The New Girl (Downside) (33 page)

Tara shakes her head. ‘But I saw him, I saw Martin.’
Where
did she see Martin though? That house... that’s where. Wasn’t it? For some reason an image of a sewing
machine pops into her mind. The brandy isn’t helping. It’s making her feel even fuzzier.

‘You couldn’t have, baby. They found too much blood, too much for him to have survived. There’s no doubt. I know – I know what you must be feeling, you want to believe
he’s alive, but, Tara, he isn’t. He couldn’t be.’

‘I...’ She tries to make sense of what Stephen’s telling her. Duvenhage, that prissy busybody, a murderer? ‘They’ve... found him? Duvenhage, I mean?’

‘No. The fucker’s disappeared. They’re looking. They’ll find him. And it’s not just that, baby. They think he’s connected to that Ryan guy. That
janitor.’

‘What?’

‘Ja. Some kind of kiddie porn racket. They found pictures, evidence that links the two of them.’ Another smothered sob. ‘We can only hope that Martin didn’t
suffer.’

‘But... but when was this?’ Did she see Martin before Duvenhage took him? No, it can’t be. It feels as if she’s only just seen Martin – hours ago, minutes, maybe.
‘But when I left yesterday—’

‘Tara,’ Stephen interrupts, ‘you’ve been gone for five days.’

‘No. That’s impossible.’

‘Tara, baby, listen to me. We thought you were lost. I thought I’d lost you.’

She takes another sip, then drains the glass. Feels the brandy doing its work, clouding what’s left of her thoughts. Opens her mouth to speak again, but can’t muster the energy.

‘Here, baby, lie down.’ She allows Stephen to lift her legs up onto the couch.

She closes her eyes, and then, nothing.

‘... think Duvenhage might have something to do with her disappearance?’ Tara’s groggily aware that Stephen’s voice is floating into the lounge from the
corridor.

‘Unlikely, Mr Marais. His car was left at the airport before she disappeared. But we are not discounting anything at this stage.’ A woman’s voice. Well-modulated, deep.
Familiar. But Tara can’t quite place it.

‘It’s a coincidence though, isn’t it? Her disappearing around the same time? What about that Ryan bastard?’ Stephen again.

‘We will have to wait to hear what she says. But there is no evidence to suggest that. The location where her car was found points to a hijacking, a robbery perhaps. Our only witness
reports seeing a white male, early thirties, driving the car.’ This time Tara manages to place the voice – Superintendent Molefi.

‘That Ryan’s white, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, Mr Marais, but he doesn’t fit this man’s description at all.’

‘Last night... she was confused. A head injury of some sort. Think she might have amnesia?’

‘Possibly post-traumatic shock, Mr Marais. She must go to a hospital to be checked out. You should have taken her last night.’

‘I know, I know. I was just so relieved to see her. Christ knows where she’s been. She’s filthy, lost weight...’ His voice fades away; they must have moved into the
kitchen.

Tara sits up too quickly, the motion making her stomach lurch. She gags, tastes sour alcohol. Draws in a shuddering breath. Jesus, she feels like crap. Her head is throbbing, she’s
dehydrated, recognises the beginnings of a major hangover. She lifts her hand to touch the wound behind her ear, realises she’s still clutching Baby Tommy’s head, her fingers stiff from
cupping the curve of his scalp all night. She drops him on the coffee table, rubs her hands over her face. Tries to stand, wincing as her knees pop. Looks down, sees that she’s dressed in her
pyjamas. Her jeans and sweatshirt are bundled in a stinking ball at the base of the television stand. Stephen must have removed them last night, left her to sleep on the couch.

Her eye is drawn to a bunch of papers scattered on the side table next to Stephen’s La-Z-Boy. She inches her way over to it, grabs one of the pages. It’s a ‘missing
person’ flyer, only the person missing is her: her black-and-white face grins back at her above the words ‘Have You Seen This Woman?’ She recognises the photograph, actually
remembers the exact moment when Stephen took it. It was on their holiday to Cape Town, in the bar of the Mount Nelson, the day before she returned to that mall to buy her first Reborn – Baby
Lulu.

She stretches her arms behind her head to rub her neck, grimacing as she’s hit with a waft of stale sweat. Jesus. Was she really gone for five days? How can that be? Was she in that house
for that long?

Ignoring the ache in her thighs, she shuffles into the hallway, hesitates outside the kitchen doorway.

‘... nearer to finding him?’ she hears Stephen asking.

‘We’re doing all we can,’ Superintendent Molefi replies.

‘You think he’s gone overseas? What about his passport? Can’t you trace it?’

‘We found his South African passport in the safe in his office, Mr Marais. There’s no sign of him. It is almost as if he’s vanished off the face of the earth.’

Tara stumbles through the door. The superintendent looks up, slides off her stool, steps towards her. ‘Ah, Mrs Marais. I am happy to see you’re safe.’

Stephen gasps and runs around the breakfast counter. ‘Sorry, my baby, I didn’t know you were awake.’ He guides her towards one of the stools, helps her onto it. She can’t
decide what’s more confusing, Stephen treating her like she’s made of glass, or the cotton wool that seems to have replaced her brain.

As she sits down, she’s hit with a vague image of Martin smiling blankly at her. Sitting at a desk.
Where
though? At school?

‘I know you’re exhausted, Mrs Marais,’ the superintendent says gently, ‘but can you tell me what happened to you?’

‘Can’t we do this later?’ Stephen says, with a trace of his usual irritability.

Superintendent Molefi ignores him, continues to fix her gaze on Tara. ‘Mrs Marais? Are you up to talking to me?’

Tara nods. Steadies herself by gripping the counter top. Takes a grateful gulp of water out of the glass Stephen hands to her. ‘A man... a man in a hat. I was looking for Martin, and he...
did something to me.’

‘Was it Duvenhage, baby?’ Stephen jumps in.

Superintendent Molefi shoots him an exasperated glance. ‘Was this while you were driving, Mrs Marais?’

‘No.’

‘You were parked? You were in your car?’

‘I... I can’t remember. I parked my car at the house...’ That’s it. She’s getting warmer, she can feel it! ‘He’s in there somewhere. That
house.’

‘Which house, Mrs Marais?’

‘You know which house. Jane’s house.’ She looks across at Stephen. ‘Stephen, tell her. You know which house I mean. The one with the statues.’

‘I don’t, my baby.’

‘The one I told you about... Where the pervert, Ryan, was hiding.’

‘And what about it, Mrs Marais?’

‘That’s where he is!’

‘Who? Ryan? The man who hurt you?’

‘No! Martin! Martin’s there.’

Stephen slumps. ‘Tara... Martin’s dead.’

She stands up. ‘He’s not. He’s not. Let’s go. Come on.’ Stephen moves as if to take her in his arms, but she pushes him away. ‘We might not have much
time.’

‘You need to get her to a hospital right away, Mr Marais,’ Superintendent Molefi insists. ‘She is not well.’

‘I’m
fine
.’

‘Tara. I know you feel guilty that you didn’t connect with Martin when he was alive, but—’

Jesus!
‘I know where Martin is. Why won’t you listen?’

‘Mrs Marais—’

‘
Please
. I can show you. Please.’

Stephen sighs. ‘If we go with you to the house, then will you go to the hospital?’

‘I don’t think this is a good idea, Mr Marais,’ the policewoman says.

‘Yes, yes, anything.’ Tara jumps in. ‘I swear, but please, let’s
go
.’

Stephen glances at Superintendent Molefi, sighs again. ‘Wait here, I’ll get you some clothes.’

‘This way,’ Tara says, checking to make sure that Stephen and the policewoman are still following her.

The house smells even mustier than she remembers. The air is thick with dust motes, the paintwork appears to be flakier, shabbier, as if the house has given up, as if it’s dying, crumbling
in on itself.

Tara hurries down the corridor, opening doors at random. She knows the room has to be on this level, she’s sure of that much.

‘Tara,’ Stephen says. ‘Please, baby. Let’s go back to the car.’

She ignores him, pushes open the door at the far end of the passageway. ‘Here!’ She’s found it! The room with the jars. But... but where is he? Where’s Martin? She was
sure he would be in here, but apart from that horrible insect collection, the room is empty.

‘Christ,’ Stephen mutters, glancing at the bottled rat at the end of the row. ‘What the fuck is this shit?’

Tara’s eyes dart around the room, fix on the cupboard. Yes, that’s where he is. She knows it with a solid certainty. He’s in there. She races over to it, yanks open the
doors.

‘Tara? What are you doing?’

A white wall stares back at her. ‘This can’t be—’

Has she got the wrong room? No. It’s definitely this room. She remembers stumbling out into this space.
From where though?
And... It must be a false wall. Yeah, that’s it.
She bunches her fist and knocks against it, listening for a hollow rap like she’s seen detectives do in the movies. All she hears is a dull thunk.

‘Mr Marais?’ she hears the policewoman saying. ‘We must stop this now.’

‘Tara, come on, baby,’ Stephen pleads. ‘We need to get you to the hospital.’

She ignores him, knocks on the wall, harder this time. Bunches her fist and punches. Again. And again.

She feels Stephen’s arms wrapping around her waist, tries to twist out of his grip. ‘Baby, what are you—’

‘Martin!’ she screeches. ‘Martin!’

As Stephen and Superintendent Molefi finally manage to drag her away, the last thing she sees are the bloody smears her ragged knuckles have left on the paintwork.

Ryan buttons up the light-blue shirt and knots his tie. He can’t remember the last time he wore a tie. A funeral probably, or maybe even when he got married to Karin.
Could it have been that long ago?

The shirt is light and silky, the dye like a Tuscan sky. When he’d asked for smart clothes, pointing to a picture in a magazine, Penter had smiled. The next morning there was a box and a
suit bag from A Camisa.

He tucks the shirt into the slacks and cinches them with a narrow leather belt, the type he would never have worn. But this evening he’s dressing to impress.

He runs a slick of gel through his cropped hair and musses it, glances across at the mirror just long enough to check that the hair is okay. Deliberately avoiding, as he’s quickly learnt,
looking at his face.

It will be all right. He shrugs on the jacket. Its casual styling clashes with the rest of his smart outfit, but that can’t be helped. He flips the hood over his head and leaves his
room.

The new house is far more anonymous than the mansion the Encounters team squatted in last time. It’s an old Kensington house that looks like any of the dozen others on the block: beige
seven-foot wall topped by four perfunctory electric strands, a lavender bush by the front gate, red-tiled roof and blushed paint job. A far better way to blend in than that grotesque eyesore up on
Excelsior Avenue.

Ryan tries to bring himself to care what will happen to the scouted children once they’re taken, but he can’t. That’s not his business. He’s not responsible for any of
it. If you want to blame anyone, blame the school principals, just like Duvenhage, willing to sell their souls and their children for some seriously good money. Or blame the teachers, blame the
parents, blame society. Blame fucking capitalism; you may as well bash your head against a brick wall. It’s none of his business. Ryan was as good as dead, but he’s made this
arrangement to come back home for one reason only: to see Alice. Beyond that, nothing’s important.

He runs his hand through his spiky hair one more time, feels the new contours of his cheeks. It will be okay; clothes maketh the man. He gets into the station wagon. He’s collected Jane
from school already and the rest of the afternoon and the evening is all his.

As he backs the Volvo out, he suppresses a wave of panic that he’ll be stopped. But he never is. There’s nothing preventing him from just leaving; they haven’t even been
renewing his shunt since he’s been back up here. He’s in total control of his mind; he has his free will back. There’s nothing preventing him from taking the car and driving as
far as he can. They’ve even arranged a new driver’s licence to match his new face and his new name – follow the local laws, avoid conflict and detection at all costs. He could
take a bundle of cash from Penter’s desk and just go. But he always comes back. For now it suits him. He has a house to live in, he’s protected, he has a job... He has a family, he
laughs to himself. But after tonight, things might change.

He’s not fooling himself; it might take a while to earn Alice’s trust again, but once he’s made a good impression tonight, that will be on course. And when the team packs up
and goes back down, he has no intention of going with them. If Penter knew that, would she be so lax with him?

He shrugs off the question. It doesn’t matter to him. One day at a time. That’s how he’s always lived.

He pulls into a rooftop parking spot at Bedford Centre, tugs the hood low over his head, locks the car and walks over to the entrance, concentrating on exuding confidence,
walking as if he belongs here. He’s a rich businessman from upstairs in the office tower, sauntering entitled through the mall. He looks at the shine on his crackling new Italian loafers as
he walks. Rich businessmen have a free pass.

But when he looks up, a paunchy, scarred security guard at the roof entrance is looking at him rudely. He’s just jealous, Ryan tells himself. Of course he’s got an issue with rich
people. He walks on, keeping his face down, the hood blinkering him.

A small child with a balloon skitters across his path, looks up at him and freezes. Ryan has to stop suddenly, the smooth-bottomed shoes sliding on the travertine, to avoid ploughing over him.
The balloon is decorated with a clown advertising a pizza franchise. It slips from the boy’s grasp. The boy looks into Ryan’s eyes, his mouth widening, and then he flushes red and
starts screaming.