Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “That’s insane,” laughed Alistair. “You’re stoned.”

  “In sin. As I said.”

  A busy motorway separates the university Rose Garden from Upper Campus. Students, when they can find a spot, park their cars at its edges and scuttle through the subway to lectures.

  Alistair strode up the cobbled path in the direction of the garden, stepping lightly. Face tanned, hair wavy, he veered left and onto the grass.

  Terri sat on a bench in the garden, wearing white linen pants, a blue checked cheesecloth shirt, short sleeves, two buttons open, no cleavage. At first he thought she hadn’t seen him, but as he came closer, her face changed slowly and a gentle smile, without breaking her lips, transformed her look of serenity into curiosity.

  Driving back from Arniston, his sister’s words echoing in his ears, he’d phoned her again: “Terri. I need to see you. It’s important.”

  “So what’s so important?” she asked.

  He handed her a single rose flower and she accepted it without thanks, held it up to draw the scent.

  “I want you to know that I can’t stop thinking about what happened to you.”

  “Oh.” she turned slightly on her bench to face him. “I feel so silly.”

  “Don’t.” He reached out, lightly touched her hand.

  “You aren’t making fun of me, are you?” She twirled the rose in her hand.

  A couple walked past on the cobbled path, down toward Rondebosch. The guy had his arm around her waist; the girl had her hand in the back pocket of his jeans. Alistair watched them go.

  “Alistair?”

  “No, Terri. Honestly. I’m not making fun.”

  “More charm than a groom on his wedding day.”

  “What?”

  “Something someone said,” she laughed.

  “About me?” He felt his cheeks redden.

  “Actually, I’m glad for a chance to chat. I finally feel like I have the strength to talk about what happened. You probably think I’m silly, I’m overreacting, nothing really happened. Katie’s been on at me to get out and get over it. But it’s been difficult.”

  “I don’t think you’re silly.”

  “It’s just that, besides Katie and my therapist, I haven’t discussed it with anyone. You’re the only other person that knows.”

  “You never told Henri?”

  She shook her head and looked around the Rose Garden, flowing green lawns, beds of red and white roses.

  “It’s beautiful here. Do you suggest this location often?” She smiled mischievously at him and sniffed at his rose.

  “No, first time.” He acted hurt, fiddled with his sleeves, pushed them up over his biceps, then down again. “I didn’t think you’d want to meet at res. And I wasn’t sure that you’d want to be outdoors actually. Just took a chance.”

  “I came here once before. With Henri.”

  “Romantic?”

  “Is that why you asked me here? Romantic setting.”

  “No, no,” Alistair protested. “I just like it here. I thought you would too.”

  “I do.”

  She watched his face, looking for signs. He broke into a grin.

  “Alistair, you know Henri and I are over. You seem to be a nice guy, but I don’t want to jump into another relationship.”

  Alistair pointed to his chest. “With me? What gives you the idea I’m after you?”

  Terri ignored the question, rubbed her hands together.

  “This is my coming out day,” she said.

  He frowned.

  Her gaze remained fixed. “You look like Jude Law, you know?”

  “That a compliment?”

  “Perhaps. Has anyone else ever told you that?”

  “No,” he lied. “He cheated on his girlfriend with the nanny.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No. Don’t have a nanny either.”

  She giggled.

  “What do you think of Jude Law?” Alistair asked.

  “He’s not my type.” She smiled at him, her button nose scrunched up and her teeth flashing.

  Chemistry, Alistair thought, missiles of attraction firing in his brain.

  “You went to Arniston?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “I stayed in my room.”

  “Curtains drawn?”

  She laughed, didn’t respond.

  “PJs and tissues, romance novel, slippers?”

  She nodded.

  “And now you’re coming out.”

  She nodded more urgently. “You know, Alistair, you’re the only person—of the three who know—who hasn’t told me to get a grip.”

  “I saw you there. I know what it was like.”

  “You ever been butt naked on a bed of pine needles?”

  “Not since last time I…” He cut off an attempt at humor, put his hand on her hands. “Seriously, Terri. You’re dealing so well. I didn’t appreciate what it must’ve been like. But if I look at you and I imagine…”

  She pulled her hands away.

  “Stop imagining!”

  “It’s good you can laugh about it.”

  “It’s either that or back to the tissues,” she said, standing up. “But I’m coming out. I’m a new person. And now I must get back to Tugwell.”

  Alistair walked her down the hill, along Woolsack Drive, the route they’d walked on the day of the incident. They cut past the swimming pool into the Belsen parking lot.

  “Can I see you again?” he asked.

  “What for?”

  Alistair was out of his depth. Should he just tell her he wanted to see what she was like in bed? No—he knew that much.

  “What sort of a question is that? What for? Must I have a reason?”

  “Yes,” she replied, poking him with the rose. “I told you, I’m not looking for…”

  “Look, you make me happy, OK?”

  She threw back her head and laughed.

  “Isn’t that a good enough reason?”

  She continued to laugh, then stopped suddenly, put an arm on her hip and looked at him. “For you maybe.”

  He nodded. “I understand,” he said, with an exaggerated air of sadness.

  She picked up his hand. “Look, Alistair. You’ve been very kind to me. And I appreciate it. But you’re not my type. Honestly. I…”

  Alistair pulled away his hand. “How do you know what type I am?”

  “You’re Jude Law!”

  He shook his head; she spun around and skipped away.

  “You can text me,” she called over her shoulder. “If you make me happy, I might answer.”

  Alistair watched her go, then retraced his footsteps back to the Rose Garden. He lay flat across the bench, his head resting on the slat where she’d sat. He covered his eyes with one hand.

  Above him, the sun was high in the sky. The weather didn’t match his mood.

  When Alistair got back to Green 212, his door was open.

  Devon reclined on the couch. He didn’t stand up.

  “You don’t call, you don’t write. You don’t love me any more.”

  Alistair flashed him the Morgan ivories. “I’ve been away.”

  “Haven’t we all?”

  “Tea?”

  Alistair wondered how he got in, felt rude to ask, imagined he forgot to lock his door. Again.

  “That’d hit the spot, Alesandro.”

  Silverman moondanced past the open door, reversed and looked in. He motioned a movie camera as if playing a game of charades. Alistair closed the door and turned on the kettle.

  “What brings you to Belsen?”

  “Can’t I come visit you, Alesandro?”

  He’d never been before.

  “Of course you can.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “You know. I went to Arniston for my mother’s birthday.”

  “No, today.”

  “Oh, today.” Alistair pretended to think. He wondered how long Devon had been waiting. He glanced at his
phone on the desk; there were missed calls.

  “I popped up to campus to drop off a tutorial, chatted with mates on the steps for a while.”

  Devon nodded. “Left your phone behind?”

  Alistair nodded, pointed to the phone on the desk, set about getting the tea ready. Devon remained on the couch, asking arbitrary questions: studies, cars, weather. Alistair realized how little they had to say to one another.

  “I think we need to get away, the four of us, quality time with one another. This shark deal is massive. I need to know everyone’s on board.”

  “I’m not, that’s for sure.”

  “I know that, I know that. So we need to listen to one another. Have a chat, get away.”

  Alistair remained quiet. He doubted Devon’s idea of a good time weekend away corresponded with his. And the shark project scared him.

  “Where?”

  “My uncle owns a farm near Prince Albert. A Karoo sheep farm.”

  “Are you seriously still contemplating the shark video?”

  “Carlos is desperate. I think he’ll up the bounty, might be open to suggestions.” He lowered his voice. “Look, Forest Frolic didn’t really cut it. Carlos says the response hasn’t been great, he was expecting more from us. I think he’s a bit pissed off. Says we were too…”

  “Too what?”

  “Lenient.”

  “Jeez, Devon,” said Alistair. “We agreed!” He felt the blood reach his cheeks.

  “Don’t worry, Alesandro. You know I’m with you. No way I want to see anyone unnecessarily hurt. We won’t tell Johnny, that’s all.”

  “Do you really think the shark video’s viable?”

  Devon stroked the side of his face. “Let’s put it this way. We’ve got a boat. We’ve got the equipment. I wouldn’t mind shooting a few sequences. If we could—miraculously—film an attack, then I’d do it. But I wouldn’t break the law.”

  Alistair nodded, didn’t respond.

  “So let’s chat about it in the Karoo. Leave Friday afternoon. Sunday, we’re back.”

  Saturday night, thought Alistair. Good day for a date with Terri.

  “I’ve got a lot of work to catch up with.”

  “I need you there, Alesandro. Christ, you’re my sanity. What with the kid’s squeaky voice and Johnny’s testosterone, you’re my go-to man.”

  Devon punched Alistair on the shoulder.

  “OK,” Alistair said without enthusiasm. “Just make sure Johnny behaves himself.”

  “Absolutely! Glad you’ve come around.” Devon knelt down and ran his hand along the Persian. “What type?” he asked.

  “An Ashfar.”

  “Knot count?”

  “A thousand per square inch. You know your Persians?”

  Devon shrugged, continued smoothing the rug. As he did so, his shirt ran up his back, exposing a section of skin above his belt.

  “What’s that?” Alistair asked, pointing to thick welts of skin; they looked like scars from an operation gone wrong.

  Devon straightened up and pulled down his shirt. “What’s what?”

  “On your back,” Alistair realized he’d never seen Devon without his top on, never seen him in a swimming costume.

  Devon ran his hand inside the back of the shirt. “Oh these. Some old battle scars.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was long ago.”

  Alistair waited for him to elaborate but Devon changed the subject.

  “Alesandro, you’ve not been yourself of late. What’s up? What’s happened to my cheery friend? Something’s eating you.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I feel…nervous.”

  “All the time?”

  “A lot of the time.”

  “Sounds like a similar ailment to what I’ve got.”

  Devon reached into his pocket and extracted a brown plastic phial. Alistair raised his palm, shook his hand.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Devon. “Pills. But these are different. They’re anxiety pills but entirely natural.” He took out two and popped them in his mouth.

  “Yeah, yeah. No thanks. Not my style.”

  “Try one. Look, I’ll take two more. They’re mild. But they make you relax. Sleep well.”

  “I should be relaxed.”

  “We all should be. Alesandro, stop worrying. You have choices. You were hardly involved in the Forest deal. Except as a moderator.” Devon winked. “Chill. No big deal. The video will go to File B.”

  Devon held a small blue tablet between his thumb and forefinger. Alistair took it and swallowed. Devon punched him softly again.

  “Don’t let me down. I need you.”

  COOL DOWN

  “Devon!”

  Carlos was happy, freshly shagged, but he could so easily have been pissed. The baby had started crying just as he was rubbing up against his pretty little wife, the wife he hardly got to touch any more since the kid came along. But he’d done the lullaby rocking, then got hold of her in her dressing room. She hadn’t had much choice, moaned about his prickly chest, though.

  “How are you, Carlos?” Even straight out of sleep, Devon’s voice was clear and even.

  “You’re the man on the spot, Devon. I hear False Bay is teeming with sharks. Only place in the world where the big fellows leap out the water for their grub. How’s the planning going?”

  Carlos raised an arm to the light, thick black spikes were sprouting through the pale skin, no area spared, even the top of his hand. He could cover it up, wear long sleeve shirts, but he knew the bitch would keep complaining until….He winced as he imagined the waxy strips ripping off his skin.

  “On track. We’ll spend the weekend together discussing it. Then go into the dry runs. What did you think of the proposal?”

  “I like it. Can you make it happen?”

  “I think so.”

  “I like you, Devon. You and I—we could do a lot of business together. This could be your…big break.”

  “That’s great to hear, Carlos. Really, we appreciate it.”

  “Now, have you sorted out the renegade yet?”

  “Johnny? Oh, he won’t be a problem.”

  “Good. He’d better not be. I didn’t appreciate his unorthodox approach.”

  A buzzer sounded. Carlos stepped quickly over to a control board on the wall and pressed a button—caught it quickly before the alarm was triggered. The outdoor floodlights kicked in and the monitor on the wall displayed a shot of the outside garden.

  “Hang on a moment,” said Carlos. He grabbed the joystick and rotated it through 360 degrees, watching the monitor as he panned the perimeter. No action. Bloody lasers, he thought, never work properly.

  “What’s happening?” asked Devon.

  “Nothing. The intrusion lasers detected a movement. Where were we? Oh yes. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at Johnny’s video.”

  “It’s no good, Carlos. But what’s the feedback on Forest Frolic?”

  “A very pretty star attraction. But I don’t know why you stopped when you did.”

  “There are sensitivities.”

  “I haven’t got time for that, Devon. But that’s your prerogative. I suggest you take less notice of your ethics in the future if you want to get that break. Now, let me take a look at Johnny’s video.”

  “I deleted it. It was rubbish. Really.”

  “Now why would you do something like that without asking me?”

  “Sorry, Carlos. But you’ve got to believe me; it was really poor quality, a waste of your time.”

  “Well, I’ll have to take your word now, won’t I?” A pause, as Carlos allowed his words time to sink in. “As for Johnny, you want to be keeping an eye on him, understand? My man said he had a word but I don’t want any more fuckups.”

  “It’s all under control, I promise. Look, we don’t need Warnabrother throwing his weight around here. It just spooks us all.”

  “Warnabrother?”

  “That’s what we call him.”


  Carlos laughed, lightening up. “I like it. Warnabrother. Wait until I tell him. He didn’t do anything untoward, did he? He can be…difficult to predict.”

  “I heard him whistling outside my window at five a.m. What’s with him?”

  “The sailor,” Carlos sniggered. “I think, uh, Warnabrother…he was a slave or a pirate in his last life. Spends his money on themed cruises. Takes a cutlass. Uses it occasionally—on people he doesn’t take kindly to. But that’s not for you to worry about. Try to forget about him. He’s in Cape Town for a purpose.”

  “The murder?”

  “It’s a worry. We have to protect our clients. Someone’s getting their names.”

  “Well, keep him away from us. Johnny is under control. And Warnabrother stands out like a sore thumb.”

  “Really? I thought Africa was black.”

  “It is!”

  “Of course it is, Devon. I’m not a complete fool. Now let me deal with the peripherals and you get the men in Grey Suit on the bite.”

  Carlos replaced the phone and smoothed his hair. His wife called down to him. What was it now? The demands of respectability were never-ending. Here he was trying his hardest to play the model husband and she tested him at every turn. Hardly moved in bed; gave attitude out of it. Christ, if his ex-wife could see him now. He could feel his old habits on the verge of returning: the backhand, the uppercut.

  He stroked his hair again. It was cut short and neat. He used an iron to get the look he wanted; otherwise it went bushy and curly, a wild nest. He ran his hand down his prickly chest. How long could he delay the inevitable? Perhaps he should let it grow. Go back to being hairy. The way he used to be.

  Alistair was out of place in the world of geeks. His bags were packed for Devon’s team building getaway, but he sat watching Richard and Devon at their computers, waiting for Johnny to get home. Hunched over their screens, cables linking cams to computers, downloading, uploading, transmitting images. Whenever Alistair opened his mouth, it generated mirth.

  “Did you get that on tape?”

  Richard turned to Devon and giggled.

  “We don’t use tapes any more,” said Devon.

  “It’s all digital now,” explained Richard rolling his eyes. He was the super geek. “The quality remains forever. The data is fixed. If you copy fixed data, you get no degradation. It remains fixed. Even if great-great-greatgrandchild Alistair junior watches your video, it’ll be exactly the same.”