The New Girl (Downside) (2 page)

Duvenhage sits and faces him across the desk, his smooth-skinned, pudgy face sheened, that oily smile. Ryan sits across from him, all casual deference calculated to placate the petty bureaucrat.
Duvenhage shifts a pink folder across his desk and clasps his hands above it. ‘As you know, Mr Devlin, Crossley College is concerned that the... ethos of the institution is pervasively and
consistently upheld by each one of its members, whether that be student body, teaching staff or support services.’

Ryan lets him talk, nodding at the right times. The ethos. He’s heard a lot about that. From what he can see, it’s the same ethos as at his own high school: bullying, repression and
conformism. Couching it in corporate cant doesn’t change it. Ryan keeps his mouth shut. He needs this job.

‘To that end, your... uh, contract of employment states that all personal belongings brought onto the campus by... contract staff... are subject to regular inspection to ensure that the...
said, ethos is upheld. At eleven fifteen this morning, I carried out a routine examination of the lockers in the maintenance staff changing room and found... uhm... certain items on the list of
items banned from campus which was appended to your contract, namely... uhm... two bottles of alcohol and... uhm... one pocket knife—’

‘Oh, that. Don’t worry, I can—’

‘A minute, Mr Devlin,’ Duvenhage says. The smile is gone and there’s something cold behind his eyes. The man’s not used to being interrupted; he’s surrounded by
sycophants. ‘You will have your chance to explain. Two bottles of alcohol, one pocket knife, and a book by a banned author. Let’s see...’ He takes out his phone and makes a show
of flicking through a series of photos he has taken of Ryan’s things. ‘Yes, here. J. K. Rowling.
The Deathly Hallows
.’

‘It’s for my daughter.’ The mild irritation Ryan’s been feeling at this man’s constipated tone and mindless bureaucracy shifts up a gear into anger. He wills
himself to keep calm. He has to keep a lid on it.

Duvenhage pales and shakes his head, then finds solace inside the folder, opening it and shuffling through it as if to confirm to himself that the rules were laid down in ink. He finds what
he’s looking for and holds it up to Ryan. ‘The list of banned authors is distributed to all staff on a weekly basis, Mr Devlin, and it is staff’s responsibility to familiarise
themselves with the contents. There is really no excuse for this... book, or any of the other undesirable items, to be brought onto campus. What’s more, I can smell that you have been
drinking alcohol, which is a gross contravention. I’m issuing a final, written warning which will go into your file. Hiring you in the first place was an act of kindness on the part of Mr
Grindley – a misguided one in my opinion, since the security of our student body is the...’

Duvenhage’s words have been dissolving as the anger simmers, and now they disappear. A familiar feeling wakes up and twitches inside Ryan, a painful itch that needs to be scratched.
He’s successfully kept the compulsion at bay for months now. The psychiatrist said that what he called Ryan’s transient kleptomania was a dislocated symptom of the unresolved anger
about the circumstances of his family’s dissolution, and treating the rage with antidepressants had apparently all but put an end to the episodes. The last time he had given into it was
during his last job, a short stint as a hospital porter at New Hope Hospital. He had no use for any of the items he stole from the staff and patients and he left the job before his petty thefts
were discovered. But, now, being treated like a child by this pasty bureaucrat, the urge is back, as strong as ever. He fidgets in his seat, clenches his leaking palms.

‘Are you even listening, Mr Devlin?’

He makes himself speak. ‘Yes, Mr Duvenhage.’

‘I need you to countersign this official notification of warning.’ Duvenhage pages through the documents in the pink folder again, his face growing redder, his brow creasing.

‘Mrs Fontein!’ he bellows.

No answer.

‘Mrs Fontein!’

He gets up from behind his desk, muttering, ‘Where is...? Wait here,’ he says to Ryan and leaves the office, closing the door behind him.

Now’s his chance. Ryan springs up, locks the office door and moves to Duvenhage’s side of the desk. There has to be something here. His lower belly thrums with the thrill of being
caught. He’s forgotten how powerful the feeling is, how seductive; it’s almost sexual. He opens the desk’s top drawer, knowing that Duvenhage is just across the hall and will be
back as soon as he’s found his document. Ryan’s got to hurry. He scratches through the drawer. A sheaf of letters and documents he wouldn’t mind reading sometime; a silver pen and
pencil set, a stapler.

The second drawer. A Bible, some thin manuals, a box of tissues. Uh-uh.

He forces himself to slow down. The door handle rattles. ‘Mr Devlin? What the...?’

Ah. There, there.

‘Devlin! Open the door. What are you...?’

Duvenhage’s briefcase, resting against the side of the bookcase. It’s unlocked. Click, click. More papers, fuck it, but, yes, underneath, here we go. A tiny flash drive, shaped like
a stylised dove. That’ll do. It’s something that Duvenhage will just think he’s misplaced.

He shuts the briefcase, leans it back where it was, pockets the drive and rushes to the door, unlocks it.

‘Devlin, what the... on Earth... are you doing?’ Duvenhage is red in the face.

‘Sorry, Mr Duvenhage, I noticed that a screw in the deadbolt was loose. I was just... If I’d had my... my pocket knife, I could’ve...’

‘Don’t try your luck, Mr Devlin. We have a complete inventory of maintenance equipment, which, school regulations state, must be kept under lock and key in the designated storage
compartments, not, regardless, in contract staff’s personal lockers.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

‘Well, sign this, please, as acknowledgement of our discussion and of your warning. Note that this is a final warning, and contraband – and especially drinking during hours of
service – will not be tolerated. Do you understand, Mr Devlin?’ Duvenhage holds up a pen.

‘Yes, I do, sir. It won’t happen again.’ He smiles his disarming smile, takes the pen and signs the paper.

‘Good. Now get that stuff off my campus.’

Ryan nods and makes towards the door.

‘And, Mr Devlin...’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘See to this rising damp tomorrow, would you? I’m sure it’s unhealthy to work in this office. I believe there are spores breeding there.’

‘Of course, sir.’ The anger he was feeling just minutes ago is a distant memory. Now he just feels empty.

At four o’clock, Ryan changes into his jeans and T-shirt, stashes the knife, book and bottle in his backpack and heads towards the school’s main gate. The elaborate
boom system with a security booth in the middle is not designed for pedestrians and he has to take his chances against the polished 4x4s that choke the school’s parking ground as parents
idle, like sharks in a tank, waiting to pick their children up from sports.

Ryan crosses the main entrance road, scrapes past the security boom and out onto the street. It’s hot for March; the summer rain is drying up but the sun still blazes. There’s a
steep hill up and over to his cheap room in Malvern; he’s one of the immigrants now, who overcrowd the run-down houses in that buffer suburb. Since he lost his licence – and his car,
for that matter – walking has become easier. He gets into a rhythm as he walks and he manages to quiet his mind. He’s a lot fitter than when he used to drive to work, park near the
lifts and ping out in his air-conditioned office. Not having a car is restrictive in Johannesburg, though, and he’s had to limit his orbit to the Eastgate and Bedford malls, the crummy shops
on Langermann Drive, his rented room and the school.

An image of that new girl flashes into his mind, the way she fingered the blood. It was intimate. She just looked at him, and there was no panic or disgust in her eyes. He couldn’t read
what those eyes held, and that’s unusual for him. She must have just started at the school; it’s not possible that he wouldn’t have seen her before: he’s spent the last two
months up ladders, washing windows, nailing guttering, looking into classrooms and down on school thoroughfares. There are not that many kids at the school, something like five hundred. The way she
looked at the blood on her fingers. Curiously.

‘Ryan!’ An engine guns next to him. ‘Hi, Ryan!’

An olive-green Land Rover is matching his pace up the hill, window wound down and a smell of expensive car and expensive perfume and cigarette smoke billowing out of the window. Julie Katopodis.
She’s in good shape, fortyish, petite and buffed, straight black hair and manicured nails. Gold bracelets.

Ryan smiles and approaches the door. Julie stops the car.

‘Hi to you,’ he says.

‘Hello again, Mr Maintenance Man,’ she says.

Ryan smiles, knowing the effect his two-day stubble has on her.

‘Listen, do you want a lift?’

Does he? Is he in the mood today? He supposes he is. What else is there to do? ‘Sure, thanks.’ He opens the passenger door as she dumps her handbag into the footwell.

‘I came to pick Artie up from hockey, but he messaged me to say he’s gone to his friend’s for supper. Would have been nice if he’d told me, like, before. I don’t
like a wasted journey.’

She lights up another Dunhill with a slim gold lighter. The gold suits her tan. She offers the plush pack to him, heavy on the finger contact.

‘No, thanks.’ He stares out at the flats across the road.

‘I wasn’t following you, you know,’ the woman’s saying, sighing her first drag out into the air. ‘Artie has practice every Tuesday and Thursday. Matches every
Wednesday. Cricket and hockey.’

Ryan turns back to her. ‘Hey, I believe you. You’re bona fide.’

‘So here’s me... come all this way with nobody to pick up.’

The library door slams, making Tara jump. She’s been daydreaming, lulled by the drone of Skye’s voice as he works his way through
Tina and Kevin Go to the
Zoo
.

She looks up, expecting to see Clara van der Spuy, the school’s head librarian, but a girl Tara’s never seen before is staring into the room, her back pressed against the door.
Tara’s first thought is that the kid’s mother should be shot – poor mite is asking to be bullied; Tara’s almost certain her hair is dyed. It’s that peculiar bile shade
that results when wannabe-platinum brunettes get the peroxide mix wrong. And there’s something off about her school uniform, her frayed blazer is a darker shade than Crossley’s
regulation baby-shit colour, and her skirt is too large for her small frame; the stitching showing in the seams as if it’s homemade. Could she be one of the outreach kids, the small quota of
less-privileged students Crossley College subsidises each year? As Tara stares at her she steps forward tentatively, then drops to her knees in front of the shelf of starter readers closest to the
door. She grabs a book from the shelf, starts paging through it.

Tara glances over at Malika, the other library volunteer on duty. Malika’s supposed to be supervising the quiet-time kids, but she’s smirking down at her iPhone and toying with her
hair. It doesn’t look like she’s noticed the new arrival; either that or she’s pretending not to see her. And none of the other kids seems to have registered the girl’s
presence. Tara would’ve expected at least a few of them to point and snigger, but perhaps they can’t see her from where they’re sitting. Unlike the rest of the school – a
modern glass-and-wood structure with such crisp edges it looks like a giant Scandinavian architect’s model – the library is cramped, dingy and ill designed, full of useless corners and
pointless pillars; plenty of places to obscure the view of the door.

‘Carry on,’ Tara says to Skye. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

Tara finds herself approaching the girl cautiously, as if she’s a wild animal that might dart off at any second. It’s only when Tara’s right next to her that she realises the
book she’s paging through is upside down.

‘Hello,’ she says to the girl’s back, putting on her I’m-your-buddy voice. ‘Can I help you? Are you lost?’ No reaction. Tara gently touches the girl’s
shoulder. ‘Hey.’

The girl freezes, and then slowly turns her head and stares up at Tara through grey, unblinking eyes.

‘Hi. I’m Tara. What’s your name?’

She whispers a word that Tara doesn’t catch.

‘Say again? Sorry, sweetie, must be getting old, I didn’t hear you properly.’ Tara’s used to her American accent breaking the ice with the shyer children, but it’s
not working with this kid. The girl isn’t pretty – those eyes are way too large for her face – but there’s something charmingly old-fashioned and serious about her, as if
she’s stepped out of an old sepia photograph. Tara crouches down next to her, notices a dark-red substance clotting strands of that strange hair together – and there’s more on her
fingers. She can’t see any sign of an actual wound, but it certainly looks like blood. Paint, maybe?

‘Hey, are you hurt?’ The girl finally blinks and follows Tara’s gaze to her hand. Her tongue darts out of her mouth and for a second Tara’s convinced she’s going to
bring her fingers to her lips and lick them. ‘Can I see, sweetie?’

The girl bares her teeth at Tara, then throws the book to the floor, leaps up and darts through the door, body listing to one side as if one leg is shorter than the other.

‘Hey!’ Tara calls after her, her knees popping as she scrambles to her feet. She pokes her head out into the corridor, but there’s no sign of the girl. Could she have scuttled
into one of the bathrooms? Maybe, but what the hell was she doing wandering around the school willy-nilly in the first place?

Bemused, Tara returns to where Skye is still doggedly working his way towards the book’s predictable climax. ‘You know that girl?’ Tara asks.

‘What girl?’

‘The girl I was just talking to. She new?’

Skye shrugs. ‘Ja. I s’pose.’