Just a Dead Man (15 page)

I graciously indicated that it was absolutely fine. The party would be only a few days before the end of his vac anyway, and I was so bowled over by Simon's apology …
an apology from Simon …
that I would probably have agreed to anything he said.

I cleared my throat. “Simon, I'm sorry. I know I was sharp with Sonia. She caught me at a bad moment. And I was very touched that Rory had said he wanted to be here for my exhibition. I really hadn't pressured him – I'm surprised he even remembered when it was. It's important for me, and it's great that the boys want to be around. But I'm sorry if it's disrupting your plans.”

“No matter.” Simon had dealt with that bit. Time to move on to something where, perhaps, he could catch me on the wrong foot. “I gather from Mike – I spoke to him yesterday – that he's not keen on UCT for next year. He mentioned Rhodes, to do Accountancy, or possibly Architecture at Durban or Wits. I said I didn't think Architecture was a great idea. And I'm not sure
that Michael is cut out for accountancy. Besides, the two disciplines are
worlds
apart. What's going on?”

I took a deep breath. Now was not the moment to say our son didn't really want to be in the same city as his father and Sonia, even if that was the case. And I wasn't sure about that. Maybe I was projecting my feelings onto him.

“I think he feels he would like to be out from under Rory's shadow. I know at university it would be very different from school, but Rory has always been the more outgoing one, and I think Mike feels it a bit, though they do get on, and I would have thought they could have had fun together. But, ultimately, I want the choice to be his, within reason. I agree he's still uncertain about what he wants to do. I thought maybe Architecture wouldn't be a bad idea – he's both practical and reasonably artistic. Got a good eye for things. But it's a long course, and maybe not the best career choice. Still, I would be inclined to let him try it. He's done work experience with architects, and loved it, you know.”

Simon grunted. “Most architecture schools don't take many undergraduates each year. He might not get in.”

“His teachers are expecting him to get very good results. He's a bright boy, Simon.”

“Of course.” No child of Simon's could possibly be anything else. Though if he ever has any with Sonia, he may be in for a shock …

I forced myself to focus on the topic at hand. “Look, he's got to make some decisions soon. We should both talk to him, and see what he wants. You're not keen on a gap year for him, I suppose?”

“And have him wandering around the UK, being a barman or something? Certainly not. He needs focus, not more dithering.” Authentic Simon here. “Laura, please try
to get him to be a little less airy-fairy. Though we both know where he gets
that
from.” Having got his dig in, he briskly ended the conversation. But in the past, I'd had far more unpleasant calls from Simon. It was hard to believe, but I began to think he was embarrassed by what Sonia had done yesterday.

N
ESS WAS FULL OF QUESTIONS
. Under all her nonsense, she's shrewd, and she soon wormed out of me that I had done something stupid. I told her about my conversation with Thabo Mchunu: after talking to Adam yesterday, any feelings that it didn't really matter had vanished like a puff of smoke.

Ness's shriek nearly frightened the waitress into dropping the Black Forest cake and my hash browns and mushrooms. “God, darling!
What
were you thinking! Now, you and Mike had better move in with me until this Mchunu creep is behind bars. No refusal.”

“No, Ness, no. I don't even know that he's got anything to do with it. We'll be fine, and if I get worried, we'll go to my folks. Anyway, you've got Ben there. You wouldn't have room.”

Vanessa looked shifty. “Well, he's not there right now. We're taking a bit of a break.”

“What? Why didn't you tell me? Hell, I'm sorry.”

“Hey – no problem, man. We're still good friends, and he's still going to exhibit with us and all that. But I got a bit sick of supporting him … know what I mean? He has this attitude that he's a great artist, and we all owe him something. But why shouldn't I be the great artist, and he owe me something? I'd had enough.”

Most of Vanessa's relationships with men end in tears, so if she and Ben were still friendly, that was a bonus. She can be pretty overpowering and that could well have had something to do with the Ben problem. But she wasn't going to let me get off that lightly, and returned to my situation, asking more questions.

“Look, Ness. I'm really fine. I'm being careful. And Adam has given me his cell number, and he's keeping an eye …”

“
Adam?
What's all this? Adam Pillay looking out for you? Now come on, Laura. I think I deserve to be told. He lives in my street – I told you. He's a gorgeous man. Just right for you. Why didn't I think of it before? And now he's worried about you. Great.”

“For heaven's sake, Ness! He's the cop in charge of the case. That's all. Absolutely all. It's my friend he's arrested, and I want to see him released. That's the level of our contact.” I was being disingenuous, but all I needed was Vanessa involving herself in what she had decided should be my love life. Like having a steamroller do your ironing.

“Oh yeah? You calling him Adam, and he's just the cop who arrested Dan? Come on, Laura.” She sat back, a forkful of cake halfway to her mouth, and eyed me out. “This doesn't sound like the relationship between a cop and the friend of a suspect.” I glared at her, thankful I hadn't told her about our meeting in the plantations yesterday, still less about the way I felt in his company. She would have had a fine old time with that. I had merely said that I'd talked to him.

One of the problems with Ness is that once she has a bone to chew over, she's a bulldog. No letting go. I tried to get the conversation back to her and Ben. I raised a whole lot of issues about the exhibition, and told her how the boys had thrown Simon and Sonia's plans into disarray
by insisting on being with us for it. That did divert her briefly. I don't imagine she has ever met Sonia, but she's an endearingly loyal friend. My enemies are, by association, her enemies. But the diversion was short-lived, and she promptly steered the conversation back to Adam Pillay.

Mercifully, just as we were finishing, my phone rang. “Private number”, as usual. Silence, but again I sensed a presence, as if I was being watched. Reprimanding myself that I was simply being foolish, I glanced quickly round the restaurant, hoping to catch someone sitting silently with a cellphone to the ear. But all I could see were ordinary people going about their Sunday breakfasts, brunches and coffees. Nothing sinister.

I was, however, frightened. Ness understood that, and realised I wanted to get back to Mike as soon as possible. He was alone, and someone might know that. We paid our bill, and left, and for once, Ness's erratic and speedy driving seemed too slow and too decorous. I needed to be home.

Of course, when we got there, Mike was sprawled in front of the television, eating his way through a stack of marmalade sandwiches. It looked about as unappetising a breakfast as I could think of, and for the umpteenth time I found myself wondering where his peculiar passion for sour, sticky, orangey preserve came from. He also had a litre of Coke, and had the grace to look a little guilty when I fixed it with a more than disapproving eye.

“Coke? For breakfast? Really, Mike. It rots your teeth, gives a caffeine buzz you do
not
need and has a ridiculous amount of sugar. And do you
have
to drink out of the bottle. We have glasses.” I was so relieved to see him there that I spoke more sharply than I needed to. I had been imagining him lying in a pool of blood, or kidnapped, his ears and little fingers delivered to me piecemeal over
the next few days. He didn't know that, of course, and just glared at me: the glare of the righteous teen to the unreasonable mother.

Ness brushed my remark aside. “Oh nonsense, Laura. He's a growing boy, and a gorgeous one.” She ruffled his hair, and bent down to kiss him. Mike would have recoiled from most people trying that on him, but Ness has the personality to get away with it. He blushed, and ducked away, but with not without a smile.

Ness and I then went through into the studio. “Girl, you've got to calm down. Seriously. Think about moving in with your folks, even if you don't want to come to me. Just until it's all over. I'm sure nothing's going to happen, but it's not good to be on edge like this.”

“I'm fine, Ness. Really. And it looks as if Dan is going to be released this week. So I'm sure it's almost over now. Don't worry.” In reality, I was far from sure that anything was over, but I couldn't articulate my fears. I was aware only of that heavy presence – and I was afraid.

We looked at my paintings. Vanessa was delighted with the hands, and we spent a long time discussing how to frame them. The first three cupboard interiors were all back from the framers, and, even though I say it myself, they were looking good. The final painting, the table of oddments seen through an open window, was coming along well too, despite the alarms and excursions of the past couple of weeks. I find painting an escape, and once I am engrossed in the creative process, my other worries seem to vanish. It's the best therapy I can get and, to all intents and purposes, it's free. The only problem is getting started when your head is full of other rubbish.

Ness had brought a disc of photographs of her completed work, and we loaded it onto my laptop. As we talked about the work, hers and mine, I began to
feel excited again. This exhibition could be really good. Vanessa was determined to bombard her entire and large acquaintance with invitations to the opening. “We're going to sell, Laura. You need to get invitations out to everyone. I've just about completed the invitation – all I need is a photograph of one of your paintings. Probably the one with the china in the cupboard: good colours there. Then I'll email you a copy and you can get it out to your contacts list. And don't be modest. Send it to everyone. I'll send one to Adam Pillay.”

“
Vanessa!
You'll do no such thing. He probably doesn't even like art.” Though I had a feeling he did. He
had
been interested in my work, after all.

“Nonsense, of course he does.” Ness gave me a wicked grin, and looked at her watch. “I have to be going. You take care now – and I mean it. That's not just a cliché.” She whirled through the sitting room with a call of “Look after your Ma” to Mike, and was gone.

Mike had apparently forgiven me for the dig at his breakfast habits, and asked why I needed looking after. I knew I had to tell him more than I had up to now. I was terrified Thabo Mchunu, or whoever the murderer was, would try to get at me through Mike, and, although I had wanted to keep him out of it all, he had to be put on his guard.

It was cold in the sitting room, on the side of the house that doesn't get much sun, and the under air was sharp, clean and dry. In the sun there was still warmth, but out of it, the enveloping heat that had wrapped around us for six months was gone. We headed through into the studio, and I sat Mike down on the sofa while I stood by the window, fiddling with the catch and told him all about my stupid phone call, the intruder at Paul Ndzoyiya's house, the calls that went silent as soon as I answered and I reminded him
about the bakkie he and Stephen had seen outside the gate. Maybe it meant nothing and I was simply being foolish, but I urged him to be careful, not to go around alone and if anything, anything at all, worried him, he should phone me, or even the cops. I gave him Adam Pillay's numbers, feeling slightly self-conscious as I watched him key them into his cellphone. Vanessa's nonsense had done its work.

“I'm sure you're imagining things, Ma. But, yeah, I'll be careful. So you think that this Thabo Mchunu guy is the murderer?”

“Well, no, not really. I mean, he's high up, well connected. I can't imagine that he goes around bashing people's heads in. But I do think he may have something to do with it – him or maybe even Rhoda Josephs. Her name keeps cropping up. There's the whole mining thing too. And if Dan gets out of jail this week, and Inspector Pillay as good as said that he would, then the killer, whoever he is, might get really pissed off. Look, Mike, do you want us to move to Granny and Grandpa's? Just until it's all over?”

“God, no. Come on, Ma. That would suck big time! I mean, I love them: they're great and all that, but I don't want to stay there. And imagine how Gran would go on about it all if we had to tell her all this stuff. No. We'll just be careful. And if I'm being careful, what about you? You'd better stop taking Grumpy into the plantations by yourself. Go with Philippa, or I'll come.”

The offer was a noble one. Mike doesn't much like walking unless he's going somewhere and there's no lift available. If he wants exercise, he runs or cycles. I sat down, and we promised each other we would be careful all the time. Then Mike broached the subject of what he wanted to do the following year. It was no coincidence that his father and I had discussed the matter earlier. I gathered he had spoken to Simon, who must have called him while
I was out with Vanessa. Probably woke him up. Simon was not one to be relaxed about teenagers lying around in bed for the whole morning at weekends. They should be out and doing something, though he wasn't often specific as to what, and most of what they did irritated him anyway.

“I told Dad I really want to do architecture. And that I don't want to be in Cape Town. It's a great place, sure, but I'd rather be in Durban. Close enough to home, but not under your feet. He doesn't seem to think much of architecture, or architects, but he did say he'd think about it. He was pretty calm about it all. Not in full rant mode.” Mike grinned at me. His relationship with his father has been tricky since the divorce. I've tried hard not to project my feelings onto the boys, and Rory and Simon get on pretty well, but Mike – maybe because he's younger – has always been on my side. If there is such a place.