The New Girl (Downside)

by S. L. Grey

  He looks around the space he’s in. Rather than a portico, it might have been designed as a garage for multiple cars. He counts eight columns, each spaced a good car-width apart and each adorned with more statues. There’s one of a voluptuous woman and a muscular man kissing, naked but for a drape of cloth obscuring some of their private parts. But as he paces between the columns, out of sight of the windows in the white house, he begins to notice that some of the statues are strange – not just standard Grecian stuff you’d get in a garden centre. Some might be Egyptian or Indian or something, men with animal heads and women with many arms, some with knives, some with nasty leers and drooling teeth. These must have been hand-moulded and custom designed, and a chill runs through him. What sort of person would want these images in their house?

  But there are even stranger ones. The columns in the middle of the garage area are supported by sculptures of much more modern-looking people – or creatures, because these people are lopsided, some have amputated legs or massive, misshapen heads; something about them makes Ryan think of Duvenhage’s photos, and the recall sends a bilious rush up his oesophagus. Despite himself, despite the fact that he’s nauseated, he can’t look away. He paces between the columns. These statues have arms that look like they’ve been... sharpened. They come to a hook-like point. Almost like tentacles, and the figures probe at each other in foul ways. What sort of sick imagination could conjure such a—

  There’s a slam outside and the gate squeaks open again on its massive hinges. The boy from the car comes stomping up the sandy pathway towards the door, cursing under his breath as he goes.

  Ryan steps back into the shadows and watches him pass. He tells himself to stop looking at the decor of this place, shut his eyes and calm down, make a plan. What is he doing here? He should be finding a place to sleep, not hiding out in the front yard of a weird schoolgirl’s house. He has to start again and get himself together this time. If he carries on behaving like this, he’s never going to get Alice back.

  He’s right. He should just go. He slings his backpack over his shoulder, ignoring the pull of the captivating girl inside – if he can’t see her, she can’t pull him in like she did earlier – and heads back towards the gate.

  His muscles are frozen by a shrill scream.

  What are they doing to his girl?

  Chapter 11

  TARA

  Stephen paces in front of the bathroom door, gripping his cellphone and sucking his teeth. ‘Martin! Come out of there now!’ He bangs his fist on the door, glares at Tara. ‘What the hell is he doing in there?’

  Tara doesn’t reply. Asshole. How would she know? Martin seemed fine when she knocked on his bedroom door early this morning. Sure, he was a tad subdued, but nothing like the state he’d been in yesterday evening when she found him shaking in the driveway of that strange house, refusing to say why he’d screamed. She’d been seriously worried about him then, but by the time they’d arrived home he’d appeared calmer, almost back to normal, making her regret the panicked phone call she’d made to Stephen en route. Stephen had been all for storming over to Jane’s house; he insisted that Tara was hiding something from him, that something must have happened there to spark off his son’s screaming fit. Refused to listen when she said that she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary (a massive understatement considering the freakishness of that woman and the house’s extraordinary decor). He also refused to accept Tara’s argument that Martin’s odd behaviour had started after he’d been to that first Encounters session, that if Stephen had bothered to take an interest in his own fucking son he would have noticed this. Back and forth they’d raged, the argument reaching a head when Stephen insisted on phoning Olivia. Tara’s now dreading the mammoth ‘We Need to Talk About Martin’ session that’s planned for tomorrow evening, with Olivia valiantly flying back from her business trip to rescue her son from the clutches of his evil stepmother.

  Her phone beeps. Without even looking at the screen she knows it has to be Batiss. She’s right.

  Goddammit, Tara thinks. She didn’t have a chance to do any work on Baby Tommy last night, preferred to keep him locked in her sanctuary, untainted by the toxic atmosphere. Still, if she’s able to work on him solidly this weekend – Martin and Olivia permitting – a week should be enough. She taps in

 

  Monday? Batiss has to be joking.

 

  Bonus?

 

  Does this mean Batiss will double the money? Jesus. Who is this person? She’s now sure it can’t be a scam – the seventy-five grand is in her account, she’s double-checked. No, Batiss must be very rich or very deranged. Or possibly both. Double pay would mean almost R150,000. That could really set her free. And, thanks to the fact she decided to use Baby Gabby as a base, she has to admit that most of the work has been done already. If she pushes, she could just about make it.

 

 

  Jesus.

  She knows what the response will be. She’s not disappointed. Another message immediately follows:

  Penalty? Probably just another one of her client’s idiosyncrasies. She’ll get it done by Monday.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Stephen snaps.

  ‘My client,’ she says.

  Stephen rolls his eyes. His own phone has been beeping and buzzing all morning, but apparently that’s okay.

  The bathroom door finally clicks open, and Martin emerges. Tara’s relieved to see that he looks none the worse for wear, although his wrists are red as if he’s been scrubbing at them.

  ‘You doing okay, my boy?’ Stephen says to him, ruffling his hair. ‘What were you doing in there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You want to have the day off school today?’ Stephen asks.

  ‘No! I have to go to school.’

  ‘You sure, bud?’ Stephen says, compromising his concerned-parent act by glancing at his frantically beeping phone. ‘Hold that thought, I’ve got to take this.’ He stalks into the bedroom, slams the door behind him.

  Martin glances at Tara. ‘I have to go to school. It’s Encounters this afternoon. I can’t go if I’m off sick. It’s the rules.’

  ‘It’s not up to me, Martin. Your dad doesn’t think you should go. He thinks it’s what’s caused all this.’ She’s not going to mention that she was the one who put that idea in Stephen’s head.

  ‘It didn’t, Tara. Really, it didn’t.’

  ‘What’s so cool about it anyway?’

  Martin scratches at the back of his neck. The skin is raw there, looks like he’s getting a nasty pimple. ‘I like it. It makes me feel... special.’

  Again, Tara has to concede that, last night’s disturbing behaviour aside, he’s certainly been more pleasant to be around since he started to attend those meetings.

  ‘I know you don’t want to talk about this, Martin, but back at that house, why did you scream?’ His eyes flick away from hers. She smiles down at him. ‘I don’t mind telling you, that place made me feel a little bit like screaming, too. What did you see?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘You can trust me, Martin. You know that now, right?’

  He nods miserably.

  ‘So what was it?’

  ‘I’m... I’m not sure,’ he whispers. ‘It was a... a... thing.’

  ‘What kind of a thing?’

  ‘Ja, Martin,’ Stephen says, appearing behind them and making Tara jump. ‘What kind of thing?’

  Martin
shrugs. ‘It was a just a snake, Dad.’

  ‘A snake? All this for a fu— for a bloody snake? What are you, a moffie?’ Stephen chuckles. But Tara can tell he’s relieved. For all his bluster, she knows that the last thing he wants is more complications.

  ‘So I can go to school, then?’

  Stephen shrugs. ‘Don’t see why not, sport.’

  ‘And I can go to Encounters?’

  ‘Long as we’re not going to have any more of these episodes.’

  ‘I’m fine, Dad, I promise.’

  Stephen ruffles Martin’s hair again. ‘That’s my boy.’

  Martin flinches away from his father’s touch, gives Tara a curious half smile that looks, she thinks, almost conspiratorial.

  ‘You sure you’re feeling well enough to go to school?’ Tara asks, pulling into the teachers’ parking lot and turning off the engine.

  ‘I’m fine.’ He unclicks his belt and slides out of the car. ‘Laters.’

  She watches him drift towards a small gang of kids who are hanging around in the basketball quad, dragging his bag behind him. The group shifts, and Tara makes out Jane’s shock of artificial-straw hair. She’s crouching down, appears to be staring intently at her cupped hands.

  Goddammit, Tara thinks. Is she being bullied? It certainly looks like it. She hurries out of the car, jogs towards the group. ‘Hey! What’s going on here?’

  Several of the kids start guiltily, duck their heads and scurry towards the entrance hall. Martin shrugs at her, shoulders his rucksack and slouches after them. ‘Hey!’ she calls after them. ‘I’m talking to you!’ She tries to remember faces and names, in case she needs to report them. She recognises Jonah, Martin’s vile buddy, but that’s all.

  Jane hasn’t moved. Tara drops to her haunches and gently touches the girl’s back. ‘Hey, Jane. Are you okay?’

  Jane looks up and Tara gasps. Jesus. She’s wearing thick, dark foundation, false eyelashes and a smear of orange lipstick. ‘What have you done to your face, Jane?’

  ‘I’m cosmetically prettified, like the browns on television, miss.’

  Tara digs a tissue out of her bag. ‘We should wipe some of that off your face before your teacher sees you. We don’t want you getting into trouble, do we?’

  ‘Okay, miss.’ Jane keeps absolutely still as Tara does her best to remove the lipstick and ghastly foundation. ‘There. Much better. You’re far too pretty to need make-up, sweetie.’ Tara taps Jane’s cupped hands. ‘And what have you got there?’

  ‘A present, miss. Danish scouted it for me. It’s awesome-fuckentastic.’

  ‘Can you show me?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Jane opens her hands and Tara can’t hold back the scream. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘It’s okay, miss. It’s depreciated.’

  Tara recognises the (thankfully) dead creature sitting in Jane’s palm as a Parktown prawn, a giant cricket that resembles the unholy marriage between a spider and a crawfish. ‘What are you doing with that?’

  ‘It’s my chum, miss,’ Jane says brightly. ‘Like you.’

  Tara hears the morning siren whoop. They should really get inside. ‘I wouldn’t show it to any of the other children if I were you, Jane.’

  ‘Okay, miss.’ She slides it into her pocket.

  ‘Shall we go inside?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Jane takes Tara’s hand, looks up at her. ‘You know what, miss?’ Jane says, putting on her American accent. ‘You’re my number one ho on the whole freakin’ strip.’ She smiles her strange smile. ‘I love yous, miss.’

  Jane wasn’t in today’s starter-reader class. Really, Tara’s getting seriously worried about that kid. Well-adjusted children don’t tell virtual strangers that they love them, even if they are quoting from some sort of gangsta flick. And what kind of mother allows their daughter to go to school made up like a child prostitute? Although reluctant to get involved – it’s impossible to forget that the last time she interfered, her life went into freefall – she decides that she has to let someone know about her concerns. But who? She’s never met the school counsellor – who she’s heard from Stephen was worse than useless anyway when she dealt with Martin – and she certainly doesn’t feel like approaching Duvenhage.

  She waits until the last of the reading class leaves, then knocks on Clara’s office door.

  Clara glances up from her computer. ‘Is everything all right, Mrs Marais?’

  ‘Could I ask your advice, Mrs van der Spuy?’

  ‘Of course. Please, sit.’

  ‘It’s about Jane. You know, the new girl. I’m worried that maybe there’s something... off about her home situation.’

  ‘Off?’

  ‘Well, I’m worried that there might be some... neglect.’ Tara tries to hide her shock as Clara leans back in her chair and yawns. ‘I realise I might be meddling, but yesterday she was hanging around outside the school on the main road. I offered to give her a lift and...’ And what exactly? Her mother has appalling taste in architecture and clothes? So what?

  ‘Mrs Marais, I appreciate you bringing this to my consideration, but let me assure you we keep a very close eye on our learners here.’

  ‘Sure. I appreciate that. But it’s not just that, this morning—’

  ‘How is Martin doing, Mrs Marais?’ Clara interrupts.

  Tara blinks. ‘What does Martin have to do with Jane’s situation?’

  ‘Everything fine at home?’

  ‘Yes. Why—’

  ‘But he has had trouble in the past, hasn’t he?’ Tara knows exactly what Clara is driving at. She may as well come out and accuse Tara of calling the kettle black. She swallows the twinge of anger she feels, decides not to rise to Clara’s bait. Clara attempts her version of a sympathetic smile. ‘It can’t be easy being a stepmother. Really, you have my sympathy.’

  Shit, Tara thinks. Time to change the subject. ‘Um... There’s something else. This Encounters group. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Of course I’ve heard of it, Mrs Marais.’

  ‘And... well, what goes on there?’

  ‘It’s one of Mr Duvenhage’s projects, I believe. Designed for our learners who need a more... directed approach. If you’re at all concerned, then perhaps you should sit in on a meeting. I’m sure that wouldn’t be an issue.’

  ‘Thanks. I just might.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Clara turns to her computer, rattles her fingers over the keyboard.

  Tara slinks out, feeling as if she’s just been disciplined. She heads down the corridor, listening to the soft hum emanating from the classrooms, hurries past Duvenhage’s office. All she can think about is heading home to Baby Tommy. Just the thought of him waiting for her in her sanctuary makes her feel calmer.

  ‘Mrs Marais?’ a voice says behind her. She turns to see Mr Duvenhage approaching, his pink, prissy face sheened with perspiration. ‘I wonder, could I have a word?’

  Oh God. What’s Martin done now? ‘Sure. What’s it about?’

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ Duvenhage says. ‘Would you mind joining me in my office?’

  Unlike Clara’s saccharine-postered nightmare, Duvenhage’s office is as impersonal as a bank manager’s, although Tara detects the whiff of rot from the stained ceiling boards.

  ‘Please, sit.’ Duvenhage waves her towards the hard-backed chair in front of his desk. It’s way lower than his own, and Tara is forced to look up at him.

  ‘What’s this about, Mr Duvenhage?’

  Duvenhage digs in his desk drawer, hands her a sheet of paper. She takes it from him, almost drops it when she reads the heading at the top of the page: ‘Raymond Scheider Primary School Child Sex Abuse Scandal (US)’. Judging by the typeface and the ‘[citations needed]’ peppered throughout the text, it’s a print-out from a Wikipedia page. She’s never read this particular account before; it’s been months since she’s dared to Google her name. She scans it quickly.

  In 2008, seven ch
ildren, all of whom attended Raymond Scheider Primary School in Mayton County, New Jersey, were removed from the custody of their parents amid accusations of sexual abuse and involvement in an alleged satanic cult. The children’s welfare came under scrutiny after several teachers at the school approached the school’s consulting child psychologist, Dr Raphael Blake, to investigate what they believed was abnormal behaviour and rumors of ritualistic abuse. Using a controversial technique called reflex anal dilation[1] as well as conducting several in-depth interviews with the children in question, Dr Blake concluded that in all seven cases, sexual abuse had occurred. Dr Blake subsequently reported his findings to the region’s child welfare office, and the children were immediately placed in foster care.

  Consistently denying the charges, the parents approached the media. In 2009, after an extensive enquiry, it was ruled that the evidence was seriously flawed and the children were returned home. The teachers’ accusations, Dr Blake’s conclusions and the welfare officers’ findings were all found to be wholly unwarranted. No foundation to the many claims of satanic abuse was ever proven.

  Two of the teachers involved, lay minister Carlos Androna, and Lana Ivey, were thought to have been influenced by their staunch religious beliefs, fuelled by rumors of a cult operating in the area [citation needed]. The third teacher, Tara Elizabeth Himmelman, stated that she was motivated purely by concerns for the children, who she thought were acting ‘in a peculiar fashion consistent with the behaviour of sexually abused children’.[2]

  The parents of the children involved have filed a class action suit against Dr Blake and the three teachers involved, citing psychological trauma, stigma and job loss. So far the case has not come to court.[3]

  Duvenhage rests his chin on steepled hands, looks straight into her eyes. ‘You are Tara Elizabeth Himmelman, are you not, Mrs Marais?’