The Lazarus Effect
Page 1
THE
LAZARUS
EFFECT
HJ Golakai
To my family, who know me best and worst. And Miss Gloria Dunbar, for teaching me ‘the difference’.
You will live by the sword and you will serve your brother. But when you grow restless, you will throw his yoke from off your neck.
Genesis 27:40
The Holy Bible
New International Version
THE
LAZARUS
EFFECT
HJ Golakai
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Anatomy of a Murder Strawberry lips
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Anatomy of a Murder Diamonds on the soles
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Anatomy of a Murder Call me
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Anatomy of a Murder Just do it
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Prologue
The teenager broke the bones of her neck and wrist and felt no pain. The core of her being, a vibrant girl who had loved the colour red and salty, vinegar-soaked chips, was gone – spirit and flesh had parted ways two years earlier. The husk left behind meandered through an underground drainpipe. The pipe traversed a field and wandered into a residential suburb with a brisk business imprint, its chambers swollen with rainwater. A torrent of filth – mud, plastic garbage, the effluent of other people’s lives and carelessness – pushed the remains back and forth.
The girl’s corpse had lain dry and undisturbed for over two summers, nestled in a storm drain protected from the elements by pipe failure in the drainage system. This year’s rains were particularly brutal, disrupting the rest haven. Flooded, the concrete channel rolled and settled, shifting and releasing its contents. The corpse had knocked through kilometres of sub-city planning, bones breaking along the way. Now, it faced a battle of size versus mechanics: the larger channel diverted into smaller culverts and the force of the run-off was too weak to expel the unusually large cargo. The girl’s corpse lay wedged between a fair-sized stone and the unyielding lip of a pipe – stuck, literally, between a rock and hard place, rocking gently in the current.
Braving the cold on a nearby footbridge, a solitary figure hopped from foot to foot, waiting for some sign of the body. After days of rain, the torrent should have released it, or a piece of it, by now. Nothing had appeared, meaning it had to be stuck in the system. Something like this had been bound to happen. The watcher had been quick to the scene within an hour of the first raindrops falling and had tried and failed to pull off a rescue mission. Trying to fight the strong current in a confined space, alone and on an empty stomach, was a mad idea. A death wish. Only the living could fight for the dead, and the watcher felt frozen between those two worlds most of the time.
So, the watcher watched. As the first to have seen the dead girl dumped in the storm drain and the last one to see her alive, the watcher’s waiting was mixed with a strange sense of loss. She wasn’t coming out. Eventually she would, but not today or tomorrow. And when she did, whatever terrible things had landed her under the city would pop out, too. Trouble was behind her; the watcher also waited with a sense of dread.
Breathe.
A few hundred metres away, a solo jogger zipping past the open expanse of Rondebosch Common grappled with the smaller but no less important issue of personal biology.
Voinjama Johnson grunted as her legs ate up asphalt. She had no objection at all to the principle of fitness; in fact, she’d missed – in a distant, offhand way – her university days as a star track and fielder. But this new ‘taking back command’ routine – forcing herself to do things like run at ungodly hours to prove to her body that she was mistress of it – was a pain in the ass. She sucked in lungfuls of air, eyes watering a little as it nipped around her nostrils. The rub of a Cape Town winter, a temperamental witch’s brew of whipping winds and slanting rain and rolling fog and wan sunlight, wasn’t much help either.
Vee cruised to a halt and bent double, hands gripping knees, appalled at how unfit she was. Her mind was definitely racing faster than her body; miraculous, considering how much more baggage it had. Thoughts to the tune of, Please, by summertime, let it be over. Or let it be better, easier. If things had improved, if ‘it’ had come under control by then, she’d fulfil every promise (lie) she’d made to God. Anything so that these absurd morning runs wouldn’t be necessary any more. The running was meant to clear her head, but evidently the blockage up there was being cleverly circumvented. Doctors couldn’t tell you everything …
‘Can’t tell you squat,’ she wheezed, clenching her teeth against another stab of leg pain.
… but it was reasonable to assume that at least one of their remedies would’ve worked, either by blind luck or a process of elimination. Psychosomatic manifestation of pain. Hyperventilation. Periodic blackouts. Idiopathic illness, they said, shaking their heads. We can’t diagnose if we can’t pinpoint a causative agent. Apparently, no diagnosis was still reason enough to medicate every symptom to death. Take these pills to help you sleep. No thanks, they carry me down too deep. Then I’m groggy all day. These ones should work for the pain. They knock out all my other senses, too. I zombiefy. Homeopathic medicine? I can’t afford it! And isn’t that just white people’s version of witchcraft? Start a pastime then. Do something creative. I have a job that pays me to do that. How much more creativity do I need? No, not your job. For yourself. You need a hobby to take your mind off things.
To take a mind off a thing. So simple a principle, yet so mammoth an undertaking. Mind … thing … flick of a switch … off. If only life were so–
A series of spasms interrupted her thoughts, growing from flutters and trembles into agonising, involuntary clenches, and then rolling into one whole-body muscle seizure. Vee hunched and bit a howl down to a low groan. Bad, bad place and time. Making a spectacle of herself on the Common like an addict in the throes of a meltdown: terrible idea.
Through a prickling of sweat and tears, she flexed enough to catch sight of another jogger, bounding along with all the vim and vitality she would never have. Summoning all the strength she had, all she knew she’d have for the rest of the morning, Vee pulled herself upright. Her vision swam.
The mirage, a caterpillar-like blur of white sneakers in a streak of maroon, tightened focus into the figure of a dark-haired young woman in a velour tracksuit. You can’t find those tracksuits anywhere now, Vee thought, arra
nging her features into a mask of affable exhaustion. Two, three years ago they were the rage in shops, from cheap to boutique. Finding one now was like looking for a kidney on the black market. The woman looked Vee over and began to slow down, concern creeping into her smile. Grinning, Vee flipped her a reassuring thumbs-up and dug her fingers into her waist under the strain of keeping her legs steady, letting the woman take in her sweaty face and heaving chest for good measure. They exchanged the ‘you get it’ nods and smiles of those who shared intimate knowledge of a gruelling activity and the woman jogged on, shiny ponytail swishing behind her.
Vee felt her legs buckle, welcomed the concrete embrace of the footpath as she collapsed near its grassy verge. She fought to keep her lids open and eyes in focus, to keep her chest from exploding. Her arms twitched at her sides.
She disappeared down the mouth of the monster, the sensation of being swallowed crushing down on her breastbone, squeezing sound out of the air around her. Her eyes were live coals, scorching holes towards the back of her skull. Everything shimmered.
Through the haze coating her eyes, another figure materialised and moved closer. The outline was familiar … that of a teenage girl in a red woollen hat. Vee’s scream disintegrated into a croak in the back of her throat. She scuttled away, oblivious to shards of gravel digging into her back until a particularly jagged edge forced her to a halt. Wheezing for air against the knot lodged in her throat, she closed her eyes and counted backwards from fifty-three. Why fifty-three she had no clue – it had worked once in the past.
Vee got to zero, took several deep drags of air and blinked at the dawn once more. The girl in the red beanie was still there. Vee released a shuddering breath, squeezed her eyes closed again and ran through another countdown. This time when she opened her eyes, the expression on the girl’s face was a mixture of impatience and amusement, the smirk of someone who was in a hurry but wasn’t above killing a few minutes to see how long Vee’s silliness would continue. Once she had Vee’s full attention, the girl proceeded to do what she always did: head cocked, she studied Vee from her superior vantage point, a hunter at the end of a kill, watching an animal thrash out its pitiable last. Then her eyes softened. She shot a look over her shoulder and back to Vee several times, motioning with one hand.
She’s not misting.
Of course she wasn’t. Because she wasn’t there, wasn’t real. As solid as the teenager looked, tangible as a tree or scurrying squirrel, one detail betrayed her. Her chest rose and fell, but the winter chill belied proof of life. Vee watched her own breath turn to white mist as it hit the air; her tormentor had none. She moaned. She was losing her mind. Her heart thudded against the roof of her mouth like a tiny, dying bird.
‘Oh my God, are you all right?’
Vee peeped out from behind her hands, this time into a pair of eyes in a highly concerned and very real white face. She tried to answer and it came out a burble of gibberish running over her lips. Head lolling, she tried to relax and dug deep. Try again. Use your words, Johnson. Stand up. Kick your own ass if you have to.
Hovering, the woman patted down her pockets as her tiny, manic ruff of a dog bounced up and down, yipping.
‘You saw her?’ Vee managed at last. ‘She was right over there, with the red hat. You saw her, too?’
‘Who?’ The woman brandished her cell phone and fumbled with the keypad, peering down at Vee and scanning the area, fearful. ‘Saw who? Where? Were you mugged? Just hang on, young lady. I’m calling for help.’
Vee relinquished control of her neck muscles. Vomit spurted down her T-shirt and over her shoulder as she allowed her head to roll onto the pavement one final time. The dog licked the regurgitated breakfast off her face, while the owner struggled between pushing the animal away and yelling into the phone.
Vee closed her eyes against another really shitty morning.
ANATOMY OF A MURDER
Strawberry lips
Jacqui smoothed the duvet cover against the bed as flat as she could get it. Then she folded … once … twice … tucked the edges in tight under the mattress, smoothing her hand along as she went. A well-made bed mattered to her mother, and these days what mattered to her mother mattered to Jacqui. The kak would hit the fan soon enough and the more she did to sweeten the inescapable journey through hell, the easier she’d make things on herself.
The floor she could never get clean enough. Besides that, it really ruined the whole room. It simply didn’t match. She had no idea how something as concrete as a floor could be out of place, since all the other bits either had to work around it or ignore it completely. But this one did its best to piss her off. She didn’t know much about styling yet, but one day she definitely would. One day, when she was an interior designer, or just a designer, period, knowing and being known for having cutting-edge information on such things would be her effing biznas! Cool would radiate from her in waves and people would envy her taste. She’d have closets bursting with top-notch stylish clothes that her friends could borrow without bothering to return. Her super-expensive convertible would have spinning rims and her mansion would be full of pimped-out shit–
‘Sherbet,’ Jacqui corrected herself out loud. ‘Sherbet, sherbet, sherbet! Never say shit, say sherbet!’ she ranted, scraping the broom over the ugly floor. No one would ever respect a designer with a foul mouth or covet her fashion advice. But then again, she knew for a fact that arty people were always pumped to the eyeballs with drugs and screwed around carelessly, swearing being one of their more normal habits. This new ‘afterlife of her eternal soul’ thing kept getting harder and harder to live up to.
Okay, fine, it wasn’t too bad. The socialising part of being born again was actually kind of fun: the youth meetings, braais and parties, the study groups where they did more gossiping than homework. Later on, though, after she made it big, how would all of this conflict with her image? Separate and part of a personal life was one thing – it could be easily packaged as a no-go area and even lend a bit of mystique to a star personality. But part and parcel of a public image, unless you were a gospel icon, was plain uncool. It soured quickly and could end up looking like a cheap publicity stunt, and there wasn’t much picking yourself up after that. She’d seen it happen too often: big break, the dazzling rise, media darling … then poof! Some stink rose from the grave and there went all your hard work. Back to eating pap en vleis on your ouma’s stoep. A girl had to be careful. Image was everything.
‘Jacqueline!’
‘Yes, Mum!’
‘Don’t shout at me when I call you! And that room had better be spotless before you even dream of going anywhere!’
Jacqui bit back a slew of curses and kept sweeping. She was practically out of the house; all she had to do was hold her tongue a little while longer. Once she was done, she turned her hand to finishing touches, adjusting the carpet in front of the door and lamps on the side tables, opening the curtains to let in the light. Her mother hated open windows and rudely gaping curtains, especially since the flimsy red material Jacqui had insisted on didn’t hide much without the heavier ones drawn over them. A young woman undressing with nothing but saucy voile between her and the leering eyes of pervers-by, candles flicking their glow onto the windowpane, a soft breeze drifting past …
A teasing smirk lifted Jacqui’s lips. Okay, sometimes it was obvious she hadn’t worked the poison of too many girlie movies out of her system. But if only they knew … If only she could get it through to both of her parents, without actually having to tell and crush them, that it was too late to headache over spilt milk. All she could do now was stay on the mostly straight, annoyingly narrow and often boring. Well, she could do her best. No doubt her mother would be up here after she left, yanking the curtains shut, snooping through her things while trying not to leave obvious signs that she had, doing her best to preserve their humble home’s dignity. It was worth a try.
Jacqui checked the time and threw the rest of her look together in the last few minutes. It
was cool and cloudy outside, showers threatening to come through later, so she stuffed her hair under her favourite red knitted cap. Saturday tennis wasn’t as big a deal as basketball training but still counted as an outing, and outings, thanks to her mum, were as rare and precious as gemstones these days. Every outing meant dressing up.
She zipped the tracksuit top of her school kit over a plain, loose T-shirt, liking how it worked with worn blue jeans and battered Bata tekkies. Saturday girl: scruffy chic, effortless. All her cool, new gear was zipped away, only to be worn during practice, and maybe after, depending on how brave she felt. No point inviting more questions when escape was so near.
Jacqui slung her gym bag over a shoulder and took one last look in the full-length mirror. She made a face. Too plain. She unzipped a side pouch of the tote and fished around until she found her make-up bag. Couldn’t hurt if she dotted on just a bit of her favourite lip gloss. Fruity and rose-red, just the way she liked it. Her lips gleamed as she smeared them together. She pulled a few curls out of her ponytail, rounding off the cute messiness effect.
Much better. Jacqui lifted her index finger, licked the tip and then pressed it down onto her jutting bum, hissing air out of her teeth like the sound of a cigarette going out on something wet. A sway of hips and a giggle propelled her out the door.
Oh, behave.
1
The waiting room was an airless sinkhole of Monday-morning blues, its crisp décor struggling to lift the mood. Vee, an unrepentant fan of a brisk breeze, would’ve gotten up to crack a window, were her godson not sprawled across her lap. After twenty minutes of butt-hopping into any available seat to avoid the sun’s glare, she didn’t feel like bothering. To top it off, she was starving. Why did everything in this bloody city take so long?
The sit-in of glum faces around her didn’t seem to know either, or care. A paediatric appointment in this joint was a gem not readily discarded, though Vee was considering it. Every few minutes, the man beside her fired a round of coughs too rich for Vee’s liking, making her question whether it was the child he had in tow who needed to see a doctor. She kept her godson to her chest and leaned away, smiling politely. This was Cape Town and tuberculosis was real. You could never be too sure.