Why You Were Taken (8 page)

It wasn’t, like, the romantic picture I had in my head, the proposal. I guess I thought that when the day arrived it would be all champagne and roses and candlelight. Maybe on a tropical beach somewhere (Mauritius?), or a fancy restaurant. And the man would be taller and have more hair and he’d be rich (and not married!) and I … well, I wouldn’t be knocked up. It was more of a discussion than a proposal, and then he, like, blurted it out. Not as a question, but as what we should do, and I agreed.

My mind is swirling right now. I mean I feel bad that he is going to leave his wife, that’s so gnarly, but it has been over for a long time and I know that he will take care of her. Still, I feel sick about it. I hope she never finds out the truth. But I’m going to have his child and that is the most important thing right now. I hope that she will forgive him/us one day, and that I will be able to forgive myself. I am going to be a better person. I am going to stop being selfish and be the best wife and mother that I can be. I’m going to make P so happy.

BRIDE

IN THE BATH

7

Johannesburg, 2021

A well-built man in grimy blue overalls waits outside the front door of a Mr Edward Blanco, number 28, Rosebank Heights. He is on a short stepladder, and is pretending to fix the corridor ceiling light, the bulb of which he had unscrewed the day before, causing the old lady at the end of the passage to call general maintenance, the number which he had temporarily diverted to himself.

He would smirk, but he took himself too seriously. People in his occupation were often thought of as little brain-to-brawn ratio, but in his case it wasn’t true. You had to be clever to survive in this game, to stay out of the Crim Colonies.

Clever, and vigilant, he thinks, as he hears someone climbing the stairs behind him and holds an impotent screwdriver up to an already tightened screw. The unseen person doesn’t stop at his landing but keeps ascending.

The man in overalls lowers his screwdriver and listens. He is waiting for Mr Blanco to run his evening bath. If he doesn’t start it in the next few minutes he’ll have to leave and find another reason to visit the building; he has already been here for twenty minutes, and even the pocket granny would know that you didn’t need more than half an hour to fix a broken light.

At five minutes left he checks the lightbulb again and fastens the fitting around it, dusts it with an exhalation, folds up his ladder. As he closes his dinged metal toolbox he hears the movement of water flowing through the pipes in the ceiling. He uses a wireless device in his pocket to momentarily scramble the access card entrance mechanism on the door. It’s as simple as the red light changing to green, a muted click, and he silently opens the door at 28, enters, and closes it behind him. In the entrance hall of Blanco’s flat he eases off his workman boots, strips off his overalls to reveal his sleeker outfit of a tight black shirt and belted black pants.

The burn scar on his right arm is now visible. The skin is mottled, shiny. He no longer notices it; it’s as much part of him as his eyes, or his nose. Perhaps subconsciously it is his constant reminder as to why his does what he does. Perhaps not.

He stands in his black stockinged feet, biding his time until he hears the taps being turned off. Mr Blanco is half whistling, half humming. A small man; effeminate.

 
What is that song?
the hefty man wonders.
So familiar. Something from the 90s? No, a bit later than that. Melancholy. A perfect choice, really, for how his evening will turn out.

He hears the not-quite-splashing of the man lowering himself into the bath. Tentative. Is the water too hot, or too cold? Or perhaps it’s the colour of the water putting him off. Recycled water has a murkiness to it, a suspiciousness. Who knows where that water has been, what it has seen? The public service announcements, now planted everywhere, urge you to shower instead of bath, to save water. It does seem like the cleaner option. If you do insist on bathing, they preach, you don’t need more than five fingers. And then, only every second day. His nose wrinkles slightly at that. He takes his cleanliness very seriously.

Mr Blanco settles in and starts humming again. The man with the burnt arm glides over the parquet flooring and enters the bathroom. Even though his eyes are shut, the man in the bath senses his presence and starts, his face stamped with confusion. The scarred man sweeps Blanco up by his ankles in a graceful one-armed movement, causing water to rush up his nose and into his mouth. As he chokes and writhes upside-down, the man gently holds his head under the water with his free hand.

It’s a technique he learnt from watching a rerun on the crime channel. In the early 1900s a grey-eyed George Joseph Smith, dressed in colourful bow ties and hands flashing with gold rings, married and killed at least three women for their life insurance. He would prowl promenades in the evenings looking for lonely spinsters and pounce at any sign of vulnerability. His charisma, likened to a magnetic field, ensured the women would do as he told them: one of his wives even buying the bath she was to be murdered in. His technique in killing them was cold-blooded, clean: he’d grip their ankles to pull their bodies under – submerge them so swiftly that they would lose consciousness immediately – and they would never show a bruise. But where such care had been taken in the actual murders, Smith was careless with originality, and was caught and hanged before he could kill another bride in the bath.

A moment is all it takes, and soon Mr Blanco is reclining in the bath again, slack-jawed, and just a little paler than before. The man in black turns on the taps and fills the tub. Turns out five fingers is enough to drown in, but it would be better if it looked like an accident, or suicide.

Mr Blanco’s face is a porcelain mask; an ivory island in the milky grey water. Perhaps the person that finds him will think that he fell asleep in the bath. Which he did, in a way. He washes his hands in the basin, wipes down the room. He throws on the white collared shirt he had brought with him and within five minutes he is out of the building and walking to the bus station, dumping the dummy toolbox and overalls on the way. He manages to hop on a bus just as it is pulling out onto the road. He’s in a good mood, but he doesn’t show it. That was one of his easier jobs. He wonders if the other six names on the list will be as effortless.

He slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out the curiosity he lifted from Blanco’s mantelpiece: a worn piece of ivory – a finger-polished piano key. Engraved on the underside: ‘Love you always, my Plinky Plonky.’ It is smooth in his palm and retains the warmth of his skin. A melody enters his head. Coldplay: that’s what Blanco was humming. The man finds this very satisfying.

Journal entry

28 September 1987

Westville

In the news:
Two bombs explode at the Standard Bank Arena in Johannesburg. John McEnroe is fined for his antics at the US Open. Star Trek: The Next Generation debuts on (American!) TV.

What I’m listening to:
Michael Jackson’s Bad album. Superbad!

What I’m reading:
Misery by Stephen King: injured and drugged, an author is held captive by a psychotic fan. So-o-o creepy. Make P get up to switch the lights off!

What I’m watching:
Fatal Attraction. Not the best movie to watch in the week before your wedding! Totally scary, I loved it.

We got married today at a tiny ceremony at Westville Magistrate’s Court. P’s best man (Whitey) was there, and both of our parents. I totally thought my folks would boycott the wedding but they were troopers. Dad put on a brave face and Mom took turns crying and fussing with my dress in front, as if a piece of fabric could cover my huge pregnant belly. I mean it’s totally gigantic! I never thought it was possible to get this big! The ONLY thing that fits me apart from this big meringue of a wedding dress is my old ‘Sex Pistols’ T-shirt. I practically live in it!

When I wrote to Dad about it (the pregnancy) he was very cross and I didn’t hear from him for ages. Mom phoned me and told me to be patient, and that he would come around. If not before the wedding then definitely once the baby was born, she said. His first grandchild! She was right. When I saw him he hugged me (carefully avoiding the bump), and said: “There’s nothing to do but to make the best of a bad situation.” I wanted to say to him: a lovely baby is not a ‘bad situation’, but I was so totally grateful to be forgiven and to feel loved that I just kept quiet and kissed him.

The ‘wedding photos’ are going to be so funny. We got a certificate right away saying that we are husband and wife. Me, a wife?! Ha! I’m so sure! Our wedding song was our favourite song by Bryan Adams: ‘Hearts on Fire’. I got quite emotional, think it’s the raging hormones. But when I looked at P I could tell that he had a lump in his throat too.

We went to a seafood restaurant afterwards and my dad ordered lots of platters and sparkling wine. I couldn’t, like, have seafood or wine in my state but I didn’t feel like eating anyway. I toasted our marriage with Grapetizer in a champagne glass. Totally the Best Grapetizer I have ever tasted.

Afterwards, in bed, exhausted but happy, P lay with his hand on my stomach and we could feel the baby moving.

Happiest day of my life, and I can’t wait to meet my baby.

ORGANIC

ARSE CARROTS

8

Johannesburg, 2021

  ‘Oh,’ his new manager says, greeting Seth with an awkward smile, ‘I thought you would be wearing a suit.’

At the behemoth reception of Fontus the walls are covered in digital 4D wallpaper of waterfalls, streams and lakes. White noise gushes through the sound system: water splashing and birds chirping.  Seth doesn’t shake his proffered hand.

  ‘I don’t wear suits.’

There is heavy security at the front door, which is at odds with the holograms of rising mist and darting digital hummingbirds. Men with concealed guns and pepper-spray look serenely on as employees and visitors enter through the metal detectors.

      As they make their way through the building, the moving images change according to which section they are in: the waters Anahita, Tethys, Hydra, followed by the carbonated soft drinks. Anahita is platinum and crystal, blonde hair, and pale, skeletal models. Diamond drops and sleek splashes of mercury. Tethys is dew on grass, rainforests, intelligent-looking people wearing spectacles, good dentures, hands on chins. Cool humidified air streams past them as they walk.

Wesley doesn’t back down. ‘It’s company policy.’

Hydra is smiling black children, barefoot, dusty. A gospel choir. Fever trees. Optimistic amateur vegetable gardens. Dry red earth. Seth gets thirsty just looking at them.

‘No, it’s not,’ says Seth. ‘I would never have signed the contract.’

There is an awkward silence until they reach the section where he will be grinding: Carbonates. As expected, there are bubbles frothing and fizzing all around them. There are five different colour subsections in Carbonates. Wesley slows to a stop in the red area: CinnaCola. The décor is like a large tin of red paint has exploded.

‘It may not be in the
actual
contract …’

‘Well, then, there’s no problem. Is this my office?’ Seth strides in and slips behind the desk, surveying his stationery. Shrugs off his black hoodie and slings it over his chair. He’s never had a proper desk job before; he’s used to being in a lab of sorts. He uncaps a brand new permanent marker and sniffs it. Wesley tries to not show his irritation. He always attempts to set a good example to the people below him. He looks at Seth swivelling in his chair and purses his lips. Strokes his soul patch with two fingers.

‘We have an 8AM meeting every Monday morning to set up our week’s goals,’ he says.

Y
eah, I won’t be making those,
thinks Seth, but resists saying so.

   ‘A goal not written down is just a dream. What is measured is managed. CinnaCola assembles in the Red Room.’

Seth inspects the contents of his desk drawers. Wesley tries to get his attention.

  ‘But it’s not all work-work-work here! On the last Friday of the month, we do a teambuilding activity, where we compete against the other FCs.’ Wesley fingers the red lanyard around his neck. ‘FC. That’s Flavour-Colours,’ he says. ‘It’s teambuilding and fun and all that but it’s also a serious competition. It’s important that we win. What are you good at? You know, apart from maths? Paintball? Boules? Triathlons? Firewalking? Extreme Frisbee?’

The distaste must have shown on Seth’s face because Wesley stops talking and looks uncomfortable. He puffs out his chest and says ‘It’s compulsory.’

Is it also compulsory to walk around with a carrot shoved up your arse? Do they hand out complimentary organic arse carrots here?