Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “Have you ever done anything bad?” she asked him suddenly.

  “Bad. Like what? Something illegal?”

  “Or unacceptable.”

  “Shell, stop talking in riddles. What are you trying to say?”

  “Do drugs?”

  “No,” Alistair answered emphatically. “Not my thing. And I hope you don’t.” He dipped his toe into a rock pool and teased a red crab.

  “I knew I shouldn’t bring this up with you.”

  The crab raised its claws, backed out, and scampered into a crevice. Alistair softened his position.

  “What’s your conscience say?” he asked.

  “Recreational fun.”

  “Well, there you have it. If you can rationalize it in your mind, then you’re all right.”

  They sat in silence for a while. A swell pushed into the cave, water trickled into the rock pools, the tide coming in.

  “You ever liked someone?” she asked.

  “Is this twenty questions? Like like? Or love?”

  “Yeah. Love.”

  “No.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Ooh, Shell, you gonna get deep on me here? Tell me why.” Suddenly sarcastic, he’d heard it before—from Shelley, from spurned girls he’d handled badly, even Silverman in a moment of weed induced insight: he was spoiled and vain and everyone gave everything to him, and it all just landed in his lap, and he thought he was above everyone, and and and…

  “You can’t love because you’re loved too much.”

  “Oh that’s bullshit, Shelley.” He leaned back, scraped off a mussel.

  “It’s true. You don’t love because you’re too busy receiving everyone else’s love. It doesn’t just go for girlfriends. It’s family, too.”

  “Jesus, Shell, a bit harsh, don’t you think?” For some reason, he wasn’t as annoyed as he thought he’d be. “Well, for your information, there’s someone I think I can love.” He examined the mussel and passed it on to Shelley. She tossed it into the pool.

  “Can love?”

  “I don’t know her very well yet.”

  “Have you slept with her?”

  “No.”

  Shelley laughed and whistled. “Let me guess. First year, blonde hair, narrow waist, peachy complexion, big tits.”

  “Wrong!”

  “Close?”

  “Exceptionally so.”

  “You’re a joke, Alistair. You’re empty inside.”

  The light from the mouth of the cave dimmed as a cloud obstructed the sun. Alistair thought he heard a sound, looked around to confirm they were alone.

  “It’s true,” Shelley continued.

  “So basically I’m a joke and I can’t tell the difference between lust or love?”

  “Or honesty and treachery.”

  “Harsh words.”

  “Someone’s got to tell you. Dad certainly won’t. He thinks the sun shines out…”

  “Lust is a scourge, Shell, I admit it. It ruins genuine feeling. It makes you desire things you don’t want. I can’t help it.”

  “Do you lust after me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You have no feelings for me?”

  “Of course I do. You’re my sister.”

  “But you know nothing about me. You know nothing about my life.”

  Alistair opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. The sun came out from behind the cloud. He was used to Shelley’s tirades, but this one was more intense than usual.

  “All your life you’ve been given. It’s not even your fault. It prevents you from giving.”

  Alistair rubbed his hands across his face.

  “Who am I?” she continued, hands waving about, tears welling in her eyes. “What do I do? Who are my friends? You don’t know.”

  He made to respond, stopped himself, shook his head slowly. “You’re right. Jesus, you’re right.” He took a deep breath.

  “That’s the most honest thing I’ve heard you say,” said Shelley softly. She touched his leg, looked across at him.

  He stared straight ahead into the pool. “I don’t know how it got like this….I want to change.”

  Shelley stood. “Do you have my number on your cellphone?”

  He looked down, shook his head.

  “I love you too,” she said.

  They heard voices behind.

  John Morgan entered the cave, made his way over with a couple of the youngsters in his wake. “My boy! I knew I’d find you here,” he said, squatting beside Alistair and placing an arm around his shoulder. Shelley wrapped her arms around her body.

  “Waenhuiskranz: you can turn an ox wagon around in here. Unchanged for centuries, shaped by infinite days of sea and weather. Long before us, long after us. If you sprinkle thoughts here, they are preserved forever.” The siblings had heard this speech a million times.

  “It’s getting cold. I want to go back,” said Shelley. She walked alone to the mouth of the cave.

  A fisherman tugged frantically on his line, a writhing silver fish whipping over the edge of the reef, flapping breathlessly on the rocks. Sounds of whoops and excitement. Alistair, John Morgan, and the kids went over to check.

  “An elf,” said John. “A whopper.”

  Alistair felt a pang of sympathy for the beautiful creature, gleaming sliver and blue as if a light shone from within. He suppressed a desire to run over and toss it back into the ocean.

  “Why don’t you fish any more, son?”

  “I don’t like killing things.”

  Later that day, over lunch, John Morgan shed some light to the brothers-in-law. “He was a little master. I never managed a moment’s rest. If I took an afternoon kip, he’d be peeking through the crack in the door every five minutes. Rods out, raring to go. Then one day, all of a sudden, we’re driving home, cold and wet, smelling of red bait, empty-handed, tired and sunburned. And we drove past this young girl in a costume and Alistair says—what was it again, Allie?”

  “Next time let’s go fishing for one of those,” Shelley piped in.

  Everyone laughed. John Morgan blew through his hand. “Poof. He was gone. Never again to rise.”

  Alistair looked across at Shelley and turned his fork in the salad.

  The Morgans watched the sun set on the horizon, the golden orb sliding lower, an artist’s palette of yellows and reds.

  “Where’s Alistair?” asked John. He examined the milkwood, regretted not telling the garden services to trim underneath.

  “Reading on his bed,” said Shelley.

  “Oh? What’s he reading? What’s keeping him away from this?” He gestured to the horizon.

  Shelley shrugged. She knew it was The Dice Man, had read the blurb while Alistair was showering.

  Glenda Morgan put her arms around her husband. She wore a white frock, bare feet, no make up, no jewelry. She’d plucked a crimson bougainvillea flower and planted it behind her ear. In the distance, a fishing boat puttered into harbor, birds in tow, laden with wares. The gleam of the sea darkened as the sun disappeared.

  “Thank you for a wonderful weekend.”

  John Morgan stared into the distance. “Of course, my dear. It’s a pleasure.”

  He kissed her lightly on the head and continued his reflection. Wind slithered across the bay; the sea transformed into a grey expanse as the light faded away.

  Monday morning. Alistair shook Shelley lightly. He was tired after a rough night’s sleep; dreams of Warnabrother and sharks. He’d woken in a panic, pillow wet with perspiration. Images of Johnny Jackson with Terri that he couldn’t erase.

  “You’ve got a bit of sun,” Alistair said, running his hand along her shoulder.

  Shelley sat up, pulled the sheets up to her neck.

  “I’m on my way,” he said. “It’s late. You’ve slept for ages.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

  “Neither could I.”

  She rubbed her eyes.

  “Shelley, I….yesterday…” He
couldn’t find the words. He wanted to tell her that he knew about her drug problem, and that he had problems too, and that if they spoke about them, they might ease each others’ burdens.

  “What is it?” she said.

  He flicked open his cellphone.

  “Your number. Can I have your number?”

  The trapped heat in Green 212 greeted Alistair’s return. He sorted his laundry and placed the bag in the corner of his room. A tangle of music filtered down the corridor.

  Alistair picked up a dice off his desk and spun it in the air. Luke Rhinehart, here we come…

  One. I pursue Terri.

  Two. I tell Devon I want out.

  Three. I aim to pass Cum Laude.

  Four. I do the nurse in the ass.

  Five. I go with the shark project.

  Six. I become a monk.

  Alistair rolled the dice. Six.

  I can’t become a monk.

  He changed Six.

  Six. I go to the warden and tell him what we did to Terri.

  He rolled again. Six.

  No ways.

  Again.

  Five. Not good.

  Again.

  One. I like One.

  GATE-CRASHER

  “Sasha!”

  The thin girl spun around, jeans hanging loosely on her hips, a white vest washed to a grey, bra straps protruding. Johnny stared at her out of the car window. Pointy face, small brown eyes sunken in their sockets, prominent cheekbones.

  He’d parked the blue Cressida on the pavement outside Fuller Hall, expecting Sasha to come this way after her computer science lecture, making her way down to Middle Campus. Johnny’s short sleeve shirt was drenched in sweat—the Cressida’s air conditioner hadn’t worked in years and he’d expected her a good half hour earlier.

  “Get in.”

  She stood rooted to the spot. The fright washed across her blank, dull expression like an icy stream.

  He laughed, caught himself, tried a friendlier approach. “Where have you been, Sasha? I’ve been calling but you won’t answer.”

  “I haven’t been well.”

  Impossible to dispute; her freckled face pallid, hair dank and unwashed, skin blotchy, an unkempt stick insect. She took a step toward the car.

  Johnny patted the passenger seat. “Come on, babe. Get in.”

  She advanced another step then halted, her bony hands repetitively wringing plastic bangles on her arms, an unconscious obsession, sustaining her composure.

  “What do you want?”

  Johnny laughed and slapped his hand on the steering wheel. “What do I want? Come on, Sasha, we had a relationship.”

  “What happened to me?”

  “When?”

  “Don’t play dumb, you bastard! You know when I mean!”

  A pair of passing students turned to stare, moved along, embarrassed.

  “Come on, Sasha. Don’t make a scene. Get in.”

  She jiggled the satchel on her shoulders as if to test it was still there, hands trembled, a full scale nicotine crisis.

  “Don’t be a naughty girl, Sasha. Come along.”

  She composed herself with a vigorous twirl of the bangles. “You fucked me over, Johnny. I don’t know what happened. But you drugged me. You fucking date raped me.”

  “Nothing happened, it was just a big night out, we were out of it, fooled around, nothing special.”

  “Fucking liar!”

  Johnny’s eyes widened and he looked around.

  “Sasha. You’re making a scene. Nothing happened, I promise.”

  She spun around and hurried down the stairs.

  Johnny steered the Cressida down Woolsack Drive, phone ringing. He flicked his cigarette butt out of the window. A lady hooted. He gave her the finger, answered the call.

  Jeff. Drug dealer. Accomplice.

  “What do you want?”

  “She phoned me.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “And?”

  “She’s looking for a hit.”

  “OK. Cool. Phone her back. Tell her to meet you outside the Rondebosch library. Give her one more.”

  “What about my money, Johnny?”

  “You’ll get it, man. For fuck’s sake, you’ll get it. It’s taking longer than I thought.”

  “What’s the holdup? You said I’d have the money in a week.”

  “The disc is gone.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t panic. I’ve got another plan.”

  “Panic is my middle name, Johnny. You don’t understand. There’s a chain here. If I don’t get the money from you, then the Nigerians are gonna start…”

  “You think I fucking don’t know that? I said you’d get your money and you will. You shouldn’t have given that little bitch so much rope. What were you thinking?”

  “You always approved it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Those days are over.”

  “You sure you’ll get the money?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  Johnny accelerated to catch the orange light into Main Road, swung the Cressida into a hard right, across the front of a BMW cabriolet; the driver, in a dark suit, executive haircut, hooted and gesticulated. Johnny put his hand on the iron crowbar next to his seat.

  If I wasn’t in such a hurry, he thought.

  She sat on the pavement, didn’t try to run this time. Her eyes rolled back and she laughed, mouth open, skinny body loose and flexible like a rag doll. Half an hour and Jeff had done his job.

  “Johnny. Ooh, Johnny!”

  “Get in!”

  She climbed into the Cressida.

  “Don’t flake out on me. I need some help.”

  Losing the disc was a disaster. Collectively he owed close to a hundred thousand rand. Drug debts, mainly Sasha. Followed up by a dodgy loan, then some last chance sports betting. But he blamed himself; they—him and Jeff—had been so tanked up after the video, on fire with adrenaline and E. They had watched the video of Sasha over and over, laughing and hooting and drinking neat vodka. Then forgot about the disc, left it in the machine.

  The next morning it was gone.

  And now this guy Warnabrother was in his face. Big fucking sweet-smelling darkie whistling and telling him little stories. “Where’s the video? Carlos wants it, man.”

  But no disc.

  He’d assumed it was Morgan, the prick, fucking golden boy, playing a trick on him.

  Then worst fears: Devon had it. Of course it would be him. He wondered if Devon knew about Dark Video.

  And just when all seemed lost, an email from Mangle. Where had he heard of them?

  Johnny. We want the video. R30 000. Mangle

  Followed by a set of instructions for sending it.

  He’d responded:

  how did you get my name?? dont know you. the disc has been destroyed

  And immediately the response:

  We are Dark Video’s competition. We are intercepting their comms. Did you ever play the video? If so, there’s a copy on a cache drive.

  Cache? He’d never heard of that. That’s why he needed Sasha. Fucking little crack whore, but a wizard on Windows. She’d know what to do.

  “You’re a genius!”

  Sasha had just located a copy of the video in the temporary internet directory under the user “Guest.” Johnny leaned in behind her and kissed her roughly on the neck. He steadied her as she swayed back in her chair.

  “I want to watch it,” she said, eyelids hanging over her eyes, like a boxer after a fight. Gorillas was deserted; he’d locked his door for certainty but checked it now, just to be sure.

  “OK. But I want to explain. I did this for the money. To pay off your debts with Jeff. To get us out of shit. It’s a video of us making love. Some rich fuckers in America get their rocks off watching this shit.”

  She double clicked on the file. Windows Media Player sprang to life on the screen. Play.

  “That’s me. Fuck, I’m so wasted.”

 
Johnny laughed and put his arm around her shoulder, hugged her, started kissing her. He wasn’t going to let her watch too closely—ran a hand down her top, stuck his tongue into her mouth, tasted like an old ashtray. But she pulled back, kept an eye on the monitor.

  “What happened there?” She sat forward. Johnny was outside the window, Sasha inside, bent over, her body thumping back and forth.

  “Who’s that behind me?” she screamed. “Who the fuck’s that?”

  “It’s Alistair Morgan,” said Johnny, snatching for the mouse and exiting the window. “The fucker tried to crash our party.”

  IN THE ROSE GARDEN

  “How’d you make out at Cavendish, Silverman? Catch a few rounds of the rainbow game?”

  Alistair peered around the door of Green 214. Silverman lay prostate on his bed, taking a deep hit from his homemade bong.

  “Cavendish?” He stared blankly, his eyes rotating as he ingested the fumes.

  “Remember. MXit chatroom? Candy, the provocative teenager? Three little Catholic vixens eager for a tickle party?”

  “Oh that,” said Silverman. He exhaled a purple fog from his nostrils. Alistair coughed and waved his hands in front of his face.

  “I went to the mall, to our rendezvous point. Dirty minxes didn’t pitch. But it was weird, man. Freaky.” Silverman pulled the pipe to his lips and inhaled.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, the chicks weren’t there. But there were three other weird-looking guys hanging about. Bizarre!”

  “What a coincidence,” Alistair sniggered.

  “One reaps what one sows, I guess,” said Silverman stoically.

  “Poor, poor Candy.”

  “Indeed. No fun for her.”

  “If it wasn’t fun, it must’ve been sin.”

  Silverman’s eyes went glassy. In the smoky room, he looked like an old man. “The problem with sin is, at its genesis, you don’t recognize it as sin. It’s disguised as fun. Sin and fun. You can’t tell them apart. But something grows. In your room. It’s always there; you just don’t see it because you’re having so much fun. Getting bigger and bigger. Like a mushroom. Ah, my beautiful mushrooms. Until one day you can’t open the door because the mushroom is so big. It’s consumed everything. Now you can’t ignore it. You want to know what it is. ‘I’m sin,’ it tells you. You say, ‘Where’s the fun gone?’ And this big thing blows the door off your room. And it spills down the corridor, down the steps, sticking to everything.”