicks the door closed and dumps the child next to Yvonne on the sofa, taking a fluffy toy from his pocket and throwing it down beside the girl. Yvonne stands and backs away, feeling the wall against her shoulders.

  “Boy,” she says, her voice a whisper torn from deep inside her. “What you done now?”

  He stares at her with his dead father’s mad eyes. “Relax. It’s just sleeping.”

  “No, Vernon. You can’t do this. Not with a white child.”

  “Take it easy,” he says, wiping sweat from his face with his palm, his hair hanging down like a noose over his eye. “She’s as colored as us. I just need you to watch her for an hour or so, okay?”

  Yvonne shakes her head. “No, Vernon. Please.”

  Her son moves fast, grabs her by the front of her dress and slams her back against the wall, her head hitting the bricks. He slaps her and she slides down to the floor, weeping.

  “Get up,” he says, nudging her with his shoe. She doesn’t move and he kicks her in the ribs. “I said get up!”

  She obeys, using the back of the sofa to pull herself upright. He leans his face so close to hers she feels his spit on her skin. “Now you fucken do as I say. You hear me?”

  “Ja.” She nods.

  “Good. I’m showering and going. I’m back here in two hours.”

  He leaves her and she stares down at the child, sees that its little chest is moving as it breathes. She hears him in the shower and thumping around in his room and then he’s back, in his uniform, with that big gun holstered at his hip.

  “Vernon,” Yvonne says. “My insulin.”

  “Stop bitching at me. I’ll bring it when I come back.”

  He slams out, leaving her alone with this pale girl child, and Yvonne wishes she’d taken a coat hanger to her womb thirty-three years ago and saved herself all this heartache.

  Dawn dumps the belongings of Nick’s dead kid into black garbage bags, feeling creeped out and sad. This only child of rich parents was given everything she wanted but she’s gone now, the closet crammed with clothes and toys a heartbreaking reminder of who she no longer is. As the bags swallow her things—tiny red rain boots, a one-eyed doll, little-girl panties—the kid fades more and more into nothingness.

  Dawn can’t get Britt’s face out of her mind, feeling again that panic on the beach when her child went missing. Wonders how Nick hasn’t gone mad with the loss of his daughter. She looks up and sees him in the doorway, checking out the stripped room.

  Dawn stands. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for doing this. I don’t think I would have been strong enough.”

  “It’s cool, Nick.” She drags one of the bags toward the door. “You done? With your wife’s stuff?”

  He nods. “It was weird, going through her things.”

  “You must be freaked out?”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. They were just things. The person I married left a long time ago.” She’s staring at him and he shakes his head. “I guess I’m not making sense.”

  He sits down on the bare mattress and tells her how his wife went cuckoo after the kid was born, about her rages and her depressions. How their marriage was over years ago. His words coming in a tumble, like some cap has been popped and everything just spills out.

  “I’m sorry,” she says when he’s done.

  “The reason I’m talking like this is so you don’t think I’m some cold bastard, my wife just dead and I’m already moving on.”

  “Thanks.” She means it. It does reassure her and Christ knows she needs reassurance. She takes his hand. “Come, let’s have a break, okay?”

  He nods and they go downstairs and she knows it’s forward of her but she heads for the fridge and snags the bottle of white wine she’s seen chilling in there.

  She holds it up. “You mind if I open this?”

  “No. Go for it.”

  Dawn finds a corkscrew in the kitchen drawer and carries the bottle and two glasses through to the living room, where Nick has slumped down on the sofa. She pours the wine, hands him a glass and raises hers. “To Bali.”

  He smiles and she sips her drink and it tastes so damn good that she immediately has another slug. She takes her smokes and slides open the door to the deck, wanders across to the railing and fires up.

  Nick follows her. “You can smoke inside.”

  “Nah, I’m gonna kick it. I’m gonna smoke my last one before we get on that plane tomorrow.” She looks at the cigarette and then flicks it out onto the sand. “In fact, that’s it. I’m done. I’m an ex-smoker.” He’s looking at her, really staring. “What? Don’t you believe me?”

  “No. I believe you.”

  “What, then? You having second thoughts about Bali and all?”

  He shakes his head and smiles away whatever’s hassling him. “No. No second thoughts.”

  He moves in and starts to kiss her. She tenses, then relaxes and kisses him back, telling herself she can do this. Chill. Go with it. He’s one of the good guys.

  There’s tongue action and they’re right up close, his hands everywhere, and she can feel him getting hard and she knows what’s gonna happen now, so better that she gets in the driving seat and controls things and she walks him backward into the living room, pushing him onto the sofa, his glasses sliding from his face, landing on the carpet, reflecting two hot little suns.

  Dawn pulls his T-shirt off and strips him of his shorts and underwear and gets a handful of his veiny cock. Tries not to see the untold others over the years, shoved in her face and forced inside her, tearing her front and back, stinking things she learned to hate as much as the men they grew out of.

  She shoves her curls away from her face and goes down on him, his blondish pubic hair surprisingly silky as it rubs her cheek. She runs her tongue from his balls up the shaft of his dick, the skin so soft, getting his salty, sweet taste in her mouth, feeling him clench his butt muscles as he says, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

  Keeping him in her mouth, she frees her hands and loses her shirt and jeans, straddling him, gripping his cock in her hand, feeling it pulse, a drop of moisture like a teardrop rolling from the slit. She pushes herself up on her knees and works the head of his penis through her trimmed pussy hair and around her lips that are hot and heavy and sodden.

  She breathes, loosens the pelvic muscles that have clenched with old fear, and takes him into her millimeter by millimeter, experiencing this like she never has before, trying to erase the past when all sensation was locked deep behind a barrier of hatred.

  Really concentrating now. Feeling the walls of her vagina expanding as he fills her, feeling her swollen clit sliding down the length of him. When he’s inside there’s a moment’s fear, all the bad shit welling up, and she has to force herself to keep moving her hips, riding him and riding on through the darkness.

  This is now, Dawn, this is now, she tells herself. She can feel his ass pumping and hear him sucking air and she has a choice, in that moment, to pull back and take herself into the safe place she lived in all those years, to protect herself, but she doesn’t and as she lets it happen, the past is gone, falling away and left behind.

  It’s different to the other night, when this thing ambushed her. This time she wants it. Rushes toward it. That feeling rips through her and blows its way up her spine and she hears herself scream and laugh, and she’s sweating, slumped forward, her mouth eating his.

  They lie there for she doesn’t know how long and then he sits up and pours wine and gives her a glass.

  “That was nice,” she says.

  “Just nice?”

  “Listen, stud, don’t you start getting ideas, now. We’ll stick with nice.” But she smiles at him and puts her arm around his skinny ribs. He
holds her tight and she falls asleep on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

  Brittany wakes up and her head is sore, and her tummy. To open her eyes is hard and when she does she sees a place she doesn’t know. She feels Mr. Brown fluffy by her hand and she picks him up and holds him to her chest.

  “Mommy?” she says. “Mommy!”

  Nobody says nothing to her, so she looks round and sees a room and a TV and the room is getting dark. She climbs down off the sofa, holding tight on Mr. Brown, and then she sees a old auntie lying on the floor, sleeping. So she goes to the auntie and pulls at her dress.

  “Auntie. Auntie!” she says but the old lady don’t wanna wake up.

  Brittany feels big tears on her face and she is very, very scared now. She goes to the door but the handle is too far away. She sees another door, open, and walks through and she’s in a kitchen and she has to chase away flies that buzz on her. Hates flies. They carry germs, her mommy says.

  There’s another door, with a key inside it. Brittany sits Mr. Brown nicely down on the ground and she takes a kitchen chair and pulls and pulls and pulls, making a squeaky noise until the chair is by the door.

  She climbs up and gets her hand to the key and it won’t turn but then it does and she opens the door till it bumps the chair, so she gets down and moves it so she can go outside with Mr. Brown and she’s in a small yard with sand and no grass.

  The sun is going to sleep now, but Brittany sees an uncle standing by a shack, over a little fence. The uncle has got lots of pictures on him and he calls her, “Girlie, girlie, come here.”

  So her and Mr. Brown go to the fence. “You want nice sweeties?” the uncle says.

  She shakes her head. “No. I want my mommy.”