by S. L. Grey
‘Hello, Mr Ryan,’ she says.
‘Been exploring?’ he says.
She laughs.
The old man grunts behind Ryan. She looks up at him and shrugs. She doesn’t appear to be scared of him, that’s something at least. But then the door opens and her face freezes and she looks down at her shoes.
‘Here you go, brother.’ Ryan stands and Fransie passes the drives back to him.
Without a word or a glance, Tess slips up the stairs past Ryan and into the house. Something dark starts uncoiling inside him. He needs a drink.
Chapter 5
TARA
Tara sits slumped at the kitchen counter, absently toying with the mug of coffee she made over an hour ago. It’s going on for seven thirty – usually the most chaotic time of her day – but she hasn’t yet showered or even brushed her teeth.
The stench of burnt oil still lingers in the kitchen. Fortunately, Stephen managed to turn off the heat and throw a tea towel over the pan before any real damage was done to the stove or surrounding units, but he left the ruined pot on top of the dishwasher, where it still sits in silent accusation.
Not that she’s worrying about that right now. She’s got other things on her mind.
She spent most of the night obsessively clicking on that photograph – zooming in and out, freeze-framing on the baby’s face, the sewn-shut eyes, the little pursed mouth looped with thread. Could it be some kind of perverse joke, some bastard screwing with her mind? But who? It can’t be Martin – if the infant in the pic isn’t real (and she’s still not sure it isn’t), it’s been photoshopped – and while Martin may be a mendacious little shit, he doesn’t have the skill to pull that off. There’s Martin’s mother, of course, a woman who can hold a grudge for Africa, but Tara can’t see Olivia doing something like this. It’s too passive-aggressive. There’s too much attention to detail.
She’s aware, of course, that there are others who have an even stronger motive to cause her distress. The story is still up there on the internet, including a detailed transcript of the court case, but as far as she knows, no one from the old days, with the exception of her mother, knows that she’s holed up in a Joburg suburb, thousands of miles away from New Jersey. She’s glad she ignored her feminist principles and took Stephen’s surname; it makes her harder to trace.
But what if it isn’t some kind of sick joke? What if the baby in the photograph is real? After all, this Batiss is undoubtedly foreign, and if he or she is a bereaved parent longing to own a replica of a possibly deceased child, could the mutilation be some kind of North African or Middle Eastern burial practice she’s never heard about before? Or perhaps it’s even worse than that – some sick fetish. A while ago, her sister sent her a link to a site showcasing pictures of a novelty Voldemort Reborn, complete with snake-like eyes and red-veined skin. That turned her stomach, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Batiss’s photograph.
So the response she’d written, ‘Is this a joke? If so, I’m not laughing,’ remains unsent in her drafts folder.
She should really get moving, make sure Martin is up and dressed, but instead she continues to swirl her spoon around the mug, trying to ignore the sick throb of what she hopes isn’t the beginning of a migraine.
She hears a door slam, the flush of a toilet. The thump of feet in the hallway.
Martin slinks into the kitchen, scowls when he sees her. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Left early.’ Tara can’t actually remember Stephen leaving for work this morning, although she has a vague recollection of him muttering something about an early meeting.
‘Aw what? But I need him to sign something for me.’
‘Why didn’t you ask him to do it last night?’ She knows she’s picking a fight, but after the night she’s had she can’t be bothered to tiptoe around a twelve-year-old, however big the chip on his shoulder.
‘I forgot.’
‘Well, I can sign it, can’t I? What is it?’
He pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his bag, hands it over reluctantly. Tara smoothes it out on the counter. The text is slotted around an anthropomorphic soda-pop can that appears to be leaping for joy, a speech bubble leaking out of its mouth with the words ‘Quizzes! Prizes! Body Art!’ She scans the rest of the flyer:
Hey, Learners! Do you want to experience something Exceptional? Something that will help you Change Your World and those Around YOU? Something that will help you be more:
Exciting!
New-found!
Creative!
Original!
Unbelievably cool!
Nifty!
Terrific!
Entertaining!
Right!
Suitable!
Then come to ENCOUNTERS! Connect with us every school afternoon from March 12 to March 18 from 4 till 6 for sharing, caring and loads of FREE FUN with a capital F!
‘You seriously want to go to this?’ Tara asks. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Martin would be into. Ever since Tara’s known him, his world has revolved around rugby, gangsta rap and violent computer games – perfect ingredients for a thug in the making. This ‘Encounters’ flyer smacks of the kind of thing the hokey religious groups used to post on the notice board at Raymond Scheider Primary, luring the kids into abstinence programmes and the like with the same dubious promise of FREE FUN with a capital F.
But then again, she thinks, maybe if the little shit found Jesus he’d get off her back.
‘Are you going to sign it or not?’ he says.
‘Who gave this to you?’
‘What do you care?’
‘And you want to go today?’
‘It’s every day. That’s what it says. You can read, can’t you?’
She scrawls her signature, hands it over. He snatches it out of her hand.
‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’
‘Whatever, bee-atch,’ he mumbles.
Something inside her snaps. ‘You know what, Martin,’ she says, unable to stop herself. ‘Why don’t you go fuck yourself.’ The savage glee she feels at the sight of his stunned expression only lasts momentarily, but it’s almost worth it.
It doesn’t take long for him to recover. ‘You can’t talk to me like that!’
‘Looks like I just did.’ Tara realises that part of her really is enjoying this.
‘I’m telling on you!’
‘Get your stuff together. We’re going to be late.’
His eyes narrow. ‘Mom says you’re a freak. She says you’re sick.’
‘Does she?’ Tara tries to feign disinterest, but she can feel a familiar knot of tension starting at the base of her skull, suspects that it will claw its way up to join the headache simmering at her temples.
‘She says that you only make those stupid ugly babies because you can’t have your own.’ His voice is rising, getting shriller. ‘She says you lost your baby because you deserved to, that you stole Dad because you’re a bitch. A slut. A stupid, ugly, fat, American cu—’
Her hand flashes out before she can stop it. He staggers back, ugly red splotches appearing on the pale skin of his left cheek.
Oh shit, she thinks. Oh God. What now? ‘Martin, I...’
Tears bubble in his eyes. ‘I hate you!’
‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘I’ll get you for child abuse! I can do that! I can call Childline. I can call—’
‘You can do all of these things,’ she says, trying to inject calm into her voice. ‘But it will make you late for school.’ As if that’s going to make any difference, she thinks. Except, oddly enough, this does seem to quieten him.
‘Whatever,’ he mumbles. He turns away, kicks at his bag.
‘You ready to get going?’ she asks brightly. The mark on his cheek is fading, thank God. She can’t have hit him that hard after all.
‘Where’s my lunch?’
Goddammit. She’s forgotten to make him his packed lunch – a chore she usually completes the night before. She digs in her h
andbag, finds herself handing him a fifty-rand note for the tuck shop, five times too much. Awesome. First child abuse, now bribery.
She waves him towards the front door.
Martin turns around and shoots her a hate-filled look. ‘You’re going to be sorry,’ he says.
I’m already sorry, Tara thinks. But all she says is, ‘Let’s go.’
She sits in the car in a shady corner of the staff parking lot. Although her headache hasn’t actually morphed into a migraine, she’s feeling that same sense of detachment and nausea that comes over her just before the black spots start dancing in the corners of her eyes. Probably just stress. The drive to school wasn’t pleasant. She tried to make conciliatory, over-cheery conversation, but Martin spent the journey in a fug of resentment, not even kicking at the back of her seat. She rests her forehead against the steering wheel.
Did she actually hit him?
In all the years she was teaching, she never once struck a child; never even came close. Even in the early days, when she was forced to take a series of positions as a teaching assistant in the rougher districts, in schools equipped with metal detectors and their own security guard squads. Schools where six-year-olds used the word ‘motherfucker’ more frequently than they said ‘please’, where the older kids mouthed ‘bitch’ at her when she passed them in the corridors.
How could she have sailed through that and allowed a little snot like Martin to push her over the edge?
She knows she should really phone Stephen, tell him what’s happened before Martin gives his own version of events. But she can’t face hearing the sigh in his voice. The unspoken ‘I thought you said you were good with children, Tara.’
Maybe she’s overreacting. It was a just a slap. Big deal.
But it is a big deal. At least to her.
She doesn’t have to be in the library until ten today, for the first batch of readers; she usually uses the time to head to Woolworths and stock up on groceries, dropping them off at home before she heads back to the school. But today she doesn’t have the energy. She can’t bear the idea of going home, knows she’ll just end up brooding, obsessing about Martin. She could always go and sit in the library, help Clara catalogue the books. Or maybe hole up in the staff room while the teachers are at assembly. Volunteers are allowed to use the facilities, although Tara never has. In her opinion, the teachers are as cliquey as the Mother Tribe. No, the library will do.
The security guard hasn’t yet locked the front gate so she’s able to slip in without ringing the bell. She can hear the muffled boom of a man’s voice echoing from behind the double doors that lead into the hall – a blank-walled area with pointless arched steel roof struts that make the space look more like a pretentious modern-art gallery than a school.
Curious, she tiptoes over to the doors, pushes one of them open slightly and peers in.
Mr Duvenhage looms over the lectern on the stage at the far end of the hall, staring down at the orderly rows of children sitting cross-legged on the floor below him. The teachers are perched on chairs along the sides of the hall, and Tara spots Clara sitting stiff-backed at the piano a few feet from the front.
‘I’m afraid I have a rather serious issue to air,’ Duvenhage is saying. ‘I have heard disturbing reports from Mr Duma that several pieces of chewing gum have been found stuck under the desks. I don’t think I need remind you that desecration of school property is...’ – he pauses – ‘sickening. Does anyone want to admit to this crime? Or perhaps one of you saw someone doing it?’
Holy crap, Tara thinks. Is he encouraging the kids to rat on each other? She’s amazed to see several hands shooting up into the air. She recognises Martin’s chunky frame in the third row from the front; realises that he’s one of the kids squirming with enthusiasm to be picked.
‘Very well,’ Mr Duvenhage says, pointing down at him. ‘You. Martin Marais. Please stand up.’ Martin gets to his feet, turning around to grin at one of his friends.
‘It was Kyle de Villiers, Mr Duvenhage,’ Martin says. ‘He did it. I saw him.’
‘I see. Thank you, Martin. You will be rewarded for your honesty.’ Mr Duvenhage clears his throat. ‘Kyle de Villiers, please stand up.’
A skinny child with a shock of black hair stands up, his hands twisting behind his back.
A chill creeps up Tara’s spine. She’s reminded of that Shirley Jackson short story she used to teach – ‘The Lottery’. She doubts the kids are going to start lobbing stones at Kyle, but even from her post at the back of the room, she can sense the atmosphere in the hall, a pregnant mix of excitement, schadenfreude and fear.
Mr Duvenhage peers down at him like a vulture assessing a carcass. ‘Is Martin’s assertion true, Kyle?’
Kyle nods miserably.
‘What do we say to Kyle, children?’
‘Bad eggs will be thrown out, good eggs will be served,’ the children drone in unison.
‘Correct. Kyle, I will see you in my office after assembly for castigation.’
Kyle nods, murmurs, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and sits down.
Poor kid, Tara thinks. She is uncomfortable with Mr Duvenhage’s disciplinary methods but has to admit they probably work. She’s fairly sure it’s the last time Kyle will be tempted to ‘desecrate’ school property, and come to think of it, since Duvenhage was appointed, Stephen hasn’t once been called in to discuss Martin’s behavioural issues. Not that his behaviour at home has improved, but she supposes it’s a start.
Mr Duvenhage claps his hands. ‘Today’s theme is belonging. Please stand for this morning’s meditations.’
Tara’s phone beeps and she steps back, shutting the door softly behind her. She fumbles it out of her bag, clicks onto her inbox. Sees she has one text message from a private number.
Varder Batiss. It has to be. But her cell number’s not listed on her website. She taps in a reply.
Methods? What methods?
What in God’s name does that mean? Tara paces back and forth in front of the door, trying to phrase a reply.
< I’m concerned about this commission>Should she be more specific? She doesn’t want to offend this Batiss person if he or she is, in fact, a grieving parent.
Before she can craft a response to this, another message pops up. It’s from ABSA customer services, alerting her to the fact that her account has just been credited with R75021.67.
She stares down at it, unbelieving.
She quickly does the maths. That’s nearly ten thousand dollars! Way too much.
Jesus, she thinks. Is this Batiss person serious? Could this be some kind of scam? But for the life of her she can’t figure out what kind of internet scam-artist deposits seventy-five grand into their target’s account up front. No, Batiss must be deranged in some way; highly eccentric, perhaps. What should she do? Should she take advantage and just run with it? After all, this could set her free. Keep her going until her permanent residency comes in. Hell, if what she’s heard about the South African Home Affairs Department is true, seventy-five grand could buy her permanent residency.
Her phone beeps again.
She types in
The sound of singing floats through the door. She recognises the tune, realises that it’s one of the songs the beardy religious group used to sing to the kids back in New Jersey, a simple, catchy number that she would catch herself humming for days afterwards. Still, as much as she dislikes it, the s
ound of it sparks a wave of homesickness and regret.
She pushes the door open again as carefully as she can, peers through it, sees Clara banging away at the piano, Duvenhage leading the children in song, his voice deep and strident.
Tara remembers that the irritating tune wasn’t the only reason she disliked it; its message is dodgy as hell: don’t be an individual, kids, it’s safer to follow the herd. She’s about to close the door when Duvenhage suddenly stops singing. He’s too far away from her to be sure, but she has the distinct impression he’s staring straight at her.
She jumps back as if she’s been caught doing something illegal, fingers slipping on the door; it shuts with a thunk. She hurries down the corridor, knowing that she’s overreacting (so what if she looked in on the school assembly?), but she only relaxes when she hears the sound of singing starting up again.
She stalks past the school secretary’s office, turns the corner to the library. She tries the door – it doesn’t give. Locked. Goddammit. She’ll have to get the key from the rack next to Sybil Fontein’s desk. And while she’s there, she can root around, see if there’s a couple of Disprin to take the edge off her headache.
She retraces her steps, is about to enter the office when a man slips out. Tara steps back to give him room, then realises that it’s that new maintenance man – the pirate. She finds herself blushing, running a hand through her dirty hair. She’s uncomfortably aware that she’s not wearing any deodorant; that she’s dressed in a pair of baggy leggings and a faded Obama-For-President T-shirt – the first clothes that came to hand when she flumped out of bed. God, she must look awful.
‘What are you doing here?’ she blurts.