Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “Fifty bucks the chicks don’t pitch,” he wagered.

  They shook on it. Alistair looked at the couple on the blanket below Silverman’s window. They hadn’t moved; they appeared so peaceful in union, content, as if time were irrelevant.

  “What’s that shit?” He pointed to a mushroom growing through the windowsill. Since the vomit heap discovery and subsequent cleaner’s ban on Silverman’s room, it had devolved into an organic mess; it could now pass as a science laboratory experiment.

  “Now that you ask?” Silverman pushed up his spectacles and stared.

  “Fungus,” he confirmed triumphantly.

  Alistair pointed to another.

  “Fungi?”

  BREAK

  Alistair’s shoulders relaxed and he slipped lower in the seat. The Audi pushed one sixty. Five minutes to the Caledon turn off and another forty five through the Overberg on the R316 to Arniston. Every kilometer was a kilometer further away from his worries.

  “It’s all about your conscience,” his father had told him once. “If your conscience tells you it is wrong, you will suffer until you put it right. If you have a clear conscience, if you can sleep at night, you will be fine.”

  He hadn’t been sleeping well. How could he cleanse his conscience? Why could he not stop thinking about Terri?

  He sent her another text:

  What u up 2 4 long wkend? Am in Arniston

  It was feeble. And elicited no reply.

  Alistair imagined her back with her boyfriend, the granite-like rugby star. “Who the fuck is sending you these messages, Terri? I’m going to kill him!”

  He guided the car off the N2 and into Caledon. A timely text reminder arrived from his sister Lindy:

  Dont 4get bday prez 4 Mom!!

  He cruised down the Caledon strip, not exactly shopper’s paradise, stopped at a leather shop, bought his mother a belt.

  Not great, but not bad.

  Back on the road, he found his mind wandering back to Gorillas, a thought he was hoping to steer clear of for the weekend.

  A shark attack video! What next? Perhaps it was time to say goodbye to the crew.

  He drove on, the road quiet, only the occasional car passing in the opposite direction.

  How much had Devon said? Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, double for a breach.

  Alistair gunned along the narrow stretch of road leading from Bredasdorp to the coast, each passing tree deflecting the sunlight, like flicking pages of a book. He imagined bringing Terri to Arniston; he imagined bringing the nurse.

  He opened a window to smell the sea, his progress watched by a jackal buzzard, perched on a telephone pole, hunched over like a streetcorner gangster. A party of muisvoëls played dare before the wheels of his car.

  His thoughts shifted to his family. The whole crowd would be down from Johannesburg; he hadn’t seen his sisters since Christmas. Lindy, married to Mark; Jenny to Steve; Shelley, unmarried, three rug rats apiece to Linds and Jen.

  Thoughts of an Arniston weekend. A relief to be distracted. The girls gossiping in the kitchen while coming up with new and interesting salads for the men sitting outside by the fire, burning meat and talking fishing, cricket, stock markets, politics. Long soothing swims in warm waters, the camaraderie of family, maternal affection, the reassuring grip of his father’s handshake.

  A Morgan holiday.

  The silver Audi whipped past the Arniston signage. The sea loomed ahead like a big blue lake, not a wave in sight. The location of the Morgan abode never failed to impress him: set against a rocky promenade, like an island on a hill, surrounded by water on all sides but one.

  “No wind!” Alistair whooped. “Beach time.”

  He passed the quaint little Anglican Church on the left, followed through the stop street and spun down Church Street to a large grass parking area. The cars signified Morgans in residence: one large new Land Rover Discovery, two hired BMW X3s.

  Beyond the cars and green lawn stood the whitewashed walls of Morganhouse, framed by a floating blue sky; a classic beach house, not palatial and dripping with wealth, but tasteful, understated, location is everything, rambling architecture shaped through years of additions and alterations. The kind of place new money would buy and bulldoze. Except that no money could buy this house. John Morgan knew that, god knows how many offers he’d laughed at.

  Children rushed to greet him before the car came to a standstill. “Allie, Allie, Allie!” An avalanche of hugs and kisses smothered him. He was the favorite. He rolled on the grass and let the rats jump all over him.

  The adults were close behind, elder sisters circling him in a clinch; only Shelley, the youngest, more reserved, standing back, a light kiss on the cheek.

  “My boy!” He felt a surge of emotion and fell into the warm embrace of his father.

  “Dad,” he smiled, a genuine, happy smile. John Morgan pulled back slightly to examine his son. The blue eyes were cloudy.

  “My boy!”

  Glenda Morgan joined them.

  “Happy birthday, Mom.” The composure was restored.

  Pumping handshakes with the brothers-in-law and macho threats to out surf, out fish, out drink.

  “This isn’t going to become another wild drinking weekend,” Lindy chastised her husband.

  Alistair opened the hatchback, extracted a bag.

  John Morgan took his case and led the way. “You’re in the Anchor Room. Come on. Let’s get you changed and head to Main Beach. Bodysurfing. You and me against these jokers your sisters married.”

  They moved as a group, chatting, laughing, back into the house. Alistair felt a surge of emotion as he walked; this had been missing from his life lately: love, guidance, normality.

  An hour in salt water cleared his senses. Father and son versus brothers-in-law for the bodysurfing competition; John Morgan manipulating the results with a changeable set of rules.

  In the Anchor Room afterwards, Alistair washed his face at the basin and applied moisturizer with his fingertips. His youngest sister Shelley flopped on the bed, the mattress protesting with a tired creak, her cerise bikini top making damp marks on the cotton sheets, towel draped around her waist.

  “You’re very disciplined,” she said, watching him apply the cream. He turned and smiled at her, dropped the towel dramatically on the sisal mat. He was naked underneath.

  Shelley yelped and buried her head in the pillow. “Alistair! Put some clothes on!”

  He reached into a drawer and pulled out a pair of thin cotton drawstring pants. “What’s your problem?” he laughed.

  Shelley looked up. “You never know when to draw the line.”

  He dismissed the complaint with a wave of his hand.

  “Did you unpack those?” Shelley pointed to the pants.

  “Nope, I think it was the fairies, while we were swimming.”

  “You’ve got it made, don’t you?” She shook her head.

  He grinned at her. “My mamma, she loves me, she loves me.”

  Shelley rose and walked to the cupboard. A couple of shirts on hangers; pants, socks, underpants filled the shelves. She shook her head again.

  Friday afternoon, lunch outside: cold chicken on fresh Portuguese rolls, various salads on the side. John debated the finer points of the melting ice caps with the in-laws, while Alistair helped his sisters clear the table.

  “Not so fast, little brother,” said Lindy, the sisters cornering him in the living area as he made his way back to the patio. “So, what’s new?”

  He shrugged, squatted on his haunches and fingered the Persian; wondered if it was more valuable than his one at Belsen. Probably. His dad didn’t love him that much.

  The girls sat down next to him. A handless clock gaped down from above the fireplace. Morgan ancestors and family memories abided over from their locations on the wall: John Morgan as a young teenager, brown as a berry; a ten pound kabeljou held proudly aloft; John and Glenda in their twenties; collages of the family; a young Alistair on the
beach, three or four, bare as usual, an infectious smile, magnetic.

  “Ah, little Allie, you look so sweet there,” said Lindy, following his gaze. “Shame, what happened?”

  The sisters laughed; he joined in. The smile, not so innocent any more, but they still couldn’t help being drawn to it.

  “He never tells us anything any more,” Jen complained.

  “He’s got a love bite on his bum,” Shelley interjected.

  “Shelley!” exclaimed the other two. Then softly: “How’d you know?”

  “It was a squash ball!” said Alistair, indignant.

  Glenda Morgan hovered in the kitchen, a trained ear listening, cautious of her presence.

  “No girlfriends?”

  “Not even one?”

  Alistair rubbed his face. “Lots of girlfriends, no one special.”

  John Morgan walked in. “That’s my boy. Why have one when you can play the field?”

  “Says Father who’s been married for thirty years,” crowed Lindy.

  Glenda allowed herself into the room and conversation. “I just want to say it’s wonderful having you all together for my birthday. If I cast my mind back I can see you all lying on the carpet just like that, talking and laughing.”

  Alistair woke early on Saturday morning. He walked through to the living area; John Morgan, in a comfy chair, browsed the Saturday Argus. Seven a.m. on a Saturday in Arniston; how did he get that right?

  He stood up and put a hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “So glad you could make it, my boy. It’s made your mother’s weekend.”

  Alistair rubbed his eyes.

  “Tell me about the semester.” The father looking for some numbers.

  “Not much to tell. I told you about ethics.”

  “Yes,” he chuckled again. Then serious. “Don’t let up, Allie. This is the time when it counts. You want to cream this year then go overseas and have a great holiday. Don’t get sucked into the Varsity chaos.”

  “Like you did?”

  John play punched him on the arm. “Never. We didn’t have any cash anyway. Even if we wanted to party, we couldn’t.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second!”

  “How are you for money, by the way?”

  “Fine, all good.”

  “You know if you ever need…”

  John Morgan made a pot of tea and took it outside. They sat on the cobbled wall overlooking the fisherman’s harbor, the morning crisp, gulls circling below, fishermen searching for bait on the low tide.

  “I’m worried about the house,” said John, looking out to sea.

  “What do the engineers say?”

  “Oh, the usual crap. Too much sand and clay, not enough limestone. It’ll cost millions to stabilize the cliff face. No guarantees.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “The question is what are you going to do? It won’t happen in my lifetime. But perhaps in yours.”

  “Fall into the sea?”

  John Morgan shrugged and stared off into the distance.

  “Shifting the intolerable burden to the stronger brains of the future,” suggested Alistair.

  John Morgan frowned before recognizing an ex-Prime Minister’s famous quote. “Touché.”

  “Let’s go take a look,” said Alistair.

  John Morgan’s frown returned. “Are you sure you want to?”

  “As long as you’ve got no new tricks up your sleeve,” joked Alistair.

  “You never let me forget. One little prank…”

  “I was eight years old!”

  They walked with their tea mugs through the house to the kitchen, the old vinyl floor tiles worn, in need of an update.

  “Don’t tell your mother,” said John.

  A No Entry sign was pasted on the inside of the kitchen, red and final. John rummaged in a drawer and emerged with a key.

  “Your mother tries to hide it in a different place every time.”

  The door opened and Alistair felt a surge of adrenaline. He filled his lungs with the sea air. A low stone wall around the back yard crumbled down a steep ascent into the sea; deep fissures visible in the footpath.

  “It’s not a pretty sight,” said John with a grimace, his hand testing the tap of a rusty gas bottle.

  “Whoa,” said Alistair, feeling the familiar anxiety of heights, the notion that something was luring him to the edge, enticing him to jump. It would only take a moment. His stomach lurched.

  They inched toward the wall, leaned forward to peer over, down the cliff face, into the contrasting pea green sea below, a stirred soup with traces of cream on the surface, lines of foam and white water. The waves marched on the outcrop in a pattern, refractory forces gorging at the rock face, eroding sandstone; everywhere jagged rocks and caves like pieces of a broken jigsaw.

  “It seems hard to believe.”

  Alistair tried to imagine the house slipping down the ledge, the implosion of mortar into the sea raging below.

  “Let’s go down the path,” said Alistair.

  “Oh. I don’t think you want to do that.”

  “When last did you try it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Ha!”

  John Morgan placed a hand on Alistair’s shoulder.

  “I can do this,” said Alistair.

  Alistair started slowly along the path, one foot in front of the other, to his left the cliff, to his right overgrown shrubbery and clumps of grass leading back to the wall of Morganhouse.

  Beyond the house, the narrow path opened out onto a small rocky promontory, a triangular heath of waving grass on a limestone surface. On either side, the sea. A weathered red and white beacon marked a position near the edge; a cairn of white stones the midway point between the pinnacle, the edges and the junction where the narrow path returned to Morganhouse.

  Alistair stopped and looked around. The only way back was along the footpath. To, his right, the west, he could see the lighthouse; in front, the horizon of the Indian Ocean; east, across the gap, the other houses of the town. He raised his arms above his head and his stomach lurched.

  “I’m going to do this,” he said to himself. How long had it been? Fourteen years?

  John Morgan stayed behind. He shook his head, looked down at his shoes. Alistair edged toward the cliff on the western side. A lizard with a bright blue head darted for the safety of a rock. Alistair peered over, moved further along until he saw the narrow sandy ledge. He sank down to his haunches then looked back at his father.

  “Careful!” called John Morgan. “What happened to your fear of heights?”

  “It’s still here.”

  On either side, a sheer fall into the sea. Alistair lowered himself over the edge onto the sandy ledge.

  “Be careful, Alistair, for god’s sake.”

  Alistair dropped onto the ledge, a protrusion three by three, completely hidden from the edge. The boom of the sea intensified, its seismic action launching waves against the jagged rocks. He dared not look down. He turned toward the cliff, placed his hands against the rock.

  “Alistair!” He heard his father shout.

  Alistair took a deep breath. He raised a shoe into a foot hole, a crevice in the limestone, and hoisted himself back onto the precipice. “I’m OK.”

  They retraced the path back to the house. John put his hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “Do you still feel it?”

  Alistair smiled. “You had balls, Dad. I don’t know what made you do it. But you had balls all right.”

  John Morgan chuckled.

  “I wanted to see the look on your face.”

  “I was only eight, for heaven’s sake. I pissed in my pants. Literally!”

  “I regretted the day ever since. It really backfired on me. Your mother nearly divorced me. You had to sleep in our bed after that.”

  Alistair gripped his father’s hand. “I’m fine now, Dad. It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”

  A gust of wind swept over the promontory. Alistair sh
ivered, doubted his own words.

  Sunday, mid-morning. A girl in a leopard print bikini sashayed expansively down the stairs leading from the car park to beach; soft serve nuzzled against her mouth, dark hair flicking with the rhythm of her steps. Alistair made a screen with his fingers.

  “What are you watching?” Shelley asked. She traced the direction of his stare. “Oh,” she answered herself.

  Alistair slipped his Varnettes down from their perch on his head; Varnettes in Arniston with their all round protection; rimless Police in Cape Town for the image.

  Shelley flicked some sand onto his towel. “Stop perving!”

  “Please! I’m enjoying a moment.”

  Leopard Print strutted past. Alistair rolled onto his back to maintain the train of his attention.

  “Let’s go to the cave, Allie.”

  “Nah.”

  “Please.”

  Alistair relented; they got up and headed along the beach.

  Shelley. Age difference two years. Only unmarried sister. Only sister from whom he sensed a tinge of jealousy. He was the golden child, everyone knew and accepted that, even him. Especially him. It must have been hardest for her.

  “What are you doing with the boys?” he said, making small talk.

  “Avoiding.”

  “Probably a wise choice.”

  The path sloped down toward the sea. Fishermen were crowded onto an exposed reef, remorselessly hurling their rigs of lead and bait into the sea. He stepped aside to allow Shelley the lead onto the rocks. She was an attractive girl: pretty face, short black hair, slim hips but curvy body. His type of girl. He checked out her bum as she stooped to enter the cave. Not bad…

  “What are you looking at?”

  “For somewhere to park my bicycle.”

  “Funny, ha ha.” She plucked at her bikini pants where the fabric crept into her bottom.

  The cave was dark and damp, the narrow entrance allowing in no light, all illumination coming from the wide opening directly into the sea. They sat down on the rocks together. Brother and sister. Alistair thought back to previous excursions there. How many times had they been in here together? Twenty? Between the first time and now, they had grown separate lives.