The Score

by HJ Golakai

  On her back, arms spread out across the grass, Vee chuckled at the sky. “Jue is just slang for ‘girlfriend’. And Ti calls me his rib because … I’m the Eve to his Adam. It sounds a lil bit nasty but he does it to tease me. He told me six months after we got together that I was the woman who turned his life from good to incredible.”

  “You turned mine to shit inside three months, so you’re devolving.” Sour, Chlöe regarded her rapt expression. “So what, like, you complete him? Eeuurgh, repulsive. Next.”

  Vee slapped a hand over a giggle. “The cricket story is nasty. We – me and Joshua – went to Pringle Bay for a long weekend and I bought food from a roadside vendor on the way back. Imagine the worst. There was nowhere to stop and the whole time I was hopping in the car like, well, a cricket. Eventually he had to pull over and,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “I had to go village style, squat in the bush. There’s no dignity in relieving yourself to the sound of someone laughing their ass off at you.”

  “Two repulsive stories,” Chlöe laughed along. She let it breathe, then poked Vee’s thigh. “Hey, don’t pretend you didn’t hear the first question. What’re you gonna do? ’Cause your threesome’s been stable for months now, and as much as I admire your balls of steel, or tits rather, it’s madness. You dared to say you couldn’t choose, they went along with it, and now you’re caught between a very sexy rock and a smouldering hard place. But it won’t last, Voinjama. Women make lemonade and suck it up. Men can’t.”

  “I know.” Vee sat up. “Don’t call it a threesome, Lawd.”

  “Then? And that coloured girl with Joshua …” Chlöe clapped a hand over her mouth. “Eish, ja okay, I saw them together a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t want to get involved, and I figured you’d find out one way or another.”

  “Aria. Aria Burke,” Vee uttered the name like an evil spell. “In America she’s black by the way, but whatever. They used to be an item way back in the day, on and off.” Air hissed from between her teeth. “Professional dancer my ass. With her stupid name, sounding like a panty liner brand.”

  “Clearly you’re not jealous.”

  “Of what? Mmttsshw, I beg you yaah. That’s ancient news. They grew up in the same hood, their parents know each other, they got history. Who doesn’t. She used to date Joshua’s best friend from high school, then it got messy …”

  “Whoa, hang on. Joshua’s one of Titus’s best friends. Do I detect priors in home-wrecking?”

  “He does have a slight reputation,” Vee muttered.

  “So …” Chlöe nestled chin on knees. “Is this about him lying to you about the Titus in Mozambique thing? ’Cause you insisted –”

  “I am over it,” Vee snapped. “These boys, I swear, ggrrrr …” Her fingers clenched to talons. “Sometimes I could smack their stupid heads together like coconuts!” She sagged. “Chlöe, year before last when I was falling apart and really needed Ti around, he wasn’t. On top of that, Joshua lied to me. I was desperate for answers, and he looked me in my face and lied that he didn’t know Ti was posted in Mozambique all along. But he also knew that sometimes people really can’t handle the truth. Me and Ti …” Vee’s voice cracked. “We messed up bad. We needed to run away from each other. Joshua was also the one who had to look at me every day and see how much it was killing me. And then tell his boy about it, and hear how much it was killing him. But he couldn’t own up because Ti swore him to secrecy, so he kept his word. He took care of a friend because another friend asked him to. I can’t hate him for that.”

  “Then … is this about being in love with him and not wanting to admit it? ’Cause that never ends well.”

  Chlöe studied her friend’s outline in the dim backlit lawn, watched her wordlessly slug through her dilemma. Vee’s was a dirty beauty, of the ilk of the mysterious Lovett Massaquoi’s. The lines of her cheekbones and lips were angular yet soft, her eyes heavily tilted, the bridge of her nose surprisingly slender until the fleshy tip. It was a face to make men look, and look again. At certain angles it spelled trouble, and could suck you into wanting to find out how much.

  Finally Vee said: “It’s not about Juju, it’s about Ti. I love him and never stopped.”

  “Well.” Chlöe plucked the grass, ripping up stubbly blades and stalks and rolling them between her fingers, letting the gentle wind sift them back to the ground. “Well,” she finished, nothing more to add.

  She grunted to her feet and watched Vee resume her pose of languishing on her side, legs curved to her bum. “Taking my drunk arse to bed and yours better follow soon. We’ve filed our piece, capped off our stay with a flippin’ good time and I can’t wait to leave this place in my dust tomorrow morning.” She stumbled as she tackled the incline of the grassy knoll. “I’m serious, love,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t fall asleep out here and get fondled by a security guard. You’ve got enough problems. If I don’t see you in a half hour, I’m beeping you.”

  “Urmmgghnff,” Vee mumbled.

  Warm orange hit the back of her eyes.

  Vee blinked from a doze and abruptly squeezed her lids shut again. Too bright. Where the hell was she? Grass, cool earth under her back. Outside . . The lawn. Quiet. Opposite of inside. Noise, party, drunken louts. She patted the ground on either side of her. Empty. No Bishop. What the hell, deserter, where was she?

  Reluctantly she bid her eyelids open. Adjusting to the glare of the security floodlights took a moment. She picked up scuttling, possibly of one of the waiters or a maid, near the dark clutch of trees by the chalets. Other than that, no sign of humanity. She checked her watch: about ten minutes since Chlöe had left. She checked her phone: one new voicemail. From Titus: ‘Why you acting stank? You better holla back before I call my other hos.’

  Grinning, Vee propped up on elbows and lifted her face to the breeze. She imagined Titus’s lips, trailing velvet down the verge behind her ear, fingers entangled with hers as he lowered his body to meet hers. Sometimes a memory of their lovemaking spooked her, so vivid she had to brace herself to keep her balance.

  Then from nowhere, another image intruded: her lips in Joshua’s curls, his mouth in the hollow of her neck as he stroked where the base of her spine curved into her bum.

  Her eyes popped open.

  Joshua Allen didn’t have the good sense his Ma born him with. Messing round with his toxic ex-girlfriend, for real? Well, he needn’t waste time waiting on her if his itches needed scratching. Okay, he didn’t do short women, didn’t find the petite delicate thing thrilling, couldn’t stand their ‘scrabbling all over you in bed like over-eager mice’, or so he said. Aria Burke was proving the exception, though to be fair she wasn’t short, more like average. She could wrap her quasi-stubby, modern-jazz-and-African-interpretative-dance legs around him no problem. They’d look excellent together, their matching caramel limbs intertwined. They’d laugh together over impossibly high-brow, insular American jokes that even she couldn’t get and whisper shit to each other like ‘Oh darling, this feels so irrevocably right.’ Only they’d say it in Spanish, which they were both fluent in, because they shared that New York melting-pot backstory that she had no part of. The light-skinned, flowing-haired girls always won eventually.

  Vee swallowed, the bolus of hurt wedged in her throat going down hard. “You not comin’ do this out here, finegeh,” she chided herself.

  No matter how many ducks lined up, somewhere else the walls were crumbling. But dammit if she was going to wallow in drunken self-pity in a strange venue. She considered going back inside to the party; it was a shorter walk. Inside, where she didn’t know anyone. Except Lovett, who always hob-nobbed in tight, impenetrable cliques, doing his I’m-with-white-people laugh. Moaning, she wobbled to her feet and began the seemingly endless trek across the lawn.

  A hand closed around her arm as her shoe hit the first step at the end of the walkway. She tripped and nearly screamed.

  “I’m so sorry. I called out but you didn’t seem to hear me. You okay?”


  “N–yes. I’m fine.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “God. I didn’t think anybody else was out here.” She squinted against the security floodlights. It was the loudmouth from the convention group, the one with the black hair so stiff and glossy it looked like the plastic bristles of a shoe brush pushing through his scalp.

  “I believe this is yours.” He held out a length of purple material, whispery in the night breeze, and it was a moment before Vee recognised her scarf. She took it with muttered thanks, draping it over her arm.

  “It’s Vai … Velajoma … Vanaijema?”

  Here we go, she thought wearily. “It’s pronounced Vahn-jah-ma, almost like ‘vine’… as in ‘grapevine’. Or Voi-een-jah-ma. Either way is fine.”

  He chortled, flushing. “You gave me your card.” He waved it under her nose. “Been wondering what the pronunciation was. It’s a lovely name. I’m Gavin Berman, if you remember.”

  I did what? A vague recollection of executing the schmooze shuffle, business cards slipping with ease through her fingers, flashed in her mind. She pressed her eyes closed and ran a caress over her forehead. How many had she had?

  “So. Johnson.” He twiddled the card, flicking it under his fingers. “Hhmm. Interesting. Are you coloured?”

  God, this country. “Do I look coloured?” Vee picked a twig off the scarf.

  He laughed far too loudly. “No, no, clearly not. It’s rather curious, though. Why is your name Johnson then?”

  “Because my father’s name is Johnson. Look, I’m really sorry, but –”

  “No I’m sorry, for going about this the wrong way. It’s obnoxious. I see you’re a journalist.” He flicked the card against his thumb before slipping it into his pants pocket. “You must be covering the event. Would you like to have a drink? I’m a mine of information at the witching hour.”

  She relaxed. Slightly. “Oh no, I’m actually not on this. Just visiting. Thank you for the offer, but no thanks. I have a very early day ahead of me tomorrow.” She turned to leave and heard him bound up the stairs after her.

  “One drink.” He barred her way. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

  His eyes roamed over and stuck to her body like something wet and slimy. He stepped close enough for a blast of his breath to hit her in the face. Vee back-pedalled, heart starting to thud. “Wha–”

  “Just think about it …” As his arm snaked around her waist, Vee saw her own arm shoot out with a will of its own. His eyes bulged as her fingers closed around his neck and shoved him against the nearest wall. A croaky gargle escaped his throat.

  “Listen here, mister ass,” she whispered, appalled at her shaking voice. “If dis dah you not being obnoxious, you better rethink it quick-quick.” She shoved him once more before releasing her grip, letting him sag against the wall. Bent double and coughing, surprise and outrage bubbled in his eyes as he looked at her.

  “Want start some kinda nonsense dis late night. You think dah brothel here?” She sucked her teeth viciously and hustled across the stretch of lawn, throwing cautious glances behind her every now and then.

  “Ahem. Ma’am.”

  The voice hailed from her far right. Swallowing a squeak of surprise, she squinted into the dark, shaking as she tried to attach a body to the voice. Darkness melted back a tad; the concierge from earlier that morning solidified, nib of his flicked cigarette bouncing sparks onto the concrete. Tony was his name, if she remembered right. Timothy maybe. Tom?

  “Are you alright?” Even as he asked his eyes filled with knowing, a little pity, a touch too much smugness. Uninvited guests were always uninvited guests.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I could escort you back to your room.” He nodded in the direction of the main building behind him. Through the glass doors, silhouettes crisscrossed the large dining area. The festivities were still in full swing.

  Vee pursed her lips. You know damn well my room ain’t on this side of the wall. “No, thank you,” she replied curtly, picking up pace again before common sense hit, slowing her to a halt. “Actually,” she turned back, “I’d appreciate that, thank you.”

  “No problem. I’ll walk you as far as the gate. The security guard will see you safely through to the other side.”

  As he fell into step beside her, Vee hugged her handbag to her chest, huddled against the sudden chill.

  On the steps of the concrete walkway several metres behind them, her forgotten scarf billowed and snaked.

  Razor

  Chapter Eight

  “I can’t believe this,” Lovett said.

  “You can’t believe this?!” Vee exclaimed.

  Her phone vibrated: another missed call from Nico. Five in total. She should’ve held off on letting Chlöe call him. She typed a quick text along the lines of getting back to him as soon as she had a free second and slipped it in her back pocket. ‘Silent mode’ could take the flack when he lost it.

  She peeped across the room at Chlöe, tucked away in a corner seat next to Lovett’s hyper-blonde, Slavic-cheekboned companion. Chlöe’s eyes kept zipping round, a new emotion swiping another off her face every few seconds; worry in Vee’s direction, rabid puzzlement and hope in Lovett’s, barely veiled amazement at the blonde’s impeccable attire at just gone seven in the morning, distaste every time she scratched her scalp and terror every time her phone beeped. Vee turned back to Lovett, who kept releasing a relay of soft sighs as he ever so calmly paced the wood-panelled floor of the small dining room, stirring a warm draft of toothpaste and men’s cologne every time he strode past.

  “It’s ridiculous. They’re holding you on a very flimsy premise. They know that, hence the time-wasting while they get their act together.”

  “Lovett.” Vee stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Lovett ooo. You boy, dis not play-play. A man is dead. Strangled with a piece of my property. They saw the marks round his neck where I choked him.” She drew in a long, shaky breath to steady her voice. “Now, I don’t know if you trying to approach this as a lawyer or as a fr–” She stopped, bemused by the audacity of what she’d been about to say. Were they actually friends? Did Lovett even do friendship? She had no clue.

  Lovett returned what approximated an amused smile and patted her hand. “Look, all I mean is it’s taking longer than it needs to. The police haven’t laid charges because they don’t have evidence enough to charge you with. Besides the damn scarf, which is circumstantial. They’ve questioned you for an hour this morning, and you cooperated and stuck to your story. Because it’s true. Nothing … untoward transpired between y’all?”

  “Ehn? Like I’hn got better things to do than screw Papa Smurf?”

  He cocked his head sternly; she sighed and shook her head. “So then. They just have to find this concierge fellow and everything will be settled.”

  He strolled back to the sliding doors, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply as the morning sun struck his face. Vee noticed that his shirt had not a single wrinkle in sight. She edged away from the aura of suave, pressing her armpits to her sides to conceal half-dried circles of sweat on yesterday’s rumpled T-shirt.

  “But what if they don’t find him? What if this killer got to him too last night? Two people dead already.”

  “What? Two people? Which two people now?” He pivoted from the view to drill her with a highly concerned look, the kind given to addled unfortunates just before padded cells and calming drugs came into play. “There’s one dead body, Voinjama.” He held up a single finger. “One victim. Just relax. And shush.”

  Chlöe watched Vee slump into a chair. Lovett, sensitive to her turmoil, sighed into the seat next to her. Arms wrapped tight around her middle, Vee kept shaking her head and nervously jiggling the toes of her sneakers against the floor.

  Lovett shook his head. “Finegeh, jes relax. Stop worryin’ like dis.”

  Chlöe smiled. Leaning sideways, she intimated: “This ‘finegeh’, or ‘finegirl’ if you pronounce it properly, it’s such a major part of this slang of t
heirs. I guess it’s like ‘meisie’ in Afrikaans. Only they say it a lot more often, right?”

  “I guess so.” The blonde carried on texting for another second before looking up. “You can really understand that stuff they’re saying?”

  “I’ve gotten a pretty good hang of it,” Chlöe preened. “The accent and the speed’s the hard part. But you catch on. It’s like pretending half your brain is dead and the other half is completely drunk.”

  The blonde fired an ‘as if I give a shit’ look and went back to texting on her iPhone. Alarmed, Chlöe saw she was tweeting. Nico’s fuming on the phone earlier that morning had included his outrage that they and their incident were blowing up locally on Twitter, and he’d had to hear about it from an office underling. Chlöe looked back at Vee, who looked like she was trying to devour her bottom lip.

  “Aay, my pipo,” Vee clapped her hands despondently. “Wha’ kanna troubo I nah put mysef in again ooo?”

  Chlöe closed her eyes, which, somehow and mysteriously, did wonders in unjabbering the jibber. You mean what kind of trouble has found you once again, my dear friend, she thought, equally dejected. And it’s bad if she thinks it’s bad.

  “Aay, you geh man,” Lovett replied impatiently. “I’hn like de way you ackin’ so. Ehn I nah tell you, de pipo dem ee’hn got nuttin to charge you wit.” Come now, girl. I’m not at all impressed with your current behaviour. As I’ve told you, these people haven’t got a shred of evidence against you.

  “Dah lie o! Dey got dah scarf, dah sumtin. And even sef, who say dey can’t jes hitch it behind me jes because dey’hn got nobody else who lookin’ guilty?” Behold, a falsehood! That scarf is a lot of something. Besides that, who says they can’t just pin it on me just because they need a fall guy?

  “Move from heah, man. You nah nobody in dis town heah, so nobody want hitch nuttin’ on you. Da’hn anythin’ hard to sort dis out. So don’t come chakla the situation wit dah yor mouf.” Get outta here. You’re nobody around these parts, so no-one will be looking to gratuitously pin any crimes on you. So don’t mess this up by losing your cool.