The Lazarus Effect (15 page)

Vee got her notes in order as, once again, she waited in the paediatric unit’s reception, this time to be ushered into Carina Fourie’s consulting room.

The last thing she’d expected come Monday morning when she got to her desk was a call from either of the Fouries, so Carina’s genial summons to meet at the WI came as a surprise. Vee had listened with no interruption, agreed to the meet Carina at ten-thirty and thanked her for offering an interview. She hung up and sat at her desk, letting the encounter boomerang around her brain. Either the Fouries were up to something – as a rule, people loved the idea of a successful pre-emptive strike and it rarely worked out that way in reality – or they had decided to play it straight.

Vee kept an eye on Carina’s door and took advantage of the half-hour of free wifi to browse emails. Things were taking shape. Chlöe had checked in to report that the Sticky Fingers theory was holding up. Several old classmates of Jacqui’s had confirmed buying her wares on school grounds at knock-off prices. The headmaster eventually cottoned on to the enterprise and called in Jacqui’s parents, threatening immediate expulsion. Adele and
Ian had pleaded ignorance and moderation, and after a lot of negotiation Jacqui’s punishment was shaved down: suspension if the goods were returned, and counselling. Her disappearance meant neither had transpired and Jacqui had at least been spared one minor embarrassment.

Why hadn’t Adele considered it important enough to mention? Better yet, why not avoid the possibility of meddling questions altogether by getting rid of the evidence? Adele clearly had an unhealthy relationship with her daughter’s room, but an oversight like that was just plain sloppy. Vee wondered what Adele had told the case officers who’d examined Jacqui’s belongings, that’s if they’d caught it at all and questioned her. What Vee was most interested in knowing was how the good doctor had handled his daughter’s disgrace. Ian would hardly let something like that go unpunished.

Vee looked up to find Carina standing over her, for how long she had no idea. She closed her laptop quickly, rose and followed Carina into her comfortable, east-facing office.

‘My husband will be joining us. I’m sure it’ll be more convenient if we both speak to you. More practical, right? We’re all busy people.’

Germans and their efficiency
. Vee wondered a little guiltily if that was a racist thought to have. Within minutes she was comfortably seated, sipping on an overly strong cup of Jacobs Krönung blend and studying the husband and wife in the sofas across from her as they presented a united and creepily frosty front.

The quick clench and release motions of Carina’s right fist were a dead giveaway that wifey was highly tense. Vee had an
inkling that Carina called her on her own gumption but that plans had changed. Either she’d chickened out of riding solo through the interview, or Ian had found out and wedged himself in to monitor the proceedings. Vee leaned heavily towards the latter.

Adele had described him well. Ian Fourie commanded devotion, obedience, admiration, the spectrum. Vee didn’t go so far as to call it magnetic – there was something warmer and more pleasant about that energy – but Ian did have a pull just by being in the room. In a blue shirt and slacks, shoulders relaxed as he made direct eye contact, he looked the picture of a man at ease, yet his eyes were guarded. He reached to his left and took hold of his wife’s hand, but her body language didn’t change. Eyes dead ahead, back straight, knees together. Her pale hand looked like a dead fish in his.

‘I will start by talking about Heinrich. I’m sure you will want to begin at the beginning,’ Carina said. There was a soothing cadence to the trace of German in her accent. She instantly began to look relaxed and strangely happy now she was on the topic of her son. It took a second for Vee to recall that Heinrich had been Sean’s proper first name.

‘He had acute lymphocytic leukaemia, or ALL. It’s a common type of cancer in children and the survival rate is encouragingly high. Sadly for us, he had a very aggressive sub-type, which changes the treatment strategy substantially. He was diagnosed when he was five–’

‘Five and a half,’ Ian interjected, his voice gruff. Head bent, he cleared his throat and managed to look up, embarrassed. He issued a low murmur and nod for Carina to continue.

‘Over the years, he went into remission but the outlook wasn’t good. The cancer returned with full force in late 2001. We agreed with his specialists that since he wasn’t responding to standard therapy, we would focus our energy on allogenic stem cell transplantation.’

Carina gave a wry smile at Vee’s blank expression. “Allogenic’ simply means the transplant material would come from a donor who was a genetic tissue match. The stem cells they transfuse can either be from the blood or bone marrow. The best shot at improving our chances was to try both, but first we had to find a good HLA match.’

Vee settled back for a biology brush-up. In short, sufferers needed transplants from donors who matched their human leucocyte antigen, or HLA, type. The HLA complex was made of surface proteins found on white blood cells, the gatekeepers of transplant outcome. The lymphocytes had a search-and-destroy system for killing foreign cells entering the body. It made sense, then, that a high level of genetic similarity between the donor and recipient was critical, otherwise the transplanted cells would be hunted as ‘enemies’ and annihilated. HLA types were inherited, with parts of the gene coming from both parents. In theory, the odds were good that a child with many siblings would find a match.

‘But that’s only the science on paper. In reality, it’s difficult to find a suitable match, and unfortunately Sean was unlucky. None of the kids was even remotely a possibility.’

Until Jacqui
.

The unspoken hung over them like a cloud of napalm.

‘Aren’t patients commonly put onto transplant waiting lists in case the family angle falls through? Surely Sean was on one, to up his chances?’ Vee asked.

The doctors exchanged a weighted look. For a brief second, Ian looked at his wife like a vulnerable, frightened man and Carina looked back with the deer-softness of an understanding wife.

Like a magic trick, they snapped back into formation.

‘Yes, he was on the national registry. We even went abroad for a short while to explore options. But, as I said, nothing’s guaranteed. Once you venture outside, the likelihood of finding a match drops and riskiness of the procedure goes up. The waiting lists are long, and with Sean’s prognosis it could’ve been too late before we found a donor. In any case, it was then that I found out … I was made aware of …’

Carina swallowed and tried again. ‘The option of testing Jacqueline presented itself,’ she managed to choke out. Vee refrained from openly arching her brows. ‘An option presenting itself’ – now there was a euphemism to describe the crash landing of the Paulsens.

The walls flew up after that. Any question that demanded more than a one-word reply, the Fouries covered in minimal, often monosyllabic detail. Had they at any point offered Ms Paulsen compensation for her daughter’s donation? How had Jacqui got along with the other children in the years following Sean’s death? Could they shed any new light on her disappearance, and had they been fully transparent with the police?

Blank stares and muttered responses.

Vee kept jotting in her notepad, her voice recorder still rolling.
Is it me or does this whole family have a very disturbing vibe?
‘One final question,’ she added, lancing a forced smile in the direction of Ian’s pointed glance at his watch. Seriously? If anyone’s morning had been wasted, it was hers. ‘You explained how Sean’s body had to be prepped to receive bone marrow cells from his sister.’ Every time she pointedly substituted Jacqui’s name for ‘their sister’, she got a response. Ian stayed deadpan but his jaw would clench, and there would be an involuntary jerk of the shoulder or quiver in the hand from Carina.

‘Myeloablation, it’s called,’ Ian nodded. ‘As much of his diseased marrow had to be destroyed beforehand. After transfusion, Jacqui’s healthy cells would multiply and replenish his supply, like jump-starting his immune system.’

Vee nodded that she understood. ‘So Adele had agreed. Sean had been prepped and so had Jacqui. Doctors were standing by. And then, out of nowhere, Adele has a change of heart and takes her daughter home. Right before the operation. What made her do an about-face?’

After an hour of smoke and mirrors, she’d found one loose thread to pull at. Carina dug the fingers of one hand so deep into the back of the other that half-moons of white formed under her nails.

‘Adele was scared,’ Ian interjected, just as his wife opened her mouth. ‘We’d put a lot on her plate and expected an immediate answer. There’s never any accounting for how a mother will react in a situation like this, how
any
parent would.’

‘The transplant … it never happened, then?’ Vee knew the answer but watching them narrate was infinitely more telling than working from notes.

Ian shook his head. ‘Jacqui was home for a couple of days as we tried to talk sense into Adele. But like, overnight, Sean got an infection, or maybe the bug had taken hold already and we had missed it. In any case, his immunity was depleted and the doctors couldn’t fight it. There was nothing anyone could’ve done.’

‘She could’ve let her daughter stay in the hospital.’ Carina was a statue with moving lips, her shoulders so taut they were nearly brushing her ears. ‘She could’ve allowed Jacqui to stay. The transplant would’ve gone ahead and Sean might still …’ She choked, breathing deeply to collect herself. She turned to Ian. Vee could only see her in profile, and felt a rush of gratitude she didn’t have to be the one facing that level of contempt every day. ‘That woman had no right to decide my son’s fate. You gave her the power to let my son die.’

‘Carina, please,’ Ian quavered. ‘It could’ve happened at any time. The risk of a fatal infection is always high in–’

Carina stood up, opened the door and walked out.

Interview over.

The
slap
chips on the plastic plate did a waltz under the aimless manoeuvring of Marieke Venter’s fork. Across the table, Vee joyfully fed her face with a mutton bunny chow. She adored street food – the cultural nuances, the brazen messiness and flirtation with questionable hygiene, how you needed to tuck into it with both hands. Best dining experience ever. After years of boarding-school slop and refugee rations, nothing beat the sidewalk for grab and go’s.

Gravy dribbled down her wrist and she licked at it joyfully.

‘It’s good, right?’ Marieke preened. The food kiosk was her special place, one of a few close to the garage at which she could get great food. It was packed, but Marieke had said a few words to management and got a table outside under the striped awning. ‘People say this lady makes the best curries and fish and chips in Cape Town. I’m always here on my break.’

Vee took a swallow of beer and managed a ladylike burp. ‘They sure ain’t lyin’.’ Lunch out of the office was a welcome change.

She wiped her mouth on a napkin and waited for Marieke to work around to the conversation she was itching to have. Twenty minutes into lunch and the voice recorder had gathered
nothing but small talk. But Marieke had called, so the ball was in her court. Vee was on a streak today, what with all the verbal diarrhoea and people calling her up to act as the commode.

‘You’re not what I expected.’ Pale eyes gave Vee a once-over and skittered away. Marieke mashed a chip with her fork and ate it. ‘How come your name’s Johnson?’

‘It’s a long story.’ Vee stretched and fumbled under the table, trying to undo the button of her jeans undercover. She was definitely getting a takeaway, mutton curry with rice this time. ‘In a nutshell, I’m related to the president of my country. We’re descended from a royal tribe, so we automatically get to rule.’

Marieke’s eyebrows reached for her hairline. ‘Tjo, really! So how come you’re living here instead of rolling in it at home?’

Bless. Here was an unspoilt soul. Marieke looked about Chlöe’s age, but aside from the perkiness they couldn’t have been more different. Vee grinned and did a comical shrug.

The joke finally sank in and Marieke burst out laughing. ‘Oi, you’re messing with me! Of course you’re not related to a
president
.’ She stirred the mess on her plate. ‘That’s what I mean by you’re not what I expected. Especially since you called so many times. I thought you’d be one of those reporter types, following us home with cameras and harassing us by the door. Or like cops do, grab you off the streets and beat you up till you talk.’

‘I’m not allowed to kick ass any more. My boss made me go for sensitivity training.’

Marieke gasped. ‘Oh my word, you mean you actually used to –’ She caught on quickly this time. She giggled and wagged a finger at Vee. ‘You do that a lot.’

Marieke relaxed. Vee soaked in the hum of the restaurant, letting ambient conversation and the beat of Afro-pop music from the speakers envelop their table.

Marieke cleared her throat. ‘I need you to understand my brother. To really get him, so you get where he’s coming from in all this. Ashwin’s a good guy. He’s had his moments over the years, but he’s always been there for us.’

Ashwin was the eldest of three, Marieke explained, and she was in the middle. From problems in school to minor run-ins with the cops, he’d made a name for himself as the black sheep of the family. Carousing with a bad lot had blossomed into gang-level exploits. Their father had battled for years with diabetes until he’d lost. Shunted into man-sized shoes, Ashwin had taken over the garage. Vee read between the lines easily enough: putting bread on the household table was more Marieke’s responsibility than her brother’s.

‘Is it true that he’s got two children with former girlfriends?’

Marieke nodded a curly head. ‘He pays full maintenance. I see to it.’ She rushed on, ‘Not that he wouldn’t if I didn’t; of course he would. He loves his boys. I’m not even sure if they’re both his. One of the mothers is such a bloody gold-digger, but he does the right thing.’

‘Which gang did he run with back in the day?’

‘It wasn’t even a real gang. They broke off from this other group of losers and started calling themselves The Lynxes. Then they
weren’t sure if ‘lynxes’ was the right word so they cut it down to just Lynx … They had these horrible tattoos that looked like a dodgy ostrich. Shem man, no wonder nobody took them seriously.’

Riled up now, Marieke dished the dirt on Ashwin’s tempestuous relationship with Jacqui, none of which was news. Vee waited her out. This one was a distance runner; she liked to warm up to the meaty stuff.

‘After Jacqui went missing, everyone assumed Ashwin was behind it. The way they were always fighting, making up and breaking up … I couldn’t blame them. But I know him. He’s done some stupid things, but he’s not that stupid to commit murder because he got dumped.’

‘But imagine how bad it looked to the police. He had a record, and he was jealous and hot-tempered. Jacqui ended the relationship, and people knew he’d hit her before–’

‘She asked for it,’ Marieke said.

‘The cops basically had to hold him for questioning. As far as they knew, he was the last one to have seen her alive.’

‘What they did was illegal! They dragged him in
three times
! They let him rot in a holding cell for an entire weekend. Do you know what happens in holding cells in this country?’

She gripped the edge of the picnic table and stuck her chin out over the table. ‘No one asks questions in a holding cell. They don’t care what you’re in for. They did things to him that no one would wish on their worst enemy, that no man would
ever
talk about even with a gun to his head. Ashwin screamed and called for help …’

She swallowed hard and looked away. ‘If he wasn’t fucked up enough before Jacqui, he definitely was after that.’

Vee tried with great difficulty to phrase her question with delicacy. ‘Are you saying–’

‘
Yes!
’ Marieke’s hand shot out as if to cover Vee’s mouth. She caught herself and dropped her arm. The agony in her eyes and mottling of her cheeks made it clear she had no intention of entertaining a conversation about her brother’s ordeal. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’