by HJ Golakai
He pulled a sheet from a folder and sank into his armchair. He vigorously massaged his face with both hands before dragging them over his head, his honey-gold hair buzzed short to downplay the balding dome on top, and down the back of his neck. Deep-set, grey-green eyes that saved his face from being plain were rimmed faintly red.
He stared for ages. Vee let him. Van Wyk was a consummate eyeballer; it seemed to temper his mind and mood. She waited it out, bouncing the tips of her heeled sandals against the floor a tad impatiently.
Finally, he smacked a palm on the desk in a ‘let’s get down to it’ manner.
“Saskia can’t stand you. You’re not madly in love with her either. She says you’re mucking about with the online team, making it hard for her to do her job. Why can’t you learn to stay out of her way? You’ve been here over a year. You should have the hang of it by now.” He squinted at the piece of paper. “Meddling.” He looked up. “Why?”
Vee sighed. He was quoting off one of the reference letters in her file, and bet her right arm this one was from none other than her old boss, Portia Kruger. “I’m not meddling. Not exactly. It’s just … Saskia’s fulla wahala, everything got to be palaver with her. She’s more concerned with running us than quality output. Who cares if I help Darren and them? They’re understaffed.”
“They’re doing fine, all things considered.”
“They’re not. What things considered? That we’re a small newspaper with a tiny staff and if we all stuck strictly to our job descriptions we’d sink within six months?”
“Backchat and authority issues.” He tapped a line on the sheet, nodding emphatically at her sceptical blinks. “Seriously, that’s really on here. Kruger’s thorough.”
“I can get a copy of that?”
“What do you think?” He leaned back. “Talk me through this Saskia animosity. I detect something deeper.”
Vee spread her hands, an open-palmed question mark. Wherever this was going, it stank already. “Ahhhh. We got issues with each other, and if she want make it her business to gimme free cheek day in and out, no problem. We both grown. We can squash it, or be civil enough to manage to work together. But,” she stabbed her finger into the desk, “she’s hellbent on harassing Chlöe’s life and I won’t have it. We made a deal when I started here. Where there’s room for me, there’s room for her.”
His mask cracked by a whisper, a hint, of a smile. “There’s room for both of you.”
“Then what? Saskia’s style, if I can call it that,” she steamed on while she had the floor, “is turning underlings into toilet paper. And Chlöe may be a junior but that, she is not. Hell, she even helps out on the Afrikaans editorial.”
“Does she now?”
“Yes! She’s half Afrikaans but grew up mostly English. She learnt by pushing herself out of her comfort zone. Plus she studied languages at UCT. You know all this. Bishop is no typical boarie-missy.”
“Boeremeisie,” Nico corrected.
The wolfish glint in his eyes was by now too rabid to miss. Shit, you know better than this, she cursed silently, wanting to kick herself. Constantly read the room – miss no shifts, however subtle. And never, never incite conversation or turn the spotlight on Chlöe. He’d done this before, baiting her, but he was definitely improving at blindsiding. Bishop was her charge but unqualified, uncategorised; the target on her back was huge. “She’s caught on amazingly fast. You can’t honestly tell me she’s not an asset around here,” she hurried on.
“Propensity to preach and pick up strays,” Nico intoned, making an invisible tick against the paper, which he dangled limp-wristed. Vee muttered a curse and sat back. If all he’d hauled her in for was to dish out a verbal flogging, let him get it out of his system.
His eyes bored through her forehead, a hint of a frown making a crease between his brows. He leaned forward, resting on his elbows. The pink streaks under his eyes looked angrier up close. “What are you doing up there?” he asked.
“My job,” she snapped. “But if –”
He shook his head. “Not out there,” he tipped a nod in the general direction of the newsroom. He lifted a solitary index finger, pointed it towards the ceiling and mouthed ‘up’, gaze never wavering from her face.
Vee cursed again under her breath.
After fifteen months, the urge to go crawling back to Urban still niggled her occasionally. Even crappy jobs had perks, and she deeply missed having a real office, with a real desk, a sprawl of polished wood on which to dump assignments and empty mugs to her heart’s content. And her old view, of downtown Cape Town and the ABSA head office building. Chronicle’s newsroom feel had the allure of the old guard; she was spoiled now, over it. The persistent undercurrent of noise … the guy with no sense of personal space, who always talked right in your face after his lunch … the irksome treks to an exit for sunshine and breeze … it couldn’t be borne.
The haven was her godsend. Snooping around the second floor, she’d stumbled on it: a small, dingy room crammed with unused office furniture and discarded odds and ends. A hole in the wall, with power outlets and a working sink. And a view, through a window that actually opened. A bribe to one of the cleaners saw the excess junk shifted and the space made presentable.
“One of the cleaners sold you out,” Nico preened. He took annoying pride in his spy program.
“I need a place to think,” she insisted.
“Use the inside of your skull. At work, unfortunately, one must learn to play with the other children. What kind of self-respecting journalist hates a newsroom?”
“I don’t hate it. There’s just no … elbowroom sometimes. I’m not up there during working hours.” Usually.
“The answer’s no, Johnson. Shut it down.”
“Fine,” she scowled, and waited.
“Oudtshoorn.”
“Hehn?”
“Oudtshoorn. You know where that is?”
Vee flicked through her mental archive. “Mossel Bay?”
“Further. Out in the south-western Cape, Klein Karoo country. The Grotto Lodge is a two-star establishment out there, and they’re gunning for their third this year. They put on their best face when we held the World Cup here last year, and still didn’t get it. They’re not giving up this year, and that means all the stellar reviews they can get.”
He pushed over a thin manila folder, opened to a brightly coloured pamphlet. “Looks nice enough. Apparently it was a hotspot during the soccer, though why anyone would want to be marooned on any stretch of the Garden Route when it was pissing down at kick-off last June is beyond me. Bloody tourists … never give a damn about realities like the weather.” Sighing, he rubbed his eyes hard enough to wrinkle his forehead. “It’s gone up in the revolving door ratings with the number of tourists and ministers’ wives that have been passing through. If they need more positive spin, it can’t hurt. They get publicity, we get advertising.”
She perused the leaflet. Adorning the front was a hulking, rustic building of indeterminate architectural style squatting amongst some dusty boulders. ‘Quaint’ was the first word that leapt off the blurb inside. She closed it. The look she shot him was an admixture of ‘I’m not following you’ and ‘I think I am, but you can’t be serious’.
Van Wyk looked weary. “Look, I’m sure you’re aware of Lynne’s being on maternity leave. Again. She’s all we’ve got on travel and tourism right now. The usual piece on accommodation hotspots can’t marinate till she gets back. It needs wrapping up.”
Wide-eyed, Vee shot, “And who say I know about travel writing? I’hn know nuttin about it o, I beg you. I can’t even whip up a dozen synonyms for ‘picturesque’.”
He almost smiled this time. “It’s a tad more involved than that.”
“And I’hn know jack about what those involvements are.” She opened the folder, didn’t know why she had, and slapped it closed again. “Why can’t somebody from the arts and entertainment page handle it?”
“Because we’re stretched tha
t tight.” He paused. “You’re well aware how it’s been finding capable free hands around here since we had to downsize, here and at Urban. You and Tinker Bell can step up for this.” He coughed. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I’m confident you two can handle this.”
“So …” Vee took an indignant pause. “This you’re volunteering me for. Yet you bar me from the crime desk full-time. When that’s the job I was promised.” She was whining but she couldn’t help it. Khaya Simelane and Andrew Barrow, autocrats of the crime page, had done a stellar job pissing on their tree to keep her out. “Even after all my courses on web media and editing, which I put to good use every day. But no, I still can’t join the online team that’s got only three people on it despite it being more popular than the print. Darren appreciates the extra help, but I can’t even contribute my two cents without issues. Because of Saskia.” Your top spy. Who you’re sleeping with, on top of your liquor problem. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if you got drinking problems because you messin’ round with her. But we only here to explore my shortcomings. She clamped her lips shut with her teeth.
“It’s complicated. Yes, I fully appreciate how empty that sounds. You were candid and emphatic in your interview about not being shunted through departments willy-nilly as you’d been at Urban. For the most part I’ve kept my word, but –”
“I know. It’s an emergency. Isn’t it always.”
Van Wyk replied with a long, granitic stare. She nodded, took the folder and got up.
“Hang on.” He folded his fingers and eyed the ceiling, as if toying with an idea. “I’ve been meaning to, and I guess now’s as good a time as any to ask. Did you take it?”
Vee frowned.
“Year before last, that case … with the hospital … and the crazy family …” He twirled a finger in the air, indicating she jump in to supply the elusive words. “The missing Paulsen girl,” he snapped his fingers finally. “The pay-off. That the mother offered you for your … diligent services. Did you take it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Johnson, come on,” he huffed. “Look, you’ve got something. First of all, you don’t play silly buggers, which,” he clasped his hands in gratitude, “goes a long way to making my life easier. Top reason I can’t stand working with women. Besides the melodrama and all the time off they need to pop munchkins, of which I’m bloody gatvol.” He sat up straighter. “What I’m getting at is, in a hive, you need to know your bees. I need to know my people. Now you know there’ve been whispers. And I know that you know that I’ve heard, and if I’ve heard, then I’ve speculated. I hate speculation. So …” he spread his palms. “You’d hardly be the first or last journalist to take an incentive if they felt it was deserved.”
Stock-still, Vee felt a nimbus of heat pluming between her eyes. “You joking me, right?”
Van Wyk shook his head.
“You must be joking me,” she insisted, surprised at the dangerous rasp in her voice. She stalked out of the office, almost slamming the door behind her.
Nico fiddled with a pen absent-mindedly for a few minutes before reaching for the landline. It rang twice on the other end before it was picked up.
“Ja, Kruger? It’s me.”
A sigh blew in his ear. “What?”
“Nice to hear from you too. Tell me …” He paused. “Where exactly is this venture of yours headed?”
“Of ours. Venture of ours,” Portia Kruger corrected. It sounded like she was chewing. “Don’t make it sound so dramatic. What happened?”
“We had a chat.” A loud groan vibrated in his eardrum. “She stormed out of here. Probably to go stick pins in my voodoo doll. In the groin area. Where’s she from again . . aren’t they all black magic-y over there?”
“Don’t be a racist dick, it’s not cute.” Another sigh. “She’s not on the crime desk, so she’s near wit’s end. You want performance, make her fight you for it.”
“I want her to do her job.”
“Which she has been. But you want more. It’ll take a second. In the meantime, can you stop bringing up that incident? It’s a dirty rumour. I’m pretty sure she kept her nose clean.”
“Pretty sure? I need to trust my staff. I can’t have a poisoned apple in here.”
“Geez, such a drama queen.”
“And don’t you forget I did this as a favour to you.”
“Bollocks. You did it for yourself. You wanted her over there, you actively poached her, now you live the dream.” There came a sound of slurping. “If that’s all, I’m quite busy. Goodbye.” The line went dead.
Nico snorted and replaced the receiver. “I bet you’re busy, running your girlie dishrag.” Nonetheless, he felt it allowable to be put in his place. For now.
Vee fumed in her cubicle for a quarter of an hour, eyes adrift out of the window as a pulse thumped in her neck. Finally, spewing a string of expletives under her breath, she grabbed laptop, handbag and keys.
“I beg your pardon?! Where’re you off to?”
She shoulder-bumped past Saskia and continued to the exit without a backward glance.
“Hey! What’s up?”
She stopped and whirled on Chlöe, unable to stop the mist building in her eyes, not caring if it showed.
Chlöe stepped back, mouth agape. “Yoh. Bosslady, what happened now? Why’re you leaving?”
“The interns’ meeting’s at two-thirty. You be there,” Vee snarled. She continued down to the underground parking, leaving Chlöe staring after her with a ‘what the hell?’ look on her face.
Chapter Two
Vee tore into the guava, spat out brown and popped the rest in her mouth. A welcome breeze ruffled her hair. Lifting both arms, she made a disgusted face as the material of her blouse smeared against moist armpits.
“Where de hell dis child at?” she muttered, swinging the front gate back and forth. Waves of heat shimmered off the tarmac of the deserted street. Tiny lasers of sunshine drilled into her scalp and corneas, making her crabbier by the second. “Twinkie!”
Nothing except another sweep of air. “Tristan Heaney! For God’s sake if I –”
“Right behind you.”
Vee jumped, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea that more African countries had laws protecting minors from corporal punishment. Because this lil pikkin was going the right way …
“Told you I was getting an ice lolly. Why you got to be all yelling on the street and acting country?” Tristan brushed a wheat-blond fringe off his forehead and shot a cheeky grin as he tore the wrapper off the frozen treat.
Vee bit back a smile. Tristan’s delight was imitating her, never mind how ridiculous it sounded in his Rondebosch Boys prep affectation. “It’s ‘ackin’ kuntry’, mister man. And you shouldn’t be shopping for goodies on your employer’s time. Get to work.”
“I needed sugar for the trip.” He chomped into a lolly of the most unnatural green – if she had to describe it ‘neon-lime’ would do – and held it out. “Want some?”
“No, I’hn want none of your diseased ice cream. Didn’t I tell you to stop buying from that nasty shop, before you go catchin’ sum’n?” Tristan shrugged and carried on chomping. Vee shook her head. At his age, food from a sparkling supermarket or the creepy kiosk down the road was all the same thing. Another child headed down the highway to street food hell. She wasn’t one to judge.
“You sound like my mum. Only old people have to eat properly because it’s good for their health.” He tipped his chin at the bulging bag looped over a slat of her picket fence. “That’s why I brought you those.”
“Very delicious, thank you.” Vee took another guava from the plastic shopper. “Never seen the white ones before, though. And guava jam! That’s sum’n else.”
“Mum makes it herself. Since Dad died …” Tristan averted his eyes and concentrated on the lolly, “she does stuff like make jam.”
Vee nodded quietly. All she knew about her young neighbour was that not long ago he’d been
part of a happy unit of four, yet only three occupied the cream-and-olive house on the corner. More like two, since Tristan’s elder brother, a UCT student, only dropped by the odd weekend. Mrs Konstantinou, landlady and omniscient of all things concerning Leicester Street, had mentioned the father had died of cancer a year earlier and their mother, an executive in something or other, hadn’t returned to work. The woman barely opened the door to anyone, but seemed to trust Vee with her younger son.
“Well, thanks for picking them. I’ll pass by later to thank your ma myself.”
“Cool. I like your thank yous. Will you bring that fried banana and ginger stuff you made last time?”
“It’s called killi-willi, and it’s plantain not banana. Now come on.” Vee prised the ice from his fingers and stuck her palm to his forehead to restrain him as he flailed for it. “You’hn come here to run your mouth, no way.”
Tristan backed out of reach, face souring. “You’re grumpy today.”
“Move from here.”
“Yes, you are. Your accent goes crazy when you’re angry. And how come you’re home in the middle of the day?”
“How come you home?”
“It’s school holidays. School kids are home all day during school holidays.”
Vee opened her mouth and then shut it. Across the street, a silver Opel reversed into a space between two other cars. Her jaw clenched.
“Your friend’s here. She looks pissed.”
“Yes, BBC Claremont. Thanks for the update.”
She flicked his ear, and he grinned and ducked into the yard. Vee watched, touched by the seriousness with which he readied himself for his task, retrieving the leash dangling from a mulberry branch, dusting off a raggedy ball and favourite chew-toy from off the front lawn. Then he whistled and smacked a hand against his thigh a few times. Almost instantly, a large black Alaskan husky bounded through the back door, leapt completely over the veranda stairs and made towards him like a rocket.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Tristan chided, laughing and thumping his thighs some more. “Sit.” He clicked his fingers and repeated the command. A little crushed but not thwarted, the dog obeyed, barking and wagging his tail ferociously.