The Mall Read online

  ‘He says he saw nothing,’ says Simon.

  Fingerling shakes his shaggy head, pauses the screen and reaches for the phone.

  I’m limp with relief. ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ I say, encouraging him. ‘Call him again. He’s talking shite.’

  ‘I’m calling the cops, ma’am.’

  ‘No!’ I say too quickly. ‘The kid will turn up. I know he will.’

  ‘Madam,’ Fingerling says warily, ‘we have to.’

  I check out the distance to the door. Five metres. If I don’t think too hard about it, if I just get up and run, if I do it immediately, I can just about make it.

  Chapter 2

  DANIEL

  I’m sitting in my alcove in the service corridor behind Only Books, eating a packet of Niknaks. I watch Josie and Katrien as they lean against the wall under an emergency strip light, smoking. They can’t see me where I sit and I get the chance to see Josie acting relaxed.

  ‘It was hectic,’ Katrien is saying. ‘Five minutes till the end of the shift and there’s a fucking lockdown.’

  ‘Shame, man,’ Josie empathises. She takes a drag on her cigarette and shifts her foot on the wall behind her. Her knee juts out a little higher and her short skirt rides further up her thigh. She scratches at her hip. She’s wearing a tight purple shirt with a white design of a phoenix, and her green velvet skirt sits above the knee. The way the light’s falling, I can see the soft fluff on her upper leg, the part blondes don’t have to shave. I like the way Josie acts when she’s alone, or with someone like Katrien, someone she obviously trusts. With the customers watching, or even with the rest of the bookshop’s night staff, Josie feels like she has to be on show. She’s that beautiful. Seriously. It must be hard for her.

  ‘I had to meet Bobby at ten and the bloody lockdown lasted till after eleven,’ Katrien says.

  ‘Ja, and I heard it wasn’t anything serious. Just, like, three guys with one gun, and they only hit McDonald’s. Complete overreaction.’ Josie takes a deep drag, the smoke seeps out of her nose as she exhales, trickling out of the corner of her mouth. She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes and I wonder what she’s thinking.

  ‘I think I heard there was a politician here for dinner, so I suppose…’

  Josie drops her stub and mashes it out with her sandal. ‘It’s ridiculous, I swear.’

  She’s about to light another one when we all hear the sound of footsteps along the corridor.

  ‘Bradley, sweetie,’ Josie performs as he comes along, jangling his keys in his trouser pockets. I can’t understand how anyone could flirt with Bradley. He’s so insipid, yet they fall over to laugh at his unfunny jokes. That’s what you get if you’re the boss, I suppose. Big boss that he is. Floor manager of a bookshop. Whoopee.

  ‘Stalker,’ laughs Katrien. ‘I’m going to report you to the authorities.’

  ‘I am the authorities,’ Bradley says. ‘And it’s time to get back on counter. Movies are over and the zombies have descended.’

  ‘Another Dan Brown flick and everyone’s suddenly a reader,’ mumbles Katrien.

  ‘I need to buy a drink first, okay?’ says Josie.

  ‘Sure, I’ll come with you,’ Bradley says. ‘For the walk.’

  They turn and notice me sitting there. Katrien smiles at me. Josie grimaces like the dog just shat on the carpet. Bradley blushes up his scrawny neck. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I feel my face burning in response. ‘Uh, dinner break?’

  ‘Well, it’s getting busy. You’re supposed to be merchandising with Khosi.’

  ‘Ja, I’m coming.’

  Stupid fucker. He always sends Khosi and me to merchandise at the end of a shift so that he can hang over the counter making inane small talk with the girls. Of course, Khosi’s a girl, but she’s not Bradley’s type, I guess. So it’s always her and me, doing the invisible duties. As if Bradley’s got a chance with any of the late-staff girls anyway. And he’s mainly got the horn for Josie. Katrien always hangs out with Josie but I don’t think they’ve got much in common. She’s not bad herself, I suppose; she’s like Josie’s supporting actress, but she dresses in these shapeless outdated hippie clothes.

  The three of them walk away and I can hear Bradley saying something in his monotone and Josie replying with a peal of giggles, looking back at me, then giggling again.

  I crumple up the Niknaks bag, chuck it in one of the janitor’s buckets and start on the Nosh bar. The minute hand on my watch nudges up to the nine. No fucking way I’m going back on shift early. In fact, I’m taking an extra few minutes; call it my smoke break.

  I hear someone whistling, the echoing slap of rubber footfalls. A butcher from Woolworths, bald head covered in a plastic cap and stained white overalls tucked into blue wellingtons, ambles by, picking his nose as he goes. He stands for a while outside the coldroom door, its triple-glazed port window spider-webbed from an old robbery, finishes his nostrilful and keys in the entrance code: 1-2-3-4. I’ve watched them dial that code in countless times. Woolworths install this hi-tech security system and then don’t trust their staff to remember the code.

  I count down four seconds and the blast of cold meat-air whooshes up the corridor like the wind in front of a subway train. If I were someone else, the stench of frozen blood might put me off steak for life. But I’m not.

  I’d better get back on shift now. As I’m walking toward the mall exit, the neon lights flicker off and the emergency lights come on. The air-con grinds to a halt, like someone switching off the sea. At first I think it’s another lockdown like last night’s. But this is not just a brief brown-out; the emergency lights stay on. Great, a power cut. They were amusing the first few times. I’d get to go home early, maybe get a drink first. But now they happen every week, and Only Books has installed minimal battery backups. Which means we have to carry on working, writing everything down and then spend ages after our shift when the power comes back on entering all the sales and manual credit card transactions. Management has its way of spoiling my fun.

  My heart sinks a little at the sight of the corridor’s double exit doors, lined with their thick and scuffed black rubber fold, sealing Highgate Mall’s workers and deliverymen away from the shoppers. Out of my safe place and back into the world of retail slavery. I’m just about to open them and step back onto the stage when a kid slams in and runs down the corridor. I almost shit myself. He’s a fat little dark-haired guy in a red T-shirt and jeans, and goes sprinting past me. But he’s making no sound. Maybe he’s barefoot, I don’t know. I think about following him to see where he’s going, to see if he’s okay, but then the lights come up with a suck of power and I decide to head back. It’s not as if there’s anywhere for him to go.

  Khosi is on a ladder in the Only Books display window, filling it with the crap that people who proudly say ‘I don’t read’ read. Only Books. Yeah right, make that Only Books, Coffee, Chocolates, Chips, Gift wrap, Stationery, Even Fucking Cellphones. Corporate bullshit.

  When I walk in there’s a sour old bitch haranguing Katrien at the counter. Bradley, who a minute ago was probably regaling her with stories of his weekend Dungeons and Dragons blowout or some such shit, is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I haven’t driven all the way over here to waste my time. You people said the book was here and I expect it to be here!’

  Katrien’s saying, ‘Ma’am, can you just tell me who—’

  ‘I don’t care!’ screams the woman, glancing at the three customers waiting behind her, assuming they’ll support her. ‘My God. The service here is pathetic, isn’t it?’ They shift on their feet, trying not to be part of the scene.

  Katrien’s tapping away at the computer, mumbling, ‘The Leonardo Code… we don’t seem to have a record of that one.’ Baiting the woman, seeing whether she can score a star on the Crack Chart we hide in the back office.

  ‘Listen, darling,’ the woman drawls in the tone she obviously reserves for retarded waitresses. ‘Just call your manager, okay?
’

  Eventually Katrien’s forced to call Bradley. Po-faced, he finds the right book on the Evergreen Backlist display heap and sends the woman on her way with the standard ingratiations. Katrien and the next customer stifle their smiles as the woman huffs out of the shop.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Bradley asks me, tapping his watch.

  ‘Uh, tidying poetry.’

  ‘Mm,’ he says, already forgetting me and taking up his place against the counter. I load a trolley with books for shelving.

  A few minutes later Simon, the mall security guy, comes into the shop trailed by Sipho, our store security guard. At this hour it must be serious to get Simon out of the security office and away from their special coffee and porn.

  I watch him talking to Katrien and Bradley, then Bradley beckons me over to the counter. Katrien mutters, ‘Something about a missing kid.’

  ‘What sort of kid? Did they—’

  Simon stands across the counter from me. He reeks of highproof, low-quality alcohol and halitosis.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Simon asks me.

  ‘Daniel.’

  ‘You see a small kid anywhere? Uh, eight, nine. Black. We’ve got this… uh… lady… in the office who says you saw her with him here.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘An hour ago, she says.’ Behind him Sipho shifts uneasily, not sure what he should be doing. Intimidating me, tearing up books, strip-searching the customers, whatever they teach you in security guard school. So he starts fiddling with the products on the counter.

  ‘I don’t know. Lots of people come into the shop.’

  ‘You’ll remember this… lady,’ Simon lowers his voice a fraction, glancing at Khosi loading the window. ‘Blerrie boemelaar. Bald and scars and everything.’

  ‘Oh, ja. I did see her. But I don’t remember any child with her.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Simon. ‘Nobody saw anything here.’ I can see this investigation is exhausting him and he just wants to go back to his office and have another drink. ‘Thanks, Chief,’ he says to Sipho, who jerks around to escort him out and knocks over a stand of Nelson Mandela commemorative fridge magnets on his way out.

  I can’t help but remember that weird-looking woman. She was in the store about an hour ago. There are certain customers who just make me want to run the moment I see them, and they are the ones who always, without fail, end up at my till. This one was a youngish black woman with an unconvincing English accent she was obviously putting on to make her sound posher than she was. Because she had a shaved head and dressed like a bum. On the side of her face was this huge scar, the sort of scar you don’t know how to look at. She was hanging edgily around the counter, smelling of smoke and sweat, but I could see she wasn’t going to buy anything. I didn’t want to help her, but I wanted her to go away and stop lurking around where I could see her. That scar was making me uncomfortable.

  So I said, ‘Can I help you?’

  She took a long look at me, appraising me up and down like I’m some sort of freak show, her lips curling in disgust. Then she said, ‘Fuck you’, and walked a few paces away, jittering, her eyes twitching from door to shelf to floor to counter.

  Now I wonder if the missing child could be the boy I saw in the service corridor. It can’t have been the same one. Hers is a black kid, right? The boy I saw was white, Greek or Portuguese or something. Although it’s quite a complex route from the back of the bookshop, there’s no way out except back into the mall. That kid would never have got lost back there. It’s not worth worrying about. He’s probably sleeping in his parents’ car on the way home by now.

  I start picking up the Mandela magnets and tidying the other junk that’s mixed up on the counter. Nine twenty-five; five minutes to closing. Jesus, what a long day. I need a drink.

  I go into the orders cupboard and flick the lights to signal the time to the remaining customers and Bradley follows me in.

  ‘Hey, Daniel, buddy.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You mind locking up for me tonight?’ he says, handing me his shop keys.

  What the fuck, arsehole? I’d rather you do the hour’s extra work you’re paid triple to do and leave me the fuck alone. ‘Ja, sure, no problem.’

  ‘You are working tomorrow morning, right? So you’ll have to get here first to open up. Seven thirty?’

  ‘Okay.’ I know I’m being a bloody pushover, but what am I supposed to do? If I cash up regularly and always keep the keys safely, maybe Bradley will make me supervisor. I could really do with the extra money.

  Bradley skips over to where Josie is waiting and says, ‘We’re on.’ She smiles and they go to the back office to collect their stuff.

  The safe key isn’t on Bradley’s bunch so I follow them. I tap in the code and open the back office door.

  ‘I knew he’d—’ Josie’s saying and then she stops and blushes.

  Bradley’s laughing, then turns his back when he realises I’m there.

  I smile at Josie. ‘Oh, hi.’ Then tell Bradley that I don’t have the safe key.

  ‘Oh, sure. Here.’ Bradley fishes the key out of his pocket.

  I try to stay calm as I walk back to close the front door, but I have visions of ramming Bradley’s long safe key up his fucking nostril.

  chapter 3

  RHODA

  There are fewer places to hide in malls than you’d think. I squash myself in between an abandoned cleaner’s trolley and one of those giant, pointless plant pots, scrunching my knees up to my chest. The stench of dirty rags and bleach makes my eyes water, and the damp stinking tendrils of a mop brush against my cheek. I pull out my phone, click it onto silent, hold my breath and wait.

  The clip-clop of Fingerling’s boots echo past me, then, just as I’m sure I’m safe, he hesitates. Fuck. He’s so close I could reach around the pot and grab his trouser cuffs. The mall’s muzak cuts out abruptly, and his walkie-talkie erupts into a hissing buzz of static, making me jump. Yellow Eyes’ voice cuts through the crackle, saying something in guttural Afrikaans that I can’t understand. Fingerling responds with a sigh and the words: ‘Nee, boss.’

  My lungs are aching from the frantic chase earlier, and the shallow breaths I’m sucking in through my nose aren’t helping. Christ. I should’ve got the fuck out of here when I had the chance. I’d easily lost Yellow Eyes after I’d dodged into the parking garage (fat bastard), and I’m pretty sure Simon the Sadist must still be curled into a ball on the filthy carpet in the office, clutching his bollocks.

  There’s no sign of the cops yet, but even if the South African police are as hopelessly crap as I’ve heard, I probably only have five minutes at the most.

  Fingerling’s heavy tread backtracks towards the escalators, and I breathe out in relief and shift my position to ease the cramp in my thighs.

  Should I? Why the hell not? I reach into my pocket, pull out the envelope and pick open one of the wraps. I dip my finger into the powder and rub it over my gums. It’s heavily cut with baby-powder, but weak shit or not, it’s as if a breeze of cool oxygen has blasted into my brain, instantly clearing my head. It tastes bitter and familiar, and I start to breathe easier, the stitch in my side fading.

  I peer out from behind the pot, and shuck forward on my knees to get a better view of the bookshop’s entrance. The doors are closed, the windows darkened and blank. A couple stalks past, the guy pressing his hand into the small of the woman’s back, pushing her onwards. They don’t glance in my direction, too intent on getting the hell out of here. I don’t blame them. Maybe it’s the blow messing with my head, but the mall seems to have taken on a seriously creepy atmosphere. I hate malls at the best of times, but now that I’m surrounded by lifeless shop windows, deserted aisles and empty moving escalators I can see why Dawn of the Dead was such a mind-fuck.

  The bookshop’s glass doors finally crack open, and the blonde bitch emerges, laughing at something the guy next to her is saying. Even from here I can tell that she’s not really listening to him, too busy th
inking about the next thing she’s going to say. She flicks her hair over a shoulder, runs her hand through it and adjusts her shoulder bag. They push through the blue door opposite the shop, the guy checking out her arse as she walks through in front of him.

  But where the hell is the lying bastard? If he’s left already, I’m fucked. My last chance. If I don’t find the kid there’s no way I can go back to Zinzi’s place. Would Jacob help me out? Not much hope of that. If I clear out my account I’ll have enough cash for a couple of tanks of petrol, but that’s it. Nowhere near enough to get me to Cape Town. And forget buying a ticket home. Even if I had the cash there’s no way I’m going back there.

  But I don’t have a choice. I can’t hang around here any longer.

  I stand up carefully, stretching my feet one at a time to shake out the pins and needles. Slipping behind a pillar, I check both directions. No sign of Fingerling or Yellow Eyes. Taking another pinch of blow to fuel my escape I prepare myself to leg it.

  There’s a rattle of keys and the bookshop’s door screeches open again. I crouch back down.

  Thank fuck. It’s him.

  He peers up and down the corridor as if he’s looking for someone (as if that blonde bitch would give a twat like him the time of day), his shoulders slump and he mutters something under his breath. He pulls out an iPod, sticks the earphones in his ears and slouches across the aisle to the door opposite. I count to ten and race across the aisle, slipping into the stairwell behind him. I take the stairs two at a time, making sure that I keep one level below him at all times, but it looks as if he’s going all the way to the top. I hang back when I hear the exit door banging open, then leg it up to the top of the stairs and push my way out into the night.

  The roof is deserted, the empty parking spaces illuminated by yellow lights, and after being inside the stuffy mall I’m momentarily disoriented. The bunker shapes of the various mall entrances cast deep shadows around the flat concrete roof, and the neighbouring buildings loom uninvitingly in the distance.