Stolen Life

by Charmaine Pauls

  When my eyes burn and my shoulder aches, I lie down on the sofa and pull the throw over me. It smells of Cas, of orange blossoms and sweet, difficult woman. My hard-on strains against the zipper of my jeans. I had plans for that mouth of hers that would’ve taken care of the problem in my pants, but that will have to wait. Sighing, I turn on my side to catch a few hours of shuteye.

  Before the first light, I’m up. I grab a clean shirt from the washing line outside the kitchen and shave and shower in the guest bathroom. I’ve eaten breakfast and prepared a tray with coffee and French toast by the time the staff comes in. As I locked my rifle in the room last night, I take another from the office cabinet, sling it over my shoulder, and carry the tray with the catalog to my bungalow.

  The door swings open without a squeak. The hinges are always oiled. Behind the mosquito net, Cas’s body is a vague outline on her side of the bed. I want to take my time and love her body gently. I want to kiss her before I go. I leave the tray on the desk by the window and place the catalog next to it. Taking one of the roses I’d gotten for Cas from the vase, I lay it on top of the catalog before going over to the bed.

  I slide a finger between the opening of the net, pushing the edges aside. She’s lying on her back with her hands crossed over her chest like an Egyptian mummy. Her breasts rise and fall with peaceful breaths. She’s dressed in one of my T-shirts, looking the way I like her best—like mine.

  The sheet has slipped to her middle. I’m indecent enough to hook a finger under the sheet and drag it down her legs. My T-shirt is bunched around her waist, exposing the humble, cheap, white panties we bought at the store, and fuck me if the sight of that innocent cotton doesn’t turn me as hard as granite.

  I want to crawl over her, pull the elastic of those panties aside, and wake her up with my cock buried balls-deep inside her. I want to fuck her while she wears that modest piece of underwear, and then I want to dress her up in the sleezy lace and make her come around my dick wearing those too. I want to strip her naked and pin her ass against the bare window while I eat her out on my knees. Instead, I lower the rifle to the floor, bend over her, and plant a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

  She’s gorgeous in her sleep, innocent, and I don’t have the heart to wake her. I linger only long enough to cover her with the sheet. Even though the windows are protected with mosquito screens, I tie the strings of the mosquito net together. With her chronic medication, she can’t take malaria pills. Even if she could, I wouldn’t allow it. The side effects are too damaging on the liver and neurological system. If anyone on the property shows the slightest symptoms of a cold, we immediately have them tested. Treatment is effective. This is one of the rare cases in which prevention isn’t better than cure.

  Like every morning, I set out her pills with fresh water. I make sure her phone is charged and leave it next to the pills. Caressing her shape one last time with my gaze, I take the rifle and leave quietly.

  The sun is up when I get back to the main building. Leon and Ruben are waiting on the deck, each with a steaming mug in his hands.

  “Ready?” I say as I climb the steps.

  The question is redundant. They went out to get laid—a tradition to take off the edge before every heist—but they would’ve ensured they got enough sleep to be alert and in top shape. In our occupation, negligence isn’t an option.

  Ruben chucks what’s left of his coffee onto the lawn. Leon leaves his mug on the table and grabs the bag that stands ready at his feet.

  Shona and Banga come to greet us.

  “Be safe,” Shona says.

  “Take care of Cas.” I look one after the other in the eye. “Don’t let anything happen to her.”

  I don’t have to say more. They understand the implications of disobeying orders. More than that, they’re too loyal to want to displease me.

  We don’t take the Jeep. I always leave the Jeep for the staff to use. Everyone working at the lodge knows how to drive.

  Ruben dumps the bag in the back of the Hummer.

  Leon takes the passenger side. He’s not driving so that he can check the last-minute details on the app on his phone.

  “We better go. The pilot is waiting,” my brother says before shutting the door.

  I get into the driver’s side, suppressing the urge to tell Ruben to drive so I can send Cas a text message. I don’t want the guys to think I’m distracted, which I am.

  The moment we hit the road, I go into operational mode. The familiar adrenaline starts pumping, and my mind is tactical again. The only difference is that where my heart used to be empty, it’s now filled with new sentiments, the most foreign of those fear.

  I’ve never had this much to lose.

  Chapter 9

  Cas

  He left.

  I know it the minute I open my eyes, even before I register the empty space next to me in bed. As if our spirits are connected, it’s an instinctive knowledge. The room smells of him, of that hint of tobacco. It’s not the scent that always lingers as an afterthought of his presence. It’s stronger. Has he been back while I was sleeping? Of course he has. My pills and phone are set out on the nightstand.

  My chest constricts, and breathing becomes more difficult.

  Ian left.

  A sudden quietness assaults me. The birds are chirping outside. It’s not that kind of quietness. It’s the kind when all your visitors leave at once, and you’re left alone in an empty house.

  I get up, untie the mosquito net, and follow the scent of honey and coffee to the desk. Ian left a tray. I lift the silver lid from the plate. French toast drizzled with honey. Next to the tray lies a catalog the size of an encyclopedia, and on top of it one of the roses from the vase. I pick up the flower and inhale its sweet perfume before turning my attention to the catalog. The address at the bottom says Milan, Italy. It’s a famous European brand. I fan the pages. Casual wear, formal wear, sleepwear, underwear, dresses, shoes, handbags—you name it. The pricelist in the back boasts ridiculously high numbers. I let the catalog fall closed.

  I shouldn’t have let him go like that. I hate Ian for locking me up, but I can’t help but worry about him. What he does is dangerous. Now that he’s wanted for murder, his life is at stake. If ambushed, the cops will shoot before asking questions. That’s how Wolfe works. He doesn’t play by the rules or care about following laws or else he wouldn’t have blackmailed me into becoming an informant for him.

  Murder or not, I want Ian. What does that say about me? When he’s close, I can’t think straight. His presence is too big. I can only see the village he rebuilt and the people he takes care of. When I see, hear, feel, and breathe him, he blinds me to the crimes I should be focusing on. Yet he’s not here now, and my eyes are wide open to everything he is. That doesn’t prevent me from being worried sick.

  Biting my lip, I glance at my phone. Should I call him? No. What if he’s busy with something dangerous? I don’t want to distract him. I pick up a slice of toast. It’s still warm. He couldn’t have left long ago. Not wanting to waste such a considerate effort, I eat the delicious meal and drink the coffee on the deck.

  After breakfast, I shower and dress in a new pair of jeans and a tank top. With nothing else to do, I page through the catalog on the deck. It doesn’t take my mind off my worries, but I circle a few items I like, practical clothes like jeans, T-shirts, sandals, and a bikini. I’m not planning on ordering any of it. I’m just trying to distract myself.

  A purple, velvet dress catches my eye. It’s a classic design, almost old-fashioned, but I love it. I play a game of creating an outfit with matching shoes and a bag, but my mind has its own ideas. It imagines wearing the outfit for Ian, drawing my attention back to my nagging concern.

  Dumping the catalog on the desk in the room, I take the two-way radio from the dresser drawer and dial reception.

  Shona’s voice comes onto the line. “Do you need anything?”

  “Dumêla,” I say, addressing her in Tswana. “Where’s Ian?” />
  “He’ll be back in a couple of days.”

  A couple of days! My stomach flips over. I can’t sit here and bite my nails for one more minute. “Can you please send someone to fetch me?”

  “I’ll bring lunch over by twelve.”

  “I’d like to see Banga.”

  “He’s busy.”

  “Fine. I’ll just take my chances.”

  She must think I’m bluffing, because the line goes dead.

  Most wild animals will only attack to protect themselves if they feel threatened. I know not to cut off an elephant’s path and not to run when a lion charges. A cobra will spit before it bites, and a rinkhals will play dead.

  After applying a generous amount of sunblock and mosquito repellent, I grab my phone, close the door, and set off on the path. I keep vigilant as I walk. Being out here is invigorating. The rush of the water is a pleasant noise, and the early sun on my back feels good. I inhale the clean air. Despite my problems and concerns, my lungs expand in an easier way. I cross the bridge and make the last stretch without any incidents. Wataida, who is trimming the grass around the trees, throws down the shears when he sees me.

  “Aikona!” He jumps from kneeling to his feet. “Missus Cas!”

  Shona rushes out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dishcloth. Her eyes grow huge when she sees me.

  “Are you mad?” she exclaims, running after me as I make my way inside. “Do you know what Ian will do to us if anything happens to you?”

  I walk into the office and hold out my palm at a shocked Banga. “I want the key for the Jeep.”

  He glances behind him to where the keys for the vehicles hang on hooks on a wooden board.

  Flicking my fingers, I say, “Now.”

  He looks at Shona who’s stormed in behind me.

  “Miss Cas,” Shona says. “What’s going on?”

  “Just Cas will do.” I flick my fingers again. “Key.”

  It takes another moment before Banga finds his voice. “The gates are locked. They work with an access code and the mesh is electrified.” He stutters. “There are guards on duty.”

  “Don’t worry. I know it’s impossible to escape. I just want to visit the village.”

  He frowns. “Why?”

  I prop my hands on my hips. “Why not? I live here now, don’t I?”

  “I…” He scratches his head, shooting another pleading glance at Shona.

  “Bring a rifle and get the key,” she says.

  He gapes at her. “What?”

  She takes off her apron and drapes it with the dishcloth over the back of the chair. “You heard me.”

  In a short while, the three of us are making our way to the other side of the property in the Jeep. Banga drives, and I’m seated next to him. Shona sits in the back, holding the rifle. Instead of turning toward the village, Banga takes the road to the gates. He parks short of them. The two guards armed with automatic rifles who sit in the shade of a tree get to their feet.

  “You see?” Banga says, waving at the three-meter-high metal gates with an electrical danger sign on the front and barbed wire on the top. “Locked, electrified, and guarded.”

  I cross my arms. “I said I believed you, but thanks for the tour. Ian already showed me yesterday when he took me to town. Village. Now.”

  He regards me with skepticism. “You still want to go there?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Shaking his head, he reverses and takes the turn-off.

  After a long, bumpy ride, we cross the cattle bridge and enter the enclosed fields with fences keeping the animals out. He takes the dirt track and drives into the heart of the settlement, parking in front of the white building in the center.

  “What would you like to see?” he asks, but I’m already climbing down from the Jeep.

  A few woman carrying baskets on their heads stop to stare at me. The children at their feet gape openly. I go straight for the clinic.

  It’s a small building consisting of a reception area and a door leading off to each side and the back. The door sign on the left reads consultation room and the one on the right dispensary. A sign above a hallway leading toward the back reads toilets.

  Two people are waiting in the reception area, but when Shona tells the receptionists who I am, she picks up an old-fashioned, rotary dial telephone and announces my visit. A woman dressed in a white uniform—the nurse, I presume—immediately comes out of the consultation room.

  Her smile is broad. “What can I do for you, Miss Cas?”

  “Just Cas,” I say in Tswana.

  She does a double take. If possible, her smile turns even wider. “Okay, Cas. I’m Maita.”

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you.” I wave at the patients. “I’ll wait my turn.”

  “No, go ahead.” At my hesitation, she adds, “They’re only here to pick up prescription medicine. They won’t mind waiting a few minutes. You’re our guest of honor after all.”

  Guest of honor is an interesting way of putting it.

  Banga shuffles his feet next to me, and Shona watches me with curiosity.

  “Do you have the morning-after pill?” I ask.

  Banga coughs. Shona gives the minutest shake of her head.

  The smile vanishes from the nurse’s face. A blank look comes over her features. “I’m sorry, no. We administer the shot for the women who request birth control. We haven’t needed any stock up to now.”

  “Ah.” My shoulders sag with disappointment. Today was my last chance of getting a pill. After tomorrow, the window of opportunity would’ve closed.

  “Do you need anything else?” she asks.

  “No. Thank you anyway.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her smile returns, but unlike earlier, the gesture is uncertain. “Drop in any time you like.”

  After saying the customary polite greeting to the nurse, receptionist, and the patients, I walk outside into the bright sunlight. What am I supposed to make of her attitude? Somehow, I get the feeling her reservation had more to do with fear of Ian’s reaction to my request than judgment.

  Stopping on the pavement, I prop my hands on my hips and look around. The small village is a neatly organized network of dirt roads crossing the main road that runs through the center. A convenience store makes up half of the block on the opposite side of the clinic, and the other half is taken up by a school. The designations of the buildings are painted across the walls in big, bold letters. Whereas the clay walls of the thatched huts are decorated with beautiful, ochre patterns, the graffiti on the school and general store walls are colorful. It’s artistically done.

  Banga keeps the respectable three steps of distance between us. “Where to now, Miss—uh, Cas?”

  His uncomfortable fiddling tells me he’d like to get back to the office and his work, but I didn’t force him to come. Shona did. I trace the hills with my gaze to where the maize gives way to vegetable crops on the banks of the river. Women, some with baskets and others with babies tied to their backs, are bent over rows of cabbages.

  “There,” I say, pointing toward the vegetable plantations.

  Banga frowns.

  I climb back into the Jeep. “Give me a tour of the town first.”

  We drive down the main road while Shona points out the buildings. The open-air boma with a thatched roof for shade serves as a crafts factory where women make jewelry from seed pods and beads. Others weave baskets from grass. The chatter is lively and the atmosphere jovial. We’re greeted with much curiosity and enthusiasm. I immediately like the place. Shona explains the other crafts as she gives me the tour. Plastic bags that are cleaned up from the side of the main road to Vic Falls are recycled into woven floor rugs and placemats. Some women batik-dye fabric or weave wool for knitting.

  On the opposite side, men make furniture and carve ornaments from wood. Ebony figurines, animals, and chess sets are polished to a shine to be sold at the local markets in Vic Falls as well as exported to the African markets in neighboring coun
tries. I admire the goods and chat a little with the artisans before Shona says it’s getting close to lunchtime and we better move on.

  After the market, we visit the terrain where maize flour is produced with an old-fashioned donkey mill. The inhabitants’ industriousness is the reason they’re thriving. Every hut is thatched and its walls decorated. The gardens are neat with squash and pumpkins in the back and orange daisies in the front.

  At the end of the street is a hall for gatherings and children’s concerts, and the traditional shebeen is situated across the road. The shebeen has an inside bar area and picnic tables and benches outside. A reed awning that provides shade is decorated with colorful beads and dry seed pods. A giant speaker covered in dust stands in the corner, and next to it is a huge, stainless-steel brewing kettle. I’m guessing they use the kettle for brewing barley beer, which is the most common drink served at the local shebeens.

  “Shall we head back now?” Banga asks, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

  “I want to see the crops.”

  His face drops, but he says nothing as he drives us down to the banks of the river.

  I haven’t felt this alive in a long time. Town living has chipped away my joie de vivre a little more with every passing day. Because it happened so gradually over so many years, I haven’t noticed how much of myself I’d lost until now. Working in a bank has never made my heart beat faster. The casino and its dazzling lights, one of Rustenburg’s biggest nearby attractions, never held the draw for me it held for some people. What makes me happy is the carefree laughter of women stringing beads and dying fabric. It’s the grazing cows in the tall grass on the hill and the steady flow of the river at the bottom.

  The women working in the crops straighten when we park. They watch our approach with curious gazes. I start at the top, walking through rows of carrots and leeks and ending at the cabbages. A woman dressed in a yellow dress with a black batik design and matching turban greets me.