Muti Nation (23 page)

“Are you okay, though?” Rynhardt breaks the awkward silence threatening to settle around us.

“As okay as can be, considering the circumstances,” I say, forcing a smile. “Thanks again for coming to pick me up.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiles back. “I didn’t know occultists even had informants, especially ones who hang out around The Rabbi’s franchises.”

I shrug. “Did you think my leads came out of thin air?”

“Maybe. For all I know you commune with ghosts.”

“Ghosts? No. I’ve never actually seen a ghost. But I suspect there’s a demon in my house.”

“I was kidding.”

“I know, but I wasn’t.”

Rynhardt frowns as he looks to me, studying my face for dishonesty, I suspect. When he finds whatever he’s been searching for, he turns back to the road. “All right then.”

More silence.

“See? This always happens!”

“What?”

“This.” I gesture between us. “I repel good guys.”

“I don’t think so—”

“I’m good guy bane,” I insist. “As soon as good guys figure out how real my job is, they bolt. Not that I blame them or anything, but my ego can’t withstand the rejections for much longer.” I brush my hair behind my ear, and cross my arms over my chest. “If I didn’t have any dignity left, I’d wallow in self-pity.”

“I’m not repelled by you or your job, Esmé,” Rynhardt says, turning onto the always busy N1 highway. “If anything, I’m more—”

His words are cut short when the car jerks suddenly, shaking us in our seats. The vehicle veers into another lane without warning. My nails dig into my palms as I watch the nose of the Ford Ranger miss the taillights of the next car by a hairsbreadth. The radio switches on by itself and runs through AM stations. The static noise is the least of our problems.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Rynhardt orders me as he battles with the steering wheel.

“It is on. Slow down!” I watch us miss another car by centimetres.

Instead of slowing down, though, the car speeds up. We hear honking behind us and beside us.

“Rynhardt!” My hands move to the armrests to brace myself against impact.

“I’m trying!” he screams, pumping the brake, battling the wheel, and switching on the four-way flashes, all at once.

Blurs of colours streak past as the engine moans from being pushed to its limits. The speedometer’s reading increases with each passing second.

I reach to the radio with a shaky hand, trying to switch the damn thing off. It’s useless. Every time I come close to the stand-by button, the car swerves, bumps, or jolts my hand away.

I glance up in time to scream,“TRUCK!” when the sixteen-wheeler appears directly in front of us.

The registration number of the truck grows larger and larger as we approach. Rynhardt’s eyes widen, like those of a poor animal caught in headlights. His one arm reaches out in front of me, a further brace for when we collide. His other hand stays on the wheel, shockingly white from clutching it.

Seconds become endless hours.

I use those hours to watch my pathetic life play itself out before my eyes. When that’s done I get to wonder about what I’ll miss out on if my life is cut short tonight. No husband. No kids. No growing old enough to reminisce about how different the world used to be way back when. There’ll be nothing for me except a lifetime of regrets.

There’s still time left after all that’s gone through my mind.

Enough time to let me imagine the cacophony of sounds hitting us like a tidal wave, hearing the engine being ripped apart like tinfoil while metal fuses with metal on impact. I can envision the way the doors tear apart; the windows shatter into a billion little pieces. I can already smell burning rubber and feel how we’re thrown around deleteriously, even though we are both strapped into our seats. What happens next? A resounding quiet? Pain?

Before any of my thoughts can become reality, the Ford Ranger jerks into another lane, away from certain death as if the car has a mind of its own.

“Jesus,” I gasp. My heart is propelling so much blood through my head I’m beginning to feel dizzy. The sweat trickling down my forehead burns my eyes, blurring my vision. My throat constricts after a sob manages to escape.

Rynhardt slows the Ford Ranger and coaxes it to the side of the highway.

I have the safety belt off and the door open before the car comes to a complete halt, then I’m out. Gasping, filling my lungs with warm oxygen and exhaust fumes, I wander around aimlessly on shaky legs. My hand is pressed against my diaphragm trying to get my heartrate under control.

That aside, the world seems brighter, and the air tastes sweeter.

Rynhardt walks around the front of the car, heading to where I’m still regaining my wits. His strides are long, fast, resolute, bringing him closer before I can comprehend his intentions. He takes my face in his hands and crushes his lips against mine. Hungry, desperate, grateful—those elements turn my skin and lips ultrasensitive. Sparks ignite as his tongue massages mine, drowning me with vibrant sensations. Malleable lips envelope mine, the kiss growing deeper and ravenous. I fall into his embrace without considering the consequences and grab hold of his white button-down shirt with both hands to stabilise myself.

Whether it’s Howlen’s rejection, the alcohol in my system, or the near death experience responsible for my lack of inhibitions, I don’t know. What I do know is I’ve never felt more alive, and there’s no way I’m about to squander the opportunity to live.

Rynhardt moves his hands to my hips, and takes a tentative step forward. I’ve danced to this song before but it somehow feels new, so I take a step back. My fingertips trail down his stubbly cheek and over the side of his chin. I direct one hand past his Adam’s apple, over his neck, and across his collarbone.

A hoarse sound escapes his lips. He tugs me closer, closer still, until only our clothes separate us. I shrug off my crochet wrap, right there in the field beside the highway, taking another step backwards. Rynhardt guides me toward the Ranger, his one hand venturing to loosen the buttons of my dress.

Our urgency grows along with our electricity and passion.

We somehow manage to get into the cramped backseat of the car without injuring ourselves. I unbuckle his belt and undo the button of his pants as his hands roam over my body, exploring my form through the thin material of my sundress. Every time our skin meets, his touch sends fireworks through me. My cotton thong is hastily removed, discarded over his shoulder and out the open door.

Rynhardt tugs my hips into position, his mouth never leaving mine. My dress shifts high over my thighs and he settles between my legs.

He slides himself inside me, and my world bursts with starlight and pleasure.

I grab hold of the armrest above my head, arch my back, and exhale loudly.
This
is living. Where a single touch can set your world on fire…
This
is what being alive is meant to feel like.

I moan against Rynhardt’s mouth, relishing in how our bodies melt together.

When we’ve established a steady rhythm, his hands explore and caress in ways that drive me insane. His mouth moves away from mine, kisses trailing along my jawline and down my neck, and I take the time to draw in quick, deep lungsful of breath. Rynhardt reaches the nape of my neck and he finds a sweet spot… and… and—

“Don’t stop.” My whisper is a few decibels higher than normal.

I grip the armrest tighter as my body responds to his. Throaty moans, high and low, intermingle with loud gasps and short exhalations. My ecstasy is potent; infectious enough to send Rynhardt over the edge too. A guttural sound is muffled in my neck as he rides his own orgasm while I’m coming down from my high.

Our laboured breathing is the only communication between us as we enter the recuperation period. After it passes, Rynhardt pushes onto his elbows and fumbles to button up my dress.

I watch him, smirking.

When he’s done, he sits upright to make himself more presentable. I swing my leg over his head and sit up beside him.

“I don’t know what came over me,” he says.

“I know what you mean.” I straighten my dress, trying to ignore the slick stickiness of his seed between my thighs. I make a mental note to pick up a morning-after pill the next day on my way to work, but he doesn’t need to know that. Rynhardt seems like he’s got enough self-guilt and regret to deal with already, so what’s the use of bothering him with that little piece of information? “I should—” I gesture to the open door, “—get dressed.”

“Of course, sorry,” Rynhardt says, slipping out of the backseat and helping me out.

Once my feet are on the ground, he walks to where my wrap is lying, searches around. “I hope you weren’t attached to your underwear.”

“Don’t worry, these days I have to buy in bulk anyway.” I say, accepting my wrap from him. Rynhardt frowns in response. “Remember the demon I told you about?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a kleptomaniac with a thing for lace underwear,” I explain.

He opens the passenger door. “I can never tell if you’re lying or not.”

“I have a tell when I’m lying,” I say, reluctantly climbing back into the Ford Ranger.

“What’s your tell?”

“My lips tighten when I speak.”

“Noted.” He forces a smile, closes the door, and makes his way around to the driver’s side.

I buckle the seatbelt again and throw a silent prayer to whatever god or goddess might be listening at this time of night.

Rynhardt climbs in, takes a moment to lock his seatbelt in place, and inhales deeply. He glances out the window to the starry heavens. He turns the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life. The Ford Ranger slowly pulls back onto the N1 highway.

The tension and awkwardness mutes us the entire way to my solemn, silent house.

He parks in front of the garage. The headlights brighten the metal garage door I’ve threatened with a new coat of paint for the past year, but haven’t gotten around to doing. Fully intending to voice a platitude for the lift, I turn in my seat to find him already looking at me.

“Thank you for—” I cut myself off, feeling foolish on one hand and reckless on the other. “Screw it.” I throw myself across the partition separating us, and onto the mercy of his lips.

~

My alarm clock reads 3:06 a.m.

I’m sitting cross-legged in a pool of sheets on my bedroom floor, my back resting against the edge of the bed. I’m working by the dim light streaming in from the corridor. Distorted photographs of
Him
, supposedly, are arranged in front of me according to the date they were taken by the unknown photographer. In my hands is an A5 notebook with hundreds of names and addresses scrawled inside. Hastily written notes accompany some of the names, whilst others are completely crossed out or only have question marks beside them. I see Valentine Sikelo and Carol-Anne Brewis amongst the rest, as well as Abraham Amin, but nothing is noted with their names. It’s disturbing.

The bed shifts behind me before warm hands settle on my bare shoulders and hot breath is blown against my neck.

“Why don’t you put on a light?” Rynhardt asks in a whisper, as if the night might shatter, or the spell hanging over us would break if he speaks any louder.

“Because then you wouldn’t be able to get your beauty sleep,” I whisper back. I turn my head to catch a glimpse of his ruffled hair.

His hands disappear momentarily before he throws one bare leg over my head and I wiggle forward so he can shift into the space between me and the bed. His arms wrap around my waist and his legs cocoon me in his body heat, while he studies the information over my shoulder.

“What’s this?” He picks up one of the distorted photographs.

“
Him
,” I answer, paging through the strange notebook. “Every image is the same. Everything around
Him
is in focus, but he’s not. It’s odd.”

“Where’d you get them?” Rynhardt reaches for another photograph.

“I can’t disclose the names of my informants.” I hold up the notebook for him to see. “Does this handwriting look similar to the note we found the Abraham Amin’s crime scene?”

Rynhardt’s other hand also disappears from around my waist as he takes the notebook for closer inspection. I sit forward to empty the rest of the manila envelope’s contents on the floor, waiting for his opinion.

“I can’t be sure, but the “e” does slope the same way,” he says, paging through the notebook.

I fish out a few stapled pages from the envelope, but before I can start reading through them Rynhardt says: “There’s an inconsistency here.”

“Hmmm?” I turn slightly, brushing the tip of my nose across his shoulder.

Rynhardt holds the notebook so some of the light catches the page and points to the “R.R.,” with a simple note in the margin: “eliminate if compromised.”

“R.R. could be anyone,” I say.

“True, but it sounds more like someone
Him
might know.”