The rest of the top shelf is dedicated to other cursed knickknacks. There are ancient Israeli oil lamps in various sizes and shapes (none of which houses a genie, fortunately), statuettes from Mesopotamia, bad luck coins and plates, a Chinese vase, and a cracked Japanese teapot.
On the second glass shelf are a few haunted dolls. Gretchen, a pretty porcelain one with wide blue eyes, perfectly curled blonde locks and a cheerful floral dress, stares directly into the kitchen situated across from Gramps’ office. Though she doesn’t do anything malicious around here she has a tendency to hurt children. According to my grandfather, Gretchen attacked one of her previous owners with a Minora blade back in the 1960s, scarring the poor child for life, mentally and physically. After the incident, other owners of the doll reported their hair being pulled, being pinched, and the doll moving around at night. Nothing of the sort has happened since she’s taken residence in the glass case.
Beside Gretchen sits the vintage cymbal-banging monkey, which comes to life all by itself for hours at a time. The bastard has a sick sense of humour because he loves making a racket when someone’s working after hours, which tends to scare the living crap out of anyone unfortunate enough to try and get an overtime cheque.
Otherwise, he’s benevolent.
Then there’s a voodoo doll from the 1800s, wooden blocks that enjoy spelling out colourful words no child should know until he or she has hit puberty, and a creepy clown with an affinity for destruction of property.
On the third shelf is The Crying Boy painting—a print, in this case—displayed in a special frame inhibiting its pyrokinetic abilities. The Crying Boy’s story is common in England but around here people don’t know the tale.
The boy is said to have been orphaned and abandoned on the street as a young child (circa 1950) and was found alone and crying after his parents’ recent deaths in a house fire; one he supposedly started with his mind. Many claimed he had real life pyrokenetic abilities, and was thus named Diablo (devil) or The Fire Starter. An artist by the name of Bruno Amadio found the boy and painted his portrait and rumours have it he also allowed the boy to live with him in his studio apartment. Shortly after the completion of his work, the studio burnt to the ground.
The boy was then passed from family to family, and each family lost their house to a spontaneous fire.
Later, the same boy died in a car accident. No one claimed his body. People forgot about him, the painting, and the tale until thirty-five years later. In 1985, in areas throughout England, some fifty house fires occurred in which the houses were completely burned to the ground. In each case only one item within the house was left untouched and unclaimed by the raging fire: The Crying Boy picture. By then, the painting had been mass produced so there were thousands of copies in circulation. Although the whereabouts of the original painting (there were twenty-eight so-called originals) is unknown, the curse seems to extend to the copies as well.
Gramps also owns a demonically possessed Ouija board, sitting beside The Crying Boy. In front of it is a magician’s grimoire from the late 1700s, covered in human skin. A pearl necklace and sapphire hair comb, supposedly haunted, also make their home on the third shelf.
The newest addition to Gramps’ collection is a real “hand of glory,” the same one that had gotten him into trouble at the airport. I cannot wait to hear the story behind it at our next office gathering under the lapa.
Every few years Gramps changes out the displayed collection with other procured artefacts. Where he keeps the rest of his stuff, I cannot say.
I only hope he gets rid of the stupid monkey soon.
The remainder of Christiaan Snyders’ office is lavishly decorated. Expensive lamps accentuate expensive furniture. Rare books from around the world in several languages line the shelves behind his desk. A post-modern art piece, by some famous sculptor, stands in the corner. These things are simply the most conspicuous of the lot. Within the nooks and crannies are other miscellanies, forgotten until they are needed. Amulets and talismans hide in a flowerless vase. A discarded bowtie dangles precariously from a candelabrum, its purpose and owner unknown. A Carrol Boyes letter opener, positioned next to a Faberge egg I’ve coveted my entire life, is on his desk. Where he found the Faberge egg is anyone’s guess but he insists it’s the real deal and he promised me if he ever wants to get rid of it I have first dibs.
My feet sink into the plush carpet as I pace the length of my grandfather’s office. “We’re setting ourselves up for the South African version of an O.J. Simpson trial. Do you have no consideration for the law?”
My grandfather and Howlen are working on the illegally obtained DNA evidence Pops had collected from the customs officers at the airport.
“And
you
!” I say with a jut of my chin.
Howlen watches me from underneath his thick eyelashes.
“I expect more from
you
when it comes to adhering chain-of-custody laws,” I say.
“Get off your high horse, Esmé,” Gramps says.
Howlen’s gloved hand swabs the customs officer’s dried blood off my grandfather’s knuckles.
As soon as I got him out of trouble at the airport—not including the assault charges they’ll file against him at first light—Gramps instructed me to find a Ziploc bag so we could cover his hand (the evidence) with it.
Gramps says, “It was probable cause and I am a consulting specialist on the case. Besides, the guy was interviewed as a possible suspect numerous times.”
“Probable cause does not extend beyond the police! You are
not
the police!”
“And you, my sweet grandbaby girl, have forgotten we live in South Africa.”
“What does that have to do with anything, Pops?”
He groans and gives Howlen one of his help-me-out-with-this looks.
“Esmé,” Howlen explains, “criminals find loopholes all the time, which is why the police hire consultants like us to do the things they cannot do, while under the influence of a badge. Technically speaking, with a good prosecutor on our side, Christiaan can be seen as a part of the chain of custody. If we have an ignorant judge, nobody will even question the event. On another note, Christiaan also obtained video evidence of the suspect wearing the necklace and I’m a licensed forensic criminologist. Everything counts in our favour.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“Relax, May. Detective Mosepi will probably only use this evidence to get a search warrant for the suspect’s house.”
“
May
?” Gramps asks nobody in particular, an eyebrow rising. “You two have grown rather chummy since I last saw you. I bet she calls you Howl, right?” He laughs at his own, unfunny, joke. It takes all of my strength not to go over there and throttle him. “Your mother will love that.”
“You know his mother?”
“Of course I do.” His shoulder twitches into what I believe was meant as a shrug. “Lady Sophia Jane Walcott is one of my dearest friends.”
“
Lady
Sophia Jane Walcott?” I parrot, and chance a glance at the expressionless Howlen.
He’s transfixed by my grandfather’s knuckles.
“How noble she sounds.”.
“I sense awkwardness,” Gramps muses, looking between Howlen and me. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Nope.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Howlen, will you be so kind as to take my grandfather home tonight? I have to get ready for an appointment.”
All I get is a curt nod.
“What type of appointment,
May
?” My grandfather chuckles under his breath.
“The type of appointment that involves getting up close and personal with a dominatrix at a residential swingers’ club.”
“I hope you’re joking.” Grandpa’s expression is almost as priceless as Howlen’s shock, which is quickly replaced with a scowl. I answer them with a sheepish grin, and begin to exit the office. “Esmé, tell me you’re joking!”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I call over my shoulder, suppressing a laugh.
The truth is I’m not joking.
Leila Fourie and I go way back.
She was the popular girl in high school with a flock of rugby players tending to her every whim and need whereas I was the awkward girl smoking those cheap Voyager cigarettes under the bleachers with other likeminded outcasts. Leila had the body of a svelte twenty-something year-old when she was barely sixteen, whereas I was a bit more childish-looking. We’ve always been worlds apart but an unlikely friendship grew in the summer of 2004 after I held back her hair while she vomited up a bottle of vodka. As remuneration for not abandoning her like her so-called friends Leila taught me the finer points of womanhood. Before her I was clueless when it came to cosmetics and clothes due to growing up in a predominantly male environment. Now I’m possibly the best-dressed occult crime expert in the world. Before me she perpetually second-guessed herself and relied on others to rate her worth. Now Leila is a respected publicist for a major mobile company by day and a fetishist by night. She’s independent and self-confident unlike ever before.
The reason we meet in secret—in a swingers’ club that changes location every time a gathering is planned—is because she gets confidential information from high profile individuals and secure databases. She could easily be assassinated if our friendship becomes public knowledge. This is why we only meet on a bimonthly basis at the swingers’ club, where members’ secrets are kept secret.
The location for the swingers’ club, tonight, is in an ambassadorial mansion in Moreleta Park. It’s a beautiful house with an enclosed courtyard, pool, four bedrooms with en-suites and a fifth with its own lounge. And the whole place overlooks a private bird park, dam, and endless rolling lawns.
When I drive up a security guard checks my credentials and membership card at the gate before he waves me through with a tip of a non-existent hat. Then the hard part begins.
I climb out of my car wearing a formal red dress with a low front and an even lower back. I carry my prop-box I’ve filled with all kinds of goodies Leila will swoon over. I walk up to the front door of the mansion and knock. Inside people are already laughing and acquainting or reacquainting themselves with one another.
The soirée is in full swing.
The door opens and another security guard allows me entry. Familiar faces smile at me. We exchange greetings or trade quick tête-à-têtes while I discreetly sweep the room for Leila. I move on to the next room, and the next, falling into the usual routine of conversation until I finally find Leila in the kitchen. She is dressed in a Grecian-style white dress, sipping tentatively on a flute of champagne.
Leila doesn’t feign an iota of interest with the older gentleman trying to wiggle his way into her knickers, but he doesn’t get the message.
Only when she spots me in the door does her face brighten.
“Excuse me.” Leila pushes past the tuxedo-clad man and closes the distance between us. Air-kisses are exchanged and the box is handed over.
“What a boring old fart,” she whispers as we exit the kitchen to explore the house. “As if someone like me would ever agree to consensual sex with someone like him. He’s on the verge of bankruptcy. By God, I do have
some
standards.”
I laugh. “Good thing I made the cut.”
“I told you if you ever want to change teams I’d go steady with you.” Leila winks.
I almost blush at her appraising glance, but we end up laughing it off.
“Let’s mingle for a few minutes and go find a room. I’m hardly in the mood for this stuffy atmosphere,” she says.
“Sounds like a plan.”
We circulate the mansion filled with businessmen, diplomats and billionaire foreigners with their husbands or wives on arm. Some of these people I’ve seen around every gathering, others are newcomers, possibly seeing this as an experiment and nothing more. They talk about investment ventures, global warming, ISIS, and current affairs. Some even talk about their children’s recent prestigious achievements at whatever hoity-toity private school they attend.
It’s all very civil—as always.
A first couple makes their adventurous escape outdoors. Another couple whisk themselves away to a suite upstairs, giggling like teenagers. Leila and I are the next to disappear into the furthest room downstairs.
As soon as the door slams shut we’re laughing. Not because we’re getting naked but because we survived the ordeal of faking it in front of an audience for the umpteenth time.
“What an insufferable bunch of hypocrites,” Leila says. She searches for audio/visual equipment someone may have hidden in the room while I lock the door and move a heavy chaise in front of it as an extra prevention measure. “Half of them advocated for the dismissal of the proposed DSTV porn channel. Did you know that?” She closes the curtains in one fluid movement, kicks off her shoes and falls onto the king-size bed.
“I did not,” I answer, falling next to her.
Leila twists to pick up the box I’d brought along, opens the lid and squeals in delight. She dumps the contents onto the bed, scattering candies and chocolates across the embroidered duvet, alongside miniature bottles of booze. It almost feels like old times. I pick up a packet of sour worms and she chooses a roll of fireballs before we both lie down again.