Authors: S. L. Grey
Despite the stale smoke in my mouth, stale sweat in the sheets; despite the amount we drank last night, I wake up clear-headed. Not a trace of a hangover and only a dull ache
from the bar fight. It’s half past six – we’ve only slept for five hours, but my mind is racing, and I know that there’s no way it’s going to shut up and let me go
back to sleep.
I lift Rhoda’s arm off my stomach and get up. As I do she stirs in half sleep and smiles at me. I’m kind of surprised that she doesn’t wake up screaming and run out of the
door.
I walk over to the window and open it. The dogs have just run out and are sniffing the dewy grass. I breathe in the fresh air. It’s moist and green. I hear the morning songs of bulbuls and
thrushes; hadedas probe into the damp ground for worms and crickets. Rhoda and I could rent a flat. We wouldn’t need much. A crappy car, a crappy TV, a pile of books; we’d live on bread
and lentils and fuck all day. We could do it. Mom would help me, and maybe Rhoda’s parents could send her some cash.
I hear the crumple of Rhoda shifting up against the headboard, the flick of her lighter. I turn to her. She’s wearing the T-shirt from last night and nothing else. Her long, brown legs
chart the length of the white duvet, crossing at the ankles. She’s stretching and yawning, rubbing her hands over her head and face, the cigarette clutched between two fingers. When she
notices me watching she points her cigarette at me, offering me one.
I nod and she lights another. ‘Dan, come here. I’ve got to tell you something.’
‘What?’
‘Come here.’ I don’t like her tone. She’s going to fuck up my mood.
‘Rhoda, I was thinking,’ I say, to stop her from saying what she was going to say. ‘What do you think about us getting a flat together?’
She says nothing, turns away. Takes a long time stubbing out her cigarette in the saucer on my side of the table. Swings her legs over the side of the bed, her back facing me. Just sits. Fumbles
behind her for another cigarette. Lights it. Still turned away.
‘How would we pay for it?’ she says at last.
‘We’ll find jobs.’
‘I don’t even have a fucking work permit, Dan. Soon I’m going to be here illegally.’
Why’s she sounding so pissy? ‘My mom would lend us some cash.’
‘Christ, I’m not sucking another day’s charity out of that poor woman. You just take her for granted, you know that?’
‘Jesus, Rhoda, chill. I was just thinking, okay? Thinking aloud. Forget it. It doesn’t fucking matter.’
She says nothing.
‘What did you want to say?’ I ask.
She shifts across the bed and sits on the side closer to me and the window. She takes a long drag.
‘Dan, you’re a sweet… a great guy.’
Oh shit. Here it comes.
Fuck!
How did I manage to fuck this up?
‘Uh-uh. Don’t say it.’ I rush to put on my jeans and T-shirt, grab my shoes and am out of the door. Behind me Rhoda’s saying, Wait, wait, but I’m not listening.
I’ve forgotten to grab my car keys, so I’m going to have to walk, and the closest place to get cigarettes and alcohol is the Highgate Mall. As I walk, my mind starts striking
bargains with my life. I can’t believe that last night meant nothing; I’ve never had a stronger feeling about anything in my life; for once in my life I’ve had a feeling strong
enough to believe. It can’t be a lie.
It can’t
.
I cross Main Road on autopilot, barely aware of the black Merc turning in front of me and the rattling taxi that misses me by centimetres. I don’t even know what Rhoda wanted to say. I
should have let her speak. So I should just turn back home and say, Sorry, what did you want to say? But I keep walking to the mall. I’ll come home to her with a proper apology… and a
proper plan. I check my pockets. My phone and my wallet are still there from last night, Rhoda’s knife too. I’m going to draw all my money from the bank. I’m going to get my back
pay – whatever tiny pittance it amounts to – from those cunts at the bookshop. I’m going to show it to her in my hand. I’m going to say, Rhoda, we
can
do it, we
can
make it together. I’m going to buy her some flowers; I’m
not
going to take her for granted.
chapter 27
RHODA
The sunlight dances over the chlorinated water, and I stretch out my legs and take another slurp of coffee. The Rat Dogs lie under my sun lounger, snoozing and chasing dream
rabbits.
The hangover isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Just a slight headache and the occasional lurch of nausea. Nothing I can’t handle.
The patio doors open and Rose stumbles through. She looks awful, her eyes hidden behind huge Jackie O sunglasses. I watch her with interest, curious to see how she’ll treat me after our
afternoon of booze-fuelled shared secrets.
‘Morning, Rose,’ I say.
She grimaces slightly and lowers herself onto the chair next to me. ‘Good morning.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Terrible.’ She runs her fingers through her unwashed hair. ‘I will never drink gin again.’ She attempts a smile. ‘Was I awful?’
‘No worse than me.’
‘I apologise if I embarrassed you,’ she says slightly stiffly.
‘You didn’t.’
‘You are a good liar, Rhoda.’
She’s got that right.
She fidgets with her sunglasses. She’s clearly got something on her mind. ‘Rhoda. Have you told Dan yet?’
‘Told him what?’ But I know exactly what she’s talking about.
‘That you spoke to your parents. That you’ll be leaving shortly.’
I squirm in my chair. God knows I’d meant to tell him I was leaving. Wasn’t my fault he’d upped and left in one of his Dan emo sulks. Wasn’t my fault he’d blocked
his ears and buggered off.
‘Don’t leave it too long,’ she says. I watch her carefully, wondering if she heard us after we got back from the bar. It wasn’t as if we’d even attempted to keep
the noise down. Who knew Dan had
that
in him?
‘I won’t, Rose.’
‘Where’s he gone? I heard him leaving this morning.’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
I decide not to tell her about his hissy fit. It won’t take him long to realise how insane his little happy family daydream is. He must be off his fucking head to want to settle down with
me.
Florence comes out with a bowl of muesli for Rose, and a banana for me.
‘Thanks, Florence,’ I say.
‘You’re welcome, madam,’ she says, and I almost drop my coffee mug.
Rose pulls her sunglasses down onto her nose and stares at her in astonishment. We both watch her slouch back into the house.
‘I never thought I’d crack the nod from Florence,’ I say.
She smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She pushes the glasses back into place. ‘Wonders will never cease.’
I lie back, thinking about last night, thinking again about what Dan had said before he left this morning. Talk about unrealistic expectations. I try and picture it. Me and the Emo Kid hooking
up, settling down, renting a flat, getting jobs at the mall, popping out a couple of kids for Rose to spoil on weekends.
As if.
Time to get this show on the road.
I swing my legs off the sun lounger.
‘I’m off, Rose,’ I say to her.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I need to book a flight.’
I can’t read her expression behind the enormous glasses, but she must be relieved at the thought of having Dan all to herself again, despite what she said yesterday about me being a good
influence on him. And I guess I know too much about her for her ever to be really comfortable around me. ‘Why not do it over the internet?’ she says.
‘I thought I’d go to a travel agency. See if I can get a last minute deal. My folks can transfer the cash straight into their account.’
‘You know where to go?’
‘There’s bound to be one in the mall, isn’t there?’ Just saying the word ‘mall’ makes my stomach twist, but fuck it. I have to get it done.
‘You want to take the car?’
‘It’s not far.’
‘But walking alone – it’s not safe, Rhoda.’
‘S’cool,’ I say. ‘I can look after myself.’
Yeah right
, the voice says.
I was wondering when it would return.
You can do this
.
My palms are sweating, and I’m not sure if the nausea is a result of last night’s drinking or from being back here – back where it all started. My pulse is galloping and my
chest feels tight, constricted. The mall’s artificial light seems too bright, the tiles too hard under my feet, and saliva floods into my mouth.
Relax. Nothing’s going to happen.
Early-morning shoppers ramble past me and my stomach lurches again. I can’t get my head around how normal they all look. But what was I expecting? Seeping sores, bandaged stumps and
outrageous plastic surgery?
Get your act together, for fuck’s sake.
I automatically start walking, shaking my hands to try and erase the panic-attack tingle in my fingers, part of me keeping an eye out for a travel agency, the other part thinking about how my
life is about to change. Thinking about Mum sobbing over the phone, whispering, ‘We’re so sorry Rhoda,’ over and over again. Thinking about heading back to the UK, going to
university, carrying on where I left off, as if the last five years never happened. As if what Dan and I went through is an easily erasable glitch in my life.
I hesitate. I’m right in front of the computer store – the one I’d raced to that night when I’d frantically searched for the missing kid. The Lara Croft cut-out is gone,
replaced with a Wii Fit display. I can’t resist glancing up at the signage, almost expecting to see one of those crazy literal signs we’d seen in the other mall.
A trio of teenage girls push past me, knocking against my shoulder. They don’t stop to apologise, and one of them – a pugfaced girl with ratty hair – even turns to glare at me
as if our collision is my fault.
The old Rhoda would have grabbed the back of her top, made her apologise. But the old Rhoda wouldn’t be on her way to buy a plane ticket. She’d be plotting the next score, coming up
with other inventive ways to fuck up her life.
Don’t be so sure the old Rhoda has gone anywhere.
I climb onto the escalator and cruise down, checking out the shops below, looking for the South African version of a Thomas Cook. A bunch of people are heading up on the opposite escalator.
Among them I catch a glimpse of a familiar khaki uniform.
Oh fuck.
It’s Yellow Eyes. I’d know that paunch anywhere. He’s barking something into his walkie-talkie, and for a second our eyes lock. He seems to look right through me, but I’m
not going to take any chances.
Trying not to make it too obvious, I skip down the remaining steps, and, keeping my head down, I walk briskly into the nearest store – one of those high-end designer boutiques – and
start flicking through a rack of dresses, keeping half an eye on the door.
A saleswoman drifts over. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m just browsing,’ I say.
She tries to smile politely, but it’s not convincing. Her gaze skates over my tatty Levis and the oversize Marilyn Manson T-shirt I’d pulled out of Dan’s drawer after
he’d left. I stare back at her, and she nods and wanders away.
A fat man’s shape drifts past the window. Yellow Eyes? Fuck. I can’t tell. I grab a dress at random and head towards the changing rooms.
‘Madam?’ The shop assistant calls after me.
‘I want to try this on.’
She looks from me to the dress, the fake smile losing its wattage. ‘But it’s a size forty.’
‘So?’
Now the smile disappears entirely. ‘I think it might be slightly too big for you. You can’t be more than a twenty-six.’
She’s right of course, but I hold my ground. ‘I still want to try it.’
‘Madam, you do know the price of it?’ She glances at her fellow assistant, a thin woman who’s pretending to fold a cardigan next to the till.
‘No,’ I snap.
‘It’s 1,700 rands.’
I try not to flinch. ‘So?’
‘I thought you might like to know,’ she says.
‘Forget it,’ I say. I look her in the eye and let the hanger drop, the dress crumpling into a heap on the floor. I stalk out, cheeks blazing with humiliation.
For a second, I feel a pang of regret. That would never have happened back there. Back when I was a Shopper and not just a scruffy nobody.
Don’t think like that.
But I can’t help it. I fumble automatically for my phone, and scroll down to Dan’s number. Some part of me needs to speak to him, maybe to put things in perspective; maybe just to
hear a friendly voice.
It goes straight to voicemail.
I lean over the railing and look down into the floor below. I can make out the familiar blue signage of Only Books, which, bizarrely, makes me feel slightly better, more grounded. And
there’s a Flight Centre a few doors down on the opposite side of the aisle.
Fuck it. It’ll only take a few minutes to book a ticket and then I can get the hell out of here. Maybe meet Dan for lunch, have a few beers, tell him about the stupid cow in the dress
shop, have a laugh. Maybe while away the afternoon by the pool.
I jog down the escalator, keeping a lookout for Yellow Eyes. I think about popping into Only Books for old times’ sake, but the glass doors look firmly shut. Stupid idea anyway. I
haven’t forgotten that blonde bitch who treated me like shit when I was looking for the kid.
There are two heavily made-up women sitting behind the travel agency’s counter, both speaking rapidly into microphones attached to their faces, vicious red fingernails skittering over
their keyboards. They could be sisters, right down to their straightened hair and identical blue blouses, except that one is skinny to the point of emaciation, the other as comfortably padded as an
old sofa. I hesitate, and the plump one waves me vaguely towards a couch set back against the wall. I sit down next to an elderly man who’s clearly also waiting for their attention. He nods
at me, and carries on flicking through a brochure for the Cayman Islands. He smells faintly of soup and doesn’t look like he can even afford a weekend away in Margate.