The Lazarus Effect (12 page)

Vee bit the inside of her cheek to hold in a spray of laughter. Oblivious, Rosie banged on with her recital: ‘I think Lucas has Freudian issues, but I’m not sure which ones. But it always centres around women; he’s very scared and docile around male authority. He’s kind of confrontational with other men, like with Dad, but it’s usually hot air, and he ends up backing down. I imagine the seat of all that misplaced emotion is Mum. Because it starts with mothers in most cases. I mean, even the way he
looks
at her. It’s the way you look at a mother, but like … not really, at the same time.’

Vee cleared her throat. ‘That’s really something, Rosie, it truly is. Tell me, did any of you kids ever go for therapy? You know what therapy is?’

‘Duh. I’m not stupid.’ Rosie crossed her arms, pouting. ‘Yeah, we went. It was useless, but we had to.’ She shook her head, looking adult for the first time. ‘Grief counselling and some kinda child therapy, and my parents did marriage counselling one time. That didn’t last.’ She snorted. ‘Now they take each other down in the open and everyone gets pissed off at everyone
else for no reason. That’s our new therapy.’ She looked Vee up and down with a frown. ‘Why d’you ask? I read a lot about this stuff too. Does it show?’

‘Nope. Never mind. Tell me more about Lucas and Jacqui. What happened?’

Rosie fired a round of shifty looks, slunk deeper into her seat, opened her mouth, closed it. The sight of the conifer-lined streets of Pinelands brought her agitation back in full swing. Her legs started to bop up and down in anticipation of escape.

‘You better tell me, ‘cause it makes a big difference if this comes from you. I’m gonna find out anyway, and if I have to hear it off your parents, hehn! You know how that’ll go,’ Vee said. ‘They’ll paint themselves like heroes and dump all the mess on you kids, mainly because they have no idea what this has been like for y’all. Girl, you do not want to hear what you sound like coming out of your parents’ mouths.’

Rosie chewed her lip, stalling. Vee considered central-locking all the doors and forcing her to live off potpourri until she got an answer.

‘I’ll tell you if you stop here,’ Rosie said as they veered off Forest Drive deeper into suburbia. ‘Don’t take me all the way home. I can walk.’

‘It’s no problem. We’re almost there.’

‘No!’

For the first time, Vee was close enough to notice that Rosie’s hazel eyes, wild and boring into hers, were rimmed and flecked with green. They were undoubtedly her most striking asset, one of few she could take pride in.

‘Nobody should see us together. I don’t want any questions.’

Vee pulled over and drew up the handbrake. She flipped down the sun visor to keep the glare out of her face and shifted around in her seat so Rosie had her full attention.

‘Lucas started acting weird around Jacqui.’ Rosie hugged her schoolbag to her chest as if it was all the comfort she had left. ‘He started having feelings for her. Y’know,
very
non-brotherly feelings.’ She gulped. ‘Everyone thinks I’m too young to notice anything and find out stuff, but I do. Well, I don’t know how far it actually went but I knew something was up. Jacqui went cold and stopped wanting to be around him. I tried to bring it up but she shut me down. But I think they… you know, that, like …’ Her fingers harassed her socks, pulling strips of elastic loose. ‘They maybe
did it
with each other or something.’

‘As in …’

Rosie’s blush went nuclear. ‘You know. As in,
that
.’

‘Oi! Stop being anti-social over there!’ Charisma shouted.

Vee flapped a hand over her shoulder to shush her and went back to the view.

The rooftop of
Urban’s
office building was her headspace. The CBD was one hell of an impressive spreadsheet; the throb of traffic and a strong south-easterly fluting past her ears made for a brilliant lunchtime soundtrack. Throw in the phallic magnificence of the Absa building towering over the downtown hustle, and decompression was instant. Vee looked down, fighting that visceral urge to spread her arms and launch herself over the edge.

‘Voinjama Johnson!’ a chorus of voices screamed.

‘Give me strength and succour.’ Vee covered her face with her hands, breathed, and meandered back to the group. The terrace wasn’t big enough for destressing one person, let alone five. Chari and Chlöe, along with Lebo Khumalo from layout and design and photographer Tallulah MacArthur, and it was a bit much.

‘Puff?’

Vee pushed away the smoking butt in Chari’s hand. ‘
No
. Jeez.’ Chari held it pinched between her thumb and forefinger,
meaning it was no ordinary cigarette. ‘How can you smoke that and be coherent later?’

‘One hit is for great creative energy,’ Chari grinned hazily. ‘Well, let’s say two hits …’

Vee tuned out the volley of office gossip between the four and grabbed a lawn chair. The battered furniture was a gift from Portia, cast-offs from her last redecoration. Portia wasn’t a fan of her staff shooting the breeze up here but didn’t see the point in banning it. Vee faced her chair in the other direction, overlooking the ledge, and let her thoughts sail out.

They were screwed. Well,
she
was screwed; Chlöe didn’t matter yet. She wasn’t
completely
screwed, not yet, but she couldn’t see a way to backpedal out of this. It wasn’t at all like her to lose heart so quickly but she felt exhausted already. Illegitimate thieving daughters, thuggish boyfriends, coital congress between siblings. How did each slippery thread weave together with the others? What was the backbone of her piece, if she couldn’t even see an outline? The police had given up – who the hell did she think she was? Not to mention that sweet incentive of twenty-five grand Adele had pushed at her. A heft of bills she’d held in her hand, seriously debated pocketing – journalists danced over the line all the time, what was twenty-five really, and who would know – until common sense slapped her and she’d refused. Her palm still itched with the memory of it, though. Adele wasn’t quite compos mentis right now, but Vee didn’t intend telling Portia a thing, not even to win a few points for moral fortitude. If Portia found out anyone connected with the case had so much as waved a hundred rand note under her journalist’s nose, that
would be it – story axed, welcome to reassignment. All Vee needed to do now–

Chlöe coughed at her shoulder.

Vee smiled up at her. ‘Those bitches too over the top? You get used to it. They sound like maniacs but they’re not. Not fully, anyway.’

‘Uh, no, it’s not that,’ Chlöe hissed. ‘We’ve got company.’

‘Shit, hide the joint!’ Portia never came up here, nor did anyone else. Vee swung her legs down and got up. She blinked. ‘Whuhh … Joshua? What’re you doing here … and what’s that nonsense in your hand? You bought
flowers
?’

Joshua thrust out the bunch of poppies. He was back at work; the haircut, clean-shaven face and crisp shirt was all there was to say about that. ‘If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain …’ he shrugged, leaning over to brush a kiss on her cheek.

‘This is a cheap and dirty stunt,’ Vee said in his ear. She didn’t have to turn around to know their exchange was being devoured by the intrigued collective: the stares lasering into the back of her neck were evidence enough. ‘You know our rule: no workplace antics, no showing up to offices. You think this is funny?’

‘LOL! What care I for rules? You should’ve taken my calls. You know I only play dirty when you don’t take my calls.’ He dropped another kiss near her ear. ‘You smell incredible, by the way.’

‘Mssh, pervert.’ Vee nudged him away, but it was too late. The coven advanced.

‘Hey, no penises allowed up here. No funny business either.’ Tallulah folded her arms. ‘Who might you be and who are you to her?’

‘He has no name, and we’re just fr–’

‘Joshua Allen. We used to fool around in college, till she started catching feelings. I was the best she ever had.’ Vee’s jaw dropped. ‘I apologise for the intrusion, but this young lady promised to meet me for lunch and then stood me up. My hand was forced,’ Joshua said.

‘We
never
… I
never
…’ Vee took a deep breath. Charm and deception were Joshua’s forte. The girls were already staring at her as if she’d burnt down an orphanage.

‘But I know how she can make it up to me. Let’s walk, shall we?’

‘Yes, dickhead,
let’s
!’ Vee grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the stairs. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the lewd movement of Chari licking her fingers.

‘Please don’t slap me. I couldn’t resist,’ Joshua laughed.

‘Slap? More like–’

‘That’s great.’ He bounded a few steps ahead and blocked her path. ‘But before we get kinky, listen to my proposition. Last time I came over …’

‘You mean the night you broke in against my express wishes.’

‘To-may-to, to-mah-to. You mentioned the Wellness Institute and this Dr Fourie, and it rang a bell. Long story short, how’d you like to hit a swank party tomorrow night in Constantia?’

‘Pertinent to the WI and the Fouries, how?’

‘Rich people, free food, an evening of my delightful company…’

Vee made a bored face.

‘All right, fine, but it’s related. The reference rang a bell because, naturally, our firm is connected to those who live a lush life and, naturally, those folks like to throw their weight around. Sometimes they put their muscle into charity, other times into private and lucrative business ventures, something that makes them look philanthropic but will also make even more money.’

Vee leaned against the staircase and amplified her bored stare. Joshua brokered in corporate finance, a world that, shameful as it was to admit, was more arcane and complex than her intelligence had command of. He’d been at JPMorgan Chase for years and still wasn’t completely transparent about what exactly he did for a pay cheque. Terms like ‘mergers and acquisitions’, ‘liquidity risk’ and ‘derivatives’ he bandied about with aplomb. Vee hated it. She could explain her job in a few sentences, while his version took hours and several glasses of wine. Whenever she had trouble sleeping, she only had to call on him to explain his work one more time. Every time she felt troubled that he was a capitalist demon working against the very causes she stood for, he did something to reaffirm her faith in him.

‘How long and complicated is this gonna be?’ she said.

‘I’ll keep to the sidewalk for the pedestrians,’ he promised. ‘The WI is a breakaway from another private hospital that tanked about five years ago: Claremont Life and Medicare Clinic – CLM. Capital issues. One of their backers must’ve seen the recession coming and cashed in their chips early. Some of the doctors left, but others stayed and did the legwork to get a private clinic off the ground. Well, the guy who’s throwing the party is a
shareholder in the WI venture. He knows how to spot money and make it, so he didn’t just put his name behind this so the public would thank him for having a big heart. Well, yeah, ass-kissing is a form of currency, too. But the money he sank into the WI is set to make him an even prettier penny.’

‘Isn’t that like laundering?’

‘Half of how you make money is like laundering. How d’you think banks work? The other half is like …’ Joshua flip-flopped a hand, ‘… lying or stealing. So basically, like life. Depressing, I know. I need to give you the tutorial on laundering again, because I don’t think you got it.’

‘Can’t wait.’

‘Anyway. Philemon Mtetwa. Our Midas in question. Soirée at his mansion tomorrow evening. A little birdie told me that half the board of directors and senior staff will be there, including …’

‘The Fouries.’

‘Bingo. I’m invited and I need a date. Who better than one who snoops, eavesdrops and asks awkward questions over the entrées? See, I’m always looking out for you.’

It was true; he always was. There was no snappy answer for that.

‘What happened to Bitch in Boots?’

He shrugged. Flapped a hand like a bird taking off in flight. ‘It wasn’t meant to be. She couldn’t hold an escargot fork.’

‘Pssh. Because everybody who got sense knows you eat snails with your fingers.’ She searched his eyes and his eyes smiled back, teasing. It was a dangerous premise for a date, which was what it would be; they both knew it. An evening in make-up and heels, knocking back bubbly, snuffling for gold like a
truffle pig on the other … so tempting. She badly needed to get out of the house. But bad things could end up happening, very bad things.

‘How did you get invited, anyway?’ she grunted. They trudged into the main hub, where the din was overwhelming. They lingered at the stairwell door. ‘Are you one of the hotshots handling this guy’s investment holdings, or what?’

‘Wow. That’s not even in the ballpark of what I do, little one.’ He gave her nose a tweak, then made eyes at his watch. ‘Okay, I’m out. But tomorrow evening, seven, are we on? Please.’

‘Fine, I’ll be your date to the rich pipo party. Now …’ She pointed to the elevators and he tipped an invisible hat in farewell and headed towards them.

‘Who was that?’

Vee jumped. The doors of the lift had barely closed in Joshua’s face and here Portia was, barking at her shoulder.

‘Nobody. Damn. Is privacy a pipe dream when you work with women?’

‘Of course. What did Nobody want? Aside from aggravating my hayfever.’ Portia cut her eyes at the flowers. ‘Is he a source on the case?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Hhmm,’ was all Portia said. For an absurd moment before she walked away, Vee thought she caught a glimmer of respect.

A spray of sparks arced off a beat-up Honda as a new exhaust pipe was soldered in place. In another corner of the workshop floor, a mechanic gunned the engine of a no-hoper while another two celebrated with greasy high-fives.

On days like these, Marieke Venter barely felt female. She had to squeeze a boob or sneak into the loo to check down her knickers if her creases and crevices were still there. On the days she was on her cycle there was no need to: the crew, who knew her too well, let her know she was persona non grata. On those days, every word she said (she had to admit, she did snipe a bit) got taken out of context or ignored. It would help if there were another woman around. Unfortunately, the downside of working in a garage – or in the auto-mechanical industry, as her father had insisted on calling it – was that birds of her feather were rare.

‘Where’s Ashwin?’ she asked one of the mechanics.

Pieter shrugged, wiping a spanner on his blue jumpsuit. ‘Thought he was in your office. Typical. If you find him, tell him I need him working on the Golf’s suspension. That lady wants her car today and if he doesn’t want
kak
like last time …’

Marieke clenched her jaw and muttered something crude, low enough to stay under the racket. Pieter gave her a look and she flushed. She never griped openly about her and Ashwin’s problems. It stirred up chatter, and the guys sure knew how to gossip like hens. Being the only woman at Venter’s Auto and Electrical Garage was one thing, but it would help to no end if she didn’t have to run the place more or less single-handed while Ashwin farted around.

She slipped into their cramped office, the only place on the premises besides the toilet that had any privacy. She groaned as she put her feet up.

I need another job, Marieke thought. Which was crazy. She was the administrator, head of finance, roster organiser and competent under the hood; she had several jobs already. Besides, Venter’s was family, and you didn’t bail on family.

She knew full well what Pieter’s look had been about. Despite all her efforts, Ashwin didn’t show her enough respect. The boys on the workshop floor gave her her due, but not her own brother. Some had worked for her father and were proud to see at least one of his children remained dedicated to the garage’s survival. Surgery on automobiles had been her dad’s passion, and busting her ass to keep his business afloat was hers. Ashwin had other ideas, but he would, seeing as the old man’s will favoured him and he owned the shop.

Marieke tapped piles of bills and orders against the desk and put them to one side, getting grouchier by the minute. She knew she was no genius and her talents were few, but she knew what she was about. She was great at doing what she was told,
getting things in order and keeping them that way. Maybe that made her a simpleton to some, but it was her fussing that kept Venter’s out of quicksand time and time again.
She
had done it, and still did. In the pinch of crisis, she–

A loud tap sounded on the glass panel separating the office from the chaos of the floor. For the thousandth time, Marieke wished the partition was one-way and soundproof. She wished it was bulletproof too, not so much for her sake as for that of the idiots on the other side.

It was Pieter again. He gestured wildly, hand to one ear in the shape of a phone receiver as he mouthed something. She frowned and waved him in. Did he want to use the phone?

He shook his head vigorously and stabbed a finger at the office landline, moving his lips slowly. Come one, come all, was that what he was saying? She threw her hands up. He rolled his eyes and came round to poke his head in.

‘Yassis, Marieke, you suck at charades. I was saying,
someone called
. The same woman that called before, asking for Ashwin. I figured she wouldn’t mind speaking to you instead, but you were out.’

‘What woman?’

‘She’s called before, even stopped by and waited around on Tuesday morning. I took a message.’ Pieter pointed to the Post-it stuck to the edge of the desk and closed the door behind him.

Marieke spent a long time deciphering the Khoisan rock painting that was Pieter’s handwriting. Afterwards, she contemplated. Her grey cells were shuffling down a road and she didn’t like
where they going. An investigator was looking into an old missing persons case and wanted a word with her big brother.

For all Ashwin’s past shenanigans, there was only one thing that hovered in the background of their lives, the ghost that wouldn’t move on and leave them in peace. He’d said nothing to her of calls and drop-ins by investigators, but it went a long way towards explaining his volatile mood and unexplained absences that week. He was avoiding the unavoidable. After everything that had happened back then, with everything that she knew, he was still running and still shutting her out.

‘
Nie meer nie
,’ Marieke whispered and stuffed the scrap of yellow paper with a scrawled number on it in her jeans. No more.