Water Music (24 page)

God bless you, my lady, he said, as Clare turned into the garage. God bless.

The parking in front of the KwikShop was blocked by a Land Rover with a horsebox, so Clare drove around to the delivery area at the back of the building
and went into the KwikShop. The television was muted, actors silently shouting at each other on the screen. The single cashier was slumped over a magazine.
Mercy
said the sagging nametag on her green-and-yellow uniform.

Hello, Mercy, said Clare.

The cashier glanced up.

Have you seen this girl? Clare pushed a photograph of Rosa over to her.

Mercy did not look at it.

No.

She was seen in here,
in your shop, three weeks ago. Her pictures been everywhere. In the papers. She picked up a copy of
The Voice
, pointed to a photograph on page three.

I read, I saw, said Mercy, popping a piece of gum into her mouth.

You didnt think of phoning the Section 28 hotline? Clare struggled to conceal her impatience. It was in all the papers, on TV, with her picture.

Mercy eyed Clare. I left home, came
here. I never told anyone till one of my cousins saw me in Cape Town. It was four years after I left. I never wanted them to know. I never wanted to go home again. With a long red nail she tapped the picture of Rosa. Maybe this girls like me.

Her grandfather

I also had a grandfather. Mercy folded her arms. Hes why I left.

Im sorry, Mercy. But imagine that you had a grandfather you loved, said
Clare. This girl was going home to him he was sick shed earned money to save his life, but she never made it back home. Three weeks later she phoned him, asking for help. When I arrived to help her there was no one, just blood on the wall.

You should write for
Isidingo
. Mercy took the photograph from Clare, studied it a long time.

She bought some Grandpa headache powder, and some pads. She
asked for the toilet key, said Mercy. I gave it to her. She was gone for a long time, then she brought it back. She gave me the key. She turned the photograph over. She had a big guitar case with her. It got stuck in the door. The lady with the horsebox, she came in, helped her, and then she was gone.

Mercy pushed the photograph back to Clare, shifted on her stool.

Thats the last you saw of
her? asked Clare.

She walked that way, into the dark.

Mercy pointed down the tree-shadowed road that wound its way up the valley. Big houses, paddocks, a streetlight or two, cameras that had seen nothing, and the soaring sweep of Judas Peak.

Did a car come by? asked Clare. Did she get a lift?

No, she was just gone.

Mercy blew a big pink bubble. Popped it.

Can I have the key to the bathrooms?
asked Clare.

Mercy unhooked a key, already reaching for her magazine.

Clare walked around to the womens toilet and unlocked it. She looked inside, nothing but chipped white tiles and the smell of bleach.

She pictured Rosa, remembered her grandfathers story about her schoolgirl panic, her running away from playground harassment. Boys pulling up her skirt. Looking, laughing.

Clare washed her
hands in the stained basin Rosa had used, returned the key. On the garage forecourt, she stepped over water puddles iridescent with oil. She studied the tree-lined avenue. Mountain Men Neighbourhood Watch signs everywhere. Nothing moved, but there was a tall steel pole where the oaks reached the vanishing point.

Clare dialled Ina Britz, but she didnt pick up. A text came through instead.

Shit
+ Fan here. Cweles checking all the 28 accounts & is looking 4 U. sez U assaulted him!? Stay away. Will call later. VOK!!

Fuck, indeed. Clare paused a minute, dialled Mandla Njobe.

Mandla, said Clare. I need a favour. Pictures from the Neigh bourhood Watch cameras. Can you go into the office?

Im here, Doc, said Mandla. What do you need?

Friday, twenty-fifth of May, two people saw Rosa Wagner
at the KwikShop. The same place Chadley Wewers did his late-night shopping on Friday. Its on the way to Sylvan Estate.

Whats Captain Faizal say? asked Mandla, respect in his voice.

Right now, hes on a plane out of Cape Town, said Clare. Official orders.

Why? The Cape is what he knows, we need him here.

Economic Stability Unit, said Clare.

Doing the dirty work for dirty politicians, said Mandla.
And Wewers did you ask that piece of rubbish if he was at the shop three weeks ago?

I would if I could, said Clare. Jakes Cwele released him, so you have to help me. Im relying on the Neighbourhood Watch cameras, the ones you Mountain Men monitor.

Eish, said Mandla. What time was this girl there?

It was late, one or two in the morning. Then she walked up the road. There are some facial recognition
cameras half-way up, I want to know if she passed that way.

We already checked those, said Mandla. They dont show anything.

Please check again, said Clare. From one till three, on the twenty-fifth of May.

OK, Ill call you back.

Clare thought of Riedwaan, about to head north to sprawling Joburg with its Highveld dust and veld-fire smoke. It took her a long time to compose the text she wanted
to send him. She put her hand on her belly.
Jirre, vok, jys in die kak, meisie
, is what Ina Britz might say.

Then her phone rang and it was Mandla and she could stop thinking and start doing again.

You find anything, Mandla?

Theres a picture of a girl with a funny suitcase at 2.03.

Thats her. Tell me what you can see.

Not much, said Mandla. She goes into the shop, comes out, goes round the
back, goes back into the shop, then shes out and she just walks into the dark.

And thats it?

She takes her case and walks down the road, said Mandla. No vehicles, nothing. Shes there and then shes not.

And further down the road?

Theres a camera there, said Mandla. But it didnt pick her up.

OK, said Clare. Ill check it out.

She ended the call, shoving her phone into her jacket pocket. An
articulated truck with engine trouble pulled up behind the garage, blocking the exit. She was about to ask the driver to move when she saw the black Pajero pull into the filling station. Cwele and a couple of uniforms went into the KwikShop.

Clare slipped around the side of the building. A path led down to the road, the one that Rosa had walked that dark night not too long ago. She looked up
at the mountains, gilded by the low solstice sun. Wednesday would be the tipping point, the sun at its lowest point in the sky. In two days time light and warmth would slowly begin to return to the Cape. Right now, though, with Cwele hunting for her, it was not hard to imagine herself in Rosas position.

The plane was on the tarmac, the doors still open, flurries of icy air laden with fumes. Riedwaan looked around him. The cabin was filled with cops. You could smell them, Axe deodorant, shaving cream, braais they had had with their families, the sweat that comes with an old plane in a storm at the start of a runway.

The ground crew was scurrying under the fuselage; it was clear that theyd
still be sitting for a while.

Clare wasnt calling him back.

He looked out of the window. Storm clouds swirled around Table Mountain and the granite spine that led all the way to Hout Bay and the tip of the peninsula.

He thought about the baby. About the shutdown in Clares heart. He knew the reason: a reluctant twin, shed fought all her life to be separate. For Clare, this would mean the end
of that.

Riedwaan closed his eyes. Shut out the hard-eyed, sunburnt men and their familiar complaints, their stories about the old days, a time when the Economic Stability Unit was still called the Riot Squad and the Constitution hadnt fucked up law and order and the cops right to sort shit out. Their silent, gaping audience was a group of raw recruits from the Flats Mandelas Children, the generation
born into post-94 democracy.

A
Cape Times
lay on the floor, the front page aflame with reports of riots, falling share prices. Thats why he was on this fucking plane, sitting between men whose trigger fingers were itchy. His phone flashed. He opened Clares message terse yet tender.

He put the phone back in his pocket, thinking about how to reply when it rang, a muffled buzz against his heart.
He answered without checking who was calling.

Faizal, turning away from the man sitting next to him.

Im so sorry, Captain.

It was the sweet-faced hospice nurse. Khadija. That was her name. He could picture the brisk little badge on her left breast. But he knew what was coming; her tone was too gentle.

Its your mother. If you can come now, Captain.

Tell her, said Riedwaan, the burn in his
chest making him want to hit someone, tell her Im coming.

He was unbuckling his seat belt, standing up, and grabbing his hold-all.

Sit the fuck down, Faizal, ordered the Economic Stability Units commanding officer; thin, blond, with Klipdrift-bloodshot eyes, he was coming at him down the narrow passage.

This planes taking off, man, he shouted.

Without me, said Riedwaan.

The officer pushed
him back towards his seat; Riedwaan dropped his bag but kept his balance. Then he had him by the front of his officers uniform. The engines were revving. The officer saw the look in Riedwaans eye. He hadnt survived this long in the police by fighting for principle. But here was a situation where he could hand his boss a wanted mans head on a platter.

Im not going to stop you. The officer smiled
a Judas smile. But you step off this plane, youre disobeying orders, and Im taking that as you handing in your resignation, Faizal.

Take it any way you want. Riedwaan let him go, wiped his hand on his trousers. He shouldered the bag and pushed past the officer. There was a widening gap between the stairs and the plane, but Riedwaan jumped, ran down the steps and crossed the wet tarmac.

The officer
stalked back to his seat, saw Riedwaans cellphone flashing on the floor where it had fallen. He stamped on it, crushing the phone underfoot.

Rosa. Clare could imagine how she had felt. Money small compensation for the shame. Her skin burning. The loathing, the nausea setting in. Hiding herself in the shadows under the avenue of trees.

The pavement was broad and leafy, the path alongside marked with regular piles of horse dung. Apart from the distant thrum of a lawnmower, all was quiet. This road, Clare knew, meandered up towards
Orange Kloof. Further along, there was a short-cut across the Disa River, which led to the music college and Handel House.

At the end of the road was Sylvan Estate and the house where Rosa had made her last phone call. There were few exits along the road skirting the mountain to her left, other than turn-offs to secured estates. The road curved towards the river, and Clare could no longer see
the garage where the Pajero had parked. She breathed easier for it.

She kept going, a kilometre or two, imagining Rosa seeking shelter. She arrived at the vanishing point, a steel pole with its facial recognition camera the latest anti-crime deterrent in Hout Bay. Clare looked up at it, imagined its electronic eye scanning her face, transmitting her image to the Mountain Men computers.

Clare
called Mandla Njobe again. Youre picking me up on your monitors?

I see you, Doc, he said. Sharp and clear.

And if it was night? asked Clare.

Wed still see you, said Mandla. It wouldnt be as clear, but if she was as close as you are, thered be enough street light for a shot.

So youre saying Rosa didnt make it as far as this?

Thats right, said Mandla.

How far can the cameras eye see? asked
Clare.

In the daytime, couple of hundred metres, easy, said Mandla. The one nearer the garage the same. Less at night, though. But Doc

What is it?

You be careful. The mountains not safe that side.

Im walking down a road in broad daylight, Mandla. If theres something there, Ill call you. If theres nothing, Im going home, said Clare. Ill be fine.

Captain Faizal asked me to watch out for you
for a while.

Thats sweet of him, said Clare, unable to contain her irritation. But I can look after myself, thank you.

Clare looked back at the way she had walked, the bend in the road that hid the garage from view. If the distance between the surveillance cameras was greater than a kilometre or so, there had to be a blind spot. If Rosa never got this far, where did she go?

Clare turned, walked
back slowly, concentrating on places where she may have hidden her unwieldy cello case. A couple of copses of trees, the undergrowth dense. But there was no sign of disturbance. Clare retraced her steps. Further down, a footpath leading towards a house set back in the trees, but it was blocked off by coils of razor wire. A bit further on a disused driveway, the gate and the wall topped with electric
fencing.

Again, no sign of disturbance. Certainly no sign of the cello case.

She was another hundred metres down the road when she noticed the sign, partially obscured by a tree. The faded face of the tear-stained bokkie, warning hikers not to start mountain fires. Clare stopped. The sign marked the end of the contour path. A notice pasted onto the sign:
Private: No access for horses
.

Below
it was a new gate, securely padlocked, but there was a narrow pedestrian entrance. Clare looked up the winding path. She opened the map; the path was marked. It led up to the Back Table, a vast swathe of land between Hout Bay and the Table Mountain that tourists knew, with its flat top and expressionless stone face. It was probably not the dark Rosa feared so much as people. Clare imagined the silence
of the mountain, broken only by the distant sound of running water, beckoning. If Rosa had taken this route it would explain why she never appeared on the next camera.

Clare walked up the path. It was overgrown, but not unused. It wouldnt be easy to carry a cello case up here, but not impossible. She walked on, looking for a place where Rosa may have stopped, may perhaps have hidden the instrument.