by H. J Golakai
Vee settled back for a biology brush-up. In short, sufferers needed transplants from donors who matched their human leucocyte antigen, or HLA, type. The HLA complex was made of surface proteins found on white blood cells, the gatekeepers of transplant outcome. The lymphocytes had a search-and-destroy system for killing foreign cells entering the body. It made sense, then, that a high level of genetic similarity between the donor and recipient was critical, otherwise the transplanted cells would be hunted as ‘enemies’ and annihilated. HLA types were inherited, with parts of the gene coming from both parents. In theory, the odds were good that a child with many siblings would find a match.
‘But that’s only the science on paper. In reality, it’s difficult to find a suitable match, and unfortunately Sean was unlucky. None of the kids was even remotely a possibility.’
Until Jacqui.
The unspoken hung over them like a cloud of napalm.
‘Aren’t patients commonly put onto transplant waiting lists in case the family angle falls through? Surely Sean was on one, to up his chances?’ Vee asked.
The doctors exchanged a weighted look. For a brief second, Ian looked at his wife like a vulnerable, frightened man and Carina looked back with the deer-softness of an understanding wife.
Like a magic trick, they snapped back into formation.
‘Yes, he was on the national registry. We even went abroad for a short while to explore options. But, as I said, nothing’s guaranteed. Once you venture outside, the likelihood of finding a match drops and riskiness of the procedure goes up. The waiting lists are long, and with Sean’s prognosis it could’ve been too late before we found a donor. In any case, it was then that I found out … I was made aware of …’
Carina swallowed and tried again. ‘The option of testing Jacqueline presented itself,’ she managed to choke out. Vee refrained from openly arching her brows. ‘An option presenting itself’ – now there was a euphemism to describe the crash landing of the Paulsens.
The walls flew up after that. Any question that demanded more than a one-word reply, the Fouries covered in minimal, often monosyllabic detail. Had they at any point offered Ms Paulsen compensation for her daughter’s donation? How had Jacqui got along with the other children in the years following Sean’s death? Could they shed any new light on her disappearance, and had they been fully transparent with the police?
Blank stares and muttered responses.
Vee kept jotting in her notepad, her voice recorder still rolling. Is it me or does this whole family have a very disturbing vibe? ‘One final question,’ she added, lancing a forced smile in the direction of Ian’s pointed glance at his watch. Seriously? If anyone’s morning had been wasted, it was hers. ‘You explained how Sean’s body had to be prepped to receive bone marrow cells from his sister.’ Every time she pointedly substituted Jacqui’s name for ‘their sister’, she got a response. Ian stayed deadpan but his jaw would clench, and there would be an involuntary jerk of the shoulder or quiver in the hand from Carina.
‘Myeloablation, it’s called,’ Ian nodded. ‘As much of his diseased marrow had to be destroyed beforehand. After transfusion, Jacqui’s healthy cells would multiply and replenish his supply, like jump-starting his immune system.’
Vee nodded that she understood. ‘So Adele had agreed. Sean had been prepped and so had Jacqui. Doctors were standing by. And then, out of nowhere, Adele has a change of heart and takes her daughter home. Right before the operation. What made her do an about-face?’
After an hour of smoke and mirrors, she’d found one loose thread to pull at. Carina dug the fingers of one hand so deep into the back of the other that half-moons of white formed under her nails.
‘Adele was scared,’ Ian interjected, just as his wife opened her mouth. ‘We’d put a lot on her plate and expected an immediate answer. There’s never any accounting for how a mother will react in a situation like this, how any parent would.’
‘The transplant … it never happened, then?’ Vee knew the answer but watching them narrate was infinitely more telling than working from notes.
Ian shook his head. ‘Jacqui was home for a couple of days as we tried to talk sense into Adele. But like, overnight, Sean got an infection, or maybe the bug had taken hold already and we had missed it. In any case, his immunity was depleted and the doctors couldn’t fight it. There was nothing anyone could’ve done.’
‘She could’ve let her daughter stay in the hospital.’ Carina was a statue with moving lips, her shoulders so taut they were nearly brushing her ears. ‘She could’ve allowed Jacqui to stay. The transplant would’ve gone ahead and Sean might still …’ She choked, breathing deeply to collect herself. She turned to Ian. Vee could only see her in profile, and felt a rush of gratitude she didn’t have to be the one facing that level of contempt every day. ‘That woman had no right to decide my son’s fate. You gave her the power to let my son die.’
‘Carina, please,’ Ian quavered. ‘It could’ve happened at any time. The risk of a fatal infection is always high in–’
Carina stood up, opened the door and walked out.
Interview over.
21
The slap chips on the plastic plate did a waltz under the aimless manoeuvring of Marieke Venter’s fork. Across the table, Vee joyfully fed her face with a mutton bunny chow. She adored street food – the cultural nuances, the brazen messiness and flirtation with questionable hygiene, how you needed to tuck into it with both hands. Best dining experience ever. After years of boarding-school slop and refugee rations, nothing beat the sidewalk for grab and go’s.
Gravy dribbled down her wrist and she licked at it joyfully.
‘It’s good, right?’ Marieke preened. The food kiosk was her special place, one of a few close to the garage at which she could get great food. It was packed, but Marieke had said a few words to management and got a table outside under the striped awning. ‘People say this lady makes the best curries and fish and chips in Cape Town. I’m always here on my break.’
Vee took a swallow of beer and managed a ladylike burp. ‘They sure ain’t lyin’.’ Lunch out of the office was a welcome change.
She wiped her mouth on a napkin and waited for Marieke to work around to the conversation she was itching to have. Twenty minutes into lunch and the voice recorder had gathered nothing but small talk. But Marieke had called, so the ball was in her court. Vee was on a streak today, what with all the verbal diarrhoea and people calling her up to act as the commode.
‘You’re not what I expected.’ Pale eyes gave Vee a once-over and skittered away. Marieke mashed a chip with her fork and ate it. ‘How come your name’s Johnson?’
‘It’s a long story.’ Vee stretched and fumbled under the table, trying to undo the button of her jeans undercover. She was definitely getting a takeaway, mutton curry with rice this time. ‘In a nutshell, I’m related to the president of my country. We’re descended from a royal tribe, so we automatically get to rule.’
Marieke’s eyebrows reached for her hairline. ‘Tjo, really! So how come you’re living here instead of rolling in it at home?’
Bless. Here was an unspoilt soul. Marieke looked about Chlöe’s age, but aside from the perkiness they couldn’t have been more different. Vee grinned and did a comical shrug.
The joke finally sank in and Marieke burst out laughing. ‘Oi, you’re messing with me! Of course you’re not related to a president.’ She stirred the mess on her plate. ‘That’s what I mean by you’re not what I expected. Especially since you called so many times. I thought you’d be one of those reporter types, following us home with cameras and harassing us by the door. Or like cops do, grab you off the streets and beat you up till you talk.’
‘I’m not allowed to kick ass any more. My boss made me go for sensitivity training.’
Marieke gasped. ‘Oh my word, you mean you actually used to –’ She caught on quickly this time. She giggled and wagged a finger at Vee. ‘You do that a lot.’
Marieke relaxe
d. Vee soaked in the hum of the restaurant, letting ambient conversation and the beat of Afro-pop music from the speakers envelop their table.
Marieke cleared her throat. ‘I need you to understand my brother. To really get him, so you get where he’s coming from in all this. Ashwin’s a good guy. He’s had his moments over the years, but he’s always been there for us.’
Ashwin was the eldest of three, Marieke explained, and she was in the middle. From problems in school to minor run-ins with the cops, he’d made a name for himself as the black sheep of the family. Carousing with a bad lot had blossomed into gang-level exploits. Their father had battled for years with diabetes until he’d lost. Shunted into man-sized shoes, Ashwin had taken over the garage. Vee read between the lines easily enough: putting bread on the household table was more Marieke’s responsibility than her brother’s.
‘Is it true that he’s got two children with former girlfriends?’
Marieke nodded a curly head. ‘He pays full maintenance. I see to it.’ She rushed on, ‘Not that he wouldn’t if I didn’t; of course he would. He loves his boys. I’m not even sure if they’re both his. One of the mothers is such a bloody gold-digger, but he does the right thing.’
‘Which gang did he run with back in the day?’
‘It wasn’t even a real gang. They broke off from this other group of losers and started calling themselves The Lynxes. Then they weren’t sure if ‘lynxes’ was the right word so they cut it down to just Lynx … They had these horrible tattoos that looked like a dodgy ostrich. Shem man, no wonder nobody took them seriously.’
Riled up now, Marieke dished the dirt on Ashwin’s tempestuous relationship with Jacqui, none of which was news. Vee waited her out. This one was a distance runner; she liked to warm up to the meaty stuff.
‘After Jacqui went missing, everyone assumed Ashwin was behind it. The way they were always fighting, making up and breaking up … I couldn’t blame them. But I know him. He’s done some stupid things, but he’s not that stupid to commit murder because he got dumped.’
‘But imagine how bad it looked to the police. He had a record, and he was jealous and hot-tempered. Jacqui ended the relationship, and people knew he’d hit her before–’
‘She asked for it,’ Marieke said.
‘The cops basically had to hold him for questioning. As far as they knew, he was the last one to have seen her alive.’
‘What they did was illegal! They dragged him in three times! They let him rot in a holding cell for an entire weekend. Do you know what happens in holding cells in this country?’
She gripped the edge of the picnic table and stuck her chin out over the table. ‘No one asks questions in a holding cell. They don’t care what you’re in for. They did things to him that no one would wish on their worst enemy, that no man would ever talk about even with a gun to his head. Ashwin screamed and called for help …’
She swallowed hard and looked away. ‘If he wasn’t fucked up enough before Jacqui, he definitely was after that.’
Vee tried with great difficulty to phrase her question with delicacy. ‘Are you saying–’
‘Yes!’ Marieke’s hand shot out as if to cover Vee’s mouth. She caught herself and dropped her arm. The agony in her eyes and mottling of her cheeks made it clear she had no intention of entertaining a conversation about her brother’s ordeal. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’
22
A white Opel Astra sat across the street from the cosy house with an orange picket fence. The driver had been sitting in the vehicle for close to three hours, working through bags of junk food and recycling his own stale air. A faint smell of farts hung over him.
At about 8 p.m., the tenant of the house drove up in a Toyota Corolla and idled in front of the remote-operated garage door. The man in the Opel imagined the driver stamping her finger on the button of the garage remote, irritation growing at its unresponsiveness. He knew the door wouldn’t open, because he’d disconnected the wires. Eventually, the driver plunged from her car’s warmth into the evening drizzle. She held a magazine over her hair and yanked at the hinge mechanism, trying to operate the gate manually. It was a clumsy struggle, what with a laptop bag strapped across her chest and only one free hand, but finally it gave. Unaware she was being watched, Voinjama Johnson scrambled for shelter and drove inside.
She hurried back out to shut the gate and jumped. There was a kid in the driveway.
The boy was anywhere from nine to twelve, so small and thin it was hard to tell his age, and dressed in a shabby tracksuit top. He shivered under the open garage door, cowering, one hand outstretched for small change. Opel Man watched with interest, waiting for the tall woman to shrink in fear and drive the street kid away. Instead, she pulled him out of the wet and said something to him. The boy kept his head down and shuffled his feet. There was a language barrier, it seemed. She used her hands a lot, and the boy didn’t say much in response.
A dog emerged from the house, jumped off the back porch and pushed open the gate of the picket fence. Neither the woman nor the boy saw it, or they were too engrossed in their exchange to pay it any mind. The dog padded across the road, stopped right in the middle of it and stared, oblivious to the rain. It was a huge animal, more like a wolf than a dog. One of those sled-pulling breeds from snowy lands. Its coat was jet black, with smaller tufts of pure white around the ears and underside. Something about the way it didn’t bark, growl or advance made the creature a lot more threatening.
The dog’s blue eyes were questioning. They asked the Opel driver what the fuck he was doing skulking around, and how a very different kind of conversation would be had if he didn’t push off. The Opel driver stared back into the dog’s eyes, a little mesmerised. As if to stress the point, the dog took a step closer. The Opel burst into life and ground into gear. The last thing the driver saw before he sped off was the woman crossing the road and trying to peer into the car, a curious frown on her face.
*
Vee gave the shivering child a warm blanket, sandwiches and a hot drink. The damp magnified his body odour to an unbearable hum, but he refused to remove anything other than his old sneakers. He didn’t say much, having sussed out by now that her Afrikaans was non-existent. He muttered a thank you for the ten rand note, and finished the sandwiches and hot chocolate in silence.
Vee left him and retreated to the veranda with a cup of Ovaltine, where Monro crouched on the stairs, staring out into the rain. Vee leaned against his warm fur. The strange car was gone but Monro would play sentry all night, radiating stern disapproval. It was his job to protect their home from harm, and she had no business interfering.
‘You jeh comin’ sit down heah de whole night?’ she said. Monro snuffled, never taking his eyes off the street. She squinted into the night, straining to catch a glimpse of whatever it was, if there was indeed anything, that his canine senses were picking up. ‘Nobody’s trying to kill us in our sleep.’
Being away at work all day was hard on both of them. Part Siberian husky and part timber wolf, the husky was an intelligent breed of working, running dogs. On weekends, he could streak to his heart’s content in open fields, but evening walks and a backyard littered with chew toys were not enough. Circumstances like these, sprinkled with excitement, were few and far between. Monro gave her a long look, surprisingly human in its condescension, licked her face and resumed his lookout.
‘Ehn. Dah yor biznis o,’ Vee gave up, and went back inside.
The kid was gone. The lounge and kitchen were empty, as were the plate and mug on the table. Vee checked upstairs. For all she knew, he was lying in wait for her with a weapon. She hadn’t checked his pockets. The possibility of a boy that skinny leaping out of a closet with a butcher knife didn’t fill her with dread, but safe was better than dead.
In the end, all that was missing were the blanket and a bulb from a lamp in the lounge. Her computer, handbag, cell phone and wallet were still there. Vee felt bad. She’d wanted to give him some new sneaker
s; not that anything she had would fit, but it was better than what he was relying on now. The blanket, at least, would add some extra comfort to whichever rough spot he laid his head on at night. She looked over her pile of work things on the lounge table and noticed that the Paulsen case file wasn’t where or how she’d left it. A streak cut across the smiling picture of Jacqui stapled to the front of the folder, likely dirt from the boy’s fingers when he was nosing through it. He had also splashed some cocoa, and the photo was soaking it up and turning opaque. Vee sighed and got a cloth to mop it up.
Parked well out of sight of Vee’s front walk was another car, a BMW this time. A different, braver man languished against the door of the driver’s side, hands in his pockets, watching and imagining Vee’s movements within the house.
He pictured her eating, much too quickly and standing up, rifling through her unfinished assignments. She would watch the news with the top button of her pants undone, the sound on mute. She preferred newspapers; if she had to follow reports of a world falling to ruin, the printed page was less depressing than live images. She’d brush her teeth sitting on the toilet, or decide sleeping alone meant she didn’t have to bother. She’d make plaits in her hair to protect it during the night and finger-comb the waves out in the morning. It was unlikely she missed his presence or still dreamt about him, and the thought hurt like hell.
The man considered going up the walk and knocking on the door. He chewed on the odds of making it further than a few feet from his car, contemplating the very real presence of Monro as much as he knew the dog contemplated his. It was late; showing his face could wait another day. He had wasted enough valuable time, anyway. Titus Wreh blew out a breath, got back in his car and drove on.