Afterland

by Lauren Beukes

  “Like mother, like daughter. Spilling is a genetic tradition in our family, goes back generations. My mom used to specialize in dropping food down the front of her cleavage and her mom before her. I’ve never had enough cleavage to do that, and Mila, you’re heading the same way. Boobs may skip a few generations, but spillage is forever.”

  “Mom! I can do it myself.”

  “Okay, okay,” Cole surrenders the napkin and peruses the menu, even though she’s ready to order, plain toast with butter, to get over the nausea of the macon.

  She can’t help noticing (in fact, she’s working hard at noticing) that when the bill comes, and Compassion pays, she draws the notes from a thick fold inside her Apologia. Has she been topping up the reserves? Maybe it’s just their special holy bank in the bus ceiling? Not that many places these days will accept plastic: cash is gaining ascendency once again.

  She’ll need money to pay for their passage home. And a cell phone to arrange it once they get to Miami.

  It’s coming together. Not so useless. Not so stupid. She’s got this.

  Aw. I always believed in you, boo.

  40.

  Billie: Stockholm

  This side still of Omaha. Cruising the streets of semi-industria, so baldly generic and soulless, even in the dark, that it’s clear no one will ever, ever return here. They dumped Rico’s body in a ditch, tried to cover her up with branches wrenched from bushes, yanked the fender off the car and placed it on top of her. Cairn of the highways. Drive away and leave your cares behind! But the blood is still fresh in the car, and Billie’s ears are full of crash and singing. Her scalp aches where Zara yanked at her hair.

  They pull up at an abandoned Mexican restaurant in a strip mall, some wannabe-chain place. The security is negligible; a locked door cedes to a broken window. The interior is gloomy and stale, haunted by the ghosts of tacos past and the smell of cooking oil, bright paper decorations and Mexican flags drooping from the ceiling in the light of the phone torch. Billie, too numb to question, follows Zara into the kitchen, although if this bitch thinks she’s going to eat three-year-old nachos from the box she is mistaken.

  Not decayed food. Cleaning supplies. Zara takes them from the storage cupboard. Windex and some Walmart industrial oven cleaner, and Mr. Clean. Billie had an actor friend in Cape Town who was in one of their commercials, getting hot and heavy with the bald-headed cartoon figure. Which is what O.G. thugcunt #1 intends for her, she understands, as she piles up the supplies in her arms.

  “We’re going to get a new car anyway,” she argues as they pick their way between the tables back to their own personal crime scene on wheels. “No one will see in the dark. We won’t get pulled over. I haven’t even seen another car on the road, let alone police, traffic, whatever. We don’t need to. It’s a waste of time. They might be coming after us. We should get distance, while we can, get to Chicago.”

  “Shut up. Or I might kill you. I might anyway. You and me…” Zara slices her hand at her neck. Guillotine.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Look at cars.” She leans over under the steering wheel and takes the keys out of the ignition, jangles them in Billie’s face. The most aggressive sign language.

  “Calm your precious tits,” Billie snipes, but only once Zara’s out of earshot.

  On her hands and knees on the back seat, alternating scrubbing at the human Rorschach soaked into the fabric and gagging. She spits onto the ground, wipes her mouth. Should be used to it by now. This is why you pony up for leather seats.

  This stain is not coming out. Filthy dead cunt. Fuck you, Rico. And the matter of the shattered rear windscreen. There has to be an easier way. Billie goes back into the restaurant, comes out with cardboard boxes, tape, a stash of folded easy-wipe tablecloths, bright red and weighted.

  Trying to plan ahead. If the cops did pull them over before they obtain a new car, would that be better or worse? She’s not responsible for what happened to Ash and Fontaine and the rest of them in the woods. Hostage, not an accomplice. Hasn’t held a firearm, not one shot fired. Apart from the one they used to kill Nervous Nelly and incriminate her. But Rico had another weapon. Of course she did. In the car, before she was shot. Firing back. Where is that gun?

  Quick, Zara is coming back, army boots tramping across the lot. Billie’s fingers dig in the seat wells, both of them, up to her armpit down there, but it’s rails and levers, the brute mechanics of seat adjustment. No gun. No fucking gun. It must have fallen out when they hauled the body out of the car. She might even remember the sound it made clattering on the street. And you know what else she doesn’t have, Billie realizes, is those expired antibiotics.

  Zara scowls seeing her handiwork; the tablecloths tucked in over the ruined upholstery, the rear window taped up with cardboard to stop the wind getting in.

  “I couldn’t find plastic. There are takeout bags, but they’re not transparent. Enough.” She hates the cravenness in her voice, heat-seeking approbation. No, not that, reprieve.

  Seven and a bit hours to Chicago. Plotting the dots across the map, like in old movies. At the vehicle redistribution lot in Omaha, Zara pays three thousand in cash not to hand over her Social Security number, as state regulations require.

  “We’re in a rush. Surprise birthday party,” Billie says. Being useful.

  “Good for you,” the lot manager says with a smile that reveals a gold tooth and a chipped one. Maybe she’ll use the cash she’s pocketing in her lilac anorak with Day-Glo stripes to get proper dental care.

  Maybe they can stop at a drugstore and get more antibiotics.

  “You should let me drive,” she tries.

  “Des Moines,” Zara counters, handing her the phone. The battery is on thirty-two percent. “And check your mail.”

  There is still no reply from Cole. No acknowledgment at all. She browses Tayla’s Facebook, set to public, so just anyone can see the touching tributes to Jay and Eric and Devon, her family photos, the beautiful little girls, growing up so fast.

  You should be careful, Billie thinks, putting up pictures of kids online. You don’t know what kind of predators are out there. But no cute family reunion pics, no “look who just showed up at my door: this MIA sister-in-law and best nephew!” (cue confetti animation). But where else would she go? Who else would she turn to?

  Zara is concentrating on the road, and Billie has every reason to be on her phone. She clicks across to Telegram. Messages from Z. for J. Julita Amato. As if that’s not obvious. Someone has a lot of confidence in encryption. Swiping up, backward-engineering the conversation in maddeningly stilted texts.

  Three days ago:

  Z:

  Update. Going to Chicago. To meet SIL. OK?

  Two days ago:

  J:

  Whatever it takes. I trust in your esteemed judgment.

  Z:

  OK

  Today. 01h22

  Z:

  Complications. Sorry to inform you.

  J:

  What kind?

  Z:

  Bad.

  J:

  I expect you’ll give me a full accounting when it’s convenient.

  Z:

  Going to cost more. Single-handed now.

  J:

  I see.

  How much more? What are we talking about?

  This has already been an expensive operation.

  Z:

  4M

  J:

  I can make it 2. But I don’t want to hear about any more recreational detours or delays.

  Z:

  OK

  J:

  Mrs. Fish’s address to come once you’ve got her exotic in the tank.

  Z:

  Still NYC?

  J:

  Yes. Paperwork will be waiting for you. Is our friend still in the picture?

  Z:

  Yes. For now.

  Billie turns off the sound, does a surreptitious screengrab and sends it to her own email address, scrubs it
from sent items and deleted photos and trash. Accomplices don’t gather evidence, but hostages do. If she can’t have a gun, at least she has ammunition.

  And holy shit. Two million dollars?

  41.

  Cole: Real Estate

  “What are you listening to?” Cole taps Mila on the shoulder, feeling shut out by the teen armor of earbuds. Mila deigns to unplug for a moment from the MP3 player marked with that sun-ray logo. The dangling bud leaks out a woman’s voice, sonorous, urgent. Cole doesn’t recognize it, but it isn’t Beyoncé.

  “Sermons. By Mother Inferior. It comes preloaded. Generosity says it’s part of my preparation.”

  “I don’t think you need to be listening to that right now.”

  “She said, Mom.”

  “Okay. Any good?”

  She shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. So, this is Memphis. Huh. Looks like any other city.”

  “What were you expecting? Elvis impersonators on every street corner?” Cole teases. She doesn’t add that even if the tabloid conspiracy that Elvis was alive were true, Culgoa would have got him by now.

  “Hey, someone’s waving at us.” Mila points out the skinny old lady in a caramel pantsuit, windmilling her arms at the bus and grinning.

  “At last!” says Faith, who must be tired, hauling the long way around from Tulsa via Fayetteville, because she rarely grumbles. Now she’s spinning the wheel, responding to the gestures of the old lady, who’s beckoning them into the parking lot like she’s one of those people on the airport runway with orange paddles.

  She dances over to stand at the door so she can greet everyone, shaking each Sister’s hand as they descend from the bus. “Good evening, good evening! What a pleasure to meet you all.” Up close, her face is crinkled with lines and ashy, and her bright red lipstick has bled into the latticework around her lips.

  “Alicia Grayson, Grayson Properties. And well, I’m so glad you made it. Long drive, huh?”

  “We’re used to it,” Hope says. “I’m Sister Hope. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Right, right. Well this is it. I know it’s not much to look at right now, but a little loving care. It’s got potential. I’ll take you round the front, if you’re ready?”

  Compassion slaps at her face.

  “Sorry about the mosquitoes. Not the best welcoming committee. Could be worse, could be roaches. It’s so damn hot, they’re swarming. And we’re barely through spring. Hope they’re not carrying Zika. But I’m guessing you aren’t the types to be running around trying to get yourselves knocked up. Hope you don’t mind me saying.” She winks, lasciviously.

  “Actually,” Generosity says with all the pained self-righteousness of an internet commenter, “the Church believes that motherhood is a sacred calling. It’s the higher purpose for all of us.”

  “That’s a beautiful dream, God willing and all that. I never got around to having kids. Passed me by—these bony hips weren’t made for childbearing. Now, if you’ll follow me to the front, that’s going to give you the right impression.”

  “Is that a New York accent?” Cole asks.

  “Born and bred! But the climate didn’t suit me. Too cold, too hot. It’s nicer out here, mild. But I’ll tell you what, I’ve got a lot of time for churches. I don’t know if you’re aware of this part of recent history, because it tends to fall off the side of the news ticker screen, but the black churches have done more for this city than just about anyone. Hurricane Terry back in 2020? Now that was bad, the Mississippi flooded the delta, no power for two weeks, half the city in darkness, but that was a dress rehearsal for the Manfall, you know what I’m saying, and the weather doesn’t let up because people are dying. You want to know who were the ones who rallied and took care of our people, black, white, Korean, whatever flavor you can name? The African American churches. You could be walking through the darkness, with the power lines down, and the churches would be a shining beacon, an open door, with them solar-powered lamps and gas heaters; they gave out blankets and warm clothes, and food too. They tended to the sick, helped people take care of their dead.”

  “That’s very admirable,” Hope says.

  “Isn’t it just. Comfort and solace. That’s the truly Christian way. Are you going to be that kind of church? Because I’ll tell you right now, the city’s gonna be amenable to that. That’s exactly what we need in this neighborhood. You gonna get your permit easy as pie if you’ve come here to do the Lord’s work. Though you’re still gonna have to fill in all the forms. Jesus can take away the weight of your sin, but he can’t take away the paperwork. But I think you’ll qualify. Doing good work. My daddy was Egyptian, all the way from Cairo, my mother was from Queens, and if he could get his green card way back in 1935 before they even called them that, let me tell you, you can get a permit from the city to set up a what do you call it—”

  “A Heart,” Hope interjects.

  Mila huffs, impatient. “Why is she talking so much?”

  “Maybe she’s nervous,” Cole says, and does not say: and maybe you’re irritable because you didn’t pee when you could have at the last rest stop.

  “That’s right. I knew it was some body part or another! You know that storm I was mentioning, the firefighters were heroes too, we all bear witness. Sometimes that’s all you can do, because tragedy can be small too, personal. You know what one of the big tragedies of 9/11 was that barely got any attention? The animals who were abandoned in the surrounding area. I volunteered with the ASPCA back then, and we had to rescue a lot of pets. I really love animals. We’re all God’s creatures, but they’re special because they’re innocent, they never did anything to anyone except out of fear or bad owners goading them, like dogfighting. That’s some bad business.”

  “Amen,” Generosity says, but Alicia doesn’t pick up on the sharp edges.

  They walk around to the front of a redbrick building with rusty gray shutters and a faded sign where you can still make out some of the letters: ELL HOUSE, which doesn’t seem like a good omen.

  “Ta-da! This here’s the building in question. Whaddaya think? It used to be a bar and music venue, they’d host bands and comedy and whatnot.”

  “We might have to do an exorcism—debauchery be gone!” Cole whispers to Mila, but her daughter rolls her eyes and pointedly edges closer to Generosity.

  Alicia unlocks the enormous padlock on the roller door and does battle with the metal shutter. “First thing we’ll do is take down the signage. Ooof. Or maybe we’ll grease the rollers,” she laughs. “Can someone give me a hand here?” Faith helps her wrestle it up halfway, so they have to duck under it into the clammy darkness inside, one by one.

  “Give me a sec to find the power box.” A click in the darkness and the fluorescent lights spasm in protest. Cockroaches freeze, like they’re caught in the strobe, and then scatter as the electricity settles in the tubes.

  “Well! It needs a cleanup. I can recommend some good folk who can make you a new sign, maybe even get you a discount. What did you say your church was called?”

  “All Sorrows.”

  “Woo. Sounds serious. Guess you won’t be hosting any comedy shows then? Sorry, I can’t help myself, my mouth is like one of them Japanese high-speed trains. You hear they want to build one of them between New York and Chicago? I think we got bigger priorities than being able to visit family in Illinois, but I suppose anything that allows us to get closer to each other in these troubled times…”

  “One of the feminine sins,” Hope says mildly.

  “What is, sweetie?”

  “Talking too much. It’s one of the manifold ways we have betrayed God’s purpose for us. Women must know when to hold their tongues.”

  Alicia goes cold, static. “Well, I am sorry to have offended you. One of the first things you learn in a city like this, lots of cultures, lots of perspectives. I hope you’ll keep that in mind. Love thy neighbor is short for tolerance.”

  “But tolerance destroyed civilization!” Mila bursts out.
Cole is shaken. Is she faking? She must be faking. But she’s so convincing.

  “That’s right, daughter,” Hope beams, “If we tolerate evil, do we not allow evil? The path to hell is paved with good intentions and tolerances and indulgences. We cannot afford to be tolerant. It is a luxury of the weak and the cowardly. We must stand our ground, we must stand up to the indignities and disgrace.”

  The real estate agent blinks, a shutter that turns off something inside her. “Oh yes, I recognize the name now. You’re linked to that big church in Florida, the Temple of Joy, with the whatsername, that big celebrity leader.”

  “Mother’s grace be upon us,” Generosity says. “We’d be happy to help you repent.”

  “I got nothing to apologize for. I’m proud of every single mistake, wear them like medals.” She continues, now icy-professional, “As you can see, this is the bar, which the builders can rip out for you. If you head through this door, you’ll find yourself in the theater. Like I said on the phone, it’s a two-hundred seater, which can easily be converted into a place of worship. Take your time looking around, but if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a call.”

  Cole tugs Mila back as the others traipse in to look.

  She shoots her an indignant look. “I want to see the theater.”

  “What was that? Why were you so rude?”

  She shrugs, barely. “I wanted her to shut up. She was going on and on. Chill, Mom.”

  Cole feels a cold jab of fear between her shoulder blades. Mila can’t mean it. She’s faking. Surely. But sitting in the bus, the tinny murmur of the Mother Inferior’s voice leaking through the speakers, that drip-drip of Kool-Aid in her ear.

  Get out! Like in the movie, boo. Before it’s too late.