Crooks and Straights

by Masha du Toit

  But she’d never worked on anything this complicated before. The gown was like a piece of origami, many sections folded multiple times to create that deceptively simple, sculpted look. If she took it apart, it would become a collection of flat, white pieces.

  How would anyone know how they should be put back together again?

  There was no one to help her. Mandy had gone by the time she and her father got home, and Karel left again almost immediately, as soon as he was sure that neither Saraswati nor Nico had come back during their absence.

  Gia collected all the tools she needed, and spent more time than was necessary arranging the gown on the dressmaker’s dummy.

  She’d not been ready for the shock of the empty house. Apparently some part of her still could not believe that her mother and Nico were gone.

  She took the unpicking tool and put it down again. The dress, even made from dull cotton, was beautiful. Gia was unsure if she could bear to undo her mother’s careful, precise work.

  What if they never came back?

  Where were they now?

  Were they safe?

  Gia scrubbed her hands over her face, then back through her hair. She had to do this. Her father was counting on her. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the dummy’s hard shoulder. The cotton had a comforting scent. It even had a trace of her mother’s perfume. With that scent came the memory of her mother’s voice.

  Take it slow. Solve one problem at a time.

  She would mark the fabric as she unpicked it, noting on each piece where it went, which way was up, where the folds were. If she worked slowly and methodically, she could keep control of it all. A fabric pen was all she needed.

  After that, it was easier. The toile became an interesting puzzle, flat sections of cloth fitted together to create a three-dimensional shape. Each piece had a name. It joined like this, had darts here and here, was folded here and here. Each fold was marked with the fabric pen, each edge named, right, left, back, front, up, down. Each seam undone, each dart unpicked.

  Gia kept stopping and going back, refolding, pinning edges back together, checking, and double-checking, and triple-checking that she understood how the puzzle worked.

  As she worked, the tangle in her mind started unravelling, and she began drawing certain threads loose from the knot.

  How long had Saraswati been planning to leave? Why had she not left earlier? Why put Nico through the trauma of the test? Why leave after the test and not before?

  Because she wanted the certificate of purity.

  Was it worth it? Would that certificate keep Nico safe?

  From Special Branch, maybe. But what about the Belle Gente?

  Gia unpicked the last few stitches, and smoothed the fabric. She became aware of the ache in her back and neck. A glance at the window showed that it was getting dark.

  She got to her feet and stretched. Then she placed the last piece on the cutting table. The toile had become a pattern now, abstract shapes scribbled over with letters, numbers, arrows, and dotted lines. Almost impossible to picture it coming together into a graceful gown.

  Time to go.

  -oOo-

  Gia locked up the studio, very aware how vulnerable she was, out alone on the street after dark. Luckily it was only a few steps to the gate. She made sure that she had the key ready. It was darker than it should be. The nearby streetlights were out.

  She felt a tingle of alarm even before she saw the figure standing just next to the burglar gate. It was a man, but too short to be Karel.

  Not Ben either, Ben would have waved or spoken by now.

  She was about to turn back to the studio, when a passing car threw its headlights over the man’s face.

  Gia relaxed instantly, and stepped forward with a smile. “Sorry to keep you waiting!”

  Lucky she had the key ready. How rude of her to be so suspicious! She unlocked the gate.

  “Come upstairs,” she said, and heard his footsteps behind her as she climbed toward the front door. Afterwards, she wondered what made her reach for the knocker. She had the front door key ready. All she had to do was fit it and turn, but instead she reached out and placed her hand on the doorknocker, the ward in the shape of a hand with two thumbs and an eye embedded in its palm. The ward that protected that door from magical intruders.

  A small, submerged part of her must have been aware that something was wrong, and had reached for the only protection available. The moment her fingers touched metal the glamour dropped away. She knew where she was, and what she was doing.

  There was a stranger behind her on the stairs, and she’d been within a hair of inviting him into her home.

  Keeping her hand on the ward, she turned to face him.

  “Ah. Well,” said the man.

  All the light in the stairwell came from the entrance below so it was hard to see him clearly.

  “Are you going to open that door?” He had an accent, and he chewed at something as he spoke.

  “No,” she said, proud of how calm her voice sounded while her heart was fluttering in her chest like a bird. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  For a few seconds he just looked at her, and Gia could hear him chew.

  “I’ve come for the child,” he said.

  It was like a dream, that unavoidable moment that came at you with no escape.

  “For Nico.”

  “That is correct. Are you going to let me in?”

  She swallowed. Even with her hand on the door ward, she could feel the glamour tugging at her, soft, insistent, like an undertow dragging her down. “No.”

  “How inconvenient.”

  Gia struggled against the persuasion. She knew that he could not enter her home without being invited, but that was a small comfort when she was trapped here against the front door. Would opening the door count as an invitation? She did not know, and could not risk it.

  “He’s not here. My mother took him and went away.”

  “Well.” More chewing. “If that were true, it would be unfortunate. Is it true?”

  “It is,” said Gia. She was finding it a little easier to think clearly. “They left yesterday. I have no idea where she took him. But that doesn’t really matter. I want to make a, um, a counter offer.”

  He tilted his head.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You need spies in Special Branch, don’t you?” He said nothing, but she could tell she had his attention. “They’re getting rid of all the magicals who work there, so you no longer have any, um, inside source. Isn’t that true?”

  The man shrugged slightly, his face giving nothing away.

  Gia felt her certainty wavering. She’d been so sure of this part of her plan.

  “I’ve just got a certificate of purity. I’m not magical at all,” she said.

  “Admirable. But by itself, having the certificate is not of much use to us, I’m afraid. The child has one. That was the whole point of the deal.”

  “I’ve enrolled in the Special Branch Youth Division.”

  A long, considering silence.

  Gia took a breath, and forced herself to focus. “I’ll be more use to you. I’ll be in there, in Special Branch. They won’t suspect me at all. Nico is just a little boy. What use can he be?”

  Another silence.

  “Well. An interesting proposal.”

  She could feel him studying her. What was it he saw? A scared teenage girl, clutching at a doorknocker?

  At last he spoke again. “Let me see what they say.”

  He took something out of a pocket. It lit up, a small, soft glow that barely reached his face. As his fingers moved over it, Gia realised it must be a texter. How odd, that the Belle Gente would use something so ordinary.

  “You can let go that ward now,” he said without looking at her. “I’ve stopped the pushing.”

  Gia stayed as she was, although her arm was starting to get uncomfortable.

  The texter beeped, and the man typed a response. A car drov
e by outside, its headlights flashing on the walls and stairs.

  Gia changed her position, relieving the strain on her arm.

  What if Dad shows up?

  She found herself hoping he would not.

  The man seemed to be waiting for something. He stood, unmoving, staring down at the texter.

  At last, it beeped again and he gave a little grunt.

  “Hmm. That’s as I thought.”

  He put the texter away and looked up at Gia. “They want to see you. Come with me.”

  He turned and walked down the stairs. When Gia did not follow, he looked back up at her. “You can come now, and discuss this counteroffer, or we can stay with the original agreement. It is entirely up to you.”

  Gia still had the key ready in her hand. She could go in and slam the door shut before he reached the top of the steps. Then she’d be safe.

  Or would she?

  And what about Nico, and her mother?

  How long would it take this man, or his friends, to find them?

  She released the doorknocker, and followed him down the stairs.

  He was waiting for her outside.

  Despite the better light, it was hard to see what he looked like. Each time she blinked or shifted her focus, he had a different face. The features did not change shape, but she kept finding she was mistaken in what she saw.

  He has a boxer’s nose, but no— his nose is straight. Hooked. Broken. His face is as blunt as a boot, framed by dark curls— no, short cropped hair— no, look again, he has a fine-boned face as delicate as a cat’s. His eyes are small, dark, wide, narrow, round as a marbles—

  She looked away, nauseated, and heard him chuckle.

  “Come along, then.”

  She followed him toward a car, her misgivings stronger with every step. “Where are we going?”

  He unlocked the car and held the door open for her.

  She could still turn back.

  She got into the car, and he closed the door on her. It was a sports car, lower than she was used to. It was old, too, the interior worn and cracked. The man got in on the driver side. Gia did not look at him. The shifting features were too disconcerting.

  He reached across in front of her and took something out of the glove compartment. “Put this on.”

  She took it from him, a piece of stretchy black cloth.

  “Over your head. Go on. Can’t have you seeing where we go.”

  The cloth was like a cap, except it fitted completely over her head and face. She felt his fingers at her neck, fastening something, and the blindfold tightened round her throat.

  “See if you can get it off.”

  She pulled at the edge, but it was too tight, almost tight enough to restrict her breathing. She tried to think of something that would distract her from the rising panic.

  “Why don’t you just glamour me not to see?”

  He started the engine, an unexpectedly low rumble. “Too much effort. Uses up energy.”

  She felt the car pull away.

  “Makes me hungry. Much easier this way.”

  “Oh.”

  The thought of hunger, or food of any kind in relation to her companion made her distinctly uneasy. She could not hear him above the engine noise, but she was sure he was still chewing. Her breath made the inside of the cloth uncomfortably warm.

  The car slowed down.

  This must be a stop street, or an intersection.

  She sat there with her eyes closed, trying to stop herself from scrabbling at the passenger door and flinging herself out of the car.

  Keep talking, she told herself.

  “Do you do that thing with your face all the time?”

  He laughed. “No. That would attract too much attention. I try to pick one face and stick to it.”

  “But why not just show your own face?”

  He did not answer, and she began to wonder if she’d made him angry. The car rocked, and turned, slowed down, then accelerated again.

  “An interesting question,” he said at last. “My own face.”

  She waited for more, but no more came.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Some people call me Ochre.”

  “Oak—?”

  “No, Ochre. As in the colour.”

  “Oh. Like oil paint? Sienna, ochre, burnt umber?”

  “That’s right.”

  A strand of hair on her neck was caught in the clip, or catch, or whatever it was that held the blindfold tight behind her head. It stung every time she moved.

  Calm. Just stay calm.

  Talking helped. Keep him talking, she found herself thinking. Then he’s less likely to think of you as food.

  She took as deep a breath as the constricting cloth allowed and tried to think of another question.

  “Where do you come from?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have an accent. You’re not South African, are you?”

  “No.”

  Another long silence. She had given up on an answer when he spoke again.

  “I used to live in Morocco. Before that, Spain. For many years.”

  “You were born there? In Spain?”

  “Yes.”

  By now she was just wishing for the journey to be over. She’d long ago given up trying to figure out where they were driving. It was difficult to know even how much time had passed. In any case, he was probably driving some circuitous route so it was no use trying to guess where they were.

  At last, the car slowed down and stopped, and she heard the creak of the handbrake

  “Just stay where you are,” said Ochre, and she felt the car rock as he got out.

  A door opened.

  “Come along then.”

  As she got out of the car, Gia tried her best to sense what kind of place she was in.

  The ground was hard. Tar, or concrete. Somewhere in the city, then, as there were no insect noises, and no sound of wind in foliage. She guessed it was some small side road that did not get much traffic. She could hear the dull thumping of music not too far away, and somebody laughing in the distance.

  “What’s this then?” said a woman right next to her.

  Gia jerked with fright. She’d not heard anyone approach, and was not even sure where Ochre was.

  “Visitor,” said Ochre. “Got an appointment. Can you take her down?”

  “Sure. Why isn’t she tied up?”

  “Not necessary.”

  Somebody took her by the arm.

  “Come,” said the woman.

  Gia allowed herself to be steered. She could hear somebody following behind. Not Ochre. Somebody large.

  “Step up here.”

  From the sound, they’d moved into an enclosed space of some kind. Not indoors, from the sounds and the feeling of the night air. Possibly the space between two buildings?

  “Stand.”

  The woman moved away from her, and the other person put a hand on her shoulder. A large, and unusually heavy hand. She heard the woman give a little grunt, then there was a metallic grinding. Like somebody opening a manhole cover.

  Gia tried to swallow but her mouth was dry. The woman was back at her side.

  “Okay,” she said in Gia’s ear. “We’re going down a ladder. It’s inside a manhole, so watch your step. I’m going first, and my friend will help you down. Try anything stupid and you’ll regret it, right?”

  Gia heard the ringing of feet on metal, and guessed the woman had started down the ladder.

  Her guard nudged her forward.

  “Better sit, and slide yourself in,” came the woman’s voice from below, booming a little with echo.

  Gia did as she was told, sitting on the ground and sliding herself toward the place she guessed the manhole was. One foot went over the edge, and she felt the guard behind her take hold of her shoulders, steadying her. She felt around with her foot until she found the l
adder.

  This was terrible. She could not possibly go down like this, with her back to the ladder. Using the silent guard’s hands to steady her, she slowly turned around. She was glad of his presence now. He held her hands firmly, guiding her down the ladder.

  He had a scent, something like an overheated stove plate, or sun-warmed rock.

  She could feel the drop below sucking at her, and wondered how far she would fall, if her feet slipped now.

  Don’t think about it.

  She lost her balance and snatched at his arm. A part of her mind registered that the sleeve under her fingers was made of leather, and had many buttons at the cuff. One of them must have been loose. It came away in her hand. Without thinking, she closed her fingers around it. Hoping that it was dark enough to conceal her actions, she slipped the button into a pocket.

  She had hold of the ladder now with both hands, and climbed down. It was not as far as she’d feared.

  “Stand just here,” said the woman. “You’re standing on a stepping stone. There’s water all round it so don’t lose your balance.”

  Gia moved where she was guided. Water?

  She must be in some kind of underground tunnel. The place stank,— a dank, old smell, tinged with the sour stink of garbage. The water must be still, as she could not hear anything but a low gurgle.

  She heard the other guard, the big one, climbing down the ladder.

  “The ceiling’s very low. You may have to duck down. Step carefully, or you’ll go into the water.”

  Someone pulled at her and she stepped forward, feeling for the ceiling.

  Bricks, she thought as her hand brushed over it. At least the stepping-stones were steady, and not too far apart. At one point she stepped short and her foot went down into the water, causing her to stumble and graze her knee, but her companion pulled her up. She’d stepped into the water, but it was not as deep as she’d feared.

  Knee-deep, she thought as the stench of it welled up around her. But the water was very cold, and her jeans were wet through now.

  At last, her companion stopped. There was a hollow, wooden sound.

  Knocking? On a door?

  The rattle of a latch, and somebody speaking. Then the hand on her arm again, and she was pulled through the door into what must be a room.

  “There’s a seat just behind you,” said the woman. “Sit.”