Camdeboo Nights

by Nerine Dorman

  He was so royally screwed.

  He may as well face the house father or whomever they’d sent to find him.

  “You can come out,” a young man with a reedy voice called out. The faintest trace of a British accent colored the tone.

  “Eh?” That was so not the house father. Etienne pushed away from his hiding place to confront the guy, who stood silhouetted in the red taillights of no car he’d ever seen on the road before. Old. Streamlined. He couldn’t tell what color the paintwork was save it had a great deal of chrome finish and white-walled tires.

  The boy’s hair had been scraped into a messy ponytail. He had bare feet and he wore cut-off denim trousers and a t-shirt, like he’d been to an especially muddy outdoor trance party and had somehow gotten transplanted here in the Karoo. And he drove that car? He looked far too young.

  Then the penny dropped. “You’re Trystan, the one Helen told us about.”

  The boy smiled, nodded. “Yes. And you’re Etienne. The short one.”

  Mmmph, whatever. “Well, you’re too late. Her father came to pick her and her brother up this afternoon to take them home.”

  “Where did they take her? She’s not there. I’ve just come back from Nieu Bethesda.”

  “No. He’s taking them to Joburg. Pity you missed them.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. I can give you her number, if you want.” Arwen was going to kill him. “But I gotta get back to the dorms or–”

  Etienne did not get a chance to finish. Trystan strode toward him and grabbed him by the shoulder with a long-fingered hand.

  “Hey! What the fuck?”

  But Trystan was much stronger than him and he had no choice but to climb into the car. Trystan’s fingers bit into pressure points that left Etienne’s shoulders numb.

  He made one attempt to slip past, but Trystan pushed him in by the driver’s seat, all the while keeping a hold of him so he could not open the door on the passenger side.

  Trystan revved the idling engine so they jerked away.

  “Where are we going? What do you want with me?” Etienne wailed. Okay, this guy was completely nuts. Arwen was right.

  “For a drive. You need to tell me what happened here. I’m gone for twenty-four hours and the world goes to hell.”

  “Some boy in grade eight went postal. He’d been bullied. Took it upon himself to attack a group of us during assembly.”

  “Was Helen hurt? Did you see a woman with black hair who drives a black BMW?”

  “No. And no.”

  Trystan snorted and his grip on the steering wheel slackened. “Do you know where Helen’s dad lives?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anyone who might?”

  “I have her number, I can call.”

  “Do it!” Trystan snapped. “Do it now!”

  Etienne knew fear. Trystan’s intensity had him fumbling for his phone, all too aware that the young man’s eyes burned into him while he depressed buttons.

  An automated voice spoke: “The number you have dialed...”

  “Her phone’s on voicemail,” Etienne said. “Why are you so freaked out?”

  “Helen’s in danger.”

  “What do you mean? If you’re the–”

  “I’m trying to save her life, little boy. Now, who else may know?”

  “Her grandmother.”

  Trystan’s hiss froze Etienne’s blood. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Then he seemed to collect himself. “Where’s Arwen?”

  “In hospital.”

  The car jumped onto the tarmac with a growl. Trystan swung the steering wheel hard, and geared down so the vehicle jerked.

  “Where are we going?” A tremor had crept into Etienne’s voice he was unable to hide.

  “To the hospital. To fetch your friend. She’s going to help.”

  “Can’t this wait until tomorrow morning?”

  Trystan looked away from the road to glare at him. His eyes blazed, flashing green with the reflected light of a passing car. Did people’s eyes reflect light like a cat’s?

  “If this could wait, do you think I’d be hauling your pint-sized rear along? If you love Helen at all, you’ll do exactly as I say.”

  “Right.” Etienne clutched the leather seat. “How am I going to sneak in?”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  Etienne debated jumping out of the car when they stopped at the first traffic lights. That probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Trystan would be able to run much faster than him.

  The guy cut corners so tightly Etienne was thrown around.

  The parking lot outside the clinic was deserted, the front reception area’s lights dimmed.

  “Where is she?” Trystan asked.

  Etienne closed his eyes and orientated himself with a mental map of the building. He’d heard the street from her window, a ground floor room with a jacaranda outside.

  “She’s in that wing.” He pointed to the right-hand side of the building. “We needn’t go in except that–”

  “You’re worried about the security guard.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take care of the security guard. You go in and get Arwen.”

  Although his knees buckled as he trotted across the parking area, Etienne refused to stumble. What in all hell’s name was he doing?

  Breathing posed a greater challenge. His lungs seized up as he moved–a fine time for a panic attack.

  Any moment now he could bump into the security guard. Did the guy have a dog? How was he going to explain this tomorrow? He’d have to go back to school at some stage. Did they know he was missing yet?

  At first he wasn’t sure which window was Arwen’s until he rounded a corner and saw the coal of a cigarette flare. She sat on the windowsill, her legs dangling over the edge.

  Etienne ran, only stopped when he stood a meter from Arwen’s perch.

  “What the? Etienne! What the fuck!”

  “I’ll explain later but we’ve got to get out of here. Now!”

  “What’s gotten into you?” She frowned at him, giving the impression she had no inclination of moving.

  “It’s important, Arwen!” Etienne hopped from one foot to the other, clasping and unclasping his hands.

  Arwen took another drag of her cigarette, a leisurely gesture, and pouted her lips to allow the acrid smoke to trickle out. “I’m being discharged tomorrow. I’m in no rush to go.”

  “It’s Helen! There’s trouble! Trystan said so. He’s here! We need to help her.”

  “What? No way!”

  “Arwen, please!”

  She narrowed her eyes and flicked at a piece of unruly fringe. “You’re not going to leave me in peace, are you? Trystan is bad news. It’s better that he doesn’t know where she’s gone.”

  “No, Arwen! Please!”

  How in heaven’s name would he get the importance of this situation through to her? He didn’t understand any of it himself, save that if he didn’t give Trystan what he wanted...

  Arwen took one more drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out with an impatient gesture against the wall so that sparks flew.

  “Oh, very well. Give me a minute. You can’t expect me to go with you if I’m wearing this.” She gestured at her pale shift.

  Etienne rolled his eyes then made shooing motions with his hands. “Just grab some stuff, please, before we wake up the entire world.”

  He was just relieved he’d started her moving. The last thing he needed right now was for Trystan to investigate what took them so long. He had a terrible feeling there was far more to Trystan than met the eye.

  Chapter 27

  This is a Happy House

  Trust their father to buy a house in Houghton. Everyone in this road lived barricaded behind six-foot walls topped with razor wire, spikes and electrified fencing.

  “I’d meant for you guys to come stay for the school holidays,” their father said by way of apology. “I’m sorry the rooms aren’t ready
yet. We haven’t had time.”

  By saying “we,” their father meant him and Christine–the other woman.

  They’d bought the place together a month ago. Christine was twenty-four and already working in her father’s law firm. Old money.

  Helen didn’t want to know anything of this. For some reason she found herself angry that she’d forgotten to take down the beadwork sun hanging in her bedroom in Nieu Bethesda, with its William Morris wallpaper.

  She’d meant to visit the Owl House again today, had promised Etienne he could spend the weekend away from the dorms. And, she would have seen Trystan. Right now she was too angry to switch on her phone or do anything constructive. If she spoke to Arwen or Etienne now, she’d be crying within the first minute of their conversation.

  Instead, she sat on the veranda and watched the gray loeries scold and chase each other through a giant coral tree, whose branches pooled welcome shade in the late afternoon.

  Yet, even now, the clouds were rushing in along the horizon. There would be a storm later and the heat sapped all her will.

  The others had gone out to one of the malls, Rosebank, perhaps, to catch a movie. Christine, laughing, blond and perfect, had already won Damon over with off-color jokes.

  Lawyer chic.

  Christine drove a Mercedes Benz Kompressor, all silver and sleek, like her petite figure. Christine tried too hard to be nice. Her smile was too bright.

  The bitch would have to do better than that.

  So, Helen brooded, and tried to read the Andre Brink novel she’d pulled off the shelf in her father’s study–filled with Christine’s books. She had to grudgingly admit the woman had taste when it came to reading material. The words kept dissolving, though, and her gaze strayed to her unfamiliar surroundings.

  A small stone Buddha lurked by a stand of reeds near the pond where fat, lazy koi described circles, occasionally mouthing at the surface. A too-artful arrangement of containers created a feature by a weeping mulberry that drooped over the lawn, where small birds harvested the ripe fruit.

  Everything was too perfect, too contrived, as if Christine had bought everything from a catalogue. The garden back in Hout Bay had been an overgrown jungle in part, the lawn always needing to be mown, last season’s dead annuals still sticking out of the beds filled with crimson poppies and Paterson’s curse. Mother’s garden had seemed more honest, somehow. And indicative of her state of mind.

  A low rumble in the distance warned of the coming storm but Helen was in no mood to move. Sheltered, she sat beneath the tin roof while bulbous clouds solidified out of thin air above. Her hair crackled with static.

  They’d driven part of the way here to Gauteng through a thunderstorm, white-violet flashes striating through the darkness, the thunder shaking her to her bones.

  A turtledove’s tired call limped along then fell silent. She should switch on her phone, try to get hold of Etienne, call Arwen, yet she stared at the device where it lay on the table. She’d brought it down but simply hadn’t plucked up the courage to go that one step further.

  Her limbs grew still and she allowed the creeping numbness to spread from her toes up, while she listened to the suburban sounds of children bomb-dropping in the garden next door, large happy explosions of water playing counterpoint to their shrieks.

  Would Trystan be angry with her? Too short a time had passed for anything concrete to develop between them. Helen recalled the feel of his cool fingers clasping hers, the way he hesitated the first time she’d been able to make him smile.

  To shut out the world of sight proved easier. Her book grew heavy in her hands, eventually slipping to the quarry tiles unheeded. Helen slept during the growing storm, dreaming of the house in Hout Bay, of packing boxes that wouldn’t close properly, of doors opening into rooms leading to passages she’d never known existed.

  She awoke with a start when a violent crack of lightning exploded directly above, the thunder simultaneously rattling the glass in the panes behind her.

  In this garden, where shadows cloaked everything and crickets chirruped in an almighty chorus that threatened to drown out everything else, she was no longer alone. And was certain of it.

  She blinked, and rubbed at the gumminess in her eyes. There was no mistaking the person-shaped figure standing beneath the mulberry. Also, this figure, short and somewhat squat, was no one who belonged to this household.

  For an instant she was tempted to think ghost but no, these things did not exist.

  “Hello? Can I help you?” Helen called out.

  No response. In the murky half-light, she could not be certain if–

  Warm, moist hands clamped down on her shoulders, the scent of rose, cloying, sweet, assailed her sinuses.

  Helen let out a yelp, and twisted around to look into the round face of a black woman she did not know.

  “Hush, babyshoes, hush. Mama Ruthie’s here now. Don’t fear.” The woman’s husky, dry voice hinted at a French upbringing. Wildly, Helen looked toward the lawn. No figure stood by the tree.

  “What do you want?” She wanted to reach for the woman’s hands but her arms would not obey her.

  “Hush.” Mama Ruthie hissed into her ear. A peculiar lassitude seeped from the woman’s palms. “I’m here to fetch you from those dead ones, the ones who’ll suck up all your magic, all your soul.”

  “Wha–” The simple query required too much effort.

  The woman who called herself Mama Ruthie let go of her shoulders, myriad wooden bracelets clacking on her arms. She moved around to sit at the table, opposite Helen.

  All Helen could do was stare at the woman. Middle-aged, yet her skin was still unlined, her dark eyes burned into Helen’s own. Dark braids obscured one side of her face.

  “Now, ma cherie, you gonna listen to me. I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but we’re gonna have to get you out of here, away from this stinking city.”

  Ruthie turned her head, as if reacting to something unheard, her face in profile. She raised a hand and brushed the braids from her face.

  Half her face was gone, as if something had ripped the skin off and it had healed badly, the lips pulled into a taut grimace with teeth showing.

  Helen fought the sudden urge to vomit, yet could not find the strength to look away.

  “Bijou!” Ruthie called, urgent, before firing off rapidly in French.

  “Oui, maman.” A girl’s voice echoed somewhere in the house.

  Dimly Helen wondered how these people had managed to break into her father’s house. What now? Would they kill her? Would they be stealing things?

  Ruthie turned toward her, smoothing with stubby hands the floral print of a dress that put up a valiant attempt at trying to keep her flesh covered. String upon string of beads and carved ivory charms hung from her neck.

  The girl stepped out onto the patio. Helen caught a glimpse of her form clad in black denim and a tank top, her frame thin, but lithe.

  They argued, gesturing at Helen, then accusingly at something over the fence before the girl spun on her heel to stomp back into the house.

  “Now, Helen Ashfield, you don’t be scared now, you hear. Bijou’s going to start the car so long. We gonna take you someplace safe.”

  Safe? But I’m safe here! Helen wanted to retort.

  Compelled by a suggestion she could not resist, she followed, a mute puppet to Mama Ruthie’s instruction. What would her father do? How would she get hold of Etienne? Her phone lay abandoned on the wrought iron table as she was escorted to a battered old Toyota Corolla, its paintwork so patched and rusted Helen could not tell if the car had once been white or beige.

  Bijou sat in the driver’s seat, her dark gaze flashing as she scanned the driveway while her fingers tapped on the side of the door. She started the engine as soon as Mama Ruthie finished helping Helen into the back, taking the seat next to Bijou. The woman placed a gnarled stick covered in sinuous carvings on top of the dashboard. The scent of rose in the car nearly overwhelmed Helen
.

  “Good, we go. Now.” Mama Ruthie smiled at her daughter.

  Bijou rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath then revved the car’s engine. When she released the clutch, they lurched forward, the tires squealing on the brickwork. The large, ornamental iron gates parted before them, although no remote was in evidence. Helen pushed at the smothering fog of calm which prevented her from reacting, felt herself slide sideways.

  Move, Helen! Get out of the car! But her limbs would not obey. Had they drugged her somehow? She was safe, wasn’t she? These people would have hurt her by now if they’d meant her harm?

  A sudden scream of brakes jerked Helen forward so that she fell and hit her head against Bijou’s headrest. She crumpled into the foot well.

  “Wha–” Helen’s tongue unglued itself from the roof of her mouth. Some of the stupor eased from her limbs and she pulled herself back onto the seat.

  A large, gleaming BMW barred their exit, its windows tinted as dark as its paintwork.

  “Putain!” Bijou shouted.

  Mama Ruthie managed a drawn-out groan.

  Chapter 28

  Oh, for the Open Road

  Trystan intended to drop the two humans in Nieu Bethesda. He could not and would not face Anabel. She had been pretty when she was young, but he’d had to watch her grow old from a distance. He couldn’t let her see him now, not like this, not when he’d broken her heart. Their differences would be too glaring, too jarring. Trystan suppressed the memories but couldn’t help see the curve of Anabel’s features ghosted in Helen’s.

  Instead, he pushed the Hudson hard, and focused on the unwinding road.

  Arwen clutched at the dashboard. “Drive carefully you damn stupid vamp!”

  “Shut up, stupid human! I’ve never had an accident and I don’t intend having one now, either.”

  “Vamp? What the–” Etienne piped up from the back seat. “What did you...”

  “He’s a vampire, Etienne. Look carefully. He only breathes when he wants to say or smell something. Look how his canines extend when he gets stressed.”

  Trystan closed his mouth, ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth. His canines had extended. Bitch witch. “Thank you, Miss Wareing. Now I’m going to have to kill your friend.”