Once the boys had gone, the house seemed empty, its comfortable familiarity lessened, as if something was lurking in the shadows. Any sudden sound set my nerves jangling, calling up memories of Paul Ndzoyiya telling me about the scratching noises on his back door. Although it was the last thing I wanted to do, I began to wonder whether Mike and I should indeed move in with my parents until the mystery had been solved. But I didn’t think I could face it, and I knew Mike, however much he loved his grandparents, would not be keen. I decided to give it a few days, and just be very careful, and insist that Mike was as well. I would have to tell him about the possible threat, and make sure that he was with me or friends all the time. I sighed, checked again that all the doors were locked, and went off to make a cup of coffee. I took it with me to my computer, and got down to some research, telling myself that satisfying my private curiosity would harm no one. I typed “Pondoland mining titanium” (about which I had only the vaguest idea, knowing that titanium was some kind of hard metal, but not much more) into Google’s search box and waited to see what came up.
The answer was a lot. There were numerous websites, some too technical for me, with their talk of “heavy mineral sands”, but there were others that offered plenty of information accessible to the uninitiated. I began to realise that the issue of mining on the Wild Coast was a very hot potato and had been so for some time, with Australian mining companies and their Black Economic Empowerment partners trying to muscle in on what could be a profitable enterprise – for them at any rate. There were stories about a smelter to be built, with the spin-off of jobs; new roads being constructed, promising easier transport and access to bigger centres and all kinds of other “advantages” for the people who lived in the area.
Only once did I find a mention of Thabo Mchunu – on a list of people who attended a community meeting a year before. What I did come across, however, were suggestions that locals were being railroaded into agreeing to something that could leave them with debt rather than profit; tales of wheeling and dealing over shares that were supposed to go to local communities; the huge, fenced-off highway that would facilitate trucks moving at speed up and down the coast would, in reality, split communities in half as effectively as a Berlin Wall; Environmental Impact Studies that predicted dire pollution in an area where clean water was already very scarce.
Somewhere in the back of my mind was a memory that lawyers could access lists of company directors, if they had signed up to some website. I didn’t want to bother Robin with this, but my brother Alec, who dealt all the time in the arcane worlds of corporate finance, might be able to help. So I phoned him in his plush Johannesburg home, and although he said they were having friends round to dinner, he took Thabo Mchunu’s name down, and promised he would see if he could track him down in any mining or empowerment companies in the next couple of days.
The money to be made from mining seemed a more likely motive for murder than anything else I had come up with, but it was still all nebulous. Possibly, Phineas Ndzoyiya had opposed plans and irritated people, but I didn’t have any proof. I sat at my computer, and played a mindless game of Solitaire while I thought. Suddenly the ring of the phone made me jump. I glanced at my watch: only nine o’clock, so hardly an odd time for a call. I was just on edge. But when I had answered it, I was profoundly depressed as well. It was Ms Tits, in full cry.
“Laura. Glad I’ve caught you in.” Like I’m always out on the town. “Now. As you know, Simon turns 45 in July, and we’re going to have a party. His birthday is on the Wednesday, but we’ve decided on the weekend before.” Fine, I thought. I assume you’re not inviting me, so what’s the call about?
“Of course, Simon wants the boys here, and says he’ll arrange a flight for Mike. I know it’s Rory’s vac, but he was planning to stay in Cape Town anyway.” Oh, was he, I thought. But all I did was give a non-committal grunt to let her know I was still here.
“Only, when I spoke to Rory this morning, he said he wouldn’t be. He said it was the opening of some exhibition of yours on the Friday evening, and he’d be with you. And he said Mike would be there too.”
I wanted to burst into tears. My gorgeous, wonderful Rory. Not only had he remembered the date of my exhibition; he wanted to be here for it. And would rather be here than at his father’s birthday party. I was ecstatic.
“Look, Laura. Can’t you change your exhibition to the following weekend, or something? I mean, we could move Simon’s party, but the first date is going to suit us better.”
I took a deep breath. And then another. “Well, Sonia, I can’t. I’m involved with other artists, and that’s the weekend the exhibition opens. Can’t be changed, I’m afraid.”
“Really. Are you sure? I mean, it’s not as if you’re a proper artist. It’s just a hobby. Perhaps the boys could have a look at your pictures later?”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t slam down the phone. I just said, as calmly as I could, “No can do, I’m afraid.” But my cool was thawing fast, and then I heard myself say, with a distinct rise in pitch, “And by the way, Sonia, you wouldn’t recognise a proper artist if one jumped up and poked you in the eye with a palette knife.” By this point, my voice was shaky. “If Simon wants his sons to come to his birthday party, he’ll just have to accommodate them if they’ve made other plans. I have put no pressure on Rory and Mike to come to my exhibition. I’m touched that Rory has remembered when it is, and even more touched that he wants to be there. I’m going to take it as a sign of the good relationship I have with my children: a relationship their father has done his best to undermine over the last five years.
“I’m sure they would like to be at his party, but they are young adults, and quite old enough to sort out their own priorities. I will put no pressure on them to make their decision, one way or the other. If you and Simon have any sense, you’ll do the same. And if it means changing the date of your July bikini wax or something, well then, you’ll just have to do it. And now, I really must go. I want to scream, and you’ll be able to hear me, phone or no phone.”
But I didn’t scream. I burst into tears and I howled. I wanted my children with me so that I could tell them how much I loved them, and they weren’t there. And all the strain of the last few weeks rose to the surface of my soul, and poured out in my tears. I walked through to the kitchen and cried and cried. Grumpy, with the curious understanding dogs have and that makes them such endearing companions, knew this was a significant moment, and that he was needed. He stood by my side, making little doggy sounds and leaning against my leg until I reached a hand down to fondle his soft ears. He turned his head, and licked the salty wetness from my fingers.
I slid down onto the floor and hugged him. We sat there together for a while, and slowly my shuddering breath began to return to normal. He reached his warm, rough tongue across to my wet cheek, and eventually I felt able to kiss his nose, and lever myself upright again. I was a fool to let Sonia get to me, and God knew how she would report the conversation to Simon, but it was too late to worry about that. I went to the bathroom and washed my face, removing the tears, snot and dog saliva. I looked pretty ravaged, but at least I was no longer a gibbering wreck.
I had said some stupid things to Sonia. I have nothing but regrets over my marriage to Simon. It had been a horrible mistake from start to finish. He’s not a bad man, but he is insensitive, and a bully by nature. And I dislike Sonia. Not for having married my ex-husband: she’s welcome to him. But I find her a stupid, ungenerous woman. Maybe if she had children of her own, she would have been better, but she and Simon have none, whether by design or not, I have no idea. She treats Rory and Mike as if they were an alien species. But there is no point fighting with her. Obviously, Simon and I have to be able to communicate in a civil fashion over our children. And I have no wish to add to the problems our divorce must have caused by behaving badly and antagonising their father. So, all in all, despite enjoying my rant at Sonia while I was ranting, I regretted it now.
It wa
s not a happy evening, the miserable Saturday night of the lonely single mother writ large. I couldn’t settle to anything. My eyes were sore and burning: I can’t remember when I had last cried like that. I indulged in an oversized bout of self-pity and eventually I headed off to bed: if Mike came back early, I certainly didn’t want him to see his mother looking like the poster woman for misery.
I dragged Grumpy’s basket into my bedroom. This is something I very seldom do as he is not the most salubrious of night-time companions, being prone to farting and licking. But I was uneasy and lonely and had now convinced myself that, should I survive the attentions of some homicidal maniac who was out there on my case, I was doomed to a miserable life. My children would be gone and no one would care what was happening to me. I’m not proud to admit it, but I was wallowing in gloom.
I lay there, waiting for the sound of the door and Mike’s return. Sure enough, the boys came in, unharmed and in time. Mike tapped on my door and said he was home. Not that there was much doubt: there was noisy coffee- and sandwich-making going on in the kitchen, and I had to get out of bed anyway to let a restless Grumpy pad off to join in. Eventually the noise died down and I heard Stephen drive off. But I slept badly. Although I slept more than I may have realised, it was sleep punctuated by bizarre dreams. I would wake from one, hot and uncomfortable. I would stick my feet out into the cooler margins of the bed, and finally doze again, only for the dream to resume in a slightly different form. The same people would appear: an angry Mrs Golightly; Dan, silent and withdrawn; Sonia, half undressed and, in one particularly horrific moment, with a palette knife sticking out of her eye; and always, lurking in the background, a burly black man whose features were hidden but who was wearing an Armani suit, standing close to a frowning Adam Pillay.
When Sunday morning dawned, I was feeling hag-ridden. My eyes still looked puffy, but less alarming than they had last night. I forced myself out of bed and into the kitchen, where I made a jug of fruit smoothie, something of a Sunday-morning ritual. I poured myself a glass, and put the rest in the fridge for Mike, no early riser on Sundays. I noticed that the boys had carefully wrapped and put the chicken carcass back in the fridge, having first removed all traces of meat. With a sigh, I took it out – I had been thinking along the lines of toasted chicken sandwiches for Sunday supper, but it would have to be back to the drawing board for that one.
I took my smoothie through to the studio, and settled down to give myself a severe talking to. I was behaving like an idiot, and it was time I pulled myself together. The sun was shining, I was sitting in a warm patch on the old sofa, and slowly the world began to look less threatening. It looked even better after Vanessa phoned.
“Hey – you’re sounding down. I’m on my way and I’m going to take you off for a big, fat brunch – coffee, cake, full English. The works. I want to hear all about the great detective, and anyway, we need to finalise a couple of things for the exhibition. I want to see those paintings, girl.”
I made some weak protestations about leaving Mike if I went out, and told Ness she could have coffee here, but she was having none of it.
“Come on! You haven’t got any Black Forest cherry cake there, have you? That’s what I need. And for heaven’s sake, Laura, Mike is 17 years old. I’ll bet he’s still asleep. Leave him a note. I’m not listening to any feebleness now. I’m on my way.”
She hung up, and I have to admit I felt better. I got dressed, pulling on my best jeans as I remembered Vanessa’s strictures about the way I had looked last time. I scribbled a note to Mike, telling him there was a smoothie in the fridge and that I had gone out for breakfast with Ness and would be back later. I did add that he should phone me if he was going out as I wanted to know what he was up to, but I didn’t really expect him to take it seriously.
I was waiting for Ness when the phone rang again. My nervousness resurfaced, but it was Simon, sounding uncharacteristically muted. Though not so muted that he didn’t cut me off firmly when I decided, without enthusiasm, to apologise. Simon needs to be in control of any conversation. It has never been any use to try to head him off at the pass.
“I believe you and Sonia had words yesterday, Laura.” Well, that was one way of putting it, I suppose. “I’m sorry. It’s a pity the discussion became heated. I just want to say that, as the boys want to be at your exhibition, we’ll move the party to the following weekend. After all my birthday is on the Wednesday, so whichever weekend we celebrate makes very little difference. And I would like to have them here. I’ll give them the airfare to come down: Rory has said he’ll probably stay on in Cape Town afterwards, if that’s okay with you.”
I graciously indicated that it was absolutely fine. The party would be only a few days before the end of his vac anyway, and I was so bowled over by Simon’s apology … an apology from Simon … that I would probably have agreed to anything he said.
I cleared my throat. “Simon, I’m sorry. I know I was sharp with Sonia. She caught me at a bad moment. And I was very touched that Rory had said he wanted to be here for my exhibition. I really hadn’t pressured him – I’m surprised he even remembered when it was. It’s important for me, and it’s great that the boys want to be around. But I’m sorry if it’s disrupting your plans.”
“No matter.” Simon had dealt with that bit. Time to move on to something where, perhaps, he could catch me on the wrong foot. “I gather from Mike – I spoke to him yesterday – that he’s not keen on UCT for next year. He mentioned Rhodes, to do Accountancy, or possibly Architecture at Durban or Wits. I said I didn’t think Architecture was a great idea. And I’m not sure that Michael is cut out for accountancy. Besides, the two disciplines are worlds apart. What’s going on?”
I took a deep breath. Now was not the moment to say our son didn’t really want to be in the same city as his father and Sonia, even if that was the case. And I wasn’t sure about that. Maybe I was projecting my feelings onto him.
“I think he feels he would like to be out from under Rory’s shadow. I know at university it would be very different from school, but Rory has always been the more outgoing one, and I think Mike feels it a bit, though they do get on, and I would have thought they could have had fun together. But, ultimately, I want the choice to be his, within reason. I agree he’s still uncertain about what he wants to do. I thought maybe Architecture wouldn’t be a bad idea – he’s both practical and reasonably artistic. Got a good eye for things. But it’s a long course, and maybe not the best career choice. Still, I would be inclined to let him try it. He’s done work experience with architects, and loved it, you know.”
Simon grunted. “Most architecture schools don’t take many undergraduates each year. He might not get in.”
“His teachers are expecting him to get very good results. He’s a bright boy, Simon.”
“Of course.” No child of Simon’s could possibly be anything else. Though if he ever has any with Sonia, he may be in for a shock …
I forced myself to focus on the topic at hand. “Look, he’s got to make some decisions soon. We should both talk to him, and see what he wants. You’re not keen on a gap year for him, I suppose?”
“And have him wandering around the UK, being a barman or something? Certainly not. He needs focus, not more dithering.” Authentic Simon here. “Laura, please try to get him to be a little less airy-fairy. Though we both know where he gets that from.” Having got his dig in, he briskly ended the conversation. But in the past, I’d had far more unpleasant calls from Simon. It was hard to believe, but I began to think he was embarrassed by what Sonia had done yesterday.
26
NESS WAS FULL OF QUESTIONS. Under all her nonsense, she’s shrewd, and she soon wormed out of me that I had done something stupid. I told her about my conversation with Thabo Mchunu: after talking to Adam yesterday, any feelings that it didn’t really matter had vanished like a puff of smoke.
Ness’s shriek nearly frightened the waitress into dropping the Black Forest cake and my hash browns
and mushrooms. “God, darling! What were you thinking! Now, you and Mike had better move in with me until this Mchunu creep is behind bars. No refusal.”
“No, Ness, no. I don’t even know that he’s got anything to do with it. We’ll be fine, and if I get worried, we’ll go to my folks. Anyway, you’ve got Ben there. You wouldn’t have room.”
Vanessa looked shifty. “Well, he’s not there right now. We’re taking a bit of a break.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me? Hell, I’m sorry.”
“Hey – no problem, man. We’re still good friends, and he’s still going to exhibit with us and all that. But I got a bit sick of supporting him … know what I mean? He has this attitude that he’s a great artist, and we all owe him something. But why shouldn’t I be the great artist, and he owe me something? I’d had enough.”
Most of Vanessa’s relationships with men end in tears, so if she and Ben were still friendly, that was a bonus. She can be pretty overpowering and that could well have had something to do with the Ben problem. But she wasn’t going to let me get off that lightly, and returned to my situation, asking more questions.
“Look, Ness. I’m really fine. I’m being careful. And Adam has given me his cell number, and he’s keeping an eye …”
“Adam? What’s all this? Adam Pillay looking out for you? Now come on, Laura. I think I deserve to be told. He lives in my street – I told you. He’s a gorgeous man. Just right for you. Why didn’t I think of it before? And now he’s worried about you. Great.”
“For heaven’s sake, Ness! He’s the cop in charge of the case. That’s all. Absolutely all. It’s my friend he’s arrested, and I want to see him released. That’s the level of our contact.” I was being disingenuous, but all I needed was Vanessa involving herself in what she had decided should be my love life. Like having a steamroller do your ironing.
Just a Dead Man Page 14