Water Music

by Margie Orford

  Silence.

  Clare knew enough about accused men to know that they all swore innocence. She leaned back in her chair.

  And after?

  I didnt see anything.

  How come?

  I went home.

  Take him back to the cells. Clare stood up. You think about some better answers, she said. Then we can talk.

  Chadley Wewers leapt at her, but not as fast as Riedwaan. His cuffed hands slowed him down.

  Its the truth, you bitch, he snarled. Its the fucking truth.

  So where is she? Riedwaan pushed him down on a chair.

  I dont fucking know.

  Then what were you doing there? The muscles in Riedwaans arms were corded earned from a childhood carrying loads too heavy for him, and a lifetime of wariness. It was not a body you could buy in a gym. When he was filled with fury it was a body that spoke violence. That was a language that Chadley Wewers understood.

  Your prints are there, said Riedwaan. Shes a nice girl with an education. If she dies and you know where she is, a judge will give you life. But if you help us now, youll have it easier.

  Wewers sat back, looked from Clare to Riedwaan, weighing up his options. It didnt take long.

  You got an entjie, Captain?

  A confession was coming. Riedwaan handed him a cigarette.

  DesRay, he started. Her mom works there. Thats why we can go there.

  What are you talking about? said Clare.

  Listen to what Im telling you, lady, said Wewers. Mrs Daniels is the maid. She cleans the house. Sometimes you go fucking mad living in a Wendy house in the wind. DesRay takes her moms security pass. We go up there sometimes. Thats all there is. Now can I go?

  Why didnt you say this before? asked Clare.

  You think Mrs Daniels is going to keep her job after this?

  Clare and Riedwaan stood up.

  You going to let me go?

  Not a chance, said Riedwaan. Youre going back to the cells until were sure what you say isnt some tik-addicts dream.

  The warrant officers came to take him back to the cells.

  Leave your cigarettes with me, Captain. Wewers was scratching at his neck. Riedwaan tossed him the box.

  Jou ma se vrot poes, Wewers yelled after him. Its fucking empty.

  30

  Dont know how I missed that the fact that Mrs Daniels works at the house, said Clare. She opened the door to her office. The air smelt stale, she opened the window. Its on the records, the ones Sylvan Estate security gave me, and I missed it.

  OK, so youre not Ms Perfect after all, Riedwaan smiled. But whats with DesRay, the pregnant girlfriend, saying nothing?

  Shes obviously afraid, said Clare.

  With that jerk, I dont blame her.

  Theres no evidence that Rosa had a drug problem the only thing that might possibly link her to Chadley Wewers, said Clare.

  Wrong place, wrong time, thats all you need with scum like Wewers.

  If its him, why was the TV still there? asked Clare. Why was the laptop there? Whys all that shit that tik addicts steal still in the house?

  The girl disturbed them.

  I think someone disturbed her, said Clare. But who? Its hard to vanish on an estate with cameras everywhere. And Sylvan Estate isnt the sort of place where people turn a blind eye to boys in hoodies.

  The electricity was out. He was bending over records that Ina Britz had requested from Sylvan Estate. Check there. It says the fence was off for an hour that night.

  Clare flipped back through the records. Look, seems like outages were a regular occurrence. Lots of trees blown down this winter. Bad combination, edge of the forest and stormy weather.

  Maybe, said Riedwaan.

  Wewers insists he doesnt know her, said Clare.

  Hes lying.

  Why is he lying?

  Hes a gangster, said Riedwaan. Thats what gangsters do. They lie.

  This is different, said Clare. Hes afraid. Maybe hes covering for something.

  You want to let him go?

  Not a chance, said Clare. He may not have done anything to Rosa himself, but that doesnt mean to say he wasnt there and that he doesnt know what happened to her.

  Maybe, said Riedwaan.

  I want to find the others, said Clare. See what they were doing there.

  And your birthday? said Riedwaan.

  Shit, said Clare. Look at the time.

  And this is not the right time for this either. Riedwaan had a blue velvet box in his gun hand. He was pointing it at her. Clare took the unwrapped gift. It snapped open. An oval pendant, sky-blue tanzanite.

  I saw your eyes in it.

  Thats so perfect.

  Turn round. Riedwaans fingers were a whisper at the back of her neck as he fastened the chain.

  I love it. She turned to face him again.

  Clare leaned her forehead against Riedwaans chest. She could hear his heart. The silver chain was cold against her skin.

  Riedwaan. Now that she couldnt see his eyes, she could formulate the words she needed to say. I must tell you

  Later, he said. Tell me later. I have to go see my mother. Riedwaans breath was warm in her hair. I promised Id be there to give her supper. Im already late.

  She doesnt remember anything, said Clare, drawing back. She wont know if its five or six or seven oclock.

  But I will, he said, disentangling himself. Ive broken enough promises, and anyway, Ive got this feeling.

  What feeling?

  That shes going. Riedwaan picked up his helmet, banging the door shut behind him. Minutes later, she heard the whine of his bike as he accelerated up the hill.

  Fuck, said Clare. Then her phone rang and she grabbed it.

  Mandla Njobes number flashing on the screen. A splinter of ice lodged itself in the base of her spine.

  Youve found something, Mandla?

  Clare, he said. You must come up the Kloof. Now, right now.

  31

  Clare took Valley Road, past the KwikShop, following the river up Orange Kloof. She drove past Sylvan Estate, turning up a track along the electric fence separating the estate from the mountain. Following Ina Britzs directions, she bumped past the familiar yellow-and-black warning signs strung along the razor wire at eye level. Past the place where the little girl had been found. The light was giving out, the day about to plunge into darkness.

  The track petered out. Shed have to go the rest of the way on foot, as the others had, carrying their equipment with them.

  She plunged her hands deep into her pockets, safe from the winds bite. A spiders web glinted dully. Beyond, in the forest, the saw-toothed pines bit into the brooding evening sky.

  An owl hooted mournfully; fear brushed the back of Clares neck. Clenching her fists in her pockets, she gasped at the stab of pain the forgotten quill in her pocket.

  She ignored the trails of animals escaping the sprawl of the housing estates. Instead she took the path followed by Mandla Njobe and Gypsy, by Ina Britz and the Section 28 men with their digging equipment. The trees drew her in and closed ranks behind her.

  Below her was the clearing. A diffused light in the surrounding pine trees, the clearing the centre of a perfect fairy circle. A depression in the ground amid the pine needles. One, two, three small rectangles of disturbed earth alongside each other. Further along, a fourth, perhaps.

  The sound of spades slicing through wet earth, piles of soil heaped to one side. Ina Britz turned, lit a Lucky Strike.

  Clare picked her way through the trees at the edge of the clearing. Last nights deluge had washed away any possibility of footprints or a scent trail for the leashed dog. Gypsy barked a greeting at her, and she let the dog sniff her hand. Clare greeted Ina Britz and the others, but the group was silent, transfixed by the rhythmic thud of the spade under the glare of the halogen lights.

  Then it stopped. In its stead, voices low with dread, wishing away the result, no matter how often before it had happened.

  At the bottom of the ho
le were rocks, weighting down the form beneath them wrapped in black plastic. The tracker dog sniffed the air, and then she sat back and raised her head to the sky. Her howl was long and lupine.

  The men tasked with exhumation squatted at the edge of the grave, lifted the bag and laid it out. It was not man-sized; hardly woman-sized. The stench was overwhelming. Clare cut open the bag.

  A young woman stared up at them.

  It wasnt Rosa.

  32

  The dead womans heart-shaped face had a beguiling symmetry. Her eyebrows were dark and finely shaped above her slanted eyes. They stared up at the starless sky, and it was hard to look at her without feeling accused. Her black hair was matted, and near the temples patches had been ripped from her scalp.

  Piet Mouton, the pathologist, overweight and uncomplaining despite the climb, removed the plastic that was wrapped around the body. The dead woman was naked, her hipbones and ribs visible under mottled white skin. He set to work with a tenderness and precision that seemed unlikely in a man of his size.

  Shes about your height, Clare. Id say she was your age, thirty-five.

  Thirty-six, as of today.

  Congratulations, said Mouton. Height, all that stuff Ill do in the lab, but for now Id say shes about your height too. Five foot four, but she cant weigh more than forty kilos. Not much more than a ten-year-old.

  An old-school pathologist, hed been looking at cadavers for decades.

  He examined the corpse. The head, the neck, the chest, the arms, the legs, her bare feet. There were no visible wounds, no gashes to the throat or blows to the head that had delivered the coup de grâce.

  The pathologist stretched out the arms, the palms open to the sky. There were jagged scars on the inside of the wrists.

  Suicide attempt? asked Clare.

  Mouton turned her hands over. Scars there too.

  Looks to me like this is from a ligature, he said. Its healed, but it must have been there for a while to scar her like this.

  So what killed her then?

  I have to autopsy her, but shes so thin she couldve starved to death. Anorexics look like this by the time I get to see them.

  The pathologist did obligatory fingernail scrapes before tucking the womans arms back alongside her body. It was an illusion, Clare knew that, but it made the dead woman seem slightly less defenceless.

  Any signs of sexual assault? asked Clare.

  The pathologist swabbed her. Mouth, anus, vagina.

  No visible sign that she was raped, he said. But shed had a child. And she tore badly.

  How recently? asked Clare.

  Its completely healed, said Mouton. So a couple of years or more.

  I need something to work with, said Clare. Time of death. Give me that, at least.

  Well, decomposition has set in, he said.

  No need to tell me that, said Clare. I can smell.

  OK, said the pathologist. At least a week. Maybe a little more. Although Id be surprised if shes been buried that long. Too little damage, too little insect predation.

  He turned the body over. There were livid scars across her back.

  These scars come from a sjambok, he said. A whip. I see them on children usually. Women too, sometimes. Usually theyre from farms.

  Thats what Anwar Jacobs said about the little girl we found yesterday. She was tethered to a tree on the bridle path not even a kilometre away.

  That child was found alive, said Mouton. This womans been dead for at least a week. Theres nothing more I can tell you until I get her back to the morgue.

  The wind whined in the pine trees as the mortuary attendants carried the corpse across the rough terrain. The few crime scene officers that had been mustered were searching the area, but they werent going to find much and they knew it. Even though the weather had lifted, it had been raining too hard and for too long for them to find tracks.

  Clare walked up the wooded slope. At the lip of a hollow, the wind caught her. It seemed to come straight off the pack ice around the white continent thousands of kilometres to the south.

  She pushed her cold hands into her pockets into the quill she had picked up and forgotten. She withdrew her hand and stared at it. A bead of blood was forming on her palm, yet the pain was a relief.

  33

  Clare was outside the Art Deco villa where her older sister lived, in the embrace of Table Mountain. She leaned her head on the steering wheel. All she wanted to do was sleep. A motorbike. Riedwaan, nosing onto the pavement. He took off his helmet, shaking the rain off his clothes.

  He opened Clares door for her, and they walked through Julias fragrant garden towards the house. Clares five-year-old niece, Beatrice, flew down the verandah steps.

  My bestest aunt, she exclaimed.

  My bestest niece. Clare caught the little girl in her arms; shed grown taller, sturdier; a measure of how little Clare had seen her in the past six months.

  Clares twin, Constance, came up behind the child. She flung her arms around her sister.

  Happy birthday, they said simultaneously. Clare touched her sisters short hair. It was feathered around her face where a latticework of pale scars disappeared into the grey that she, unlike her twin, didnt try to hide.

  Scars on her temple, persistent reminders of the incident in the park all those years ago, the battering shed endured while crawling away from the hands, the hammer, the unbuckled trousers. For eighteen years the two women had been tethered to that night. Both had been altered; both had survived.

  Happy birthday, Constance.

  Her twin released Clare from her embrace and smiled at Riedwaan.

  Glad you dragged her from that work of hers she uses as an excuse not to see us, said Constance. You coming in?

  Clare and Riedwaan followed her up the steps. Inside, it was all food and warmth and flickering candlelight.

  The momentary silence that fell as Clare and Riedwaan stepped into the room was swept aside by Julias offers of champagne, her taking of scarves and jackets, her reassurances that it was fine that they were late, that dinner wasnt spoiled.

  Thanks, Julia. Clare hugged her older sister, glad of the warm sanctuary of her home. The red wine glowed; the silver cutlery glinted on the table. The aroma of Karoo lamb, minted yoghurt sauce, roast potatoes, butternut, beetroot and orange salad set aside for the latecomers, Constance serving and Julia talking, weaving them together around her table. When they had finished eating, Clare helped Constance clear the table.

  As Clare put the dishes into the sink, she glanced at a photograph of herself and her twin. The two of them sitting side by side on the swing at the bottom of the garden. Before it had all happened. While there had still been parents, a garden, a family frame for the two identical girls.

  Thats us at the same age as Rosa Wagner, said Clare.

  Whos she?

  A girl, a cellist, whose disappearance left not a ripple for three weeks.

  Are you all right, Clare?

  No, said Clare. Im not.

  Then stop, said Constance. Do something else. Im no longer the fragile one. One day youll push yourself too far and then youll break.

  Clare ran cold water into her hands and splashed her face.

  Let me pour you a glass of this. Constance took a bottle of Chenin Blanc from the fridge. At least take the edge off things. You didnt have anything to drink with dinner. There are few problems that cant be solved, at least temporarily, with a glass of wine.

  I didnt feel like wine.

  Pregnancys the only thing that ever put the women in this family off drinking, said Constance. Look at Julia!

  How did she manage to do it twice? said Clare, off-guard.

  Her sisters gaze cut straight through Clares. It had always been like that. Constance, the one person who saw her for what she was, and even loved her for it.

  Youre pregnant, arent you?

  It wasnt planned.

  So what, said Constance.

  Its still not planned.

  You cant p
lan everything, Clare.

  Oh? Why not?

  With all your cleverness you are so stupid sometimes, said Constance. Youre thirty-six, time passes. What does Riedwaan say, anyway?

  Clare stacked some plates.

  You havent told him about this, have you? said Constance.

  No. Clare stacked some more plates.

  You must.

  Laughter and music drifted into the silence between the two sisters.

  Clare, talk to Riedwaan, tell him. Then decide what you want to do together. Just this once, dont shut out the people who love you.

  If I tell him, Ill have to have it, said Clare. And Im telling you, I cannot do it.

  Clare, listen to me

  No, you listen to me. Clare turned and faced Constance. Its a mistake. Its my mistake and only mine and I will fix it.

  Youre wrong this time, said Constance. Wrong.

  Constance picked up the tray with the cake, the cake forks, and the gilt-edged plates that had been their mothers and were for special occasions only. She stalked off to the dining room. Clare followed. She took her place next to Riedwaan and turned her smile back on.

  The birthday cake was homemade, with a lemon zest top. Everybody sang happy birthday and Constance blew out the candles; Clare cut the cake. She couldnt eat any of it. And then it was over, and they were outside on the verandah; below, the city lights stretched away towards Table Bay.

  34

  Fritz was in her usual place at the top of the stairs. Clare picked her up and buried her face in the soft ruff of fur around the cats neck. With Fritz warm and purring in her arms, Clare went through to the kitchen. She caught a glimpse of her face staring at her from the cold, black window pane. She crossed the room and pulled the curtains closed. That got rid of her gaunt reflection, but there was nothing she could do to erase her thoughts of the empty house on Sylvan Estate. Or the forest.

  Theres nothing you can do now. Come to bed. If you sleep, tomorrow youll be able to think straight.

  Riedwaan shepherded her towards the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, and pulled her dress off her shoulders. He ran his fingertips across her collarbones and down her sides, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the hipbones that angled his hands towards hidden skin warm to his touch. He used his free hand to pull her under him.