Indigo Vamporium (4 page)

Like surfing.

Jo's smile could power a lighthouse when he looks my way, the breeze ruffling his hair, “They invited us to a party!”

“Yup,” I say, flopping down next to him and looking back up the beach again, wondering about Tasmin with her intense stares and shy silences.

Chapter 4

Tasmin:

Sandra is working until three and Carrie-ann has to do shopping and stuff with her mom. That means I'm alone all day with nothing to do.

Gnawing thoughtfully on my lip, I strip off my gym shorts and runner's top, considering my options while stepping into the shower, closing my eyes against the thawing spray.

It reminds me of him swimming while I froze my ass off on the rocks. That was so weird.

I must have imagined it. Or there's another route to the beach I don't know about. One second he was there alone, next he was gone, and then he was there with another guy.

I didn't have a good look at anyone because I was just so freaked out by running into him again while he's hanging with all his cool friends.

They're way older and I am all teeth and blushes around them. They must think I'm such a loser.

Hanging my head, I grind my teeth at how many times I've made myself look like a total doofus in front of him. I probably gave them a lame laugh before I was instantly forgotten.

Mom's working until late, there's Brett's party tonight, so I think I'll take my scooter for a drive around to Kalk Bay. I'm seventeen and love being the legal age to drive, plus it's still early so there won't be much traffic. Yeah, I think I'm just gonna kill time snooping through all the old shops on that side of the coast.

*

Pausing outside the art gallery I sneak a glance in the glass of the store window, looking at the reflection of the people milling around the sidewalk behind me, searching for a stalker.

Shielded behind pillars of postcards I scan the street but can't see anyone staring directly at me, or even anyone familiar.

I can feel eyes on me. It's heavy, foreboding, and rimes my skin with ghostly shivers.

With my sixth sense tingling I traverse through the labyrinth of shoppers, quickly putting distance between me and the congestion I've already meandered through. It's an obstacle course, but the tension in my stomach and shoulders is chiming warning bells through my nervous system, chasing me faster into the throng.

Needing to escape the glare from the too bright day, I step into one of the shops lining the road from Kalk Bay to Simon's Town. It's crammed between second hand and antique stores.

This stretch runs along the congested and narrow Main Road. It is a treasure trove for finding old vinyl records, deceased estate wares from faded sepia photos to ancient medicine bottles and vintage clothing stores.

Many store fronts are dated, tucked carefully between old Victorian architecture, some still dressed with iron petticoats painted bright white, adorning them in a whimsical and romantic facade. It gives some entrances the appearance of being framed with swirly filigree, belying the corrosion of salty sea air.

This is a walk of a bygone era before shopping malls and geometrical simplicity. There's hardly enough room for the pedestrian traffic because the narrow walkway is stumped up tight to the smooth tar road. This was created for a time when fewer people walked these streets and tourism didn't have a noose around the coast with thousands of people flooding this city every few months.

Double story buildings slathered in faded pastels face parallel street parking on their doorsteps, which gives a lot of entertainment if you're stranded in a coffee shop on a Saturday morning. Road rage flares up when so little parking is available and logically challenged drivers do hungover twenty-three point turns to get their cars parked, holding up traffic for ages as there is no way past the obstruction until their front bumper obediently faces the next cars in the bays behind and in front.

This road scrolls its scenic path toward Cape Point. If ever I needed to invent a past this is where I'd scrounge for history. You can create an entire album of ancestors with someone else's photos found in dingy back rooms stuffed with old wooden crates and decaying cardboard boxes. They are so disheveled and disorganized it reminds me of someone's attic which hasn't been cleared out for decades.

It's a treasure hunt, which is why I love coming here. You never know what you are going to find. I've unearthed many unusual trinkets wiling away hours of holiday boredom up and down these steep streets.

The railway line sits between the other side of Main road and the beach. It gives this eclectic neighborhood a squalid vibe. I've been here a few times at night, when it feels like an abandoned ghost town. It's eerie in the dark with the sea splashing a forlorn soundtrack up against the vacant shops which are abuzz during the day but sinister and gloomy after nightfall.

Dodgy characters cling to windswept shadows while drunks stumble from the wrong side of the track to their cars. Urine hued pools of weak light barely illuminate from the sparse street lamps, giving the entire strip a jaundiced pallor of sleaze.

I would never come here alone at night after seeing some of the drug deals sought out by being in the wrong car with the wrong crowd on our way out for the evening. The flamboyant cross dressers gaily light up the mornings from time to time but at night even they know better than to hang out down here, preferring to stick to bustling tourist jaunts and the arena around Rondebosch with its classic and tasteful nightlife.

The water is choppy today and military vessels in dull lifeless gray block the infinite view to the edge of the ocean. Snapping my focus away from the street and outdoors, I face the inside of the shop I randomly entered to hide.

Blinking, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior, the first thing to hit me is the choking scent of incense. It's a relief to get out of the blustering wind, but it's a little too stuffy in here. Oriental scarves dangle from hoops, wind chimes hang so low I have to duck to miss them, and the subliminal tribal drumbeat sneaking out of hidden speakers imbues an occult ambiance to the clandestine establishment.

Clutter is scattered on racks and shelves, shielding the back in impenetrable shadows. Cutting left I circle the wares piled up to block the windows, surveying new age paraphernalia, crystals, amulets, scrying bowls and tarot cards.

A breath strokes down my nape. In shock I hinge around to face behind me. It creeps me out that I'm standing alone. The only thing hulking over me are dream catchers adorned with dyed guinea fowl feathers.

Suspicious and edgy, I keep an eye on my periphery, pretending to continue my perusal of mood rings and lockets. Inching deeper into the folds of mystery, the sensation of being touched curls cold fingers around my arm.

My heart begins dancing erratically and I stop, determined, facing the racks, glaring around me in warning. Protection crystals catch my eye and I pick one up, fingering it through a convulsive shiver.

This is bull. That was not my imagination. Someone definitely just exhaled into my ear. Watching the scarves for evidence of a breeze, their patterned drapes remain still.

Fear tiptoes down my spine.

Claustrophobia wraps a tight shawl around my soul and I take another cautious step back, deeper into the heart of the esoteric cave.

Peering nervously into the gloom I search for the spirit walker fidgeting with my aura. Gripping the amulet tightly in my hand I inch into the inky depths where the smog of incense puffs stale wraiths into my lungs. Absently winding the leather thong across my fingers, my fist tightens around the quartz stake.

The heartbeat from the tribal drum increases to a frenzied tattoo, a shrill voodoo cry wailing over the frenzy. It echoes my pulse, crisping the panicked perspiration leaking between my shoulder blades.

Walking backwards, facing the glow from the entrance and the skyscrapers of racks burdened by silks and potions, my breath explodes when the curtain falls across me at the exact moment a hulking presence fills the doorway, completely blocking out the light.

Holding my breath, trying to get a grip, I jump when a hand closes over my own, a sultry voice whispering, “Shhh.”

A rain stick breaks the solitary moment with a sprinkle of tinkling rice, echoing grimly into our secluded chamber. Blinking rapidly, I stare at the short lady at my elbow giving me a serene vacant smile.

She looks high on her opium incense, her brown eyes heavily lidded in peacock blue, a stereotypical scarf adorned with coins wound around cascading blond curls.

Lifting her free hand to her face, she presses a long taloned finger to her lips, conveying I should remain silent.

Glancing beyond her, the only light in this material box is a crystal ball lit from beneath, on a kitsch purple satin cloth spilling over the sides of what I surmise is a rickety secondhand table.

I must have backed into her fortune telling booth.

She shuffles around me, pressing her face to the slither cutting the two halves of her curtain with exterior light. Spying on the customer in her shop she grips the cloth in the pinch of two green false nails.

Watching the person beyond, she seems tense.

This isn't normal. Why does she spy on her customers instead of offering to help them? As if sensing I'm about to say as much, she snaps to face me, her hand again gripping mine and clenching so tight her nails dig in.

“Shh...” she insists with muted urgency.

A male baritone clears its throat beyond. Hard boot heels patrol their ominous rap closer, stilling right here on the other side of her flimsy curtain.

Leaning away from the incremental gap in the curtain she makes a sign across it, as if sealing us inside it with arcane power.

The creak of leather slices the silence, then the rattle of racks being rifled through. Trinkets are jumbled in their box and a bottle clunks back onto a shelf.

He clears his throat again, calling out, “Hello?”

An icy draft shudders through me and I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath.

The gypsy remains silent. The only indication I am in here with another person is the cloying oppression of her perfume permeating the hotbox.

Noises drift to us, the tribal music now a slow low pulse riding swells of trance. Medicine rattles shake, a stopper uncorks in a loud belch, and then a swish wafts to us in a clear sea-rich breath.

“He's gone,” she whispers, turning to face me.

I'm now cornered by her and the only way past is if she steps away from blocking my escape.

“What the hell was that all about?” I ask her.

None of this even makes sense.

She sways her hand in front of me, indicating my 'space'. “You felt him coming. You sensed him before he came in. I could see it.”

“Who was he?” I demand.

Who the heck is following me?

She shrugs, flicking a suggestive glance at her crystal ball. “It will cost you.”

Forget that for a lark. I'm getting the distinct impression I'm being schmoozed.

“It's okay, thanks,” I say, offering her a polite rendition of a smile. Gesturing to the doorway she's obstructing, “I'll just be on my way.”

She holds her hand out, looking pointedly at my fist.

A shameful blush heats my neck as I unclench my hand and return the crystal pendant. She probably thinks I was going to shoplift it. Honestly, I forgot I was holding it.

“Thanks,” I mumble, stepping closer to get past her.

She sidesteps, letting me through, and just as I part the curtain and place a foot beyond, she clutches my arm, stalling me.

“You could feel him because he projects. His desire is that strong. He knows dark magic. Be wary.”

He? Who is
he
?

“Yeah, I will. Thanks.” Wrangling my elbow out of her clutch, I rush to the doorway, breaching the threshold and escaping onto the sidewalk.

Fresh air hits me like an angelic kiss and I inhale it in long pulls, flushing my lungs out with the fresh breeze.

Wow, it was really heady in there with all that smoke. When she closes up at the end of the day it probably looks like a cigar lounge.

Looking behind me I scan the people milling around, recognizing no one. Stepping forward to continue my pickle through the stores, I end up bumping into a man walking briskly past. The force is so fierce I ricochet off him, losing my footing as I dip lower than ground level, off the curb and into the road.

Arms flailing, I windmill to catch my balance. I'm going to fall directly into oncoming traffic! Help!

A firm grip clamps my wrist and yanks me forward. Recognition slams into me as I stare at him.

“Oh. Hi,” I squeak in the tiny voice.

This is
so
embarrassing.

“You okay?”

How many times is this going to happen? We literally bump into each other.

“Ah huh.” Rolling my lips inward, I scan three pairs of feet. None of them are wearing boots. Sandals and running shoes do not make footsteps like the ones I just heard.

So you are not
him
.

“I gotta go. See ya,” I mumble, still staring at three sets of shoes and then dashing back up the road to where I parked the scooter.

Where's an invisibility shield when I need one?

Chapter 5

Tasmin:

Brett is mister perfect. He's the kind of guy who is friends with the cool kids and the mediocre, and yet he looks like he just came off the production line at Prima.

No matter how hard the wind blows his hair stays immaculate, he never has scuffed trainers or dirtied jeans. I wish I knew his secret. The wind just has to look at me and my hair gets all exorcist on me.

Hooking my arm through Sandra's, we walk up the steps and enter the home. It's nothing fancy, just a plain sprawling suburban home with a neglected garden made up mostly of low scrub coating beach sand. Brett lives with his mom and sister, in Sun Valley. They've gone up to Knysna for some oyster snorkeling adventure and while they're away Brett and the cool kids will play.