The Mall

by S. L. Grey

  The hangover isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Just a slight headache and the occasional lurch of nausea. Nothing I can’t handle.

  The patio doors open and Rose stumbles through. She looks awful, her eyes hidden behind huge Jackie O sunglasses. I watch her with interest, curious to see how she’ll treat me after our afternoon of booze-fuelled shared secrets.

  ‘Morning, Rose,’ I say.

  She grimaces slightly and lowers herself onto the chair next to me. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Terrible.’ She runs her fingers through her unwashed hair. ‘I will never drink gin again.’ She attempts a smile. ‘Was I awful?’

  ‘No worse than me.’

  ‘I apologise if I embarrassed you,’ she says slightly stiffly.

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘You are a good liar, Rhoda.’

  She’s got that right.

  She fidgets with her sunglasses. She’s clearly got something on her mind. ‘Rhoda. Have you told Dan yet?’

  ‘Told him what?’ But I know exactly what she’s talking about.

  ‘That you spoke to your parents. That you’ll be leaving shortly.’

  I squirm in my chair. God knows I’d meant to tell him I was leaving. Wasn’t my fault he’d upped and left in one of his Dan emo sulks. Wasn’t my fault he’d blocked his ears and buggered off.

  ‘Don’t leave it too long,’ she says. I watch her carefully, wondering if she heard us after we got back from the bar. It wasn’t as if we’d even attempted to keep the noise down. Who knew Dan had that in him?

  ‘I won’t, Rose.’

  ‘Where’s he gone? I heard him leaving this morning.’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

  I decide not to tell her about his hissy fit. It won’t take him long to realise how insane his little happy family daydream is. He must be off his fucking head to want to settle down with me.

  Florence comes out with a bowl of muesli for Rose, and a banana for me.

  ‘Thanks, Florence,’ I say.

  ‘You’re welcome, madam,’ she says, and I almost drop my coffee mug.

  Rose pulls her sunglasses down onto her nose and stares at her in astonishment. We both watch her slouch back into the house.

  ‘I never thought I’d crack the nod from Florence,’ I say.

  She smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She pushes the glasses back into place. ‘Wonders will never cease.’

  I lie back, thinking about last night, thinking again about what Dan had said before he left this morning. Talk about unrealistic expectations. I try and picture it. Me and the Emo Kid hooking up, settling down, renting a flat, getting jobs at the mall, popping out a couple of kids for Rose to spoil on weekends.

  As if.

  Time to get this show on the road.

  I swing my legs off the sun lounger.

  ‘I’m off, Rose,’ I say to her.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I need to book a flight.’

  I can’t read her expression behind the enormous glasses, but she must be relieved at the thought of having Dan all to herself again, despite what she said yesterday about me being a good influence on him. And I guess I know too much about her for her ever to be really comfortable around me. ‘Why not do it over the internet?’ she says.

  ‘I thought I’d go to a travel agency. See if I can get a last minute deal. My folks can transfer the cash straight into their account.’

  ‘You know where to go?’

  ‘There’s bound to be one in the mall, isn’t there?’ Just saying the word ‘mall’ makes my stomach twist, but fuck it. I have to get it done.

  ‘You want to take the car?’

  ‘It’s not far.’

  ‘But walking alone – it’s not safe, Rhoda.’

  ‘S’cool,’ I say. ‘I can look after myself.’

  Yeah right, the voice says.

  I was wondering when it would return.

  You can do this.

  My palms are sweating, and I’m not sure if the nausea is a result of last night’s drinking or from being back here – back where it all started. My pulse is galloping and my chest feels tight, constricted. The mall’s artificial light seems too bright, the tiles too hard under my feet, and saliva floods into my mouth.

  Relax. Nothing’s going to happen.

  Early-morning shoppers ramble past me and my stomach lurches again. I can’t get my head around how normal they all look. But what was I expecting? Seeping sores, bandaged stumps and outrageous plastic surgery?

  Get your act together, for fuck’s sake.

  I automatically start walking, shaking my hands to try and erase the panic-attack tingle in my fingers, part of me keeping an eye out for a travel agency, the other part thinking about how my life is about to change. Thinking about Mum sobbing over the phone, whispering, ‘We’re so sorry Rhoda,’ over and over again. Thinking about heading back to the UK, going to university, carrying on where I left off, as if the last five years never happened. As if what Dan and I went through is an easily erasable glitch in my life.

  I hesitate. I’m right in front of the computer store – the one I’d raced to that night when I’d frantically searched for the missing kid. The Lara Croft cut-out is gone, replaced with a Wii Fit display. I can’t resist glancing up at the signage, almost expecting to see one of those crazy literal signs we’d seen in the other mall.

  A trio of teenage girls push past me, knocking against my shoulder. They don’t stop to apologise, and one of them – a pugfaced girl with ratty hair – even turns to glare at me as if our collision is my fault.

  The old Rhoda would have grabbed the back of her top, made her apologise. But the old Rhoda wouldn’t be on her way to buy a plane ticket. She’d be plotting the next score, coming up with other inventive ways to fuck up her life.

  Don’t be so sure the old Rhoda has gone anywhere.

  I climb onto the escalator and cruise down, checking out the shops below, looking for the South African version of a Thomas Cook. A bunch of people are heading up on the opposite escalator. Among them I catch a glimpse of a familiar khaki uniform.

  Oh fuck.

  It’s Yellow Eyes. I’d know that paunch anywhere. He’s barking something into his walkie-talkie, and for a second our eyes lock. He seems to look right through me, but I’m not going to take any chances.

  Trying not to make it too obvious, I skip down the remaining steps, and, keeping my head down, I walk briskly into the nearest store – one of those high-end designer boutiques – and start flicking through a rack of dresses, keeping half an eye on the door.

  A saleswoman drifts over. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m just browsing,’ I say.

  She tries to smile politely, but it’s not convincing. Her gaze skates over my tatty Levis and the oversize Marilyn Manson T-shirt I’d pulled out of Dan’s drawer after he’d left. I stare back at her, and she nods and wanders away.

  A fat man’s shape drifts past the window. Yellow Eyes? Fuck. I can’t tell. I grab a dress at random and head towards the changing rooms.

  ‘Madam?’ The shop assistant calls after me.

  ‘I want to try this on.’

  She looks from me to the dress, the fake smile losing its wattage. ‘But it’s a size forty.’

  ‘So?’

  Now the smile disappears entirely. ‘I think it might be slightly too big for you. You can’t be more than a twenty-six.’

  She’s right of course, but I hold my ground. ‘I still want to try it.’

  ‘Madam, you do know the price of it?’ She glances at her fellow assistant, a thin woman who’s pretending to fold a cardigan next to the till.

  ‘No,’ I snap.

  ‘It’s 1,700 rands.’

  I try not to flinch. ‘So?’

  ‘I thought you might like to know,’ she says.

  ‘Forget it,’ I say. I look her in the eye and let the hanger drop, the dress crump
ling into a heap on the floor. I stalk out, cheeks blazing with humiliation.

  For a second, I feel a pang of regret. That would never have happened back there. Back when I was a Shopper and not just a scruffy nobody.

  Don’t think like that.

  But I can’t help it. I fumble automatically for my phone, and scroll down to Dan’s number. Some part of me needs to speak to him, maybe to put things in perspective; maybe just to hear a friendly voice.

  It goes straight to voicemail.

  I lean over the railing and look down into the floor below. I can make out the familiar blue signage of Only Books, which, bizarrely, makes me feel slightly better, more grounded. And there’s a Flight Centre a few doors down on the opposite side of the aisle.

  Fuck it. It’ll only take a few minutes to book a ticket and then I can get the hell out of here. Maybe meet Dan for lunch, have a few beers, tell him about the stupid cow in the dress shop, have a laugh. Maybe while away the afternoon by the pool.

  I jog down the escalator, keeping a lookout for Yellow Eyes. I think about popping into Only Books for old times’ sake, but the glass doors look firmly shut. Stupid idea anyway. I haven’t forgotten that blonde bitch who treated me like shit when I was looking for the kid.

  There are two heavily made-up women sitting behind the travel agency’s counter, both speaking rapidly into microphones attached to their faces, vicious red fingernails skittering over their keyboards. They could be sisters, right down to their straightened hair and identical blue blouses, except that one is skinny to the point of emaciation, the other as comfortably padded as an old sofa. I hesitate, and the plump one waves me vaguely towards a couch set back against the wall. I sit down next to an elderly man who’s clearly also waiting for their attention. He nods at me, and carries on flicking through a brochure for the Cayman Islands. He smells faintly of soup and doesn’t look like he can even afford a weekend away in Margate.

  The plump agent smiles at him and he gets to his feet. I try and attract the anorexic one’s attention, but she’s suddenly found something fascinating on her computer screen. I watch the five clocks on the wall ticking my morning away. Tokyo, New York, London, New Delhi, Johannesburg. The minute hand flicks over to 10:17.

  A tall bleach-blonde woman clatters into the shop, talking on her cellphone. Her eyes scan the room and she immediately sits down in front of Skinny, who smiles at her and instantly stops what she’s doing.

  No fucking way.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say loudly.

  Plump looks up. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute, ma’am,’ she says.

  ‘It’s not you I was speaking to,’ I say, nodding in Skinny’s direction. The blonde turns around to look at me curiously, and I point at her. ‘I was here before she was.’

  ‘I won’t be long,’ the blonde says. ‘I have a very important meeting—’

  ‘Like I care less,’ I say. ‘I’ve been waiting. You pushed in.’

  The blonde and Skinny share a look. I glance at the elderly guy for backup, but he drops his eyes. Bastard.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, ma’am,’ Plump repeats. ‘Please, just be patient.’

  ‘Why should I be patient? I have been patient. That bitch just pushed in!’

  The agents gasp, and the blonde purses her collagened lips and immediately starts texting someone.

  Am I overreacting? But fuck it. I’m not putting up with this shit twice in one morning. Plump runs a hand over her hair and does her best to smile at me. ‘Ma’am, please calm down. There’s no need to—’

  ‘Who are you telling to calm down?’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘What, you think because I haven’t shelled out for fake tits and botox that I’m just going to let myself be treated like this?’

  Plump’s chins wobble slightly. ‘Ma’am? If you don’t calm down then I’ll have to call security.’

  The elderly man starts to mumble in disapproval. Skinny’s fingers reach for the phone.

  ‘Oh fuck you,’ I say. ‘Fuck all of you. You wouldn’t last five fucking minutes in…’

  In where?

  I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here right now.

  My heart is speeding up again, and my fingers are beginning to stiffen up again. If I don’t get out of here immediately I’ll be right in the throes of a full-force panic attack.

  I leave at a run, barging past a cleaner pushing a trolley, not looking in which direction I’m heading.

  ‘Lady?’ a familiar voice says behind me.

  It’s Yellow Eyes. Oh fuuuuck. I shake the hair over my face, making sure the scar is hidden, and turn around. I tense myself to make a run for it, but there’s still no trace of recognition in his eyes.

  Now what?

  But I suddenly know exactly what to do.

  I stand up straighter, look him up and down as if he’s a piece of dog shit, and blast out waves of Shopper superiority. It feels good. It feels right. And it’s working, he seems to shrink into his uniform, and he nods deferentially at me.

  ‘Is everything all right, ma’am?’ he says.

  ‘No, everything is not all right. I’ve just been robbed.’

  ‘Robbed?’

  ‘My wallet was taken. Pick-pocketed.’

  I point back to the travel agency. ‘I saw him run in there.’

  Yellow Eyes hesitates. He’s such a fucking useless bastard. How many scarred black women with British accents has he come across lately?

  It’s not just your appearance that’s changed, Rhoda.

  ‘Well?’ I say. ‘What are you going to do about it? I’m on holiday here. Is this how you treat tourists?’

  He fingers his walkie-talkie. The mention of the word tourist seems to jog something in his memory. But I hold my ground.

  ‘Wait here, please, ma’am,’ he says. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Now’s your chance.

  My phone beeps. I grab it out of my pocket, thumb through to the message.

  Oh fuck.

  chapter 28

  DANIEL

  There’s so little money in my account, I can draw it all at the ATM. No longer in the mood for getting wasted, I buy a soft drink at the supermarket and start heading towards Only Books. I check my phone to see if Rhoda has left a message. Fuck, one missed call. Rhoda. I check the time – 10:17. I’ll call her back when I’m done. Just thinking about facing that fuckwit Bradley makes my heart thunder. But I need to keep calm. I’ve just come for my back pay, I’m not looking for a confrontation.

  The bookshop’s doors are closed. What the hell? I check the time again. Then I see Bradley through the window wandering around with his iPod on and a checklist on a clipboard and I realise he’s doing the monthly stock reconciliation. Taking his time about it too. The recon only involves a spot check of thirty titles and running a routine on the computer. It should take half an hour at the most. Fucking hypocrite. He would be all over me if I took this long. I rattle on the door and wave my arms but he’s bopping away to his Barry Manilow or Britney Spears or whatever the fuck pricks like him are into, and it’s only when he turns around that he eventually sees me. He startles, goes red then white then red again, then puts on his boss face, removes the earphones and comes to the door.

  He opens it a crack like I’m some sort of mugger, and says, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve come for my back pay.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘My money. I want my money.’ The waitresses at the coffee shop next door are watching. ‘Come on, let me in, man.’

  Grudgingly he opens the door a little, just wide enough for me to squeeze in. Then he slams the door behind me as if he’s afraid he’ll be inundated by a flood of insatiable customers who don’t realise that the shop is closed for his Very Important and Highly Skilled Stock Reconciliation. It’s Thursday morning, dickweed, there’s nobody here.

  ‘If you think you’re getting your job back, you’ve got another thing coming,’ he says. He’s in his early thirties yet he talks lik
e an old man.

  ‘I just want my back pay. I worked seven shifts this month.’

  ‘You – let’s put it politely – resigned.’ He grins to himself. ‘What makes you think that you’re entitled to anything?’

  ‘The law,’ I say, trying to sound convincing. I have no idea whether I’m legally entitled to anything or not. I just need to get my fucking pay and go. Every minute I spend in here is a minute too many. He makes a show of checking his list and moves across to poetry. Ja, right. Stock thieves are going to steal poetry.

  ‘You want to do it the legal way, buddy?’ says Bradley. ‘Fine. Let’s do the whole grievance procedure, a disciplinary enquiry. Let’s see after six months of that how much back pay you’re entitled to. We’ll have you on malicious damage to property, we’ll have you on gross insubordination, we’ll—’

  I’ve had enough. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’

  ‘What?’ Bradley’s eyes widen. Then I realise: he’s scared of me. He thinks I’m going to beat him up or something.

  Jesus, I wish I could do something like that. But instead I store up my rage inside me. After how many shifts did I walk home, screaming inside because of this petty cunt, because of the aggressive, loaded, 4x4-driving bitches who take out the pain of their dry vaginas and their failed marriages and their failed affairs and their failed facelifts on us automatons behind the counter? I made myself worthless, all for three peanuts an hour.

  ‘You heard me. I’m fucking sick of this place.’ I’m trying hard not to start whining, or worse, crying. This place makes me into someone I’m not, into someone I don’t want to be. I just want to leave here for ever. ‘Just give me my money and you never have to see me again.’

  He’s back to his old smug self, that wary look gone from his eyes. Fuck, I’ve let myself down, shown him my weakness. ‘There’s no way I’m going to help you now, Daniel. File your paperwork with head office and I’ll see you at the hearing. I’m done with you.’ He turns to walk away.

  The hole beneath my ear starts throbbing with a buzzing, electric pulse. I grab him by his shoulder as he goes.