Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  It was driving him crazy.

  Last night in bed I thought of G. I fantasised. Touch me here, I said and placed his hand against my breast. And here, and I guided his fingers between my legs.

  He read her words—cool black against white—and his body was sweating and restless and he ached with wanting to know who she was.

  ‘Who would you like it to be?’ Isidore asked him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you had a choice,’ Isidore asked, half serious, half mocking, ‘which would you like your mysterious anima figure to be? Minnaloushe or Morrighan?’

  But to that question he was unable to give a straight answer. ‘I would like it to be the one who did not murder Robert Whittington, that’s who.’

  ‘So you admit the writer of the diary could be the guilty one. The last time we talked you said it could never be.’

  ‘I still think that… most of the time.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question. If you had to choose between Minnaloushe and Morrighan—who would you choose?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You can’t like both of them equally, Gabe. Come on. Go with your gut.’

  ‘Isidore—I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you like most about Minnaloushe?’

  ‘Her warmth. Her sense of play.’

  ‘And Morrighan?’

  ‘Morrighan… Morrighan is intrepid.’

  ‘OK. Let’s try this. If you had to live on a desert island for the rest of your life, which one would you prefer to be with?’

  Into his mind comes an image of Minnaloushe, stretching lazily like a cat, curling up in the sunshine that is striking the padded window seat where she is sitting. The hair at her temples is gold and her eyes are turquoise flecked with bronze. Her breasts are full and heavy underneath the silk blouse. She catches him looking at her and strikes an exaggerated pose—a model performing for the camera—before blowing him a kiss.

  But even as he smiles at the memory, another memory comes crowding in. Morrighan drying her hair, her forearms pearling with drops of water after her shower. Her robe is clinging to the dampness of her skin, accentuating the lovely V of her back. The robe is thin and the light such that he can see the outline of her narrow hips, a shadow between her long legs. She combs her hair with bowed head and catches a glimpse of him through the triangle of her arm. She smiles—the delighted smile of a woman who knows she is being admired.

  He sighed. ‘I can’t choose. It’s too hard.’

  ‘You know you’re playing with fire.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’ve got balls of steel, my friend. And even if your diary writer isn’t the murderer, she must have known what her sister was up to. They’re close, those two.’

  Yes, they were close, Gabriel thought, but it was a closeness that was not trouble-free.

  M.’s arrogance. That pure, bright arrogance that burns within her like a flaming sword.

  The diary had exposed a relationship that was a tangled bond of affection and aversion. In fact, the writer’s feelings for her sister sometimes seemed to vacillate between extreme admiration and outright hostility.

  I am in awe of M. Her thoughts are like hammer blows. Powerful enough to crack the world wide open.

  Another entry: Sometimes I cannot abide it. I look at M. and my skin starts to itch as if from a toxic rash. Her obsession is like a growth sucking all the oxygen from the air. I feel strangled. I feel like screaming at her, over and over again: Stop! Stop! Stop!

  • • •

  But it wasn’t only the diary that told him that not everything was well between the sisters.

  ‘She can get anyone to do anything she wants.’ Morrighan’s voice was casual, as though she was mentioning some trivial fact of no real importance.

  Gabriel turned towards her, surprised. She caught his glance and smiled faintly. ‘You can’t blame me for being envious. Minnaloushe has always been able to twist people round her little finger. And once she wants something from you, she won’t stop until she gets it.’

  He felt awkward.

  ‘Minnaloushe is beautiful, Gabriel. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Morrighan, you’re beautiful too.’

  ‘I know,’ she said without any pretence at mock modesty. ‘But I don’t have her charm. That devastating charm. She can make you follow her into a burning house.’ And her voice was no longer casual.

  The rivalry wasn’t one-sided. Once, quite by chance, he had pulled a photo album from one of the bookshelves at Monk House. It contained newspaper clippings and photographs of Morrighan’s more adventurous exploits. Morrighan sky-diving. Morrighan free-climbing. Morrighan picketing outside a nuclear facility in the Ukraine, confronted by baton-wielding security guards with menacing shoulders. As he paged through the album, fascinated, he was joined by Minnaloushe. She looked over his shoulder and watched in silence as he turned the leaves.

  ‘Your sister leads quite a life.’

  ‘Yes. I envy her.’

  ‘Envy?’

  ‘I envy Morrighan her fearlessness. Look at this picture.’ Minnaloushe tapped a black-and-white close-up photograph.

  Morrighan’s head was thrown back and her face was sooty. Her hair lay sweatily against her forehead. Across one cheekbone was a clotted scratch. Her eyes were challenging but there was a smile on her lips. The overall impression was piratical.

  ‘When was this taken?’ he asked. ‘What was she doing?’

  ‘God knows. I can’t remember. Something that required guts and a total disregard for safety, you can be sure of that.’ She sighed. ‘I’m convinced that in a previous life Morrighan was a great warrior who led armies into the night. Or maybe a Joan of Arc. I can see her embracing the pain.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Me? I’m feckless.’ She repeated the word as though she liked the feel of it on her tongue. ‘Feckless.’

  Sometimes the fault lines in their relationship erupted into open warfare.

  He was taking a nap outside in the garden when he suddenly woke up, feeling inexplicably anxious. It was as though someone had shouted into his ear only a moment before. But when he looked around him, there was no one near.

  He tipped himself out of the hammock and started walking towards the house. As he approached the French doors, he could see the two sisters inside the living room. They were facing each other. There was something about the way they held themselves—the rigidity in Minnaloushe’s shoulders, the jut of Morrighan’s chin—that made him slow his steps.

  ‘You did it on purpose.’ Minnaloushe’s voice was hard, accusing.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. You knew it would upset me.’

  Morrighan made a sharp, disgusted noise. ‘I know you find this hard to believe, Minnaloushe, but the idea of what you like and might not like does not always occupy my mind. You think the world revolves around you. It doesn’t.’

  ‘Sometimes…’ Now Minnaloushe’s voice was trembling. ‘Sometimes I think I should leave this house.’

  ‘And sometimes you’re so childish I can’t stand it.’

  He shouldn’t be witnessing this, Gabriel thought. He should get the hell out. He took a long step backwards, trying to be as quiet as possible.

  But at that moment, Minnaloushe turned her head sharply in his direction. Even though it had not been his intention to eavesdrop, Gabriel felt embarrassed.

  Her lovely face was flushed and her eyes were very bright. For a second it looked as though she might say something but instead she turned on her heel. Her back held ramrod-straight, she walked—stalked would probably be a better description—in the direction of the dining room and disappeared from sight. Another few moments and they heard the door to the kitchen slammed shut with tremendous force.

  Silence. It was as though the entire house was in shock.

  Gabriel looked at Morrighan. As she caught his glance, she smiled wryly. She turned her palms upward. ‘Sorry about that.’

/>   He stepped gingerly into the room. ‘That’s OK. Sorry I interrupted.’

  ‘No. It’s just as well. We might have ended up saying things to each other which would have poisoned the atmosphere for days.’ Morrighan looked tired. Her eyes were shadowed.

  ‘Have you ever thought of living apart?’ he asked, his mind on Minnaloushe’s last words.

  ‘Oh, yes. I often think the best thing would be for us to go our separate ways.’

  ‘So why don’t you?’

  ‘It’s complicated. We need each other. And neither one of us wants to leave this house.’

  She brought her hand up to the pendant dangling from her neck. He had seen her do this before, as though she derived strength from it. It was the pendant in the shape of the letter M.

  He watched as she twirled the silver chain round her finger. She had lovely hands with long, graceful fingers. The nails were unvarnished and cut short.

  ‘My mother gave me this,’ she told Gabriel, noticing his interest.

  ‘Minnaloushe has one too, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Mum gave them to us at the same time. I was sixteen. Six months later she wasn’t able to recognise us. She suffered from Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That must have been hard.’

  ‘It was horrible. It is the most primal of all fears, I think—the fear that your mother will forget you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.

  ‘It was because of my mother’s condition that Minnaloushe became interested in the subject of memory. She did her PhD on that, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘I think it helped her come to terms with the dreadfulness of it all.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I wept,’ she said simply. ‘I wept for a long time.’ She paused. ‘I still weep.’

  For once her face was unguarded, the habitual expression of cool amusement gone. Morrighan did not often appear vulnerable. It was the first time she had opened up to him in this way.

  Gabriel touched her hand in sympathy. Her fingers twitched beneath his and as he looked into her eyes her pupils swelled.

  His breath caught.

  Morrighan’s eyes went past his shoulder. He turned around.

  Minnaloushe was standing in the door, smiling at them. Her smile included her sister: a clear sign that hostilities had ceased.

  ‘Sorry, sis.’

  Morrighan sighed. ‘Me too. Sorry.’

  Minnaloushe looked at Gabriel. ‘If we promise to behave, will you stay for dinner?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Please?’

  He relaxed. ‘Thanks. I’d love to.’

  ‘Good.’ She linked her arm through his and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Because this morning I baked my magic chocolate cake for dessert.’

  ‘Magic?’

  ‘Sure. Eat it and you’ll become smart, sexy and psychic.’

  ‘I thought I was all of that already.’

  ‘And modest,’ Morrighan added, taking hold of his other arm. ‘Did she mention modest?’

  He joined in their laughter, the discomfort of having been a witness to their argument receding from his mind. Placing an arm round the waist of each, he drew them towards him. Still laughing, the three of them walked side by side into the garden, where twilight was turning a blue sky pink.

  Later that night, after he had returned to his own apartment, he logged on to the diary.

  When G. placed his hand on the small of my back today, my whole body reacted. I wonder if he noticed. I could feel my skin flush, sweat in my armpits. My legs became weak. His fingers were touching that exact spot where a man places his hand when he guides a woman in a dance, inviting her—oh so gently, but oh so insistently—to follow his lead. And as in a dance I wanted him to lean into me. I wanted to feel the muscles straining in his thighs. To feel my hips moving to his rhythm. Sexual desire inflamed, but kept at bay by the formality of the steps.

  I could see M. watching me. And it wasn’t just because of our argument today. I know she senses my attraction to G. Is she worried that I will falter and not give him his name? Or is she jealous?

  But I can’t help myself. I think about it too often. What it would be like to taste his mouth. What it would feel like to have him lying heavy and spent on top of me, to have him crush me beneath his weight.

  Gabriel got up and walked onto the balcony, his hands gripping the railing hard. His heart was beating as though he had run a hundred-metre sprint. He stared into the light-washed darkness.

  My love. Who are you?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Gabriel suppressed a sigh as he looked at the yoga teacher, who was once again wearing his polka-dot poncho. He had spent a lot of time on this guy but it didn’t look as though he was going to get anything worthwhile out of him. Frankly, Gabriel was losing enthusiasm for the project. Ariel was not the most exciting conversationalist, and getting up at the crack of dawn every Tuesday was becoming tiresome. As usual, he had spent a late night with the sisters. Setting the alarm for six this morning had been a heroic act. Maybe he should terminate the project today. Pity, though. He’d really thought this one would come through.

  The yoga teacher was moaning about being under a lot of pressure at work. Gabriel was listening with one ear, not really paying attention. He wondered whether he had any Nurofen in his locker. He had a headache—he really should start watching his consumption of Morrighan’s berry wine. He was getting a wee bit too fond of a dram every night.

  ‘Sorry?’ He focused fully on the yoga teacher. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I said, the company I work for is now providing live network jacks inside the cafeteria, so employees can access the corporate network while they’re having lunch. How diabolical is that? They’re putting pressure on us to work while we eat. You can’t even have a sandwich in peace any more.’

  Bingo. Gabriel stared at the man. ‘Live jacks,’ he repeated slowly.

  ‘Yes. Don’t you think that is putting pressure on employees to continue working during their down-time? Quite disgraceful.’

  ‘Yeah. Disgraceful.’ Gabriel nodded. His brain was working furiously. He had always known that in order to crack the code at Levelex he would have to break into the premises. But Levelex hired guards who looked like marines and the premises were pretty much burglar-proof. Except for the cafeteria. The cafeteria was in a low-security sector of the building. Which made sense: there was nothing much of value there. Apart from those live jacks. All he would have to do would be to find his way to the food hall, which would not be guarded. Once there, he could plug in an Ethernet cable from his laptop to the wall jack. And then… rich pickings.

  He looked at Ariel and wondered how he would react if he was told that by sharing this one tiny detail of his job—which he probably didn’t even think was confidential—he had exposed his company to a deep hack. Way to go, Blackstone. He knew he’d hit the jackpot at some point.

  All that was left now was to get Isidore on board.

  • • •

  Isidore was uncharacteristically irritable.

  ‘So where’s the report? You promised me you’d finish the analysis last night. So where is it?’

  Gabriel’s head was aching. After he had left the yoga teacher he had popped two Nurofen, but in the battle between berry wine and drugs, berry wine was winning hands down.

  He squinted at his friend. ‘Why are you in such a good mood, sunshine?’

  ‘I mean it, Gabe. This isn’t fair. You’re playing Casanova and I’m working overtime. You knocked off early yesterday and you promised me the analysis this morning. Actually, you promised it to me two weeks ago. So what’s the plan? Do you even have one?’

  Gabriel sat down heavily in Isidore’s hideous pumpkin-coloured velour armchair. He really did feel fragile. Being lectured to was not what he needed right now.

  Isidore moved a stack of books from one end of his desk to another. His movements were abrupt
and he slammed the books onto the desk with a bang that reverberated inside Gabriel’s head.

  ‘I’ve decided that we should terminate the Levelex project.’ Isidore’s voice was firm. ‘I’m spending way too many hours on it and it’s an impossible hack. I know you like the money but we’re giving the advance back.’

  Whoa. Gabriel sat up straight. ‘Don’t do that, Is. I’m working on it.’

  ‘If I can’t crack it, you won’t be able to either.’ Isidore’s voice was matter-of-fact.

  Gabriel sighed. It was true, of course. Isidore was the master. ‘I’m not talking about a hack. I’ve found another way in.’

  ‘Yeah? How?’

  Gabriel hesitated.

  ‘Oh, shit. No!’ Isidore’s voice rose. ‘Don’t tell me you’re grooming someone inside the company?’

  ‘Isidore, calm down. The guy won’t lose his job. And he doesn’t even know about it.’

  ‘That is not the point. Damn it, Gabe. You know how I feel about social engineering.’

  ‘First you accuse me of not pulling my weight and then, when I come up with a solution to a problem you can’t fix, you crap on it.’

  ‘Gabriel, I’m not your handmaiden, OK? I have a say in the running of the business as well. And I’m telling you, no. Manipulating people is not an option.’

  Gabriel flushed at the contempt in Isidore’s voice. ‘Don’t be so bloody squeamish. This is the real world, get it? And you’re not the one getting your hands dirty. Go and play with your little friends in Dreadshine. Leave the hard stuff to me.’

  For a moment they glared at each other. Before either could speak again, the door buzzer sounded.

  Without asking who it was, Isidore placed his finger on the release button. Downstairs a door opened and slammed shut.

  Gabriel frowned. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Frankie,’ Isidore answered briefly. ‘I’ve asked her to come over.’

  Shit. Gabriel cringed. He had been avoiding Frankie for the last couple of weeks, dodging her phone calls, leaving noncommittal email and text messages. Obviously, a showdown was on the cards today.