The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories (6 page)

i couldn't help but grin.

you got the house and your brother the boat.

but it was me your mother had loved.

 

Your choreography tutor tried to make you do it in your first class.

Your choreography tutor, who was at least one hundred years older than you (three years older), engaged to a diminutive interpretive dancer and prone to disappearing into the John Wayne face of the greater Eastern Cape, offering no excuse or substitute for the cancelled class left by his escape.

You didn't know how to talk to the other people in your year yet, thinking of yourself as a groceried slab, mouth tinned together like a can, denting and impassable. You practiced your moves, bulbous on those bowed haunches, sure that what was birthed, buffered, from your back could only be appealing some kilogrammes less. You had a snack while they hubbed around: the gays and the Indian girls, with their pink and jangling fingers; the Lebs and the Jews who could smell you one sweating, unpirouetting mile away (And that! At the convent, they'd rationed you, the second-generationers, to two a grade at most! Here, institutionally, you were as varied as washing powders, an Adriatic Shipping spectrum of imported packaging).

Suddenly, he asked for a volunteer.

A hand found your back and, before you could attack, moved you, (‘Easy, easy,' he whispered), into the centre of the group.

‘Believe that the core will catch you!' crooned the tutor, lilting lightly off one level to the next as you circled each other, before trilling, ‘But be careful! Don't scratch it!' Referring, of course, to the floor.

You eyed him, uncertain. ‘Look,' you said, finally. ‘I can't.' And he accused you of harbouring trust issues. In his safe space! Thus, stunned, you were shunned until the next game. You told your beloved about it, later, on the way to her dining hall. This moment – her elbow by yours. Small seconds for your arsenal.

Two terms later, when you refused to do it (again!), your tutor, that bad man whose gall you suspected had, by then, also shrivelled into stones in the opinions of your friends, got up on stage to show you how. ‘It's simple!' he barked. ‘Just watch!'

So, you held each other at the wrist bones, ready. As he fell, there was a collapsing of arms. A break in the fold. Later, you blamed an anonymous weak grip, its clammy clutch slipping, amniotic, out and loosed. But that was bullshit. There was something else to be taken into account. A collective limb complicity or an exhausted muscle's catching instinct to abandon. Rare and beautiful to you, maybe to no one else. You didn't talk about it, or plan it, but you all knew: you let go, together, at the same time, in your first act of choreography.

 

Dear God,

It's a week before the Rapture and I'm really worried about my dog, Panda. He's eleven years old and he's never known any other home than mine. I wish he could come with me to you, but the rules are that you only qualify if:

So Panda probably meets criteria b) because I wash him regularly while praying, but not the others. Dogs can't really sin.

Though there was the one time when I saw him mounting that other male dog, Brinjal, from across the street. What a mutt Brinjal is. So I wonder if that counts as sodomy. It probably does. At Sunday school they say boys shouldn't love other boys.

Most importantly though, Sunday school also says that Panda doesn't have a soul. I know he relates to me and he definitely has a personality and misses me and loves me. But, according to the Good Book, he's soulless, meaning he can't come with me when I go to heaven. He is, in a sense, yet another possession I have to let go of.

He'll be left here among the sinners and the lukewarm Christians and the Jews and the Muslims and the Hindus and everyone else who's unworthy.

God, I hope Mrs Leibowitz down the street doesn't find him. She's the worst! She's always leaning out her window and telling me to pick up Panda's poo off the sidewalk. Like I wouldn't do it already! She thinks she knows more about dogs than I do because she has two of those hairless tiny things that are always cowering away, shoving their tails beneath their asses. What type of animal always looks petrified?

I know that I know Panda the best. Which is why I'm so worried. What will happen to him? I guess I'll just pray that something good will happen. I have to have faith in your decisions.

In your name,

Tom

 

*

Dear God,

You won't believe it! My prayers to you must have helped. I've found a solution to the Panda problem. I was browsing the internet late last night because I'd had too much coffee. I suddenly thought to Google ‘animals and the Rapture' and you won't believe what came up.

There is a guy in the town neighbouring mine who is offering a service where he'll feed and walk your dog after the Rapture. Even though he's a sinner, he is a kind soul. He says he was raised a Christian, but doesn't think he'll make the cut.

For only one dollar a month, he will come to my house daily and make sure that Panda is looked after. I signed up immediately using the credit card number Dad gave me for emergencies. The money will come off automatically even after the Rapture, so I don't have to worry that he'll forget my Panda.

He already has over twenty-five thousand people signed up and a team of more than fifty people who will make sure animals are safe and sound until the four Horsemen come to destroy the earth.

After which, there will be no Panda to worry about in any case. I am so relieved.

In your name,

Tom

 

Jayne read the ad on
Gumtree
one morning at walk while sipping on a coffee. It was seven a.m. and no one else was in yet. She was browsing the 'net, postponing the start of her day. ‘Got ghosts?' read the header. And then: ‘Spirits wreaking havoc in your home? Friends afraid to visit? Neighbours gossiping? Kids wetting the bed? Professional ghost-eater for hire. Reasonable rates. Phone Fred. Cape Town, southern suburbs, Plumstead and surrounds.' Picking up a pencil, she scribbled the number on a pink Post-it note, glanced over her shoulder, and quickly clicked the page shut.

 

Jayne's house was Victorian. One of those classic double-storey affairs you see all over Tamboerskloof. Broekie lace, high ceilings and the works. With a big, ancient oak tree in front. She'd painted the exterior a dark grey, after reading in a décor mag that this was the in colour right now, and left the broekie lace white. They'd bought it a few months after getting married. It had been part of a deceased estate and every cent they'd ever saved went into the deposit. They moved in on a rainy Monday in September, while the southeaster rattled windows and doors. On the first night, when the noise kept them awake, they thought it was the wind. It's an old house, they told each other as the floorboards creaked and groaned, the cupboard doors slammed and low moans billowed from the ceiling.

 

Fred Mostert was a big man, probably in his early forties, with a beer-and-chops belly and a spietkop moustache that sprouted every which way like an old toothbrush. ‘I think I've figured out the problem, ma'am,' he told her after spending a good hour running a little bleeping gadget over walls, carpets, cupboards and power sockets; pacing up and down her backyard and sticking his fingers in the flower beds while whistling to himself. ‘There's just one more thing I want to check.' Crouching next to the swimming pool, he conjured up a collection of sample jars from his bag, and filled them with pool water, followed by three squeezes from a small vial, inside which was a clear liquid that turned the water bright purple. ‘My bliksem … Yes, this is just what I suspected. There seems to be an old slave burial ground underneath your swimming pool.'

Her lips struggled with the words, ‘A b–burial ground?'

‘Yes, ma'am. Probably around seven or eight spooks, see. Judging by the particular tint of purple of the specimen, I'd say the last body was probably laid to rest here around 1770.'

‘Are you sure? I mean, how can you know?'

‘Well, ma'am, my equipment, you see. This is high-tech stuff. The data never lies. Also, guessing by the bumps all over the ugly mug of that fellow lying behind you on your deck chair, I'd say the smallpox outbreak of 1767 was what did most of these guys in.'

‘Oh.'

He tugged a notepad from his breast pocket, pulled a pencil from behind his ear and scribbled furiously. ‘Yes, this is going to be quite a job … quite a job. I'll have to work out a special quote for this one and get back to you. In the meantime, ma'am, whatever you do, don't tell the council about this. Otherwise you'll have a whole other level of bureaucratic bullshit on your hands. Slaves are really political right now, you see. Those donners in the government … Next thing you know the press will be at your door and a few months down the line your house is a museum and your swimming pool some kind of memorial. Um, no, we'll have to keep this one quiet, I think. Strictly an inside job.'

She led him to the front door. They said their goodbyes and he promised to call. She watched as he squeezed past her azaleas towards his car.

 

Four days later she heard from him again. She was sitting at her desk at work. When she noticed the caller ID, she grabbed the phone and sprinted to the bathroom. ‘Hello,' she whispered into her BlackBerry as she slipped into an empty cubicle.

‘Hello, ma'am. Fred Mostert here. Is this a bad time?'

‘Uh, no, not at all, I'm just in the … library, that's all.'

‘Ma'am, I've done some calculating and the whole procedure's going to cost you R6 000 plus R800 for expenses. Considering the high number of spooks we're dealing with, I'm going to need some extra equipment. I've also roped an old friend in the business – she's quite familiar with the Ou Kaap: the way they did things back then. She also speaks a little bit of Kitchen Dutch, and some of that fancy English of back in the day, so she'll be able to help us talk to the spooks.'

‘That's a lot of money.'

‘Yes, ma'am, but this is a tricky job. You're welcome to shop around for a better quote and get back to me.'

‘Um, no. That's okay. How soon can you slot me in?'

‘How about tomorrow, ma'am? Around six p.m.?'

‘Fine. Perfect.'

‘And, ma'am. I'm going to need a white tablecloth to work on. I find I do some of my best work on white tablecloths. Not patterned, not beige: it has to be crisp, Omo-white. Anything else just distracts me. And if you've got any decent silverware, please make sure it's polished and ready.'

‘Uh, sure. Whatever you need.'

 

The doorbell rang at six p.m. sharp. Jayne's husband was at the gym. Afterwards, he was meeting some friends at the pub to watch a game. She hadn't told him about Fred, didn't want him to know she had resorted to this. He still believed, although somewhat less obstinately than before, that the house was just old: that wood had a habit of expanding and cartracting and gusts of wind and temperamental hinges caused cupboards and doors to open by themselves.

She'd taken the afternoon off at work and spent it trawling the fluorescent aisles of Canal Walk to hunt for an ‘Omo-white' tablecloth that wouldn't break the bank. Arriving home, she'd set up the table by the pool according to Fred's instructions. She was busy polishing the silverware when she heard the bell.

He was waiting on the doormat, a large black duffel bag slung across his shoulder. ‘After you, my lady,' he addressed the thin air to his left before shuffling into the house. Jayne ushered him into the lounge and put the kettle on.

‘Aren't you having any?' he asked when she came in with the tray, laden with milk, sugar and two cups.

‘Um, I …

‘Of course, where are my manners, ma'am? I sometimes forget that not everyone has The Eye. Ma'am, it is my pleasure to introduce you to my colleague, Lady Anne. Lady Anne, this is my client, Mrs Jayne Finlay. It's her spook problem that we're here to solve.'

From his posture and the angle of his head, Jayne gathered that Lady Anne was sitting on the sofa, to Fred's right. She peered at the vacant space and mumbled a quick ‘Pleased to meet you', feeling an absolute tit.

‘Lady Anne is a big tea drinker, you see. She can't exactly drink it like you and me anymore. But she does like a good warm cuppa in front of her. It reminds her of the good old days.'

‘She can have mine. I don't really feel like tea. But remind me again what exactly she's doing here?'

‘Lady Anne is going to be a great help, ma'am. She used to live here in Cape Town back in the day of those guys in your yard. She was quite the business back then. Lived in Newlands. Her house, she tells me, is a larney hotel now. There's even a street named after her. She's gonna help me communicate with the spooks. Explain to them what's going on before I start eating. It always helps to have a little chat before getting down to business. I find the spooks tend to be much more agreeable that way. Otherwise, you might end up with tables and lawn chairs and all your best china flying about.'

‘I see.'

‘If you've been dead and forgotten as long as they've been you tend to have quite a temper, you understand. Not everyone finds being a spook agreeable, especially if they've been spending all those years squashed up in one dark spot like these guys under your pool. Lady Anne, on the other hand, is quite enjoying the lifestyle. She's spent the past few centuries travelling, meeting like-minded spooks, and she's even working on her memoirs. She was quite the writer in her day, see. She's in the city at the moment to give a paper at a spirit conference at the Castle of Good Hope. What's your presentation on again, Lady Anne?'