Like Clockwork (17 page)

In the hallway there was a picture of Whitney radiant at a school dance – she was with a boy wearing a suit. Clare let herself out. She got into her car, ignoring the three men pimp-rolling slowly down the pavement away from number twenty-three, and made her way back home. Dropping her things on the hall table, she went to tidy the spare room. Clare turned back the duvet. The shell-curl of Whitney’s body was still there in the slight impression on the sheet. On the white pillow was the indentation her head had left, and also one long
black hair. Clare straightened the bed and pushed back the curtains. She glanced around the room, the used glass in her hand.

The only thing out of place was the top row of the bookshelf. Her books were so tightly packed that she could see at once that a book was missing. It was the one she had written about Constance. She sat down on the bed; her head slumped onto her knees. She hoped that her sister’s story would help Whitney, although she doubted it. Constance was still trying to read, to get others to read, what had been scripted with such violence onto her naked body twenty years before. Clare thought of Mrs Ruiters’s question about her daughter’s spirit. Hot tears, shocking because so rare, slid down Clare’s arms, running between her fingers. She had been too late, she had failed to help. The guilt she usually assuaged with her crusading journalism dragged a moan from her hidden self. She did not know how long she had sat there, rocking herself, but she was stiff when she got up to answer the shrill phone. She did not recognise the number that flashed on her caller ID, so she waited to see if there would be a message.

‘Hello, Dr Hart, I was waiting for you to get home.’ The sibilant voice was familiar. ‘Just to remind you that we have a date. See you at eleven. Give your name to the doorman. He’s expecting you, and he’ll bring you up to me.’ Clare felt sick. Kelvin Landman and his Isis Club. ‘I hope you enjoyed your little drive.’

Clare had forgotten about him, could not bear the thought of being anywhere near him. She was about to call back and cancel, when she noticed the flash on the machine telling her there was another message waiting for her. She pressed ‘play’. It was from her producer in London.

‘Hello, Clare. I need rough footage to prove that you’ve reeled in your pet gangster. We’re not going to swing it without
that. I’ll have it some time on Monday, won’t I, darling? Lovely weekend – weather’s lovely here. Bye.’

‘That’s it, then,’ said Clare to herself. She showered, feeling soiled by the phone message. Landman’s timing was uncanny.

For once, she found it difficult to decide what to wear. In the end she settled for plain black. No jewellery. She called Riedwaan at home.

‘I’m going to interview Landman,’ she said.

‘What for?’

‘For my documentary,’ said Clare. ‘I am meant to have another life, remember?’

‘It’s no coincidence that he’s talking to you just after you take that girl home. Be very careful,’ said Riedwaan.

‘I will. I’ll be in public with him.’

‘Watch your back.’

‘I’m always careful,’ said Clare. ‘Will you be at home later?’

‘Maybe. Why?’

‘Just wondering,’ she replied.

Its gold door handle distinguished the Isis Club from the halfhearted businesses that operated on the shabby eastern fringe of the city. Blackened windows prevented people from looking in. The doorman appeared when cars arrived. Some he directed to an empty parking lot. For others, a snap of his fingers summoned a valet. Clare decided that she would take the risk and park in the street. She was surprised at how self-conscious she felt going to a strip club alone, and was glad for the weight of her camera bag. It grounded her, announced her occupation to anyone who might stare at her. The doorman opened the door before she reached the handle, leaving her hand raised uselessly. She let it drop back to her side, disconcerted.

‘Clare Hart?’ he asked. The muscles around his neck bulged against the stiff-collared dress shirt.

‘That’s me,’ she answered, relieved that she did not need to explain. ‘I’ve come to see Kelvin Landman.’

The bouncer nodded, picked up his cellphone. ‘She’s here. Will someone come down?’ An eager press of men was gathering behind Clare. Her back prickled uncomfortably.

‘Miss Hart, do you mind stepping into the bar and having a drink? Mr Landman will be with you shortly.’ The bar counter was a majestic sweep of gleaming russet wood. Clare
took the leather stool she was offered and ordered a whiskey from a girl tagged: ‘Melissa. I know I can help you’. The weight of the name tag made her transparent top sag strategically, to expose a rouged nipple.

Clare looked around the room as she waited for her drink. Opulence was blended with restraint. On the dark walls hung a range of erotic prints, coy French maids beckoning, black and white Japanese illustrations with strategically placed slashes of crimson, leering English squires bending rosy-cheeked milkmaids over rustic fences – it was a connoisseur’s collection. Deep leather armchairs in gentleman’s-club green and red huddled around low tables, were occupied by groups of paunchy, slack-mouthed men. A few had awkward wives with them. More animated than these were the guests with unabashed young women draped over them.

‘Hostess service,’ said Melissa, bringing Clare an excellent single malt. ‘Three hundred an hour for one. Five hundred for two. Meant to be no touching.’

‘That must be difficult,’ said Clare. She was watching a short-skirted blonde work her breasts up a man’s bare arm as she moved her pouting lips against his ear. Whatever she was saying made his tongue – wet and pink – protrude.

‘
Ja
, those guys wreck your clothes. There’s meant to be no touching now – just getting them ready for the show or the private rooms. Afterwards is open to negotiation, of course.’

‘Who’s that girl?’ asked Clare.

Melissa followed Clare’s gaze. ‘Cornelle, I think. She’s new. Do you know her?’

‘We’ve met before,’ said Clare.

‘Do you want to speak to her?’ asked Melissa. Cornelle turned, sensing that she was being watched. She blanched when she saw Clare.

‘I don’t think she wants to talk to you,’ said Melissa.

‘I think you’re right.’ Clare took a sip of her drink.

Melissa looked Clare up and down. ‘We don’t often get ladies,’ she said. ‘Hardly ever on their own.’

‘Who do they come with?’

‘The older ones come with their husbands usually, hoping it will stop him getting bored with their saggy tits and everything. The younger ones come with their bosses. They quite often buy the underwear. Would you like some? I can give you a catalogue.’

‘Thanks,’ said Clare. ‘I would like one.’

The girl reached under the counter and handed Clare a brochure; embossed in gold on its cover was the outline of a woman’s sumptuous body. ‘Cool, hey,’ said the girl. ‘They’re new. The whole place is going upmarket. The new owner bought all those expensive pictures to hang. And our movie catalogue is going to be great too.’

‘I didn’t know Isis made films,’ said Clare.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Melissa. ‘We used to just order from America or Holland and then sell them on. Now we’re making them here. Cape Town has such a great film industry. Really skilled technical people, you know. And that will make things much more professional for us.’ She wiped the counter and set out dishes of stuffed olives.

‘What sort of movies are you making?’

‘It’s all under Isis Productions. I’ve been in two already. I got to choose my own costumes too. But those were only soft-core. There’s also hard-core, girls-only
flieks
– all the usual stuff. Some of our customers like to star in their own blue movies. So we’ve been doing some of that too. Some only like to have the lapdances filmed. Others like more. It’s cool for them. Quite expensive, but cool. There are also some girls who do live webcam stuff – so anyone who can afford it can do pay-per-view from home.’

‘Did you ever meet a girl called Charnay?’ asked Clare.

‘Charnay . . . that’s a good name. Was it her real name?’

‘It was. Charnay Swanepoel.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘She was slim, tall, very long black hair. About seventeen. Apparently she was interested in making films too.’

‘I can’t remember. Maybe I saw her. Check our website. There are pictures of all the girls who have been in anything to do with Isis.’

‘I will,’ said Clare. ‘How old are you, Melissa? Where are you from?’

‘Me? I’m from Beaufort West. You can’t imagine how boring the
platteland
is. I came here when I was seventeen, but I’m nineteen now. But I look young still, hey?’ she pulled her mane of blonde hair into two pigtails and batted her eyelashes. ‘I do quite a lot of the barely-legal stuff – you know how many guys just freak for the schoolgirl look.’ She was thin, fragile even. In a uniform, without make-up, she would pass for fourteen. Or less.

‘Who is the new boss?’ Clare asked. Melissa’s effervescence was gone. The colour drained from her face, leaving her blusher starkly scarlet on her white cheeks. She fumbled with the glass she was wiping. Clare looked into the mirror behind her. Kelvin Landman stood in front of the thick velvet curtains.

‘Hello, Clare. You look lonely.’ He smoothed her hair. ‘I’m glad that Melissa has been keeping you entertained.’ His diamond cuff links glinted as he leaned against the bar and snapped his fingers – boldly displaying his power. A drink materialised and Melissa was gone, taking a tray to check on already scrupulously tidy tables. Landman picked up his glass.

‘Come through,’ he said. ‘The show is about to start.’

Clare followed him, bringing her drink with her. Landman held the heavy curtains aside and she went through. The room
was an updated Moulin Rouge: the ubiquitous kitsch of commercial sex. The low stage was draped with plush red and gold. A low ramp thrust its way into the centre of the room. Men clustered at the tables, moving the chairs to be closer to the promise of the dancer’s ramp. The mandatory poles were present, painted shiny black and red. Kelvin Landman’s table was on a small raised dais, his entourage smaller than when Clare had met him at Otis Tohar’s party. ‘Where would you like to set up your camera?’

‘Here,’ said Clare, positioning the tripod so that the strippers would appear behind him when they came onstage. ‘This is perfect,’ she said, clipping the camera into place, checking batteries, tape, light. She pinned the mike under his shirt, startled at how smooth, how cold, his skin was. Then she sat back, watching him preen. The lure of celebrity that a lens promised was irresistible. Clare gave her standard caveats, that she was recording this interview, that he should answer in full sentences so that she could be edited out later, that he should look into the camera’s eye and not hers. She asked him to tell her who he was, where he came from.

‘Kelvin Landman. Born in 1968 in Cape Town. I grew up on the Flats. I had my troubles with the law. I was involved in street gangs where I lived in Manenberg. But who wasn’t, there?’ he grinned broadly at Clare. Then he remembered her instruction and looked back at the camera. ‘I had some trouble with politics too, so in the eighties I went overseas. Into exile.’

‘Where did you go? How?’ prompted Clare.

‘To Amsterdam. My uncle was in the merchant navy at that time. And as you can imagine, there are many places to hide on a boat, especially if you are a pretty boy. Which I was, in those days, believe it or not. I worked my way over and jumped ship in Amsterdam. I met some people working
there, started at the bottom and worked my way up. Then I got asylum papers, so I was legal.’

‘What exactly were you doing there?’

‘A bit of import, bit of export – luxury goods. They’ve got it sorted there, I tell you. Hash bars and the women selling themselves with no problems from the police. I learnt how to run a business.’

Clare’s face was wiped clean of expression. ‘Explain the import-export thing to me.’

‘You figure out what is in demand and then you supply. You can get what you want as long as you are willing to pay the right price. That is the business principle I have applied since I came back to Cape Town. We import vodka and hot Thai chilli. And we have lots of sweet things to export – wine, peaches.’

One of the men sitting listening sniggered. ‘Shut the fuck up, Benny,’ snarled Landman. ‘Whose fucking interview is this?’ Benny held his hands up in submission and cowered into his seat. Turning to Clare, Landman took a deep breath. ‘Where were we?’

‘You were telling me about supply and demand. What about here? In this club?’

Landman looked around, genuinely proud. ‘I supply my clients with what they need.’ He pointed to the men waiting along the ramp. The music throbbed. ‘And I provide employment.’ He grabbed a passing hostess, her buttocks exposed in tight black hotpants. He twisted her flesh, his eyes holding hers, daring her to do anything less than smile delightedly through the pain. ‘What else would these girls find to do?’ he asked, dismissing her. Clare watched her retreat, a welt emerging on the smooth skin. ‘I suppose you could call me a philanthropist. I give men what they need and women what they deserve.’

The lights suddenly dimmed, releasing Clare from the
interview. A pulsating drumbeat filled the air, the rhythm unmistakable. Clare turned her attention to the stage. A spotlight cut through the darkness, illuminating a girl, naked apart from the intricate metal bondage gear biting hungrily where her flesh was softest. She was tightly blindfolded. Her tongue glistened red behind her parted lips. Two corseted women, strapped into high, shiny boots, stepped out of the darkness to spreadeagle her and handcuff her to a pole. Both held whips that they flicked first across their hands and then across the girl’s breasts. The sound cracked sharply in the silence, and the girl’s nipples stood erect. Slowly, the music began to pulse faster, and the lights went up a little. The strobe turned slowly, tattooing the girl with flickering pornographic inanities. Each new word brought fresh blows from the stiletto-heeled dominatrixes. The girl writhed, either in faked agony or orgasm. Clare watched, mesmerised.