The Disappeared (3 page)

(
don’t
think about it
)

the gap
between the pillows was exactly in the middle of the bed.

She stared at
her handiwork. The bed was perfectly made and yet ...

She sighed
deeply, frowning. Her anxiety had not faded but only moved slightly into the
background. She quickly scanned the room; looking for something to tidy.
Anything. As long as she

(
don’t
think
)

kept busy.

She arbitrarily
moved things around the room. She shifted the curtains. She moved the little
white wastepaper basket. She repositioned the wicker chair. Frenzy crept into
her movements. She moved towards the miniature lilac dressing table her daddy
had built for her. She adjusted the little pink hair dryer that hung on a peg. She
moved the quaint mirror on its vintage metal stand towards the edge of the dressing
table. Then she moved it back again. In her frenzy she bumped over one of her
little porcelain fairies and it shattered on the carpeted floor. Minki stopped.
With a start she suddenly realised how frenetic she had become.

Please God
.

Minki absently
collected the fractured pieces; unfocused unformed thoughts in a faraway place.
She placed the broken pieces in the wastepaper basket giving no thought to the
fact that it was her favourite fairy that had shattered. She stood for a few moments
staring into her thoughts.

 A bath.

Yes. A bath.
She decided to take a bath.
It always made her feel better.

She went to
her closet and took out her favourite dress – a beautiful cream frock with
frilly sleeves and a matching neckline. It was a dress that always put her in a
good mood especially when she was feeling down. Minki hoped that today it would
work. She really needed it.

She opened her
bedroom door and walked towards the bathroom at the end of the hallway
re-invigorated with the energy of purpose. For the moment – at least – it felt
as if the darkness had lifted from her mood.

She was careful
not to make too much noise. Her daddy was still asleep. He was stressed with
his work lately and she didn’t want to wake him. It was
never
a good
idea to wake her daddy. And incur his anger.

She slipped
into the bathroom and opened the bath taps. While the water filled the enamel bath
she brushed her teeth. Then she took off her nightie and undergarments and
carefully placed it on the closed lid of the toilet. She closed the taps and
testing the bath water with her hand climbed in. It wasn’t as hot as she would
have liked but she immersed herself nonetheless feeling the water wash over her
face. She was glad for the warmth of the water on her skin and the cottony
muteness of it in her ears. And yet...

The instant
relief of bathing evaded her this morning. She couldn’t escape the steely inner
cold that lined her soul. She tried hard not to think about the dream ... about
the hideous images that flashed through her mind even now. And the thing. The
huge nagging terrible thing inside. The thing that told her that told her that
the images that had shattered her sleep that morning were much more than just a
bad dream.

From:               Special
Envoy (Africa) –

US Department of State

CODE:            00X
– 1STY - alpha

CABLE:          Secured

Priority:           HIGH

To:                   Directorate
– Project Obsidian

Subject:           Request
for INCURSION TEAM

Status:             Approved

Order:              Q3-345

Classification:
Classified - Level 9

Target:             District
of Bishop

(South Africa)

                        BEGIN
ENCRYPTION

------------------------------------------------------------------

Request for special
incursion unit ALPHA Team 9 received. Authorisation confirmed. ETA 07h00.

Incursion team
fully briefed on Target Area BISHOP and CODE 6 incident.

PLEASE NOTE:
ALPHA Team 9 operates and exists under plausible deniability, provision 6.2.3.
Please make concomitant arrangements. Ensure effective infrastructure for
clinical exit strategy

Please be
advised that in addition to neutralisation and assessment of Target Area BISHOP,
ALPHA Team 9 will be tasked with the retrieval of sensitive documents and items.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                        END
ENCRYPTION

...

END CABLE

Lindiwe awoke
with a start.

Her eyes
flipped open and she stared at the stained white ceiling of her caravan. One of
the caravan’s two air vents was located just above her head. It was one of
those air vents housed in a little square canopy on the caravan’s roof; a little
white gazebo that allowed air to move through ducts located on its four sides.
The interior of the air vent bore an ancient stain that she had studied
obsessively for a thousand torturous hours while lying in bed. Again and again.
Now – once again – the stain held her attention. It looked like a chicken
feather and even had a spine running up its centre; just like a real feather.
As Lindiwe had done a million times before, she wondered exactly how anyone
managed to get a stain in that particular location.

Lindiwe was
awake. But she was dead tired. She felt as if she hadn’t been sleeping at all.
As if she had been merely simmering in an attenuated state of mind, just below
wakefulness – or just above sleep – for hours. This state engendered no dreams.
Just a thousand delirious unresolved thoughts. Thoughts whose dying embers
sizzled uncomfortably in her consciousness.

It felt like a
battery had leaked in her mind.

This was
nothing new to Lindiwe. But this morning it felt particularly prickly. She
rubbed her forehead trying to assuage the muddy thickness that lay just beneath
her skull.

As she lay on
the dishevelled sheets, she felt that old familiar feeling. Rising slowly. From
within the dark waters of her soul. She felt the anxiety slowly rise to the surface.

Anxiety.

That old
overbearing friend she knew so well.

It should have
been a happy day. No. An ecstatic day. Today she was six months clean ...
without a single drop to drink. Not one single little drop. Six months.
God,
it felt like an eternity.

Today was six
months. Yet she felt so empty. And scared. It was the same old undefined
anxiety. Unrelated and impalpable. The more you probed its origins the more it
became like a drop of dye in a bucket of water – spreading until it became
indistinct yet having coloured all the water a slightly darker shade.

Yet. Today – mixed
in with the anxiety – there was something else. Something she hadn’t
experienced in such a long time that she had almost forgotten what it felt
like. It was a feeling of absolute desolation. A cold arid bleakness. As if her
soul had imploded into a tight ball of infinite emptiness and darkness. It was
a feeling she knew so well. Waking up the morning after a night of binge
drinking. Staring at empty bottles and knowing there was nothing more ...
except the slow creeping death of withdrawals. Knowing that, unless she made
quick desperate plans, her day would resolve itself into the shivering puking
shitting hellhole that came with alcoholism.

Lindiwe turned.
Away from the memories. Away from the stain. Away from her past. Today was six
months and she had – had! – to find something to inspire her and elevate her
above this nagging bleakness. 

In the growing
daylight her lithe beautiful chestnut-brown body was sharply silhouetted against
the white of the bunk-bed sheets. On a hot night like last night, she slept
naked. Except for her panties.

She reached
for her little analogue clock that stood next to the caravan bunk. It felt
early but she couldn’t be sure. She looked at the clock face.

Dammit.

The clock had
stopped some time during the night. She tapped the plastic casing with her
finger and looked again.
Nothing
. Now she shook it vigorously and placed
it next to her ear.
Still
nothing
. She put it in the little
alcove above her bunk-bed. Although she had several more clocks stashed all
over the little caravan she was vexed at its failure. Being able to measure
time – especially at night – was one of the tiny but meaningful consolations of
her new life in Bishop.

Lindiwe sat up
and looked at the sparse confines of the caravan. It was dingy but clean and
tidy. Spotless. From ceiling to floor. She was proud of that. She cleaned
religiously. Almost maniacally. The immaculate interior of the small caravan
was testament to that. It kept her busy – and focused. Most importantly, it was
a matter of pride; something that had been in such precious short supply not
that long ago.

Lindiwe loved
her little caravan.
Gogo
had insisted – more than once – that she move
to the main house. And occupy one of the upstairs bedrooms. But she liked the
privacy of the caravan. She liked the proximity of the outdoors. It also gave
her a measure of independence.

She arose
slowly, moving her long legs over the edge of the bunk. On second thought, she
leaned back and moved aside the curtains that covered the little adjustable
window just above her bunk-bed. She peered through the window that had become
yellowed and slightly warped with time. The sky was thick with grey clouds, yet
she could see from the texture of the veiled dawn light that it was still
early. Yet ...  

She craned her
neck trying to peer over the hedge into the backyards of the neighbouring
properties. It
was
early. But not that early. And yet things were eerily
quiet ... too quiet.

She felt a
jolt of unease that did nothing to improve her mood.

She looked at
the house of
gogo
– Zulu for granny – the old woman that had saved her
life so many months ago.
Yes
, she thought,
gogo will be awake. I’ll
go and have coffee with her.

Her mood
lifted perceptibly as she jumped from the bunk-bed and hurried across to the
little basin on the other side of the caravan. She quickly washed her face and smoothed
the hair-extensions that hung just below her jaw line. From a medicine cabinet
above the basin she extracted her toothbrush and much-squeezed tube of Aquafresh.
She lay a big cable of toothpaste onto the toothbrush head and brushed her
teeth vigorously while staring sightlessly at the clock next to the basin.

It felt good
to brush her teeth. Since she had woken up there had been a subtle but
persistent metallic taste in her mouth. Subtle but unpleasant. Now all she
tasted was the powerful medley of mint and fluoride. She washed out her mouth.
Grabbed a bottle of Listerine
and poured a liberal measure into the
black cap. She threw back her head and allowed the strong liquid to tumble
around her mouth.
That should take care of that.

In the middle
of the caravan, opposite the door, was the closet space; shelves on the left,
hanging space on the right. The lower shelves were crammed with dozens of books,
neatly arranged in alphabetical order. The floor of the closet was similarly
decked with books. Reading was more than a hobby. It was a life-saver. A
sanity-saver. Lindiwe sometimes wondered what she would do without her books. She
paused for a moment picking up a book that had fallen into a corner creasing
its cover. It was
The Beach
from
Neville Shute
.
She
smoothed its cover with fondness and re-inserted it into its position. From the
closet’s neatly arranged interior Lindiwe grabbed a pretty, flowing Gypsy dress
with a colourful floral design. In her eagerness, she almost knocked yet
another clock from its perch on the topmost shelf. She flung open the caravan
door and rushed across
gogo’s
backyard towards the kitchen door. A
Black-eyed
Peas
tune was swimming in her head.

She stopped
dead in her tracks.

Clip. Clip. Clip.

Not a sound. Not
a single sound.

Except for ...

‘What the hell
are you doing, Josh?’

Clip. Clip. Clip.

David was doing
one of this ridiculous temper tantrum struts, walking up and down in front of the
table at which Joshua, Carla and their mother were seated. Other families,
seated at the two dozen or so tables in the large visiting area of Westville
Reformatory, were watching his older brother throw his toys. The Foxtrot of
Fury Joshua always called it. Inevitably evincing a giggle from Carla. Carla
was Davey’s long-time girlfriend. Long-suffering, some would say. Josh really
liked her. She was decent and worldly without being stuck-up. You could talk to
her. She loved Josh’s imitation of his older brother’s strange mannerisms. And
she loved the stories; the innumerable wild exploits of two uncontrollable sons
of a single mother.

Yeah. Josh
really liked her. He hoped she and Davey would get married. But now, as he looked
at Carla for some encouragement, some sign of shared suffering. A smile ...
shit anything; her eyes were averted. There would be no support today.

Clip. Clip. Clip.

‘Josh, are you
listening to me?’ Josh’s head snapped back. ‘What are you doing? What the
hell
are you doing?’

‘I’m only
trying to survive, Davey. Do you know what it’s like in here?’

‘The
only
thing you’re doing, Josh, is buggering up spectacularly. Again!’ David did a
strange kind of balletic Plié that would have been hilarious had it not been
for the gloominess of the situation. A few families and couples at various
tables had given up trying to engage in small talk and were instead watching the
entertainment at Joshua’s table.

Josh met Davey’s
enraged look equally. Maybe Davey did have a right to be angry. But he didn’t ...
hell no ... Davey didn’t understand what it was like inside the walls of this
hellhole. He didn’t understand what it was like to have made an archenemy on
your very first day. And to have lived with the consequences of that mistake
every single day since then. He had every right – Josh supposed – to be angry.
But not the hell did he understand what it was like. And now, as he looked down
on his errant little brother, Josh guessed all Davey could see was a kid with a
torn lip, a black eye and yet another mark on his record. FIGHTING WITH THE
INTENT TO CAUSE GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM. It was little consolation that Rico – the
archenemy in question – did not look much better.

‘So what now,
Josh? What now? I asked you so nicely just to keep it cool. Keep your nose
clean. Shit, not for me, for mom’s sake. Shit ... for mom, dude.’ He turned to
their sobbing mother. ‘Sorry about the cursing, mom.’ Davey was, even in rage,
a consummate gentleman. He re-focused his attention on Joshua. ‘What are you
going to do now, Joshua?’

That was the
last time he had seen Davey. More than three months ago.

Clip. Clip. Clip.

Wait ‘till
you see what I’ve gotten up to this time, Davey. Wait ‘till you get a hold of
this one.

Clip. Clip. Clip.

Joshua’s
footsteps echoed crisply in the cold air as he walked slowly towards Bishop. Before
him the town lay quiet ... deserted. Dead. To his right the mountain he had
just barely glimpsed from the river now loomed large and imposing; a terraced chunk
of rock and grass that dwarfed the town. About halfway up its slope the
mountain sprouted a spread-out wooded area. The pine trees that comprised the
large wood clung to the steep incline and culminated in a natural plateau
created by the staggered and terraced contours of the mountain. Along the edge
of this plateau, a neat row of trees showed the hand of human design. Through
one of the measured gaps, Joshua could see the angular sandstone edge of a
large building.

Joshua walked
on. Small towns always made him nervous. He didn’t know if it was because he
grew up in a big city or because of what happened when he was still a small boy.

What are
you going to do now, Josh?

 Josh gazed up
at the thick cloud-choked sky. It looked like a huge bowl filled with clots of
grey decaying candyfloss clumped together in a congealed sticky mess. It was
going to be a bleak day. Bleak and miserable.

Joshua eyed
the buildings of Bishop with distaste. He hated little towns. It had to be because
of his childhood experience in a town not unlike this one.

It was always
an uncomfortable memory. That small little town ... what was its name? It had
been December. They were once again heading towards (what was then) Pietersburg
in (what was then) the Transvaal. They were travelling on the N1 highway north
of Pretoria. A dense heat choked the air. It had been quite a few years since that
‘useless son of a bitch’ had deserted them. Their mom was driving the old
yellow VW Beetle. Six hours on the road and she was tired. That’s when they hit
the little dung-heap of a town. Mom had decided to spend the night in the local
equivalent of a Holiday Inn. It had been Josh and Davey’s first time in a hotel
.
It was still early in the afternoon when they booked in, and while the old lady
slept, Josh and his older brother had set about exploring. That’s when Josh ran
into the nice man who could do the magic tricks with cards and coins. He had
plied Josh with sweets and cool drink, all the time slyly probing Josh for
information about his mother.
Is she married? Does she have a boyfriend?
Does she like having men over?
Before Josh knew it, he had revealed his
mother’s entire history to a strange man with dubious intentions. When Anne
Kingsley had woken up later that evening, she had found herself confronted with
a very unwelcome suitor who possessed an unsettling amount of information about
her private life. She had immediately stressed and panicked in the way that
only Anne Kingsley knew how. At the same time, she had unloaded a tonne of
recrimination on an unsuspecting Joshua. He had instantly felt a dark sense of
guilt and something more. For the first time in his life, he had glimpsed the
dark sexual impulse that lurked in men. It was an ugly emotional greed that
made strangers want to do dirty things to his mother. It had been an
uncomfortable introduction to the ugliness of human nature. To the dirty
primordial need that Joshua, as a young boy, only sensed vaguely. And of course
once again he had experienced the unfailing ability of Anne Kingsley to fill
him to the brim with bleak and stinging guilt. And her ability to spank the
living daylights out of him.