Hard rain, p.14
Hard Rain, page 14
part #1 of Rogue Series
“Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. Some stories stick with you, even if you try and turn it into a dry academic account right from the start. And sometimes you think you’ve left it behind you, and then you walk into a place and the most unlikely thing brings it all back. The smell of a woman wearing Chanel. Fucking burned popcorn.”
I’m about to ask about the popcorn but decide against it. Tom will tell me if he wants to.
“And you?” he asks. “Do you remember all your photos?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, but I know I’m lying. I couldn’t forget any of them, even if I tried.
Tom steps on his cigarette butt. I know he doesn’t want to go home. After the rain it’s good just to stand in the sun, making small talk. He wipes the dust off his fake Rolex, peers at the time, opens the Marlboros, and takes out another cigarette. Taps the almost empty pack.
“Why didn’t it work out between you and Alex?”
I’ve been wondering how long it would take the Englishman to mention Alex.
“It just didn’t.”
“That’s a kak answer.” He emphasizes the only Afrikaans expletive he knows.
“It’s still my only answer.”
“I hoped you’d finally stop your nonsense. You know, give in and love someone.” He lights the cigarette. “Since I wasn’t good enough for you.”
So that’s what this is all about. He’s still sore about what happened between us—or didn’t happen.
“I can’t make myself feel something. You know that. It would be a lie.”
“You can learn to love someone.”
“For me love isn’t a process. It just is.”
“Who the hell still believes in that kind of bullshit?” he scoffs. “Childish nonsense. Bedtime fairy tales.”
“You can’t decide what works for me.”
He makes a noise at the back of his throat, throws down his half-smoked cigarette, and turns to the car. “Let’s go. Before I get too lazy to file this story.”
As we approach the outskirts of Dar, Tom turns to me. “Feel like a drink?”
“What about work?”
“Screw work. Your place? Mine’s filthy,” he asks.
“Mine too. Hardings?”
“Perfect.”
Hardings is full. With no parking at the back, I leave the Cruiser on the pavement.
Tom grins. “You could be in for a hefty fine. Or a bribe.”
“Only if someone feels the urge to enforce the traffic laws today. And we won’t be long. One beer.”
I’m both right and wrong. Tom has two Johnnie Walkers, but I ring up the till seven times. For one beer, four single whiskeys, and two doubles. Seems like it’s not a night for beer. Maybe it reminds me too much of Alex.
There’s only one problem: I’m no longer used to drinking whiskey. It goes straight to my head and hands, which feel more disconnected by the minute, as if they no longer belong to the rest of me.
Much later, Tom takes me home, though Maggie has offered me a bed in the storeroom.
Tom battles to get the Cruiser through its gears and off the pavement. The minute one wheel is off, the engine stalls.
“Use . . . put the car in first.”
He glares at me, but I stare straight ahead, at the dark, deserted road. I’m trying to anchor all the things that seem to have slipped their moorings. The building. The Hardings sign gleaming like a yellow moon.
“How do you drive this thing?” Tom starts the engine again. “I’m used to automatic transmission.”
I lean across and grind the gear lever into first. “See, it’s not that hard.”
“If you can find it, yes.”
We pull away, but before we’ve reached the first bend in the road, the engine stalls again.
“Let me drive,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt.
“That’ll be the day.” Tom pushes the gear lever into second, battles to find first.
“Remember the cl . . . clutch.”
He gives me a murderous look.
“Should have slept at Maggie’s. Didn’t know you can’t use a stick shift.”
“Ranna. Do me a favor and shut up.”
“Sorry.” I turn my eyes back to the road.
The gears grind and the Cruiser jumps ahead. Stops. Finally we pull away.
“Well done.”
“Ranna.”
“Six out of ten. Not too bad for your first time.”
“Fuck off.”
Ten minutes later we stop at my apartment. Tom has brought the Cruiser to a halt just in time to avoid crashing through the low wall. The engine stalls when he takes his foot off the clutch too hastily.
“Bollocks. Fuck.”
“Dammit. Donner.”
For a moment he seems to want to shake me, but then he manages a smile.
“I don’t know that last one. You’ve introduced me to kak. What’s donner?” he asks.
“Something like thunder.”
“Huh?”
“Yes, I know. It makes no sense in English.” I think for a moment. “It’s more like bastard. That’s it,” I say. “That’s the word. Bastard. Or wanker, if you’re you, you know. All posh and British.”
Before I can elaborate, he jumps out and opens the door on my side. “Come. Bedtime.”
He helps me out. I stop myself from laughing when I notice how my tall figure towers over his. “I’ve had too much to drink,” I declare.
“What a surprise. Next time, stick to beer.”
He leads the way along the side of the house to my blue front door. I stumble along behind him. He holds out his hand for the keys. At the third try I manage to hand him the bunch. At last the door swings open.
“Step,” he warns, just before I stumble over it.
“What?”
“Forget it,” he sighs. “There’s . . . was a step.”
“Dammit. Donner,” I swear, giggling.
He manages to keep me upright and drag me to the couch.
“You’re so strong,” I say as I collapse on the couch.
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?”
“What mean?”
“Hmm.”
“I say it when it’s better not to say anything else.”
“Coward.”
The word is out before I can stop it. I may be drunk, but I feel his body tense under my hands. The next moment he climbs on top of me. His mouth is hungry. He reeks of beer and the peanuts on the counter at Hardings.
“Stop. Tom.”
Ignoring me, he pushes his tongue into my mouth and presses his body more urgently against mine.
“Tom! Stop.”
His hands wring at my T-shirt and smear across my breasts, my thighs. My crotch.
“Coward, huh?” he snarls.
I think of everything my mother taught me, everything I experienced over the years in strange countries and near-empty bars. I sink my teeth into his lower lip until I draw blood.
He swears and pulls away. With all the strength I can muster, I push him off me. He lands on his back on the threadbare red carpet. When he jumps up, his eyes are wild.
I’m already on my feet, my weight evenly distributed, my head instantly clear.
The expression on his face makes me step back. I clamber up and over the couch until I’m standing behind it, fists ready the way my father taught me the day the nursery school bully hit me.
“Tom, I think you should go.”
Is there no weapon close by? Didn’t I leave a glass next to the couch last night? Tom is probably just drunk, but I’m not taking any chances.
He stands motionless.
“Tom. Go home. Cool down. Leave. Now. Or I’ll call the police.”
“Okay,” he says at last, still without moving. His eyes remain fixed on me, as if I’m a bright flame in a dark room.
“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.” I try to defuse the situation.
“Did Alex ever know how lucky he was?”
I wrap my arms around my shivering body. “Fuck you, Tom. Go home.”
He stands motionless for another moment. Then he laughs brusquely, turns around, and stomps out the front door.
I have no idea how I got to the kitchen. When I return to reality, Nina Simone is singing on the radio and there’s a glass of wine in front of me. The bottle on the table is almost empty. I’m on my third or fourth glass, but the alcohol has no effect on me. Instead, my head seems to become clearer with each glass of cheap Merlot.
I put the glass down. Lay my hands flat on the table. The veins on the back of my hands are thick and broad. Leading somewhere. Only I am stranded here. In my helpless bloody body.
I glace at the clock. It’s been three hours since Tom left. I push the bottle and glass aside. I’m tired, but it’s a different kind of fatigue. More considerable than anything I’ve ever felt before. Darker. Heavier.
I’m tired of everyone trying to use me as their cheap plaything. Tired of waiting for Hamisi to come up with some brilliant idea. Tired of having to explain myself to cops and lovers.
In the future I’ll determine my own fate. Manage my own life. For once, I want to know what it feels like to be the one who makes the rules.
The next day I write down the first names on my personal list of suspects, starting with the man in the white cap at Hardings.
7
The man in the white cap is sitting at the bar, like every other night, drinking beer. I sit down next to him. He looks at me as if I’ve lost my way but doesn’t say a word.
The bottle in his enormous hand is a Tusker. There are no rings on his fingers and no jewelry around his rugby player’s neck. Most of his nails are bitten to the quick. An illegible tattoo protrudes from the right sleeve of his red T-shirt. As always, he’s wearing the ubiquitous white headgear.
Behind the counter Maggie stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Above our heads Billy Idol screams something about a white wedding.
“Can I have one of those too?” I ask her.
“A Tusker?” She frowns sharply.
“Please.”
Next to me the man raises the beer and takes a sip. “Not your usual poison. You always drink Kilimanjaro.”
Under the cap his face is red and weary. His eyes, which appear to be light green, seem to regard me with interest, but it’s hard to be sure with the shadow of the hat over his face. His eyebrows are thick, his beard at least three days old.
From up close he’s younger than I thought. On the right side of forty, even if it’s only just. He has an average kind of attractiveness, which I suspect will improve with age. Yet he’d disappear in a large group. If not for his white cap, I wouldn’t have noticed him sitting here night after night.
“You’re right, it’s not my usual poison. But I don’t fancy a Kili tonight.”
“It’s not where you usually sit either.”
“Ten out of ten for noticing.”
“It’s impossible to miss you.”
My mouth goes dry. Is he the man who has been making my life a living hell? For someone who’s always drinking alone in a corner, he certainly notices a lot. On the other hand, being tall I stand out—whether I want to or not. But how does he know what I usually drink?
I extend my hand. “Ranna Abramson.”
“Jaco Steyn.” He runs his hand over his beard. “Everyone calls me Jakes.”
The name gives away what the accent made me suspect. “You’re South African?”
He nods, but his eyes remain lifeless. Too lifeless. As if he purposely avoids revealing anything but a general kind of courtesy.
Maggie puts the beer in front of me. Her eyes flash a warning, but I ignore it. I take a sip of the Tusker. It’s warm. Damn, Maggie.
“What are you doing in Dar?” I ask in Afrikaans.
Jakes laughs, and his rigid body relaxes a little. He runs his hand across his jaw again, as if he suddenly regrets not having shaved this morning.
“I work for the brewery. We’re installing a new production line. I have three more weeks left of my contract.”
“And then?”
“Back to Joburg, until the next contract. Bosses are talking about Benin.”
“Sounds exciting. Do you travel a lot?”
He tosses the last of his beer down and wipes his mouth with his hand. “Quite a lot.”
“Where have you been?”
“Many places. Too many to name.”
“Paris?” I hope it comes across like a shot in the dark. “It’s one of my favorite cities in the world.”
“Long ago. Honeymoon. Waste of time. It all ended in divorce five months later.”
The door opens, and a group of people saunter in. Russian, by the sounds of it.
My heartbeat quickens. “San Francisco?”
He shifts uneasily on the barstool, his face a mask again. “Why do you want to know?”
I try to smile. “No reason.”
“You ask a lot of questions.” He hesitates a moment. “But I suppose you can’t help it. You’re a journalist.”
“Perhaps.”
The conversation peters out into an awkward silence. I finish my beer and look for Maggie. She’s standing at a table on the far side of the room. When she looks up, I point at the empty bottle, but she ignores me.
“I’ll get you one,” Jakes offers.
“Thanks.”
He gets up and goes across to Maggie. Points in my direction. Her eyes flicker to me and back to him. She nods curtly.
He comes back, a question mark on his face. “I think she’s angry with me.”
“Not with you. Me.”
He lifts his cap and replaces it. The sun has scorched his ears recently. Maybe while following me? Yesterday, with Tom?
“Why would she be angry with you?”
“Because I’m sitting here, drinking beer with you.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“My motives aren’t entirely pure.” I want it to sound flirtatious, but I know I’m not very convincing.
His eyes become guarded. “Everyone gets a little lonely. It’s okay,” he says slowly.
I try to laugh, but it sounds nervous and stupid.
“So,” I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, “you’ve been to Paris. I’m going to San Francisco soon. Is it a nice place for a vacation? I’ve never really liked the French much.”
He pulls the cap lower over his eyes. Looks straight ahead. “I suppose it depends.”
I wonder what I’ve said wrong. I don’t have to wait long to find out.
“Are you really interested in me, or is this about the money that disappeared at the brewery?”
“Money? What are you talking about?”
“Your not-so-pure motives. Don’t play dumb.”
I remember reading something in yesterday’s paper about an inflated tender at the brewery. Of course. The new line Jakes is installing.
I shake my head. Shift on my chair for an impatient Russian trying to lean over the counter to place an order with Maggie. “No. Not at all. That’s not what I meant.”
“Are you looking for a story?”
“What?”
“Something’s going on. I wanted to buy you a beer the first day you walked in here, but you froze me out completely. Remember?”
I try, but can’t. I recall a busy night when two men sent drinks over to my table, but I don’t remember whether Jakes was one of them. If he wasn’t wearing his cap that day, I probably wouldn’t remember him.
“No,” I sigh at last.
I can see he doesn’t believe me.
“Do you really think I’d sit here and tell you everything? Just like that, over a beer or two? Or am I your last chance tonight? Has your boyfriend gone home?”
I want to retaliate, but then I remember why I’m here. Why it’s important.
I look into his eyes. “Why are you nervous? Do you have something to hide?”
He’s instantly angry. “What the fuck is going on? I didn’t invite you over here. What game are you playing?”
“I want to know why you’re following me. Why are you always here when I’m here?”
“What?”
“Don’t deny it. You know what I’m talking about.”
I know I’m being irrational, but I seem to be standing outside my body, watching myself mess up at record speed.
“Fuck, woman, you’re crazy. Go home.”
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn.
Maggie.
I shake her off, annoyed.
Jakes wags a furious finger at her. “You’d better get your friend away from me. She’s making me very, very angry.”
“Come,” says Maggie, her voice soothing. “Please, Ranna. Come with me.” She folds her hand around my elbow.
I remain seated. “No.”
Jakes knows something. I know he knows something. It’s in his eyes. In the expression around his mouth.
“Ranna, please,” Maggie pleads. She shakes her head at the man next to me. “And you. Go home. You’ve had enough.”
“What? Me?”
“Yes, you. Go home.”
He gets up. His hands shake as he peels off two notes from a roll and throws them on the counter.
“There are better places to drink anyway.” He pulls his cap down over his eyes and picks up his car keys. At the door he turns to glare at me.
Just before he slams the door behind him, I could swear he flashes me a cocky smile.
8
Hamisi phones me awake the next morning. “I hoped you’d be at the press conference.” He sounds tired, as if he’s been awake for hours.
“What conference?” I mumble, confused.
I grope for my cell phone. Ten o’clock. Day or night? I turn to the window. Day.
“The one about the Chinese building a new railway line to the interior. The Chinese president is here. He arrived this morning.”
Damn! I jump up. Lie back down. The conference started at nine. I do the math in my head. Fifteen minutes to shower and get dressed. Half an hour to drive there. Possibly twenty-five minutes in a dala dala. Those taxis know how to drive.
No. It’s too late to get photos. What a way to start the day.
“I gather you missed it?” asks Hamisi.
