Deadlands (9 page)

‘Why did you become a Resurrectionist, Dad?’ I asked. ‘I mean, you fought in the War, so why have you joined up with the enemy? You don’t really believe in all that crap, do you?’

He sighed. ‘Lele, not this again.’

‘But if we all stuck together, we could get out of here.’

‘There’s nothing we can do to stop the Rotters. There are too many, you know that.’

‘But we could at least try.’

‘The Guardians will eventually free us,’ Dad said, spouting the party line.

‘Will they?’ I asked. ‘Or are they just using us? Why else would they have the Lottery?’

‘They have sworn that all will be revealed soon.’

‘And you believe them? It’s been ten years, Dad.’

Dad sighed again. ‘You don’t know what it was like, Lele. The War was . . . hard on everyone. If it wasn’t for the Guardians, we’d all be out there.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the fence, and, as if on cue, the Rotters’ moans drifted towards us.

‘At least the ANZ is doing something,’ I said.

Dad looked around nervously. ‘Lele! Don’t speak that way, even as a joke.’

I began to notice that the streets around us were clearing, passers-by scuttling away down alleyways, their heads bent. The hawkers and workmen had moved as far away from the centre of the road as possible, and were all standing with their backs to it.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked Dad.

‘Guardians,’ he replied simply, pulling me up against a stall.

‘Real ones? In the city? I thought they never came to the city? I mean, except for funerals.’ And as far as I knew the food they collected from the Agriculturals was dropped off at the gates to the enclave.

‘Of course they come into the city occasionally, Lele. They have to negotiate with the embassy.’

I hadn’t considered this before. ‘Does the Man – does Cleo speak with them?’

He shook his head.

‘But does she know what they are?
Does
she?’

Before he could answer there was the clip-clop of horses’ hooves as a huge wagon appeared in the street, heading in our direction. It was drawn by two more enormous black horses and the Guardian driving it was flicking the reins and urging the animals on. The horses looked as terrified as the one I’d seen on the day of Gran’s funeral. They tossed their heads and lifted their feet high. Then I heard something else.

The faint sound of screaming.

The wagon drew alongside us. It was painted black and had high slatted wooden sides. I caught a glimpse of an eye peering through a crevice in the wood, and it seemed to stare straight at me. And then I realised: The screams were coming from inside the wagon.

‘Don’t look, Lele,’ Dad said.

The wagon passed, carrying on up the street, and as it did so the hawkers and street workers raised their heads and went on with what they had been doing as if nothing had happened.

‘There were people in there. What
was
it, Dad? Where were they going?’

‘They’re being taken outside the fence.’

‘Huh?’

‘The embassy likes to call it “relocating”.’ Despite what he’d been saying earlier there a was a trace of bitterness in his voice.

‘Dad, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Who were those people in there?’

‘Criminals. People guilty of petty theft, violence, insurgency. People the embassy feels are . . . troublesome.’

‘But who judges that?’

‘They do of course.’

‘But . . . but how can people just let them do that?’

‘The people voted them into power, Lele. They had the majority.’

‘But the people in there – they’re still alive!’

‘Not for long,’ Dad murmured.

‘Dad! You have to do something!’

He took my arm firmly. ‘I can’t.’

‘But we have to!’

‘Let’s get back,’ he said, withdrawing inside himself again.

For the rest of the night, all I could think about was the Rotter I’d seen outside the fence on the day of Gran’s funeral. I tried not to imagine the fate of the criminals, but the images wouldn’t quit.

‘Lele! This is amazing!’

Thabo and I were sitting in the deserted rec area, the rest of the students busily clearing and decorating the classroom for the Lottery dance. Thabo flicked through the ANZ sketches I’d spent the whole weekend working on, pausing at a sketch of a blank-faced Guardian towering over the city enclave, the people below attached to puppet strings that disappeared into the Guardian’s sleeves.

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘It’s just okay.’ But I knew it was the best thing I’d ever done.

He nudged me. ‘It’s awesome. Michael will love it.’ He ran his fingers through his dreads. ‘I’m going to join them, Lele.’

‘The ANZ?’

‘Yeah, I’m going to quit school and join them.’

‘But isn’t that dangerous?’ I told him about the relocation wagon I’d seen the night before.

He nodded and his eyes glittered with fury. ‘I know. You see? That’s just the start. What will they do next? Arrest everyone who doesn’t worship the Guardians? Relocate everyone who refuses to swallow the party line?’

‘Hey, guys . . .’ I looked up. Summer and Nyameka were standing in front of us. ‘Hi Thabo,’ they said, and giggled.

‘What do you want?’ I snapped. ‘Zyed let you off the leash, has he?’

‘That’s what we wanted to talk to you about,’ Summer said. ‘So, like, Zyed said that his father’s making him take you to the Ball.’

‘Yeah, well, tell him not to hold his breath,’ I muttered.

‘What do you mean?’ Summer said.

‘I mean I might not be going.’

‘
Seriaas
? Oh, cool! Well, if you’re not going for sure can you, like, let me know?’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. Now, if you don’t mind, this is a private conversation.’

‘Sorry.’ (Giggle.) ‘Later.’ (Giggle.) And with that they turned back towards the classroom.

Thabo seemed to have calmed down, the anger no longer flashing in his eyes. ‘You’ve got to go, Lele,’ he said to me.

‘Why?’

‘You can’t let him win.’

‘Win what? It’s not a competition. Besides, you should see the dress my stepmother’s got me for the dance.’

‘Gross?’

‘So far beyond gross it’s not even funny. Looks like a bunch of Rotters threw up on it.’

‘Can Rotters throw up?’

‘Who knows? Anyway, if they did it would be an improvement.’

‘But how about if you had something cool to wear?’

‘You mean an outfit that wouldn’t make me a laughing stock?’

‘Yeah.’

I shrugged. ‘That isn’t going to happen.’

He grinned at me again. ‘Come on.’

‘Where to this time?’

I followed him out of the school gate, assuming that we were heading for our usual skive spot, but this time he hailed a passing rickshaw. He climbed in and grabbed my hand to haul me up next to him.

‘Seriously, where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

The rickshaw driver set off at a cracking pace.

‘So, who are you going to the Ball with?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. After all, he could have his pick.

He smiled at me. ‘I’m going with you, of course.’

‘Welcome to New Arrivals, Lele!’

At first sight it seemed to be a chaotic mishmash of corrugated-iron shacks, dilapidated caravans, army tents and bumpy, muddy lanes. The neighbourhood we lived in seemed orderly in comparison, and I had no clue how Thabo could find his way though the labyrinthine byways and narrow, claustrophobic alleyways; it was so huge it was almost like an enclave within an enclave. Despite the rain, there were barefoot children and adults everywhere, and a raggedy group of kids, who couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, skipped behind us for half a kilometre or so as we wormed our way deeper into the sprawling mess.

Thabo finally told the rickshaw driver to stop outside a rickety two-storey building, painted bright pink and adorned with multicoloured flags and a crude painting of a bright blue eye. It was surrounded by drab army tents and an elderly guy sitting outside one of them eyed us suspiciously. Thabo stalked up to the front of the pink house, reached past a metal security gate and knocked three times on the door’s wooden slats.

The door opened a crack, closed again, and then was opened all the way by a burly man dressed in army fatigues. Thabo murmured something to him and the guy stood back to let us in.

Inside, the place was gloomy and reeked of smoke and something medicinal that I suspected might be home-brewed alcohol. The room we were in was bare except for three battered armchairs covered in faded floral fabric, and a poster of a man wearing a beret stuck up on the far wall.

A curtain rustled as a hugely fat woman manoeuvred her way into the room. She smiled when she saw Thabo.

‘Hola, Thabo,’ she said breathily, the sweat standing out on her forehead. ‘Kunjani?’

‘Ngikhona,’ Thabo replied as she waddled towards him and trapped him in a bear hug, ‘wena unjani?’

They chatted for a few minutes in Xhosa. I could make out maybe one word in four, but I couldn’t grasp the gist of what they were saying.

The burly guy looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on me long enough to make me uncomfortable. ‘How you
doing
, girl?’ he said to me.

‘Leave it, Armand, she’s young enough to be your daughter,’ the woman snapped at him, breaking off her conversation with Thabo.

‘Can’t blame a guy for trying,
non
?’

The woman clucked her tongue at him ‘Sies.’

‘This is Lungi,’ Thabo said, turning to me. ‘Lungi, meet Lele.’

The woman gave me a small, tight smile.

‘Lungi’s your fairy godmother,’ Thabo said, nudging her.

‘Eish, Thabo, you’re full of rubbish,’ Lungi said, but nonetheless she grinned at him flirtatiously before turning to lead us through an arched doorway and into a makeshift kitchen. There was a huge metal pot of some kind of stew bubbling on the stove. It smelled spicy and delicious and . . . different.

‘I don’t have much stuff at the moment,’ Lungi said. ‘But let me see . . .’

Her eyes scanned my body for several seconds, making me feel self-conscious, before she sank to her knees and rolled up the threadbare rug that covered part of the floor, revealing a trapdoor. She heaved the door open and reached down into the space below it, hauling out a large drawstring bag. When she dug in the bag and started pulling out clothes I could barely believe what I was seeing: jeans, T-shirts and dresses spilled out all around us. They were all from before the War, all looked to be brand new, and some even had labels attached to them.

‘Wow!’ I said. ‘Where did you get all this stuff from?’ I glanced at Thabo. ‘The Mall Rats?’

Lungi shot me a sharp glance. ‘Ask me no questions, sister, and I’ll tell you no lies. Now, I know I have something here . . .’ She rooted in the bottom of the bag and pulled out a swatch of material. It was dark green silk – almost the exact shade of Mom’s Matric dance dress. She shook it out and handed it to me. ‘This dress should fit. Yes! It will be perfect.’

The dress felt almost weightless, and the slippery fabric seemed to whisper across my fingers. I held it up to myself doubtfully. It didn’t appear to have any straps, and was simply but elegantly styled. It looked way too small and insubstantial, as if it would barely cover my thighs, but there were no two ways about it: it was beautiful.

‘How much?’ Thabo asked.

‘For you, Thabo? It is nothing.’ Lungi looked at me closely. ‘But I want it back, nè? I can get a good price for this. No making it dirty or getting up to mischief in it, okay?’ She threw back her head and laughed, showing off a mouth full of gold teeth.

Thabo grinned at me. ‘What you waiting for, Lele?’

‘Go on, sisi,’ Lungi said, pointing to the corner of the room, where a grubby shower curtain hung in front of a tiny changing area that was dominated by a cracked full-length mirror. ‘Try it on.’

As soon as I was behind the curtain I started to get changed. Dumping my school uniform on the floor, I pulled the dress over my thighs and up over my torso, struggling to zip it up at the back. I turned around and checked out my reflection. Unbelievable! I looked like a totally different person. The dress clung to my body, fitting so perfectly that its glittery fabric almost appeared to be painted on to my skin. I didn’t look like me. I looked like someone sophisticated, glamorous; even my too-short haircut seemed to suit the dress. But what if this was all in my imagination? What if I actually looked horrible? Or stupid?

‘Let’s see!’ Lungi called to me.

I pushed my way out from behind the curtain and stood shyly in front of them.

Thabo was looking at me strangely, almost as if he was seeing me for the first time. Lungi checked out his expression and chuckled.

‘Well?’ I said. ‘Is it okay?’

Lungi snorted. ‘Okay? Hayibo, sister. I tell you something, you watch yourself. You are going to cause some trouble tonight!’

She didn’t know the half of it.

‘Leletia!’ The Mantis’s eyes were bulging so far out of their sockets they were in danger of plopping onto the kitchen floor. ‘Where did you get that dress?’

‘A friend gave it to me,’ I said. Well, it was true, wasn’t it?

‘But it looks brand new!’

‘So?’

‘What about the other one? It cost me a fortune in trade credits!’

For once Dad stood up for me. ‘Just let her wear what she likes, Cleo,’ he said.

‘But –’

‘You look beautiful, Lele,’ he said. ‘You really do.’

I gave him a small, grateful smile. But the Mantis hadn’t finished. I tuned her out and concentrated on settling Jobe for the night. He’d been acting strange all evening – clinging to my legs and whimpering under his breath. I was almost grateful when Zyed showed up.

I had to admit he looked good. For once the feathers were absent, and his tailored black suit must have cost an arm and a leg. I wondered if Thabo and Lungi had also kitted him out for the evening, or if there were a whole series of suppliers. He did a double take when he saw the dress, but did his best to hide his shock. Smiling politely at Dad and the Mantis, he turned on the charm, but as soon as we were outside, his face shut down.