by JT Lawrence
“Start by removing all contaminated garments,” it says.
Kate peels Seth’s hazmat and bullet-proof suits off him and throws them out the window. She does the same to her own clothes, wincing as she pulls her Kevlarskin off her injured shoulder. The bastards shot her in the same arm she’d broken during the motorbike accident four years ago. Same arm, same electric blue pain. The car’s air-conditioning is cold against her bare, goose-pimpled skin. She pulls on a jacket from her backpack.
“Thoroughly wash the patient’s skin and hair,” says her Patch.
She uses the baby wipes she always carries to clean as much of his skin as possible. She’s dubious as to whether it’s been at all effective, but it’s the best she can do, for now. The teddybear on the packaging taunts her with its baby button eyes.
“Take the patient to a medical care facility as quickly as possible. If it is available to you, give the patient diethylenetriamine pentaacetic acid.”
Kate settles for a bottle of water from the cab’s cooler. Her Patch pings with the purchase. She tries to rouse Seth enough to drink, but he fights her off.
They enter the township, and it’s not a shacktown at all, but a neat suburb. What’s left of the sunset renders the modest RDP houses in romantic light, with scruffy dogs running in the road and a child taking down dry laundry from a smiling washing line. More children shout happily, racing each other on their bikes, while others run alongside them. Young fruit trees leap out of tidy succulent gardens.
Informal shops are closing their doors for the day, hawkers are packing up their bruised fruit and junk chips. One of the hawkers juggles naartjies for the kids, then finishes the act by lobbing three of them into the small crowd as prizes.
It’s getting dark, those kids should be at home. Kate’s chest tightens with the thought of Silver and Mally. She’ll do anything to have them safely at home. How could she not have seen every ordinary day with them as the miraculous thing that it was? Because motherhood doesn’t work like that. Miraculous, yes. Easy, no. The hard parts can cast long shadows.
Five minutes later, in a slightly darker part of the burb behind the cheerful façade, there are lurkers and prostitutes drinking on street corners. A woman in a glossy black trench with popped collars stares at the cab as it cruises past. She’s wearing only lingerie underneath. Matching hot pink mesh with futile suspenders that bounce off her ebony thighs.
Turing pulls up at a disused carwash. There is a hand-painted sign on the building that says “Zee Bee’s Carwash”. The walls are unevenly checkered where the glossy white tiles have fallen away, and the mechanical mops wilt in sad obsolescence. As Kate gets out the car, she can’t help noticing the similarity of her outfit – underwear and a long jacket – to the prostitute’s down the block. She won’t be surprised if the woman comes after her, and tries to scratch her eyes out for being on her turf. Competition in the sex trade is hard enough, with virtual reality porn hubs popping up next to every Adult Planet store. Erotic theatre and V-XXX-R, robo-hoes and sexbots. Gradually, human doxies, with their real skin and the mess that come with it, have become less appealing. Although there are still – will always be, Kate guesses – those who think that no immersive experience, no matter how tailored to your tastes, will ever replace real, warm, flawed flesh.
As if reading her thoughts, there’s a clear wolf whistle from inside the building. She pulls her jacket together, zips it up to her throat. Now it’s more like a body-hugging minidress. She watches the dark interior of the broken-down premises, and as a man steps out, the Apollo lights all ignite with bangs, and they are bathed in white light.
“Halala,” he says, dreadlox bouncing. “Who is this angel I see before me?”
What the hell was she was thinking, coming here? Why did she choose a carwash over a hospital?
“I need help,” she says. “Can you help me?”
The man is tall – abnormally so – and cable-thin. His cheekbones are sharp enough to break through his skin. Looking at them make Kate’s sinuses ache. Despite the dull evening air he’s wearing sunglasses and a wide smile. He reminds Kate of the cheese chip man. Nostalgic Naks.
“For a pussycat like you,” he says, two long fingers on his bottom lip, “I’d do anything.”
Kate is uneasy, and grateful. She starts to pull Seth out of the car. She can feel her jacket riding up, exposing her panties. The backs of her thighs must be made lunar by the bright street lights.
“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” says Mister Zeebee.
Kate stops, turns around, and pulls her jacket down. Of course. That was just too easy.
“I said I’d do anything,” he says, dreads springing off his shoulders, “but of course…it will come at a price.”
Revulsion pulls at her stomach, stings her throat. Her body is revolted by the idea of what he may request as payment. She swallows the acid broth and looks at Seth’s face, so like her own. “Of course. How much?”
“Let’s not talk numbers, sweet thing. It’s bad for my appetite.”
Green dye rises within her and splays over her cheeks (Bitter Bile). It may be the after-effects of the radiation exposure, but it’s more likely the thought that she may have to touch this man in some kind of flesh barter if she wants to save Seth’s life. “Please.” She gestures towards Seth. “We need to hurry.”
The man peers over her and his lip twitches as he takes in the pale, unconscious body. “Boyfriend?”
“Brother,” she says, an edge of hysteria, now, to her voice. She’s about to say ‘twin’, but thinks better of it, thinks somehow that may give him more power over her.
He takes a deep breath, chews his yellow teeth. Kaiser Chiefs. Focused eyes like a jaguar on the prowl. Those dangerous cheekbones. Seth groans and retches.
“Please,” says Kate, desperation pulling at her lips. “I’ll do anything.”
Chapter 60
A Carwash Crucifixion
Gugulethu/Everest, 2024
Mister ZeeBee can see Kate means it, and looks satisfied. He puts his bony fingers back to his lips and whistles again, loudly, and two men step out of the dark innards of the gutted building. Black skin against black clothes against the blackness of the smoked brix. Triple deck. He motions for them to come over.
He speaks scamto to them, of which Kate only understands a few words. They’re going to wash Seth, give him medicine. They nod – they’ve done this before – then look at Kate. At her pale skin, smudged make-up, strange outfit, matted hair. What about her, they ask, in their innovative mash-up of vernac.
“I’ll take care of her,” says the man.
The dark footmen snap on gloves, haul Seth out of the car and carry his dead weight towards the old washing bay. One holds his body up to a metal T-frame while the other lashes him to it with a frayed red tow rope. A carwash crucifixion. Except that instead of killing him, they are bringing him back to life. What is the opposite of an unholy execution?
They turn on the stiff rubber hosepipe – also a relic from the pre-drought days – and begin power-spraying him all over. Next they mix up some shampoo foam in a sun-brittled bucket and use odd implements – giant sponges on broom handles – to wash every inch of his skin. They wash his hair too, from a distance, till his limp body is snowed over with suds. One of the men rinses him with the power hose, and repeats the exercise, while the other begins mixing some concoction in an old CinnaCola bottle. ZeeBee pulls Kate inside with his long, cold fingers.
He leads her along a short corridor, the light from the Apollos outside flashing in on them through the broken windows as they go. Kate’s body is stiff with resistance. She reclaims her hand when they step inside the office at the end of the passage. He closes the door behind them then shores it up with a chair under the handle. The room smells of oil and cheap liquor, dust and drywalling. He doesn’t take his eyes off her as he sinks down into his wasted leather chair. She feels like a little girl who is prescient of her guardian’s aim to abuse her. So far she’
s been one of the lucky ones; she’s never been coerced into sex. An unusual gift to have, in this country. She returns his gaze; she needs to regain some measure of control.
“How much do you want?” she asks him. “I have a hundred thousand Blox limit on my Patch transfer. You can have it. Give me your code and I’ll send it right now.”
An answer plays on his lips, but he’s enjoying watching her. Takes pleasure in her squirm.
“It’s not enough,” he says.
“I’ll send you more tomorrow. The same amount. And the same the next day.”
“We don’t accept transfers,” he says. “Traceable. Besides, I don’t need more bank. I have enough.”
The walls are grubby, covered with grime, torn posters, and old Prestik stains. A 2019 wall calendar hangs askew, giving the impression that the August feature – a Porsche Ventrillo – is driving up into the sky.
“Someone like you never has enough bank,” says Kate.
He laughs. “Someone ‘like me’? And what is that? ‘Someone like me’?”
“Someone who has henchmen,” she says. “Someone who packs an automatic.”
She doesn’t say: you reek of bad things, with your sour breath and old prison tattoos.
“Someone who likes to scare women.”
She wishes he’d stop staring at her. His gaze is a laser on her exposed skin. His nicotine eyes scan her constantly, making her feel dirty.
“Are you scared?” he asks.
She doesn’t see the point in answering.
“Come here.” He adjusts his crotch.
Every fibre of her being shouts NO. The bile rises again and she swallows to keep it down. The thugs outside might be finished treating Seth by now. Would she be able to run for it? But how would she get him into the car, if indeed, the car is still there?
“Come here,” he says again. “You said you’d do anything. I want you to come here.”
She gulps again. Takes a step forward, but can’t take another. He looks on, expectantly.
“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, now with a spark of anger. She takes another step towards him, and he adjusts his position in the chair. His tongue peeks out from his lips. She’s about to take another step, but she knows that she can’t do it. Not to save Seth’s life, not even to save her own life.
The man slams the desk with his hand, making Kate jump. Temper ignited, he shoots up like a piston, and she backs away from him, not taking her eyes off his. He advances on her, jaw set, fingers curled into sharp-knuckled fists. She reverses into the wall, into the corner, looks at the window that’s been painted shut. His tall frame blocks the path to the door. The fore-knowledge of what’s about to happen is like a hot poker in her bowels. Window. Door. There is no way to escape him.
“You could have made this easy,” he says. “Now it won’t be easy. Not for you.”
He reaches down to his belt, begins to unbuckle it.
“Please,” says Kate. “Don’t do it.”
This is happening. This is going to happen. Could she somehow leave her body, go somewhere else in her head, to lessen the trauma of what he’s about to do to her? She closes her eyes and tries to float away, to leave this dingy office and terrible thing behind her, or below her, but he comes closer, and the meat-heat of him brings her back into her body with a jolt.
He’s right up in her face now. His belt is off, jeans unbuttoned. She can smell his dreadlox, his sullied clothes, his evil tang. Underneath his dangerous stink, she can smell her own fear.
ZeeBee traces her cheek with his amber snuff-nail. She can’t help recoiling. He slowly zips open her jacket, revealing her bare skin underneath, her scant underwear. She moves to pull the jacket together, to cover herself, but he stops her. Without thinking, she lashes out at him – an automatic response – but he catches her arm and squeezes it so hard she thinks she’ll faint.
“The more you fight,” he says, his face so close to her that all she can see is the pores in his skin, “the more it will hurt.”
Chapter 61
A Blunt Nurse in Hot Pink
Kate casts around for a weapon, any kind of object she can use to defend herself: a ticket spike, a desk lamp, a staple gun, but there is nothing. She has her own nails, her fists and knees, but ZeeBee is armed with a semi-automatic she’s certain he won’t hesitate to use. The seconds trundle. This is the last moment she will have of being unstained.
He takes his time, unzipping and leering, and Kate is sure this will be a prolonged torture. His left hand travels up to and around her neck, and he applies pressure, as if he’s measuring how hard he can squeeze before he cuts off her oxygen altogether. His other hand works its way down her bare belly to her panties, where he hooks the top elastic with his fingertip. She’s lightheaded, thinks she might fall, or be sick, or both.
A sudden, loud banging on the door makes them both jump. It’s like the rest of the world had fallen away when they were locked in their terrible dance, but now it re-asserts itself, and they are just two people in a room, instead of what they were before. What they were about to be.
There is more banging, and a woman starts yelling through the cheap masonite. She jiggles the handle, but the chair keeps the door shut.
“Zeebee!” she shouts. “Zeebee!” then follows it up with a long strain of angry ringas with clicks and pops that are launched at the door like a spray of ball ammunition. “You open this door right now.”
“I’m busy,” says Zeebee, eyes trailing Kate’s body once again. “Leave me alone.”
This makes the woman even more angry. The banging changes into a heavy whole-body thump. She’s trying to knock down the door. After the third thump, the chair is dislodged, and with the next thrust she comes flying into the room, a hot mess of braids and cerise lipgloss. Kate’s never been so happy to see a prostitute in her life. Zeebee whirls away from Kate, but this doesn’t save him from a torrent of abuse. When she decides that a verbal bollocksing isn’t enough, she smacks him too. Her flat hands whack him on the back of the neck and around the ears. He’s so tall she needs to jump to reach – no mean feat in electric pink stilettos – with her wobbling breasts and springing suspenders. He curses her as he tries to defend himself, tries to swat her away, but this just makes her angrier, and she whacks him some more, shouting all the while.
Kate takes the gap and tries to exit the room, but the woman grabs her hand. They make eye contact. The prostitute’s eyes are zinging with fury, and Kate wonders if she’s going to get klapped too, but then the woman squeezes her hand.
“Mara wena,” she says, “are you okay?”
The woman gives Zeebee one last hard push so that he falls backwards, against the desk, and pulls Kate out of the awful room, the broken building, out into the blazing artificial light.
Once illuminated, she gives Kate a quick once-over. Grabs her jaw and turns it to the side to check her bruised neck, confirms that her underwear has not been damaged. A blunt nurse in hot pink lingerie. When she’s satisfied Kate hasn’t been attacked, she nods and Kate zips up her jacket again. Such a simple thing, the zip’s tiny metal teeth closing ranks, but it almost makes her cry with relief.
“N-n-ngiyabonga,” she stutters, “Thank you,” but the woman doesn’t reply.
She raises her arm and shouts at the two men, something about hurrying up with the job, she’s got other grind for them to do. Kate realises that they are, in fact, her henchmen, and not Mister Zeebee’s. Seth is sitting up against the wall now, but he seems to be floating in and out of consciousness. He doesn’t acknowledge her presence. There’s a parcel of old clothes beside him. A faded Iron Maiden shirt, with a hole at the neck, and shiny black slaxuit pants. She wants to leave immediately, but they are still busy treating him. Feeding him some blue gruel with a spoon, like a baby. As she looks more closely, he chokes and splatters the floor with teal. For Kate, it’s the colour of hissing, and it’s cold.
“What are you doing to him?”
“Muti,�
�� says the one. “It takes away the poison from the rays.”
Not convinced, she looks up at the woman, who nods at her. They spoon the last of the mixture in, wipe his mouth, and are instructed to help him to the car. They throw the clothes in after him.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Kate says.
The woman dispatches the men in the direction of Zeebee, then extends her palm to Kate.
“Twenty thousand,” she says.
“Oh,” says Kate. “Of course.”
Is she the prostitute, thinks Kate, or is she the pimp? She rummages in the car and pulls out all the cash she has, and hands it over. The woman counts it, her blinging false nails glittering in the bright light.
Definitely the pimp.
The woman folds twenty thousand away into her trenchcoat pocket and gives Kate five thousand back. Kate gestures for her to keep it, but she refuses, and jams it back into her hands. Seth seems to be gaining a better grasp on his consciousness.
“Kitty,” he slurs. “Silver.”
“Please choose a destination,” says the cheerful cab, as if this is an ordinary night and they’re going out for dinner. The woman stands, arms akimbo, waiting for them to leave. But where will they go? Where is her daughter?
Behind her, Kate sees for the first time a faded mural on the outside of the carwash building. It’s an ostrich with a trash can. “Zap It” says the banner above the bird, but she can’t read the rest of it. It’s lost to solar bleach and grime.
“Where would you like to go?” says the cab.
Kate doesn’t have an answer. The woman closes her car door and gives her a stern, flat-handed wave through the tinted glass. Turing locks all the doors and pulls off. Only then does Kate start really shaking, and she can’t stop.
Chapter 62
One and a Half Feet in the Grave