Capture (24 page)

When his hand finds the mouse and he calls up his model of her and watches her dance, it no longer disturbs Exley that he can’t see past his recreation of his daughter. He starts to work again, his grief lost in the music of the clicking mouse as he coaxes Sunny ever closer to reality.

Chapter 37

Vernon’s knock wakes Dawn in the morning and gets her out of bed. She wraps herself in an African cloth patterned with giraffes and lions and Zulu huts before she opens the door. He pushes his way in, thick and heavy in his uniform, and says to her, “Looks like your problems are over.”

“What you mean?”

He throws a copy of the Cape Flats scandal sheet,
The Voice
, on the bed, next to where Brittany is sleeping, her thumb in her mouth. Dawn sees the front page: SOCIAL WORKER STRANGLED. There’s a picture of that mean-faced little bitch, Merinda Appolis. God rest her soul.

Dawn can’t help it, the words just pop out. “Jesus, Vernon, what you done now?”

Vernon laughs. “Me? You stupid or what? I like you, Dawnie, and I want you to keep your brat but no fucken ways I’m gonna kill for you.”

Dawn scans the article: a homeless man found the woman’s body last night in the veld outside Paradise Park. Suspected robbery. Maybe a sex crime.

Dawn says, “What if some other social worker carries on trying to get Brittany away from me?” Speaking soft, so as not to wake the kid.

Vernon shakes his head. “With the caseloads those people got?    Forget it. Your troubles died with her.”

Dawn is still trying to digest this, wondering how she got so lucky, when he says, “You feel like making a quick couple of grand?”

“Who do I have to fuck?”

“I said couple of
grand
, Dawnie, not couple of
rand
.”

“Funny, Vernon. Funny.”

“No, serious, I got this friend, does video work—”

“I’m not doing porno. Forget it.”

“Jesus Christ, Dawn, will you just shut your fucken mouth?” Vernon looking like he could smack her. “Listen, he’s a legit guy. Does
Avatar
kinda stuff. Needs somebody to dance for a music video. No stripping, nothing. Just dancing.”

Dawn lights a cigarette, squinting at him through the smoke. “You fucking with me, Vernon?”

“Ah, man, I don’t need this grief.” He heads for the door and she sees the couple of thousand walking out with him.

“Wait,” she says. “Where’s this guy?”

“He’s Llandudno side.”

“Okay.” She shrugs, knowing she could live to regret this.

“I’m going down to get me some smokes, so get your ass dressed,” he says, opening the door. “You got somewhere to leave the kid for the day?”

“The babysitter. But I need cash.”

“I’ll lend you the cash. You can pay me back later.” He slams the door and his boots bang away down the corridor.

Dawn dives under the shower, soaps her body quickly—keeping her hair out of the water—then rushes through naked and still dripping and puts on her sexiest outfit: a tight low-cut dress and a push-up bra that makes the most of what she’s got. Steps into a pair of peep-toes with heels high enough to break her neck on. She drags a brush through her hair to tame it a bit, then gets busy with the make-up. Never met a guy who didn’t like a painted woman.

When Vernon comes back he freaks. “Fuck it, Dawn, where you think you going? Streetwalking? This is a sophisticated guy, for Chrissakes. Go wash your face.”

She starts to moan but he holds up his hand like he’s stopping traffic. “Just do what I say.”

So she goes back into the bathroom and scrubs her face clean, puts on the last bit of her moisturizer—has to strangle the tube—to give a glow to her skin.

When she comes out he says, “Now you wear what you always wear onstage.”

“You serious?”

“Ja, I’m serious. Put it on.”

“Turn your back,” she says.

“What?”

“Turn your back!”

He stares at her like she’s smoking
tik
. “I don’t believe it, you show your fucken box to a hundred guys a night, now suddenly you shy?”

“This is my bedroom, not a pussy bar. Turn.”

He turns and she pulls on a fresh white shirt and jeans, finds a pair of flops, and she’s everyday Dawn again.

“Okay,” he says, checking her out, nodding. “At least now you don’t look like a whore.”

They dump Britt with Mrs. de Pontes and Vernon drives them away from the misery of Goodwood, the air heavy with car fumes and something ripe that blows in from the Maitland abattoir, passing the take-outs and used-car lots and sad little strip malls, out to a world come to life from a movie.

They twist down a road to a house made of glass, looking like the ocean’s gonna float it away, some skinny white guy blinking at them by the gate, all surprised and confused, a bit pissed off even, that they’ve just rocked up. Vernon walking him inside, yakking to him, leaving Dawn out on the deck.

Dawn’s never been in a place like this. Seen pictures in the glossy magazines, sure, but the only time women like her come this side is if they’re cleaning up after the whities or selling their pussies.

But if there’s a gap here she’ll take it. No question, because when Dawn saw the white guy she saw an opportunity: youngish foreigner—though not as young as she first thought—alone in this beautiful house on this private beach. Vernon filling her in on the way over about the guy’s wife and daughter dying a few days apart.

She paces the deck, listening to the waves, watching the sun on the ocean, thinking how much Brittany would like it here. Poor kid hardly ever gets to the beach. Such a drag to travel from Goodwood: they have to take two taxis, crammed in with old aunties and stinky kids and tattooed young bastards with rapists’ eyes, hot hands ready to grope.

Dawn’s feeling her nerves and wonders if she can sneak a quick smoke. Better not. Vernon’s still inside with the guy. She hopes there isn’t a hassle, but that’s Vernon all over, isn’t it? Mr. Bull-in-a-fucken-china-shop.

Here he comes, Vernon, limping out of the house like he owns it, big grin on his face, the whitey, Nick, following him.

“So, Dawn,” Vernon says, “I wish I could stay and watch you dance and all, but I’m going on duty now. I’ll come by later, okay?”

Dawn nods and Vernon splits and she’s left staring at this white guy, so pale and thin like the wind could just lift him and float him away.

She does look Brazilian, Exley thinks. Vernon Saul got that much right. With her light brown skin and wild hair, she could be an Ipanema girl. 

But when she opens her mouth, she’s pure Cape Town. “Man, I’m really sorry, Nick, if Vernon’s taking a liberty here.” That speedy delivery, one word tailgating the next, with a bray that grabs hold of the
r’
s and stretches them.

“It’s okay,” he says, but he hears how unconvincing he sounds.

“I think I should go. I can get me a taxi up by the main road.”

“No, please, Dawn, stay,” he says, and suddenly he means it. She’s here and Christ knows he needs some human company. What’ll it hurt if he does the thing for Alberto?

He manages a smile. “I’ve had a pretty tough week. Sorry if I acted like an asshole.”

There’s some softness in her eyes, and that’s like a balm to him. “Vernon told me a bit about what happened,” she says. “I can’t imagine it. I got me a little girl, too.”

“Yeah? How old is she?”

“She’s four.” Dawn smiles and Exley sees how beautiful she is.

“Same as Sunny.” He’s choking up here. “Listen, I need to go inside and set up some gear. You okay? Need anything to drink?”

“No, I’m fine. You go do what you gotta do.”

Exley grabs a liter bottle of Evian and two glasses from the kitchen and goes into the studio, has a drink of water, composes himself, wiping his eyes. In the steel cabinet he finds a motion-capture suit that’ll fit Dawn and drapes it over a stack of hard drives. Then he boots up the software and cues Alberto’s music.

When he walks back out onto the deck the woman is down on the sand, barefoot, smoking. The wind lifts her hair as she stands and looks out over the ocean, unaware of him.

“Dawn.”

She turns, leaking smoke, embarrassed, waving the hand holding the cigarette. “Sorry, I hope you don’t mind?”

“Out here it’s fine. But computer gear doesn’t like smoke.”

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Where can I chuck this?” Waving the cigarette again.

“The sand,” he says. “God’s own ashtray.” Sounding lame.

But she’s good enough to laugh as she drops the smoke and uses her foot to cover it with beach sand. She comes up onto the deck and follows him through the living room and into the studio.

“Sit,” he says. He pours two glasses of water and hands one to her.

Dawn gulps it down and he refills it.

She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. He sees her fingernails are bitten. “Sorry, man. I didn’t realize I was so bloody thirsty.”

He drinks, catching her warm woman smell under the fading cigarette smoke. Focus, Nick, he tells himself. “Okay, Dawn, just to give you some idea of what I do here—did you see the movie
Avatar
?”

“Sure. The blue people?”

“Yeah. Well, it was all done with what’s called motion-capture. Human actors creating the movements that are married to computer-generated models. You following me?”

“Hey, we got TVs out in the ghetto, Nick,” and he colors but she laughs and gives him a little nudge in the ribs with her elbow. “It’s cool, treat me like an idiot. Safer that way.”

He shows her the motion-capture stream of Sunny and then his work-in-progress of her dancing.

“Is that your daughter?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“And what’s it? Like a video you shot of her?”

“No. I built her. Modeled her.”

“You telling me that’s not real?”

Exley nods and with a mouse-click strips away the artifice, leaving Sunny as a skinless wireframe. Then he dissolves back through to the photo-realistic rendering.

Dawn’s eyes haven’t moved from the screen. “Wow, that’s fucken amazing.” She puts a hand to her mouth. “Sorry, but it is. Please, show me again.” She watches it once more and then stares at him. “So, you’re a seriously talented guy, or what?”

Exley shrugs. “Believe me, there are way more skilled people out there.” He stands and lifts the mo-cap outfit. “Okay, this is the suit I want you to wear. The sensors will capture your movements.”

“Mnnnn,” she says. “Kinda kinky.”

He smiles. “Are you okay to change in here, or would you like the bathroom?”

“No, this is cool. I’ve changed in worse.”

“Good. Then call me when you’re done.”

He leaves her, closes the door after him and goes out onto the deck, watching a cigarette boat speed by, thumping the water, a kayak getting tossed in its wake.

“Nick.” He turns and she stands in the doorway, the suit molding to her curves, and right there Exley feels something that he hasn’t felt in a very long time: a hot rush of desire. He pushes it away.

“Great.” He walks through the living room, stops in the empty area outside the studio, on the expanse of white tiles. “You got enough space to dance here?”

“Ja, no problem. You don’t wire me up?”

“Nah, it’s all remote.” He enters the studio, keeps the door open, and triggers the motion-capture, speaking to her from the workstation. “So, why don’t we try one? I’ll play the music and you get a feel for it. I’m not going to direct you, just go with what works. We can do it as many times as you need.”

“Sure. I’m good to go.”

Exley hits Play and the lush sound pumps from the speakers. Dawn closes her eyes, rocks a little to the beat, moving only her shoulders and her hips, then she starts to jack into the rhythm and go with it and she loses herself in the music and, Jesus, she can dance, an achingly beautiful blend of sensuality and something else—a sadness and pain that comes from way down deep.

Exley has to turn away, busy himself at his workstation, check on the data capture, to still a yearning that no man who has done what he’s done should allow himself to feel.

The silver cremation urn winks at Vernon, catching the sun as it rolls on the passenger seat of the Sniper truck when he speeds through a hairpin on the road plummeting down to Llandudno beach. The cheap little urn was waiting for him at the Sniper offices this morning, delivered by his undertaker buddy, along with an envelope containing five crisp new hundred-rand bills. Vernon’s kickback for making the connection.

He looks forward to handing Exley his dead kid’s ashes when he goes to the house later, to collect Dawn. Smiles at the thought of the pain in the skinny whitey’s eyes.

His little reverie is interrupted by headlights flashing in his rearview. At first he thinks it’s some impatient bastard wanting to pass him, so he edges toward the curb, but the car stays glued to his ass, lights making like a disco. Vernon pulls over, outside a triple-level pile of stone and glass. A pale Ford slides in behind him. He waits but nobody emerges from the car. Cursing, he cracks the door and levers his bulk out, pain shooting up his withered leg.

As Vernon limps toward the Ford, ready to give the driver a mouthful, he sees Dino Erasmus’s ugly face through the windshield and his nut sack yo-yos upward in his skivvies as a nasty little twist of fear takes him low. Erasmus pushes open the passenger door of the car and Vernon slides inside.

“Dino,” Vernon says.

Erasmus looks down his snout and says, “Didn’t know you was a pimp.” Vernon just checks him out, says nothing. “So, what, you Mr. Delivery now? Bringing dark cunt to rich whities?”

“What you want, Erasmus?” Vernon asks, keeping it cool.

“That little whore, Dawn Cupido, you tight with her, ja?”

Vernon shrugs. “I know her from the club. Threw a dancing gig her way.”

“Ja, the fucken horizontal mambo.” Erasmus’s nostrils do a little dance of their own as he sniggers. “What she give you to get rid of Merinda Appolis?”

This catches Vernon like a kick to the gut and his voice sounds strangled when he says, “Dino, either you start making some sense or I’m walking.”