“Ms Greenberg?”
“Yeah?”
A balding white guy with a serious beard stepped into the light. I relaxed. He was dressed in colourful shorts and sandals over socks – not the most intimidating of outfits. Besides, as I made my way over to where I’d parked the van, he seemed to be quite keen to keep his distance from me.
“I believe you have something that belongs to my colleague, August Schuller.” His accent was thick, Germanic. “I have been out of town. I have just now heard of his demise.”
“Sorry for your loss. How did you find me?”
“Your associate said you would be here.”
What the fuck was Lindiwe thinking? “Right. Did you work with Mr Schuller?” Another druid, perhaps? Apart from the dire fashion sense, with that beard he looked the part.
“I believe you have his cat.”
“Yeah.”
He beamed. “I will be happy to take it off your hands.”
There was something off about the way he was staring at me – the expression on his face reeked of desperation, his bulbous eyes unwavering as he waited for my response. “I don’t have the cat here. Text your contact details to my office and I’ll get back to you.”
I turned away, expecting him to get the message and walk away. He didn’t. He cleared his throat. “May I ask... how much contact you have had with it?”
I blinked. “Why, is the cat sick or something?” Shit. Maybe it wasn’t a hangover after all. I hoped I hadn’t caught something from her – rabies or cat AIDS or whatever. If I die, kill my cat.
“No. It is not diseased.” He smiled again. Definitely fake this time.
I chucked the gear into the back of the van; I suspected I might need to make a quick getaway. “Why did August Schuller want the cat to die?”
He frowned. “How do you know...”
“I found a note.”
“Ha,” he said, waving his hands in the air. “August could be eccentric at times.”
“I figured. His brother said he was some sort of druid.”
“Did he?”
“If you take the cat, how do I know you’ll look after her?”
He cleared his throat. “I do not understand.”
“How do I know you won’t follow through on Schuller’s last wishes?” I took a step towards him and he skittered back as if he was afraid I was going to touch him.
“Please, I have to have the cat. You must trust me. If you do not, the consequences will be bad.”
“Is that a threat?” He was starting to get panicky; I was starting to get pissed off.
“No... please, Ms Greenberg, you have to –”
“I don’t have to do anything. Look, what is this all about?”
“If you won’t give me the cat, then please, destroy it yourself.”
“You need help, you know that?” I climbed into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, and reversed without checking to see if anyone was behind me.
“Please!” I heard him calling after me.
I WAITED UNTIL I was back at my flat and safely slumped on the couch before I called Lindiwe. Muti mewed from her nest on my futon, leapt over to me and snuggled into my lap. She didn’t look sick, but I gently pushed her away just in case.
“How’s the arm?” I asked when Lindiwe answered.
“Fine, thanks. Didn’t need stitches after all.”
“You tell some dude where I was?”
“Yeah. He was asking about the cat. I thought you were trying to find it a home?”
“He was a weirdo of note.”
“Sorry.”
“Listen. That Austrian guy. Who are we invoicing for that?”
“The rental company. First Rate Rentals, I think.”
“Can you find out from them who was paying Schuller’s rent? You’re good at that sort of thing. Make up a story or something.”
“Why? This about the cat?”
“Long story. Please, Linds.”
“Hang on.”
She called back almost immediately. “Debit order from SARA.”
“What’s SARA?”
“The South African Roads Agency.”
This was getting weirder and weirder. What the hell did the roads agency want with a druid?
On a whim, I fired up the laptop, typed druids + roads + Austria into Google. I was gobsmacked when a slew of hits popped up. I clicked on a Daily Mercury piece, headlined: ‘Austrian Government Uses Druid Magic to Combat Traffic Black Spots.’
Holy crap.
I scanned the article, which was written in a mocking, ‘those crazy Austrians’ tone. According to the reporter, Austrian motorway officials had secretly hired a team of druids to unearth and dispel the negative energies they believed were the cause of otherwise unexplained traffic fatalities in certain areas prone to accidents. The pilot project had been so successful that the Austrian government was considering extending it to the rest of the country.
I scrolled down to a photograph of a bearded guy in a Jedi robe, posing next to a traffic cone. I recognised him immediately – it was the sandalled fellow who’d cornered me in the hotel parking lot. The caption said his name was Reiner Meyer.
I now thought I knew what August Schuller was doing in Cape Town, but that didn’t explain the cat situation.
I Googled Cape Town’s SARA offices, dialled the number, and listened to a “we’re too busy to take your call” message.
I checked the time. Three-thirty. If I wanted answers, and if I put my foot down, there was another option.
I PUSHED MY way into SARA’s air-conditioned building with five minutes to spare. I’d been held up at an intersection – a bakkie in the lane next to mine had been rear-ended by a taxi, and I’d been forced to hang around while the bakkie’s elderly driver painstakingly tapped my details into his ancient Nokia.
The stone-faced security guard looked me up and down. “We are closing.”
“I need to speak to someone in charge,” I said.
“You have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Then I cannot help you, sisi.”
“Tell your boss it’s about August Schuller.”
“August what?”
“He or she will know what I mean.”
I waited while the guard ducked his head and mumbled something into his radio. “Third floor,” he snapped at me.
A fortyish man wearing the tailored suit and bland grin of a politician was waiting for me when I exited the lifts. “Do you mind giving me your name?” he asked, without offering his own.
I handed him one of my business cards.
His smile didn’t slip as he scanned it. “What is it that you want, Ms Greenberg?”
“I need to get hold of Reiner Meyer – August Schuller’s sidekick. It’s important.”
“I cannot help you.”
“Fine. My boyfriend works for the Cape Times,” I lied. “Maybe I’ll give him a call. It’ll make a good story, the roads agency using taxpayers’ cash to fund druids and magic and hokey shit like that.”
“Please.” He ushered me into a large office, the walls adorned with framed maps and ‘Arrive Alive’ posters, and waved me towards a chair in front of his desk.
I sat down, crossed my arms. “Do you seriously believe this druid stuff works?”
I was treated to another bland smile and a slick non-answer: “Have you any idea what a drain traffic accidents are on our resources, Ms Greenberg?”
“But why use Austrian druids? Why not use sangomas to dispel the bad energy or whatever? Proudly South African, local is lekker and all that shit.” I thought of my sister – she’d probably love nothing more than hanging around by the side of the road dressed in her beaded finery.
He shifted in his seat. If I wanted answers, now was the time to shut up. But as usual, I couldn’t stop my mouth doing its thing. “Whoever’s in charge got a kickback, didn’t they? A bribe.” The smile snapped off. “Am I close? It’s the South African way, after all. We’
re outsourcing everything these days. Clothing manufacture to China; armaments to Germany. And now, magic to Austria.”
His phone started ringing. We sat in silence until it stopped.
I tried one more time. “Look. I don’t care what you’re doing. I seriously don’t. Tell me where to find Reiner Meyer and I’ll be out of your hair. Won’t say a word.”
He held my gaze for what felt like hours. I still couldn’t read his expression. Then he dug wordlessly in his desk drawer and handed me a map.
IT WAS GETTING dark as I pulled onto the N2. I stuck to the slow lane, gung-ho mini-bus taxis and luxury sedans with blacked-out windows zipping around me en route to Gugulethu and the airport. Table Mountain shrank in my rear-view mirror as I crawled past the endless shacks that flanked the highway. The irony of SARA bankrolling bizarre druid rituals in the heart of so much poverty didn’t escape me.
According to the map, Reiner should be doing his stuff a couple of kays past the airport turn-off. Blinded by the lights on the opposite side of the highway, I had to slam on my brakes when I finally spotted a silhouetted figure behind the buckled safety barrier. I flicked on my hazard lights and pulled over.
Reiner barely acknowledged me as I approached him. Dressed in the same robe he was wearing in the newspaper photo, he was waving a U-shaped metal contraption at each car that roared past us.
“I know what you’re doing here,” I said.
He shrugged and pointed towards a cell phone transmitter in the distance. “The bad signals, they must be dispersed.”
“What’s this got to do with the cat?”
“The bad energy we collect has to go somewhere. It is poison.”
“Hang on. Are you saying you transferred this bad energy into a cat?”
“I prefer to use chickens, but August did, ja. He kept it alive for far too long. After so many sessions, he should have destroyed it, burned its body. But as you know he died unexpectedly before he could do this.”
“You’re insane.”
“Am I?” His hood shadowed his eyes, but I could feel the weight of his gaze just the same. “You have experienced no consequences?”
I thought about the incidents I’d witnessed: the muti guys wiping out; Lindiwe slipping in the suicide scene blood; the fender bender en route to the SARA offices.
Just coincidence, right?
Right?
I cleared my throat. “Say someone had been close to the cat and this bad energy stuff. What could they do about it?”
He shrugged. “They would have to wait for it to disperse.”
“And how long would that take?”
He sighed. “You should not be here. I have worked hard to clear this area. It is too late. I cannot help you.”
I climbed back into the van. My hands were numb, and it took several attempts before I managed to fit the key in the ignition. Driving as if the van was made of glass, I took the first off-ramp, turned around and began heading back towards Cape Town.
I almost screamed as the approaching shriek of emergency sirens filled the air.
It was the last straw.
I pulled over, locked my doors and fumbled for my cell phone. It might all be bullshit; it might just be coincidence, but I was past caring.
When my sister answered, all I said was: “You win.”
I hoped she knew how the fuck to cleanse a cat.
THE WRONG FAIRY
AUDREY NIFFENEGGER
Madness and creative inspiration aren’t very distantly related. Here, Audrey takes the father of a very famous writer and explores the nature of his ‘illness’. There is magic in the creative process and there is the magic our mind can conjure in order to help us cope. This is a rich tapestry of a tale by an extraordinary writer that shows us a glimpse of another world.
THE MAN SAT on the bed and looked about him. There was a wash stand, a pink china bowl with its chipped pitcher, a wing-backed chair by the small barred window, a worn carpet, a small bookcase, a desk, an ashtray, a waste basket, a wardrobe and a lamp. The bed had whitewashed iron fittings, like a servant’s. His own things were piled in a heap at the foot of the bed, his clothing and his painting materials, his books and his pipe; all he needed was there except the bottle, the most important thing.
“You’re trying to kill me,” the man said to his son. His son stood in front of the door, as though to prevent the man from leaving, or perhaps in order to slip away more efficiently.
His son was a substantial young man with an impressive moustache. He looked prosperous, even sleek, but also very unhappy. “No, Father,” he replied. “We’re trying to help you.” He didn’t sigh, though he wanted to.
The man appeared much older than he actually was, and this was certainly because of the drink. The drink had brought him here, had compelled his family to commit him to the care of this dreadful place. Now he was here and they were going to keep him from drinking. He groaned.
“You can’t imagine.”
“I can,” his son said rather grimly. “And you mustn’t try to escape again. We were lucky to find you a place here. Foudoun won’t have you back after the way you behaved.”
“Where am I, then?”
“Montrose Royal Lunatic Asylum. They call it Sunnyside; there used to be a farm of that name on the property.”
“A lunatic asylum?” He felt faint. “Is everyone here insane?”
“No, the staff are very sane indeed. And the patients look mild enough. You’ve got a private room; no one will bother you here.”
The man stared at his son. “Will you ask your mother to come and visit me?”
The son shook his head. “Better not.”
The man stood up and the room reeled. His son steadied him, helped him back to the bed. It was a long time since he had been so physically near his son. He gripped his son’s arm and felt him recoil slightly, involuntarily.
“Please,” he said.
“Father–” his son began to reply.
Someone knocked on the door and then opened it. His son straightened and stepped away from him. The matron looked in at them impassively. “Your driver was asking if you’ll be much longer, Dr. Doyle?”
“Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes, Mrs. Brewster.”
The matron continued to stand there.
“Give my love to the girls. And Mary,” the man said with an effort at a smile, conscious of the matron’s gaze.
His son said, “I will,” and “Be well, Father.” Then he embraced the man and stepped through the door after the matron. The key turned in the lock. The man lay back on the bed and waited.
THE HORRORS WERE upon him. He was infested by insects that marched across the underside of his skin like directionless armies. He could feel each tiny foot as it touched each nerve. He was hot, hotter, he was going to burst into flame. Water, he thought he said, but no intelligible word came out. Every sound in that unfamiliar place was amplified. Footsteps in the hall, cool wet clothes wrung into the basin, the tap of metal against glass. People stood by his bed and whispered. Someone said, “...seizures.” They put something cold and hard in his mouth and they restrained him. Crawlers massed at the edge of his vision, their etiolated limbs waving and gesturing at him. Great storms possessed him, then blackness. Nurses came and went, sunlight crept into the room and then it was night. He thought he was at home. His family sat at the table eating oyster soup. His daughter Ida seemed about to recognize him, but then her eyes slid across him and fixed on her mother. He spoke to each of them in turn and in turn they ignored him. He wept. Later he stood on a stony beach and saw birds, small and massed at the horizon, multitudes of birds, all kinds, flying toward him slowly. As they came close, he saw that it was a host of angels and that one among them was Death itself, his own Death, red and magnificent. “Take me,” he said. He closed his eyes, lifted his arms and waited. Nothing happened.
He opened his eyes. The beach was empty and quite silent, the waves rolled and the wind blew without a sound.
“I have been watching for you,” a lady said.
He looked about him but saw no one.
“Here I am,” she said. He turned. A lady stood near him. She was young, but regarded him with a serious, even severe expression. Her short brown hair was loose and cut a bit wildly, as though she had been recently ill. She wore a white tunic and her arms and feet were bare.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asked her. He was shivering, himself. He noticed that there was a tortoise the size of a Hackney cab standing near the lady. It was looking at her with adoration and nodding gently.
“No, I’m not cold at all; it’s you, you’ve got the chills.” The lady snapped her fingers and the wind died. He felt better at once.
“Charles Altamont Doyle?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied, somehow not surprised. “You know my name?”
“Of course. We know a great deal. Everything.”
He did not like to think what everything might encompass. “And – have I died?”
“No, don’t be silly. I sent him away.”
“I wanted to die,” he said. “I was quite ready.”
“The Queen prefers that you live. She enjoys your paintings of us and she wishes you to paint according to her own specifications. She will send you instructions once you have recovered your health.”
“Yes,” he said, without comprehension. He blushed and wondered how Victoria had heard of his work.
“Not that queen. The real Queen,” said the lady.
“Of course,” he said. He was about to ask the lady who this other queen might be when he heard a loud noise and found himself in his bed at the asylum. A char stood by the fireplace, one hand to her mouth in alarm, the other holding an empty coal scuttle. The door opened and Mrs. Brewster entered in a fury.
“Milly!” she hissed. “What on earth was that noise? And oh, dear, look at all this coal all over the floor! Pick it up at once!” She glanced at him and her expression softened.
“Mr. Doyle, good morning. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” he said. He raised his head to look at her and the room spun around. “Still alive.”
The Future of Horror Page 42