He flipped through the second section, which was over one hundred pages of names, each name less pronounceable as he dragged his finger down the pages. He stopped his finger in place on a name--Granger. A job description followed it--guardian. Nkumbi caught his breath, realizing these were names of demons. Eva had written that by exposing the names, she enabled the reader to have control over the demon they summoned. "Identifying the demon gives the conjurer power," he read aloud. "You can use a name to your advantage: to single one out from a group, or to gain one's attention."
Nkumbi had known this to be true to an extent. Exorcists, in his experience, repeatedly asked the possessed for the demon's name. Saying the name aloud, and accusing it, the demon could then be driven from the body. But according to Eva, saying the name could drive a devil into a person, a building, or an idol.
The third section explained the role of colour in the universe, in the rainbow, in the human body, and in metals. White was the most powerful since it possessed all the colours.
Nkumbi stopped reading. At the spaza shop where he had bought the book, the shop girl had been dressed in white. Even her hair and eyebrows had been bleached. The man pulled from the sea had been in white.
The final pages brought all three sections together. If you knew your surface well, were in possession of the proper name and channeled the correct colour, you could unlock magik beyond your imagination, everything from turning lead into gold, transforming facial features, controlling the environment, and turning man into beast.
The key had a function--lock away all the evil and then open when ready to let it loose upon the world like Pandora's book.
Nkumbi closed the book and released a pent up sigh. Then he saw the packet taped to the back. Ripping the packet open, tiny black seeds rolled out into his palm. A slip of paper slid out with the seeds. "Throw into the air for rain," read the one side, "Stir with lead to make gold," read the other.
Did this juju really work, he wondered. The sales girl had testified that it did. What, he wondered, would such easy access to gold do to South Africa's mining industry? Why mine for something you can stir up in your kitchen?
Gold backed many countries' monetary systems. If all you needed was a strip of lead, who would need the Rand or the pound? The financial systems of the creditor or debtor nations would tumble. There would be a run on lead. Poisonous lead.
Nkumbi considered the seeds' effect on the weather. The directions said the seeds would bring rain. How would one determine when enough rain is enough? He had watched his humble yard wash away in the last rainstorm. The humidity that came with it spread mildew in its path, leaving black splotches in his cupboards, in his folded clothing, in his sheets. His mind went to the droughts in South Africa. They were often followed by high rainfalls. All that rain on hard, dry ground would sit and run, flooding homes and businesses. He re-read the line about throwing the seeds into the air. He wondered what the seeds were made of, and what, if anything, those seeds would do to the ozone?
Apparently, Eva was bound by the sea; that much he had learned about her over his years in The Unit. Perhaps she had never left the African Continent. There must be a reason for that, he told himself. If she was, in fact, corralled to the continent, that limitation might work to his advantage.
Nkumbi lugged the book to the car's boot and dropped it inside, leaving the boot open. Marching back into the spaza shop, he walked amoung the shelves, looking for errant books that might have been misplaced. At the counter, he noted the last two books had smooth, tin covers. After purchasing them, and once the receipt was in his hands--the change began. Transfer of ownership had somehow activated the book.
Nkumbi started out the door with one book sitting in each elbow and by the time he got to the boot, he could no longer bear the weight. Dropping them inside, the metallic green books lowered the car's backend.
He would drive the books to a deserted stretch of beach, set the whole lot on fire and let the high tide wash the ashes out to sea.
How many more would he have to buy? How many more shops sold her book? Nkumbi did not care--he would search every shop, every Sangoma stand, every Internet site. Once they had this information and a copy of the book and saw what it could do, The Unit would then bring this information to the President's attention. He closed his eyes for a moment, considering what might happen if the government saved a few copies of the books and the seeds for themselves.
37--JEFFREY
"Jeffrey? Come in."
I stepped inside the hall at Lindsey's prodding.
"Caroline's in her room," she said. "I thought she'd want to sit outside for breakfast, but I can't seem to drag her out." A dull thump sounded overhead. We both looked to the ceiling. "That came from Caroline's room," Lindsey said.
"I'll go check," I said.
Outside Caroline's bedroom door, I heard a knocking from within. I peeked inside. Caroline was tucked in bed. "Phew," I said, wrinkling my nose at the smell. I opened the door wider, taking a step inside. The room was a mess, again.
A dripping, gurgling came from the bathroom. I walked to the doorway, listening. "Bloody piping," I said, then flipped off the light and turned to leave. A drip echoed in the bathroom. Flipping the light back on, I marched over to the commode. I held a hand over my nose and reached down to pull the lid open. Brown, black, and green shit filled the bowl to the brim and the toilet gagged as it tried to swallow its contents.
A fly buzzed out of the bowl, circled the air, and landed on my hand. I swatted at it. Out buzzed another fly, then another. "Fuckers," I said, kicking the lid shut. I ran over to the sink, turned the water on full blast, and sudsed my hands up to the elbow, disgusted by the clogged toilet.
"Caroline," I called with a harsh tone. "What is with the toilet? Don't you flush? Your mother will have to call a plumber to fix that."
The white-lace shower curtain waved behind me in the mirror's reflection. When I could no longer see its reflection through the clinging steam, I turned to face the curtain, rationalizing that a steamed, closed bathroom could account for the curtain's movement. But the bathroom door was wide open and the movement had been...
An outlined hand trailed up and down the curtain. I pushed panic aside; Caroline's illogical fears would not be mine. Whatever hid behind that curtain was real, official--a suited man. I braced myself for a fight and saw myself pulling the bloke out by the hair and dunking him in the commode. "You people think you can break into my girlfriend's house, terrorize her and her mother. I've told you I don't know where my father is." Maybe they had Edward. I stepped forwards and whipped the curtain open, then backed away from the empty stall.
Caroline sat up in bed, laughing, her haunted eyes wide. Her hair tumbled into knots all around her head like a dried out, frizzy afro. I placed both hands on her shoulders, and said, "Lie back down." She covered her mouth and giggled, wiggling her fingernails bitten raw to the padding. "What are you laughing at?" I asked. "I've had enough of this foolishness. Get some sleep and stop all this ruckus. Your mother is downstairs. I'll send her up--she's better at handling you."
I was sick of all the nuisances, including the ones happening inside my own flat. Whenever I stepped into my shower the warm water turned icy, so I stopped taking them. Food, fresh from the grocer, spoiled the moment I took it out of the bag: a liter of curdled milk, moldy cheese, rotten cold cuts, green bread, sulfuric eggs. So I stopped bringing home food. I'd go to sit on a chair and the damned thing wasn't there. So I stopped using the furniture. I favoured the floor, though that also moved underneath me sometimes, at least it didn't go anywhere.
My favourite loafers disappeared, my gold pen. If I took anything off I had to expect to never see it again. So, I wore the same old shirt, trousers, and a pair of house loafers with holes in the toe. The framed picture of Caroline and me, the only one that sat on the side table by my couch, had disappeared. Bills falling in through the mail slot landed on the floor, opened, envelopes empty. That suited me just fi
ne.
Even the Wrangler--Caroline's borrowed Jeep since the Town Car was totaled--went missing one day. I called Lindsey, explaining to her that it had to have been stolen. She arrived at the front door, eyebrow raised. "That is her Jeep," she asked, "sitting in the driveway?"
"Yes," I answered, just as dumbfounded. "Maybe someone stole it, then chickened out and brought it back," I said.
Lindsey did not ask the questions behind her tightly closed lips. I wouldn't have had any answers, other than the lies pulled from the cloud hanging over my head. That literal storm cloud followed me wherever I went. Even to work. There, anything I touched fell to pieces.
My phone went dead when I answered, much to my clients' annoyance. The file drawer jammed closed only when I pulled on it. The door to my office swung open every time I closed it--reasons enough to work at Eva's where doors stayed closed, chairs didn't move, and things remained where I placed them. Sure, the ceiling overhead squeaked now and then, but that was no longer any concern, compared to the others, and I was happy to ignore it.
I stopped at Caroline's bedroom door, about to leave. The hole had grown, widening to the size of a fist, and a fresh pile of dry wall dust lay underneath. A suspended droplet hung on the wall below the hole, and a wet track ran to the floor where several more drops had collected. The hole's rim was wet. I stuck a finger inside, feeling a tacky glob. I gave it a quick sniff and immediately regretted it. The clear slime smelled like something from that commode. "Yuck. What have you been doing?" I asked. "Did you stick something inside here?" But she was already asleep. No one was more ignorant than I when it came to home maintenance, and all I could think was that the piping from the commode had carried the bad water through the walls.
I'd close it up to keep her from doing any more damage. Caroline's jewelry armoire stood by the bathroom door--the perfect width. I wrapped my arms around the tall chest and wobbled it over to the wall, flushing it flat against the hole. I gave Caroline one last glare before heading downstairs.
38
Lindsey, pacing, said, "Finally," when I stepped into the hall. "Is Caroline all right?" she asked.
"She made a mess in the toilet," I said. "I had to clean up. Trust me; you'll want to call a plumber. She found the whole fucking thing quite amusing."
"Watch your language," Lindsey said.
"Stress," I said. "It can make anyone do strange things. I've been dropping a few more expletives than normal."
"She's losing herself," Lindsey said.
"I thought the exact same thing." I said.
"Nkumbi says it's a sign."
"He did, did he? If he knows so much, why can't he fix her?"
Lindsey shook her head.
I stood at the door, my briefcase over my shoulder. "Sorry, but I can't stay. I've got a ton of work today."
"We're all busy," Lindsey said. "We can't be here all day and night."
"No, and I'm not getting any sleep," I said. "And I have to baby-sit my business." I massaged my jaw--every single goddamn morning it felt sore. Damn TMJ. Damn doctors can't fix it.
"I'm trying to get her help," Lindsey said. "The doctors won't return my calls anymore. They keep telling me there's nothing wrong with her."
"You're the one who said Groote Schuur is a research hospital. Let them do what they do best," I said.
She crossed her arms and said, "You and I need to talk about something: I'm calling a priest. Nkumbi gave me a name."
"A priest?" I scoffed. "Possession? Is that what you two talked about?"
"Nkumbi has been watching Eva for years," Lindsey said. "The phone call you made from your car about the dog and the fact that you'd been near Eva's house tipped Nkumbi onto you."
"Me? What did I do?"
"You went to her house, simple as that." Lindsey raised her voice, "And you took my daughter with you. These people here believe in the supernatural--in demons and witches and spells. Edward is missing. Caroline is not herself. That book party. Have you read it?"
I began to tune Lindsey out. The only magik that could pique my interest right then was alchemy. How about turning the utensils in my drawer into gold? The paper my bills were printed on--poof, turn them into Rand.
"Nkumbi's Unit deals exclusively with the supernatural," Lindsey continued. "These witch doctors and occultists, they know her. He's arrested people who've associated with her and have been involved in African ritual killings."
"Lindsey," I sang, trying to suppress a smirk. "Come on. She's a wealthy recluse with an eccentric group of friends. Rumours have spread."
"I knew you wouldn't take this seriously. Please don't tell me you've been spending time at her house."
I turned away.
"She's your client?" Lindsey huffed. "Watch the news, pick up your papers and read them. This isn't England, Jeffrey. This is another world you're living in. Demonic possession is a national problem in South Africa. Psychiatrists turn to the priests for help. People go to hospitals for exorcisms and the priests--priests, in public hospitals--have to tell people to wait their turn."
"I feel like we're in the Middle Ages with all this witchy, demon talk," I said. "Eva is a parapsychologist. It's a science, not a religion. And if she worships the devil, well, then, that is a valid religion. Have you read her book?" I asked.
"No," she said.
"It might have some practical information in there," I said. "There might be some science behind the conjectures Eva makes in her book, though I'm not about to buy into the whole idea. I do not believe in magik, or even miracles."
Maybe you should. Believe what she chooses to show you, Jeffy boy.
That voice in my head--it was starting to take on a distinct sound--higher, like a woman's. "Shut up," I mouthed to myself. "The mind is a powerful thing," I said to Lindsey. "If you, or Caroline, or Eva want to believe in that shit, I won't stop you. Stress, lack of sleep, and pain medication can work wonders on the human mind as well. I think we're all cracking up."
Lindsey's face sobered. "Nkumbi asked me if I'd overheard Caroline addressing someone I'd never met or seen. Like an imaginary friend. If she is, we need to find out."
It was as if she hadn't heard a rational word I'd said. "Lindsey. Do you hear yourself?"
"Stop it, Jeffrey. You told me she was hearing voices. Seeing shadows. At first, I agreed with you and thought it might be schizophrenia. But now, after talking with doctors and to Nkumbi, I don't think so. No, not with what else that's been going on with her. The cold, the smells, her erratic behavior."
I remembered my conversation with Caroline out on their patio. Hearing voices. Hiding.
Mr. Granger.
39
"I neglected to tell you she was being taunted by someone named Mr. Granger," I said. Lindsey's mouth fell agape. "Now, Lindsey, just wait. I thought this was the government wanker who keeps calling me."
"How could you not tell me this?"
I held up a hand to Lindsey. "Let me explain. This wanker called again and he admitted that he had spoken to Caroline on the phone, so I told him she was sick and to leave her the fuck alone. I thought that was the end of it. Maybe you should make a call. A criminal attorney."
Lindsey rolled her eyes. "You are being so stubborn."
"I know about estates and wills," I said. "The laws here are similar to England, but, as you pointed out, we're not in England."
"We don't need another lawyer," Lindsey grumbled. "Nkumbi was right. You have on blinders, Jeffrey." She moved away from me. "Well, at least you gave me a name to take back to him. It might help. So, thank you, I guess. You can go, if you want. I realize you have work to do." She opened the front door for me. "I want to take her out of the country for help."
"Whoa," I said, dropping my briefcase. The ache in my jaw twitched to life. "There's got to be another option. Have you called in any favours?"
"I have. I've tried bribing." She pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose, wiped her eyes and cheeks. "I've found someone in London." S
he half smiled, stepping up to me, her composure regained. "We can all go there together. I already bought the plane tickets."
London. Home once, but not anymore. The family home in East Finchley continued to drain my wallet even though the furniture and art had already been auctioned off. I had lowered my asking price several times, but no offers.
"Caroline is leaving with me tonight," Lindsey said. "Are you coming with us?"
"I'm sorry about all this," I confessed. "I really am. I hope you believe that."
"You're not coming with us?" She wore a puzzled frown. "Why would you stay? Not for her. Does she pay that well? It's only money, Jeffrey."
"Only money? C'mon, Lindsey. Who the fuck are you talking to? My family had our house for generations, along with the prestige that went with it, despite my father's ability to throw money at anyone and anything."
"It's a house," Lindsey said. "Things don't last forever. Love does. Caroline loves you. You love her." The last statement was more of a question.
"Those stories of people walking away from it all and living happily ever after?" I asked. "Bullshit. People steal and lie; they murder or kill themselves over the almighty Rand. You know that. I know that. My mother knew that."
I hadn't meant to bring up my mother. Lindsey caught the reference--I could tell by the drop of her face. She took a few seconds before asking, "What did your mother know?"
I tried to blink back the tears, but a few managed to trickle down. Telling her the story about my mother wouldn't solve any problems, and I didn't need Lindsey's sympathy.
A time machine could help, maybe, if it took us back to when all this had started. And when, exactly, was that? My mind clouded, unable to pinpoint the catalyst. My head throbbed. My ears rang. I winced.
"What's wrong? Jeffrey?"
Seeking Samiel Page 11