by S. L. Grey
‘Don’t you worry that they think you’re dead? In some sort of trouble?’
She pokes around at the plank-wood coals for a stretch. ‘Sometimes,’ she says. ‘But probably not as often as I should.’ I don’t get what she’s saying but I take her hand. She responds by grabbing me around the waist and then drawing herself to me. She’s warm, and I kiss her cheeks. ‘We’re going to be fine, right?’ she says.
‘Ja,’ I say, and kiss her again.
‘If we’re just waiting,’ says Rhoda later, ‘let’s not go out of our fucking minds while we do. Listen. Here’s the game. I make the first run. Get something valuable. Then it’s your turn. We’re scored on time, on the value of the item we get, and the danger of the mission.’ She’s talking like a gamer. In another world we would have met at the online gaming centre at BlastCon. We would have hit it off and bought each other graphics accelerators for Valentine’s Day. We would have lain next to each other in bed with our laptops burning fast bandwidth, slaying monsters and warriors from all corners of the world. We would have made a good team.
We hear the traffic dying down, wait a while, finish our dinner, stoke the fire. Then Rhoda sets off. ‘Wish me luck!’ There’s some spirit back in her, something that’s been lost these last few days.
Fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, she batters back through the food-court doors with a thumping, rattling, trundling, yellow and grey thing.
‘Holy fuck, Rhoda, that’s brilliant!’ She’s got us a cleaner’s trolley, complete with two square yellow buckets of water, a mop, a broom, a dustpan and brush, assorted cleaning rags and a spray bottle.
‘And check it out.’ She bends and pulls two bottles of liquid soap and a pack of single-ply toilet paper out of the yellow vinyl trash-bag section.
‘You’re my hero!’
‘But, Christ, I almost got nicked. That fat bastard Yellow Eyes was just stepping out of the pisser as I got out into the mall. I just managed to duck behind a pot plant as he came by. I had to wait for ages till the coast was clear. Would have been five minutes faster if it wasn’t for that.’
‘But you get double danger points. You have earned ten million four hundred and ninety thousand five hundred and seventy-three points for that round.’
‘Oh, did I mention the man-eating dolphin?’
We strip off our clothes and wash with delight, keeping one of the water buckets aside for drinking. I watch her as she lathers, feeling human for the first time since we came down here.
When we turn on our phones that night, Rhoda has a message. She reads it then deletes it.
‘What was it?’ I ask, stung that she didn’t show it to me.
‘Oh, nothing. Just Zinzi.’
I almost make an issue of her not sharing the message with me as we’ve always done, but she looks sad, so I shelve it.
*
I know we’re just playing, but somehow it seems like a matter of life and death. I want to beat her. I want to get something equally useful, even better. I stay awake the whole night thinking of phone chargers, airtime, but who would we phone? And where would we plug them in? I think of stealing a generator and a microwave oven from Game, and while I’m about it how about a fridge and some chairs and a table and a bed and some silky sheets and plush cushions and toilet doilies and some fucking gold bars? Either I’d need to smash my way in at night with a forklift or saunter in – and out – by day. Not half drawing attention to the fucking murderer on the run.
That’s it!
I’m so keen to get going that I wake her up. ‘Time me,’ I say, handing her my watch, and I’m off.
I head to the middle food-court door, and up the stairs to the portal that once led to the other market and up again and the long way to the roof parking on the opposite side of the mall. If they get me on camera inside the mall, I don’t want them seeing where I came from. I duck into the nearest entrance, the old, quiet dry-cleaners-and-tattoo-parlours wing. As I guessed, it’s deserted. A repaired watch in the dry-cleaner’s reads: <02:45>. I hope the chief security guard is soundly asleep in his office and that Simon and the fingerless guy are patrolling somewhere else or, more probably, smoking at the main entrance.
Oh well, it shouldn’t take long anyhow. I jog through the familiar arcades, stopping short when I get to the doors of Only Books.
I cup my hand over my eyes and peer into the darkened store. There’s a laminated photo hanging on the end of the shelf, a small, drooping floral wreath pinned up next to it. So that’s it; he’s really dead. I knew he was. It all comes back in a disembodied rush, like I’m watching a movie in fast-forward. It doesn’t seem like it really happened. But I do remember Bradley’s unearthly gasping, the kicking of his heels. It looks like they’ve replaced a patch of carpet by the poetry shelf, the new corporate blue darker than the old material.
Don’t hang around, fuckwit, you’re on camera. Christ, that will give them something to think about. The murderer returning to the scene. They’ll know it’s me. Who else would it be at three in the morning?
I came out here for a reason and I’m not going back until I’ve got what I came for. I’m going to get Rhoda some flowers. Some fresh flowers. Roses, tulips, irises, those long, flowery ones, not expired, rat-shat, scent-sprayed carnations. Plus a trolley of non-perishable groceries to boot. And a can opener. All courtesy of Woolworths.
I guess I’m on about eight minutes now. Maybe I’ll be late but I’ll earn a shitload of utility points. Maybe invaluable brownie points too.
I duck into the corridor behind Only Books, run past my old alcove without a glance. That was my alcove, my safe place. Now I’ve got another one. Down to the end, to Woolworths’ colddelivery door. I type in the code. 1-2-3-4.
Beeeeeeeep.
Huh? 1-2-3-4. Slowly, carefully, this time.
Beeeeeeeep.
Fuck! They’ve changed the fucking code. I try again, for luck.
1-2-3-4.
Beeeeeeeep.
So much for that. The longer I’m out here, the better the chances that one of the security guards has checked the monitors, so I can’t waste any more time now. I’ll have to come back empty-handed. Big hunter, me. Big provider.
Oh well, it’s just a game.
I head back the way I came, and in a box outside the back of Only Books I spot a stack of discarded proof copies. I scoop up as many as I can carry, resisting the temptation to browse through the box and make a good selection, and run back past the dry-cleaner’s and over the roof, sticking to the dark shadow of the wall all the way. I duck back through the deserted wing’s door and lock it behind me with the deadbolt.
I stop to catch my breath, sit on the stairs and browse through the books I’ve collected. I’ve lost the game already – this round anyway – so may as well take some extra time to make sure I’m not bringing any Danielle Steel or James Patterson back to Rhoda. I haven’t heard of any of these, but they look okay.
As I bundle the books in my arms and stand, the lights go off. The building’s electric hum winds down with a whine and a shudder. Then I hear it. It starts in low, with a moist gasping sound, like wet sand sucking on a beach. Then it gets louder, and I feel something dripping on my neck, hot breath ruffling my hair.
I spin around in the dark, my feet almost skidding down a stair. ‘Who are you?’ I say. I struggle to keep my breath under control. I feel another drip in my hair, the phlegm breath reverberating through the narrow stairwell.
‘Where are you?’ I say
Rhoda said it was just a hobo. Rhoda said it was just a hobo, I chant to myself, like a protective charm.
Then the screaming starts up, at first like a klaxon deep underground, then it cycles up, louder and louder like a hundred beaten children, up and up, like the scream of a thousand dying soldiers, the suffering of a million electrocuted animals, hell’s choir in this tiny, stifling space, too loud, the noise alone is going to deafen me, crush the breath and the life out of me. I feel the slick saliva sp
attering on my head. I’m trying to get down the stairs, but my feet won’t find them. I can’t find up or down.
It’s going to end this time. I stop. I deserve it this time. I’m ready.
Lights on. I shield my eyes. The noise thunks and then winds down gradually, whirring as it slows. It’s a backup generator. A fucking backup generator. In need of maintenance and some oil, but a goddamn fucking backup generator. The vent above me gradually stops dripping. Air-con condensation. Seriously.
‘Hey, Rhoda!’ I’m calling down the stairs before I’m out the door. ‘Rhoda! You’ll never guess…’
She’s rushing across to me. ‘Jesus, Dan. I was scared. You took so long.’
‘I’m sorry, I…’
‘What did you get?’
‘Oh, nothing. I wanted to get something else –’ saving my big surprise for the next round ‘– but all I managed was these.’ I show her the books.
‘That’s fucking brilliant, Dan!’ She’s so excited about the books that she grabs me and gives me a big kiss.
‘Jesus, they’re just some throwaway—’
‘Holy shit, Dan… What better to do while you’re sitting around waiting? Ten billion points for you, boy. No wonder you were excited.’
‘No, it was… I wanted to tell you about the monster.’
‘The monster?’
‘It was nothing all along. It was just a fucking—’
‘You saw him? Dan, you know what this means?’ She’s racing ahead now, I can’t get a word in. ‘He, the monster thing – whatever the fuck it was – came from the other side. Not here. It means we’re in. You got us in.’
‘No, wait. I’m trying to tell you. It was just the noise of a generator. We were just fucked up, freaked out. We made a monster out of nothing.’
‘Hang on, you’ve got something…’ She reaches over and picks something off my head and holds it wiggling between her fingers. A fat, white maggot.
*
We spend the next couple of days waiting for a sign, for something to happen. For a message, an invitation; even for Security to burst in and arrest us, but nothing. Slowly we deflate again, overeager, overreaching balloons, gradually realising that of course I didn’t get us in again, gradually realising that all I did was get a maggot in my hair.
Rhoda’s been sleeping a lot again. I’ve been too restless to sleep. I read a bit, but can’t concentrate. I wander around the deserted wing, trying to find something we’ve missed. I stare up at the ceiling, and into the round hole we’ve looked at a thousand times, but inside it I see a shadow of something I’ve never seen before. I take a brand from the brazier and poke it as high as I can reach, and there, just illuminated by the furthest edge of the flame’s light, is the shape I thought I saw. It’s a square rung in the wall of the tunnel.
Without waking Rhoda, I wheel the cleaning trolley underneath it, and use it as a makeshift scaffold, just high enough for me to reach in. I haul myself up. It’s a manhole shaft, going straight up. I remember the endless shaft we went down on our way to the other side. Surely this one can’t go anywhere very far, but still I hope.
I can’t see more than about eight rungs above me. Each is spaced a good arm’s span away from the other and climbing up is exhausting, a series of pull-ups. I count the rungs as I go. As I climb, the circle of light below me gets smaller and smaller, until it’s no bigger than a coin. I’m gripping onto rung number fortynine when I hit the cover. It’s a concrete manhole cover, and heavy, so I shift myself into a backwards position and shove upwards with my shoulders and back until it budges. One more shove and there’s a small gap to work with, and after that it’s easy enough to move the cover and clamber out.
A breeze hits me, the air fresher than anything I’ve ever breathed. I fill my lungs, breathing out the recycled poison from inside. I’m on a narrow ledge in the middle of the sheer external wall of the Highgate Mall. The ledge is about a metre deep and a few across, no way off here except down. Thirty metres or more. Gigantic neon signs advertising flagship stores flicker above me. Edgars, Only Books, Woolworths, all boasting to the traffic jam far below.
I sit against the wall and look at distances I haven’t seen for weeks. It’s an autumn dusk, a smoky Joburg sunset; I can see the far horizon stained luminous orange. I can see the plumes of various veld fires around the north of the city, the haze of cooking fires, the gasses from the cars idling furiously on the main road below. The black shapes of returning birds stencil the sky, and street lights and security lights all around the suburbs flicker behind leaves that twitch in the breeze.
I breathe in again, trying to replace every molecule of the stale oxygen in my blood and my marrow with fresh air. I think of Rhoda lying there, forty-nine steps below me, huddled in her pile of dusty grey drop cloths. I bet she’s dreaming of quartz lights bounding off marble floors, of cognac sales, of polished brass and crystal façades. We’re the same, she and I; we created a fantasy world for ourselves inside there, but this is the real world, outside, down below. The traffic jams, the flashing, seductive neon. That other place never existed; we can never escape. This is where we are.
I take another few deep breaths, watch the sky move from orange to red to purple. Watch the last birds go home. Then I go back down the shaft, rung by rung.
When I get back down to the parking garage, Rhoda is toasting mould off some buns over the fire. She looks over her shoulder and smiles at me. I muster my strength and my will and go round the back of her and clasp her waist.
‘Find anything interesting?’ she asks.
‘Nah, just a dead end.’
‘Hm,’ she says, and turns back to the flames.
I go back to our room and lie back on my pile of cardboard. It was a mistake to go up there. I know it will take time before I can delude myself again. But I’ve got to try. For Rhoda.
I shuffle through my plastic bag of personal stuff, looking for the book I was reading. It’s about a guy who can walk through doors into the future, but can’t always find the door back to the past. My phone’s lying on top of it and out of habit I take it out. Despite myself, I hope. I thumb it on. The battery indicator is flashing red. A minute later, I hear the beeps. I’ve got a message.
Drawn by the beep, Rhoda rushes over to me, eyes alive with that eternal hope.
‘This is it, Dan,’ she says. ‘I can feel it in my gut.’
I’m suddenly reluctant to read it.
‘Well?’ she says. ‘Go on!’
Hands trembling, I thumb the message open and read it.
‘Fuck.’ Rhoda turns away in disgust.
I’m fucking worthless. That’s all she’ll ever get from me: disappointment. I drop the phone on the concrete floor and the battery skitters out under the brazier. Let it burn. I don’t care anymore.
It’s Rhoda who picks up the pieces and huddles in the corner of our den; she doesn’t look at me. She fiddles with the phone, sighing under her breath, pissed off with me for breaking it. I turn my back to her and settle in with my book. It’s going to be another long night.
A minute’s silence. Then
Beep beep. Beep beep.
‘Dan.’
I turn to her. ‘Huh?’
She looks at me from across the room, fire dancing in her eyes.
‘Game on,’ she says.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
S.L. Grey thanks Lauren Beukes, book.co.za, Nic Cheetham, Isobel Dixon, Rina Gill, Adam Greenberg, Sam Greenberg, Bronwyn Harris, Lily Herne, Savannah Lotz, Charlie Martins, Toby Mundy, Oliver Munson, Laura Palmer, Alan Walters, Carol Walters, Pagan Wicks, Ben Williams and Sam Wilson.
Table of Contents
Cover
Blurb
Author biography
Title page
Copyright
Contents
PART 1 >>
&
nbsp; chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
PART 2 >>
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
Acknowledgements