Kill Baxter (28 page)

Silence.

‘Good. Stay focused out there. Being in the middle of an egregore is like being stuck in a psychic tornado. Remember your training and do not deviate from the plan.’

I’ve always wondered about the psychology of the type of man who owns a yellow Ferrari. Luxury sports car ownership takes a special sort of soul anyway, the type who isn’t fazed by the sheer ridiculousness of revving his million-buck piece of racetrack engineering when stuck behind a Korean hatchback with a stick-figure family on the back window.

There are more yellow Ferraris parked outside the convention centre than I’ve ever seen before. Looking at them all makes me feel slightly nauseous.

I glance up at the sturdy concrete and glass of the building. Ronin shakes his head and sighs. ‘Dwarven architects. Nobody could really accuse them of being tasteful.’

We find a parking spot in a dimly lit side alley next to a Somalian stallholder. He gives us a nod as we get out, and taps his ear twice. ‘One of ours,’ Ronin says.

‘Nice outfit, by the way,’ I say as we follow the crowd towards the entrance. He’s wearing a white jacket with shoulder pads, a mauve tie, and has his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.

‘Timothy Tyson,’ he says, flicking the ID card on the lanyard around his neck. ‘From
Tigerbox
magazine.’ He eyes my grey jacket, T-shirt and skinny jeans and gives a contemptuous sniff. ‘At least I made an effort.’

TV crews and reporters are standing against the backdrop of the convention centre. They speak solemnly into their microphones, as if to communicate the extreme cultural gravity of this event. This is undermined somewhat by the truly hideous peacocking of the attendees.

The egregore is a palpable feeling in the air, and this amplifies the fashion world until it crackles and distorts. This is a place where malformed ideas are given birth to in a gush of fabric placenta and champagne amniotic fluid. Unhindered by the sober checking force of society, nothing is too impractical, too ridiculous or too mind-numbingly disgusting to be wrapped around a body and called fashion.

I see Nom and a small Asian guy in a lavender tuxedo, Katinka disguised using her abilities for illusion, entering the building.

‘You have fun, Tinks,’ Ronin whispers into the microphone at his cuff. The Obayifo and the Flock both have the ability to disguise themselves with illusion. King told me illusion is a common evolutionary trait among the Hidden. It helps them to avoid being killed by humans.

The Asian guy turns and gives us a salacious wink, then pretends to rub his chin as he speaks into his cuff. ‘I always have fun under the covers, Jackie-boy.’

‘What now?’ I say.

‘We find Meptu,’ Ronin says. ‘She’ll be in disguise, so you’re going to need to turn your mind-camera to maximum resolution. We find her and then send in Tinks and Nom to track her.’

We enter the brightly lit foyer and Ronin gives our undercover names to an efficient-looking lady with a clipboard.

‘Your media passes,’ she says, clipping another card to our lanyards. ‘These will get you in everywhere except the VIP rooms.’

‘Perfect, thanks,’ I say.

‘Your first interview is over here.’ She takes my arm with a smile.

‘Wha—’

‘Designer Frenk Heidens,’ she interrupts, ushering me expertly into the media enclosure. ‘Let’s not keep him waiting.’

I give Ronin a desperate look, but he just shrugs. The efficient lady deposits me in a bucket chair in front of a bored-looking man with grey hair and sharp eyebrows that make him look like an owl. He glances at his nails and then across at me.

‘Who are you?’ he asks with a German accent.

I glance down casually at my ID lanyard. ‘Ermm, Daniel King. From
Fashion Fiend.

‘Well, Daniel King,’ he says. ‘Are you going to ask me anything? Or shall we just stare at each other?’

‘Yes, um, of course.’

My mind kicks into rerunning every bit of fashion TV I’ve ever watched, desperately searching for something to say. The problem is, every bit of fashion TV I’ve ever watched has been models walking down runways and people in Milan fanning themselves and looking bored.

‘Clothes are important because they stop us from being naked,’ I blurt out. Yeah, really good start, Baxter. ‘How … does that fit into your, um, work?’

He looks at me for a long moment, his owlish eyebrows raised. Well that’s that, then. I’m going to blow my first real MK6 assignment in the field within five minutes.

‘That,’ he says, ‘is the most … BRILLIANT question I have heard all day.’ He claps his hands together in delight. ‘Clothes protect our primal vulnerability. The inner core of tenderness is primary to my work and is obvious in the way I use pastel colours.’

‘Obvious,’ I say with a nod.

‘It really goes back to when I was five years old and had an oddly intimate and spiritual experience with a cravat …’

Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the media centre with my mind barely intact. Frenk’s history and philosophy are so convoluted and nonsensical that I feel like I’ve been through a wormhole. I find Ronin at the buffet table.

‘Well, thanks for that,’ I say.

‘Important for our cover,’ he mumbles through a mouthful of mini quiche.

‘What have you been doing?’

‘Chatting to Sandile on the phone,’ he says. ‘Turns out your Draken visited at the African Regent last night.’

‘Crazy bastard,’ I say. ‘He must be trying to follow me.’

‘Can’t worry about that now. He’ll be fine. Nobody is going to fuck with a Draken.’

‘Any sign of Meptu yet?’

He shakes his head.

‘Frenk mentioned that there’s a show on now. Meptu might be in there.’

Ronin grabs a handful of sushi from the buffet. ‘Then let’s go view some fashion, sparky.’

We stroll into the area that houses the main runway. I attempt to look like I belong by adopting an expression of smug superiority. We squeeze into a couple of the seats at the back and start scanning the crowd.

‘I won’t be able to tell what Meptu looks like,’ Ronin whispers. ‘Could be male, female, old, young. You’re going to have to take point on this one.’

I make a sweep of the people closest to us; there are plenty of ill-advised hat choices, but no Obayifo beneath them. I look up as a house beat begins to pound from the speakers. A model appears and deadpans it down the runway. My stomach lurches as her lithe Eastern European body seems to shimmer, and I catch sight of the outline of the swaying insectile abomination beneath. Skinsect.

More models appear, all Skinsects. I tell Ronin.

‘Not unusual,’ he tells me. ‘All the cartels use them.’

‘Meptu has got to be here,’ I say.

‘How about you find her then? She must be in one of the front rows. Don’t waste your time on the cheap seats.’

‘Yes, boss,’ I say acidly.

I continue to scrutinise the crowd as a monotone voice-over describes the clothes. This collection is called ‘Theoretical Inversions’ and has models in black sheets with upside-down lampshades on their heads. My scan of the front row yields no Meptu. It’s only when the speakers announce the next collection, ‘The Sorrow of the Existential Mist’ – models in white sheets with bubble wrap covering their faces – that I see her.

Her disguise is a trendy older gentleman, immaculate grey hair gelled and parted on the left, thick hipster glasses and wearing a slim-fit grey suit. But beneath it I see the fat slug body of the Obayifo.

‘Got her … him … it,’ I whisper to Ronin. ‘Front row. Older guy, grey hair, glasses.’

Ronin relays the description into his cuff.

‘I’ve managed to access the attendance records and cross-reference them,’ the Witch says into our earpieces. ‘There are quite a few possible hits with that description. Anything distinguishing about him?’

I strain my eyes and see a simple triangle tattoo on the back of his hand. I describe it.

‘Constantine Dubreq, a fashion buyer,’ the Witch says triumphantly. ‘Good job. It’ll be easier to track her now we know who she’s disguised as. Keep an eye on her. Katinka and Nom will take over from you shortly.’

Which is easier said. The show ends, everyone stands up, and it becomes incredibly difficult to follow Meptu through the crowd. ‘You go out the way we came,’ Ronin says. ‘I’ll circle round and take another exit. Radio in if you find her.’

I slip out of the exit and catch a glimpse of the Obayifo disappearing into a cocktail bar on the other side of the auditorium. I weave my way through the crowd. And run straight into the back of Kyle.

‘Kyle?’ I say. ‘Dude, what the hell are you doing here?’ He’s wearing a huge tweed jacket that engulfs his thin frame.

‘Oh, so now I’m not allowed to enjoy fashion either? No magic, no fashion. Please, do make a list of things that I should avoid,’ he says bitterly.

‘C’mon, man,’ I say. ‘That’s not what I meant at all.’

‘Whatever. If you must know, I’m on a date.’

‘A date?’ I say, the surprise making my voice squeak. ‘With a girl?’

‘Yes, with a girl,’ he says. ‘I have a girlfriend. Which from what I’ve heard is more than you can say.’

Ouch. That really hurt and he can see it on my face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘That was a low blow.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It was.’

There’s a really long awkward silence. On the hierarchy of social awkwardness it’s so far above a bungled handshake or a mistimed hug that it’s almost another species.

‘Anyway,’ he says eventually. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Me too.’

‘Keep well, Bax,’ Kyle says hoarsely.

‘You too.’

I stumble after Meptu feeling like maybe I’d rather just let the Bone Kraal wipe humanity out.

‘Here for the street-style blogging panel discussion?’ asks the official at the entrance to the cocktail bar.

‘Um, yep,’ I say. ‘Street-style blogging. Absolutely.’

He inspects my media pass and waves me inside.

The inside of the bar is all chrome and violet light. People with advanced degrees in looking and acting cool litter the place. A small stage with a line of microphones has been set up next to the bar and a couple of people are sitting at a table on it and sipping from bottles of water.

I find a table in the corner to hide at. Meptu is on stage, chatting casually to the people at the table.

‘Found her,’ I whisper into my lapel mike. ‘In the cocktail bar, ground floor.’

The bar begins to fill up and Meptu taps on her microphone. ‘Welcome to today’s panel on street-style blogging,’ she says. Her voice matches her smooth fashion designer persona perfectly, a masculine baritone with a clipped transatlantic accent. ‘On stage we have Vintage Mindy, Clem9 and AngelaDevi, three of Cape Town’s foremost fashion bloggers. Note that our hashtag will be #KILL for the duration of fashion week, so please follow our bloggers as they find the hottest street styles. Up first is Vintage Mindy and her take on the themes that define her generation.’

‘Like, post-sincerity is the new irony,’ Mindy proclaims into the microphone, her colourfully painted fingers moving incessantly as she speaks. ‘Post-sincerity’, I learn, is when something is worn, spoken about or displayed without any overt irony, because the irony is buried so deep that it actually looks sincere, but in no way is it to be mistaken for actual genuine sincerity, which had a revival in 2010 but is now again considered passé. ‘In fact, I’m being post-sincere right now,’ Mindy says with a smile.

‘Any sign of the Muti Man?’ Ronin says in my earpiece.

‘Haven’t seen him,’ I murmur into my cuff.

The bloggers talk and my mind starts to drift. My eyes wander to a woman sitting in a booth across from me in conversation with a harassed-looking assistant. She’s in her sixties, with grey hair that’s gelled into a fifties ducktail. She’s wearing a necklace made of laminated receipts and a tight white T-shirt that says GIRL BONER on it in electric blue lettering. Her assistant is a small man with huge round glasses and a waxed moustache.

‘Cape Town,’ she says in a posh British accent. ‘What do we like in Cape Town?’

Her assistant flicks through a notepad. ‘Penguins, lemon sorbet, small poor children, and one particular type of endangered grey fish. In that order.’