by S. L. Grey
‘Oh, all right. Just let me know when you’re done.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Fontein.’
In truth, the flash drive only contains two files and a subfolder. Ryan clicks open the first file, which is in a generic text format. A row of blaring capitals spells out: ‘***THIS DOCUMENT IS THE SOLE, PRIVATE AND STRICTLY TRUSTWORTHY PROPERTY OF THE MINISTRY OF UPSIDE RELATIONS THE MOST STRINGENT CORRECTION WILL BE APPLIED TO DISREGARD OF THIS NOTICE***’
The Ministry of what? Jesus, Ryan thinks. Must be some kind of religious thing Duvenhage is into. And it’s so private and confidential that Duvenhage doesn’t even password-protect it. Ryan scans the text below it – an email or letter, dated six months ago.
Sir,
As discussed, we would be most gratified if you would peruse our prospectus on upside life for accuracy and take note of the halfpint assessment exemplars appended.
Regards,
First Minister Cardineal Phelgm
Ministry of Upside Relations
The letter is just as garbled and incomprehensible as the memos he had to read when he worked at the office. He moves on to the next file to see if it will clarify anything.
The second text file is some sort of essay or speech in mangled English:
At present, take appropriate measures to stop the future. Teach children to respect everyone, regardless of all obstacles, man-made and our peers to establish their own separate. Next time, colleagues or friends, talking humour, humour and laughter just be a part of the crowd. Do not even say “I do not like this joke,” because in addition to negative energy. Of course you do not keep silent when you see someone abusing others. But remember the violence can take many forms. Create a standing friends, and abuse of mental capacity of a joke. Whether the person is in word space to create negative energy. Mental health agencies and practitioners almost unanimously agree that the other people who like to abuse others and bullying, teasing, harassment of other people, whether victims of such treatment or those with low own opinions, so much attention, feel better than others. Say not a word that does not mean you have to prove such an act. Could prove to be convinced by the way, if they do not do anything. In supremacy march and those who witnessed the assault case and did not stop, they have been identified that tolerates such behaviour. A young woman who still believe that faith save supremacy, the man who beat other people screaming hate those who, instead of holding. Simply standing between the audience and protect human rights it does not add any negative energy. In today’s society through a commitment to all hate crime, it is almost impossible to deny the existence of
Shit. Why did Duvenhage want his drive back so badly? Pages and pages like this. Could it be something Duvenhage has been drafting to deliver at school assembly or a board meeting? At any rate, Ryan hasn’t got the time to waste. Nothing here is going to make him any quick money, and that’s what he’s here for.
‘How are you getting along, Ryan?’ Sybil Fontein asks, her bust popping over the partition wall in front of him. She glances nervously across at Duvenhage’s office again. ‘If you just want to leave a copy of the file, I can print it later. It’s just that...’
‘That’s just the thing, Mrs Fontein. I haven’t found the file yet. The girl needs some organisational training. I realise you’re going out on a limb for me, and I appreciate it. I won’t be long, I promise.’
The well-spoken and polite-worker routine works on her and she retreats back to her desk. This is his last chance. Ryan clicks on the folder named ‘Edification Hub 1:307:561/h Exemplar Viability Assessment Mark-Up’.
Holy. Shit.
This is it. The mother lode. No wonder the sick fuck wanted his flash drive back so badly. Ryan clamps his hand over his mouth. Swallowing the bile down, he manages to get his finger to scan through the directory. This is too much in one place.
There are pictures of naked children here. Boys and girls, laid out like a gallery of... of corpses. He can’t bring himself to look at the details but the gallery scrolls before his eyes like some evil film. Snuff, that’s what it’s called, or some sort of sick horror porn. My God. So that’s it: ‘the Ministry’ must be some sort of underage brothel.
The bodies are laid out on plain white-sheeted gurneys, each of them drawn on with a dark marker like an anatomical diagram, almost like those pictures you see in butcher’s shops showing the different cuts of meat.
He can’t bring his mind to believe that the children could be dead. They can’t be, surely? But their eyes are closed and they lie straight and docile on their backs, their arms loosely at their sides.
They have to be sleeping. They have to be acting. This has to be some sort of joke.
And now Ryan does vomit. He grabs the waste bin from beneath the table just in time and empties out his stomach. As he’s retching he remembers to reach up and switch off the computer screen just as Sybil Fontein rounds behind his desk.
‘Ryan!’ She scans the cubicle angrily before eventually asking if he’s all right.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Fontein. I’ll clean this up.’
But she stands there. He has a mesh drum of vomit oozing onto his lap but he can’t move until she’s gone. He needs to eject the drive properly, clear the cache. ‘Uh, do you mind bringing me a towel?’
She huffs and stares at him as if this is the sort of thing she knew would happen when she let a worker into the administration area. This is why there are rules, Sybil. But at length, she turns and walks across to a supply cupboard. By the time she’s back, Ryan is standing with the drive in his pocket and the computer shows a pacific field of tulips. Sybil Fontein stands as far away from him as possible as she dangles the towel towards him. Another ally lost, another bridge burnt.
He wraps the towel around the bottom of the seeping pail and hauls it down the corridor to the boys’ toilets. The faces of those children on the computer, their bodies – so quiet, so limp – are burnt into his eyes.
No, he says to his mind, before it even phrases the question. No. There’s the entire world of difference between Duvenhage and him. Ryan’s mowing the fields on autopilot, planning when and how to confront Duvenhage. He’s obviously more of a freak than he imagined, and Ryan’s going to have to be careful. There’s too much evidence here for a quick shakedown; he’s going to have to keep it to himself and come up with a long-term strategy. If he plays it right, this could pay off decently.
At the same time, though, Ryan knows he should take this right to the police, go straight to the Child Protection Unit and rescue those children. But why would they believe him? Respected school head versus washed-out labourer? Besides, even though he’s never been convicted of anything, he wants to stay far away from the police and not invite their attention. With all the hints Ziggy was dropping, who knows, maybe Karin’s building a case against him already. Maybe he’s on some sort of watch list. So the police are out of the question. That’s not to say he can’t still blackmail Duvenhage. The sick fuck just has to believe that Ryan might out him, whether or not he would.
But he’s still concerned for those children. Assuming they’re alive – and he has to assume that, otherwise the darkness is too deep to contemplate – where could they even be? Are they in some institution, are they lost kids being held somewhere? They can’t all have been treated like that and then just gone home to their parents – something would have happened, it would be in the news, people would be after the culprits, surely? He would have heard about it. Those kids were probably living on the streets or in some orphanage or home. There are plenty of vulnerable kids in this city.
The children in the pictures could be suffering right now. Ryan really should do something or tell someone.
But he needs money. He’s got to leave his job and his room tonight and disappear, or else he’s dead tomorrow. He’s got to play Duvenhage carefully from a distance, get as much as he can in the shortest possible time. Then he’ll send the pictures to the police anonymously. It’s the best he can do.
‘You okay, brother?’ Thulani says as he comes up the line with the marking machine. ‘You’re not looking so well today.’
‘No. I’m a bit sick.’
‘You want to knock off? See you tomorrow?’
‘Sure, uh, okay. Thanks.’
Ryan goes back to the maintenance shed and moves everything from his locker into his backpack. Two spare T-shirts, an old pair of jeans, a pair of socks, a can of deodorant and a hairbrush. Is this all he’ll be carrying with him? Will it be safe to go back to Ma Beccah’s tonight?
He looks in Thulani’s locker, feels through his pants pockets. There’s R70 and change crumpled up there. He briefly considers taking it, but doesn’t. Instead, he searches in the equipment lockers for anything he can easily sell, but the only things he can fit in his backpack are trowels and forks and rolls of weed-eater cord; light bulbs, multimeters: no fucking value at all. The lawnmowers and ladders are top of the range, the tools are quality, but he’d get nothing for those in a hurry. He could pawn a R3000 toolkit for fifty bucks up on Jules Street, but it wouldn’t half look suspicious if he hauled one of those through the security booms.
He stashes a handful of screwdrivers and a multimeter in his bag, but he’ll have to go back to the administration block if he’s going to get anything of value. He remembers no cash or jewellery or special equipment in Duvenhage’s office when he was there on Tuesday, but he wasn’t looking very carefully. He’s going to have to get back into Duvenhage’s office somehow, and get past Sybil Fontein in the process. Fuck knows how.
But when he gets into the administration lobby, the red fire-alarm button stares at him from the wall. Of course.
He elbows the glass and punches the button, then dashes into the staff toilets as the alarm screeches and the unnaturally orderly evacuation begins. Desks shuffle politely and the kids file quietly down the stairs and out of the building, the only noise coming from the megaphones quacking out from the front quadrangle.
After a couple of long minutes, he goes back into the admin lobby and peers around. All clear: Sybil and her assistants are gone. The office doors are still closed. He knows Duvenhage will be down in the quad and sergeant-majoring the evacuation. But whichever teachers are on marshal duty will find the source of the alarm soon.
Just to make sure, he knocks on Duvenhage’s door and listens for a moment, knocks again. No answer. The door’s unlocked. Ryan slips inside and locks it behind him.
He moves to the desk and opens the top desk drawer. He hasn’t got much time. Neatly stacked cardboard folders with thin sheaves of paper. He hurriedly flips through them, not even lifting them out of the drawer – there’s no time – there’s nothing of interest; he needs to find cash. It’s become that simple.
He changes tack and pulls at the drawers of the filing cabinets: each is filled with suspension files, neatly arrayed, each one with a name printed on it and a photo clipped against the cover. Student dossiers.
Those folders would have the home addresses of the students in them, wouldn’t they? He hauls open the drawer containing the Grade Five files. Think, Ryan. When he saw the new girl the first time the other day, it wasn’t break time. She was walking with her class. The teacher was leading them to the biology lab. What was her name again? He flips through the files. Here it is: 5C, Mrs du Preez. That’s her class. He walks his fingers through the folders until he sees the girl’s photo. The sight of her face gives him a jolt. Those grey eyes, that same frank stare with a worldful of need behind them. ‘Jane Smith’ – that’s her name. The address is 67a Excelsior Avenue. That’s surprising; it’s a rich area, and he’s thought of her as another poor and neglected child, something like Tess. Maybe she’s the daughter of their domestic worker? Stranger things happen these days. He memorises the house number and closes the cabinet.
He heads back to the desk, trying all the drawers again. More neatly stacked documents in the middle drawer, but the bottom one is locked. This is it. He picks the lock easily with a pen clutch and a paperclip and slides open the drawer. He’s blocked out the fire alarm but now listens to it for a second. It confirms that they still haven’t found the trigger.
There’s a locked top-hinged box inside the drawer, but it’s made of flimsy sheet metal, a nod to security that might keep idle toddlers out. Ryan soon has it open.
He hears voices on the other side of the door. He slams the lid shut and tiptoes up to the door and listens.
‘Here. Here it is, Keith.’ A heavy click and the alarm dies. The silence whooshes into Ryan’s head.
‘Is there any problem here? Any fire?’
‘No, not that I can tell. We’d be able to smell it, right?’
‘Ja, I think so.’
‘But then who...?’
‘I dunno. Vandals?’
‘You mean a student? Little fuckers wouldn’t dare, surely.’
‘Yes. But... there’s no fire.’
‘Yes. What are we going to tell Mr Duvenhage?’
Keith doesn’t answer, but Ryan hears the men’s footsteps retreating back down the corridor. Ryan’s running out of time. He hurries back to the desk drawer and flips it open again. It’s not quite the jackpot he was hoping for. Just a thin scattering of fifties and twenties – a petty-cash box. He pockets the notes; it’s probably only a grand in total, but it’s better than nothing. He shuts the box and closes the drawer. Nobody will know it’s been tampered with until they open it.
He carefully unlocks the office door and peers through the crack. All clear. He walks out of the admin building, skirting the rows of students on the piazza. The kids line up, silent and subdued.
He’s on his way to the main gate when he sees a group of middle-grade children in their gymkhana row, but this one’s got a kink in it. The children stand curved around an invisible obstacle, like there’s a force field. In the middle of it is the new girl.
His eyes are drawn to her and he stops walking. She draws him in like a magnet. She’s compelling – it’s as if she’s looking right into him, begging him to help her. I know where you live, he telepaths back to her, I will come and help you. Ryan forgets about the stolen money in his pocket, and the fact that he should be running; for a minute he even forgets that he may never see his daughter again. For now, the girl’s eyes invite him in, and he wants nothing more than to go there with her. He feels a profound connection...
which is broken by someone’s hand waving. That library volunteer who he saw the other day. Christ, is she waving at him? He ignores her and tries to re-establish the connection with the new girl, but now she’s looking away, at nothing in particular. Ryan feels a flash of rage towards the library woman, but then remembers what he needs to do. He needs to go. Now. Before Duvenhage looks in his drawer and finds it unlocked.
He doesn’t know where he’s going to go. Despite the fact that in the last twenty-four hours he’s lost everything that’s important to him, burnt every bridge, he still feels anchored here. Just knowing that Alice is nearby – they must be near if they still come to Bedford Centre for take-aways – makes him loath to leave. But he must, and when he’s on his feet again, he’ll find her.
So he’ll head back to Ma Beccah’s. He’s going to take some clothes and whatever else he can carry and start off before Fransie gets back from work.
By four in the afternoon he’s out in Bedfordview walking along Excelsior Avenue, past the hideous electrified mini-mansions and being glared at by bored security guards and rich wives in their X3s. Ma Beccah was out so he just left her a note and a week’s rent.
Julie’s house was somewhere around here. Just two days ago he was lying in her bed, her little hand rubbing his thigh, and he had felt almost happy, like life was in balance. But it never is, is it? There’s always something – someone – who comes along and fucks things up for him.
He has no particular plan for what he’ll do once he’s there. He crests a rise in the road and sees the most grotesque mansion on the street. He’s driven by it several
times but this is the first time he’s ever walked past it. He gets the full effect of its hideous kitsch now. Its wall is studded with concrete statues of naked gods of one sort or another, but not tastefully placed twenty metres apart. These are crammed along the wall, another recess with a mismatched sculpture every two metres. The wall is at least four metres tall, crenellated with ramparts and topped by a clicking electric fence. It’s a massive stand, three or four times bigger than most of the properties on the road, and the wall goes on for perhaps a hundred metres, studded by those kitsch concrete statues.
As he walks downhill alongside the wall, a little Pajero turns into the drive and stops by the front gate, which glares gold light back at the car. A woman steps out and goes around the back of the car to its far side. He’s no more than twenty metres away from the car when the woman comes to the gate with her passenger.
Ryan stops short. It’s the girl. It’s the new girl and that library teacher. She’s giving the girl a lift home. He thought he was still in the 50s, but here it is. Number 67a.
He stands still, willing himself invisible as the woman and the girl push through the gates. All this security and they’re not even automated? They must be broken. There’s a boy in the Crossley uniform in the back of the car but he’s lost in his phone or game-pod or whatever, and he wouldn’t look at a guy walking along the pavement anyway. Ryan ducks in front of the car and through the gates, keeping his distance behind the woman and the girl.
Inside the walls, the house is like some failed fantasy castle theme park, cluttered with more concrete statuary and balconies and balustrades overlapping each other at insane angles, like an Escher drawing. The walls are all plaster, only painted in patches, and the ground is packed red soil, as if they stopped building in the middle of the process.
The girl and the woman move on towards a white facade, perhaps an older house that’s now the core of this bewildering new structure. The woman looks back nervously and Ryan ducks under a deep portico. He peers out at their backs disappearing into the house and decides to wait. Once the library woman’s gone, he can decide on his next move.