The Mall Read online

  But where the fuck has he gone? It’s not as if there’s anywhere to disappear to. I jog a few metres away from the exit, and then I see him. He’s trudging towards the far end of the lot, back hunched, muttering to himself again. He doesn’t even glance around as I close the distance between us, ears probably full of Nickelback or whatever toss wankers like him listen to. He’s heading towards the only car – a crappy red Fox with rusting hubcaps and bald tyres – which is half-concealed behind a pay station. While he fiddles with the door lock I race up behind him, grab his left arm and shove it up behind his back.

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘Shut up!’ I say, pushing his arm higher and using my weight to slam him into the side of the car. He bellows in pain.

  ‘Keep quiet and I won’t hurt you,’ I hiss.

  ‘No, man, please! You can take it. Whatever. You can…’ His voice is way too loud. I yank his earphones out and they dangle out of his pocket. A faint tinny trace of music pulses out.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I say. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Let me go!’ He wriggles again, and I’m forced to yank his arm up even higher. Air hisses out of his mouth as he gasps in agony, and his knees buckle and smash against the car door. He’s way taller than me, has a good few kilos on me as well, but the flesh on his arm feels flabby beneath the fabric of his shirt.

  ‘What do you want? I haven’t got any money!’ His voice is panicked, almost tearful. ‘Please don’t hurt me. You can take the car.’

  ‘I don’t want your piece of shit car,’ I say to him. I lean my body into his. He reeks of some sort of cologne – the sort you get free in magazines.

  ‘What do you want?’ His voice escapes in a squeak, which would be comical if I felt like fucking laughing right now.

  ‘I’ve got a few questions for you,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll do what you want. Just let go of me.’

  I release my grip on his arm, and he falls forward against the car. He swivels his shoulder and rubs his arm. I wait for him to turn around to face me.

  ‘You!’ he says, eyes wide with recognition. ‘It’s you!’ His face is paler than before, and his cheeks are trembling with fear or shock or both. For a second I almost feel sorry for him. He’s a good head taller than me, and from the way he suddenly clenches his jaw and tenses his body it’s clear that he’s realised this. But I don’t wait for him to react. Lashing out with my right foot I slam it into his crotch. He drops instantly, writhing on the ground, rolling in the tarmac, the edge of his T-shirt trailing in a pool of oil.

  He gasps desperately for air, face scrunched up in pain, tears streaming blackly down his cheeks as his eyeliner smudges. He gags and a thin stream of white puke dribbles out of his mouth. I pull out my cigarettes and light up while I wait for him to stop moaning, puking and coughing. My hands are trembling, but I can’t let him see any sign of weakness.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ he says when he can speak. He struggles up onto his hands and knees, then sinks back down again, clutching his balls. ‘Fucking psycho!’

  ‘Why did you do it, eh?’ I say, blasting smoke in his face.

  ‘What do you mean? Do what?’ he whines.

  ‘Tell them you didn’t see the kid.’

  ‘What? I don’t under—’

  I boot him in the stomach, slightly harder than I’d actually meant to. He makes a ‘whoof’ sound and whips his head around desperately, clearly searching for someone to come to his aid. Not much chance of that. There’s the roar of an engine below us, the screech of sirens in the distance and steam billows out from one of the air-conditioner vents. But the parking lot remains desolate.

  I drop to my haunches and look down into his eyes. ‘Let’s try this again,’ I say.

  ‘Ugh – please, what do you want?’

  ‘Why did you lie?’

  ‘I didn’t… I don’t know wh—’ I place my foot over his hand and press down gently, letting him know I could stomp on it at anytime.

  He puts his free hand up in surrender. ‘Okay, okay.’

  ‘Did you see where the kid went?’

  ‘What kid?’

  For fuck’s sake. ‘The kid I was with when I came into the store. You saw me. Don’t pretend you didn’t.’

  Something stirs in his eyes. ‘White kid, right?’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

  ‘He was really with you? But he looked so…’ He wisely leaves the word ‘respectable’ unspoken.

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Thank Christ. ‘Where?’

  ‘In the corridor behind the shop.’

  ‘Was he with anyone?’ He doesn’t answer immediately and I press my foot down with more force.

  ‘Hurts!’

  ‘Was he with anyone!’

  ‘No. I thought he was just playing around.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop him?’

  ‘I told you. I thought he was just messing around.’ Now there’s a flash of impatience in his voice that surprises me. I’d better take charge again, take a different tack.

  ‘Get up!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Get up!’

  ‘Okay! Okay!’ His eyes shift again, and his fingers skitter towards the bunch of keys that have fallen under the car. I know exactly what he’s thinking.

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘Think about what?’ he hedges as he stands slowly and leans back against the car.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘What’s that got to do—’ I grip his collar and snarl in his face.

  ‘Daniel, Dan.’

  ‘Well, Dan. Nice to meet you. I’m Rhoda. So tell me something, you want me to tell your boss you fucking lied? Maybe have a word with that blonde you want to fuck?’ He blushes and I press home my advantage. ‘You want to be known as the prick who let a child get lost and did nothing about it?’

  ‘I didn’t know. I fucking told you.’

  ‘You lied for a reason, Dan,’ I say, dropping the cigarette butt next to his hand and stomping it out. He flinches. ‘I know the security guards questioned you, and you lied.’

  ‘They said the missing kid was black.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what they said, I swear.’

  Fuck. Morons.

  ‘What were you doing with the kid, anyway?’ he says. Shit. It could be that he’s not as stupid as I’d assumed.

  ‘I was babysitting. Kid ran off.’

  He wipes his puke-snot with his sleeves, shakes his head and smooths his hair. ‘So it’s you who fucked up,’ he says. ‘Not me.’

  ‘I need to find the kid,’ I say. ‘And you’re going to help me.’

  A sneaky expression flicks into his eyes. ‘You can’t make me,’ he says.

  I really didn’t want to have to do this. I reach into the inside pocket of my hoodie and retrieve Zinzi’s knife. I actually have no clue how I’m supposed to use it, but Dan doesn’t know that. Far as he knows I’m some high-strung junkie arsehole. I do my best, trying to recall scenes from Guy Ritchie movies. I press the button on the side and it clicks open smoothly.

  ‘I’ll ask you again,’ I say, making my voice sound almost bored. ‘Will you help me?’

  He doesn’t speak for a few seconds, eyes not leaving the knife. He grimaces and wipes his mouth again.

  ‘Well?’ I say, almost cheerfully.

  He nods.

  I’ve pulled up my hood as a precaution, but we don’t meet anyone as we head down towards the mall’s delivery entrance. We wander past an empty truck, a few wooden crates, cardboard boxes and an abandoned forklift, a crumpled box of Rothmans on the seat. Dan walks slightly bow-legged in front of me, dawdling almost. I think about elbowing him in the spine so that he’ll get a move on, but decide against it. I don’t want to push my luck.

  He stops and points towards a pair of thick metal doors cut into the side of the windowless building.

  ‘Through there,’ he
says.

  ‘After you.’

  ‘What? Why do I have to come?’

  ‘Just go.’

  He pushes against the doors. ‘Locked,’ he says. ‘It’s after hours. See, we can’t get in.’

  Fuck. There’s no way I want to go back through the mall again, but there’s a keypad next to the door, and Dan is avoiding looking at it.

  ‘Why do I think you know the combination?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t!’ he whinges.

  ‘Dan, Dan, Dan,’ I say, now almost enjoying myself. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ I pull out the knife again and click it open.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ His fingers tremble as he keys in the number. I file it away for future reference. 1-2-3-4. Always the same. ‘You need help,’ he says as we push through the doors and into a narrow brick-lined corridor. ‘Psychiatric help.’

  He trudges ahead, and I reach into my pocket for another pinch of blow.

  ‘Where now?’ I say. The corridor snakes off in opposite ways. I’ve lost all sense of direction, so I can only hope he isn’t going to do anything stupid, like lead us straight to the security office.

  ‘This way.’

  He takes the left-hand fork and we head deeper into the gloom. The corridor reeks of oil, concrete dust and a faint trace of rotten meat. Clearly this is the part of Highgate Mall that the customers never get to see, and it’s as basic and stripped down as it gets. There’s not even a ceiling to mask the workings of the airconditioning system; massive silver pipes and insulated wires loop from the ceiling like spilled metal innards. We push through another set of those heavy black doors, and he strides on confidently.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ he says without turning around.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  He shrugs. ‘Just trying to be friendly. You’re not from here, are you?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘What’s with the accent?’

  ‘What’s with the questions? Let’s just find the kid, get out of here. You’ll never have to see me again.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The ceiling is even lower here, and I have to shrug off the beginnings of claustrophobia, which isn’t helped by the effects of the blow.

  I open my mouth to speak ‘You sure you—’

  He whirls around, and before I have a chance to block him, his elbow rams into the side of my face. Pain explodes in my cheekbone, and I reel back and slam into the brick wall.

  Fuck!

  He’s haring back the way we came, and the bastard’s quicker than I would have expected. Blocking out the bright bloom of agony and the taste of blood in my throat, I race after him. I round the corner, then slow to a jog.

  He’s slamming his body into the heavy black doors, punching and kicking at them like a toddler. He’s practically howling in frustration.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouts at the top of his lungs. ‘Hey! Help! Let me out!’

  He pushes against the doors again, but it’s clear that they’re not going to give.

  Slowly, eyes wide with panic, he turns to face me.

  I am going to fucking kill him.

  chapter 4

  DANIEL

  It’s near eleven and we’re in Woolworths. It closed at nine; the display windows are quarter-lit and only a few downlighters around the periphery of the shop are kept on. The perfume counters are lit up from inside, and the spotlights under the mannequins shine up their skirts. The mirrors at the perfume counters reflect them jaggedly and the mannequins look on, watching their own humiliation from a thousand angles.

  I never liked mannequins. Their dead eyes, their peeling skin, their pert little nipples, hard as the rest of them to the touch.

  Scarface is hurrying me on. ‘Come on, come on,’ she keeps saying.

  ‘You think I want to hang around here? In fact, this isn’t my idea of—’

  ‘I said come the fuck on!’ she screams and shoves me in the back. ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  I’m going to show her that the child is gone and then I’m going home. This is how this evening is going to go. And you know what they say when you’re getting held up or hijacked or whatever. Just co-operate and it will be over.

  We navigate our way along a line of light-impaled mannequins into the food section. Scarface looks around nervously, as if she’s being followed. In an empty shop. Here was proof of what I’d heard about drugs: delusions and paranoia. She hasn’t stopped sticking her powdery fingers in her mouth since she found me in the parking lot.

  I knew the scary bitch was on drugs. Cocaine, heroin, tik, whatever it is. But while I’m bigger than her, she’s faster than me, and vicious. I can still taste puke in my mouth, and my stomach fucking hurts. It’s the first time I’ve been beaten up since high school, and never so seriously. I thought she was going to kill me when I tried to run, but I think she realises that she needs me to get her through the mall. I don’t know what she expects to see once we get there. That kid’s long gone.

  She’s forced me to bring her through the Woolworths delivery entrance instead of back through the mall, so now I have to take her the long route through the store. But with any luck the silent alarm was triggered as soon as we came in, and the cops are on their way right now.

  You know, if she wasn’t so aggressive I might actually want to help her. All she wants, after all, is to find that boy she’s lost. I’m just glad she’s put away the knife.

  ‘What the fuck are you waiting for? You’re not going to try—’

  ‘Give me a break, okay. I’m trying to figure out where the back exit is.’

  ‘Try there,’ she orders, pointing out a door with a small window and an electronic keypad.

  ‘Nah, cash office. We’re looking for the coldroom. That’s the door that opens out to our corridor.’

  She pulls her hoodie further over her head so that I can barely see her face any more.

  ‘What are—’ I start, then notice the red-spotted security camera over the cash-office door. Fuck. Do I act like a criminal and rip a coat and a cap off the nearest hanger or do I act innocent? Wait a minute. I am innocent. I’ve been kidnapped by this drugaddled crazy woman. When they see the tapes, they’ll know exactly what happened. I look straight at the security camera and make a fearful face in Scarface’s direction. I wonder if anyone is monitoring the cameras now.

  Again she smashes me in the back, right in my kidneys. ‘Good try, Danny. Your Oscar’s in the mail. Now let’s fucking go.’

  ‘Christ,’ I shout. ‘Stop hitting me, okay? I’m helping you out here. You could try and be nicer.’ She starts laughing, an empty cackle that sounds like a lifetime of desperation. ‘I know you’re in trouble. I’m trying to help you.’

  The laughter dries up. ‘Yeah. A prat like you would willingly help someone like me. I know what you think of me.’

  ‘Ja? What do I think of you?’ I challenge, rubbing the small of my back.

  ‘Ugly unladylike darkie freak with a drug and anger problem. Typical of these black bitches who think they’re above their station.’

  Well, at least she isn’t deluded. Aggressive. Paranoid. Fucked up on drugs. But, to her credit, she is not deluded. ‘You’re wrong. You don’t know me.’ I stop short before I say, ‘Nobody knows me.’ That would be pathetic, and at least we’re talking, and for now she’s stopped hitting me.

  She seems unconcerned that this whole show is going on right on Woolworths’ television screens. I gesture to the camera.

  ‘You think I care? That’s the least of my worries.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s probably a false camera,’ I say, hoping to sound streetwise. ‘You wouldn’t know where they hid the real cameras.’ At Only Books they put hidden cameras right over the tillpoints. Bastards are far more interested in catching their staff red-handed than busting a customer stealing a book.

  ‘I guess the coldroom door will be behind there,’ she says, pointing out the fish and butchery counters. The slabs of meat lie in dark rows
, wrapped in plastic, and the fish seem almost fluorescent in the gloom, their shocked and sunken eyes reflecting a glow from somewhere.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I say and lead the way behind the counter. We navigate by the light of a few low-wattage strip lights and their reflection off the stainless steel industrial fridges. The floor and the walls are tiled with the same plain white tiles and I try not to think of the knife in the junkie’s pocket and the slicing and hacking that goes on back here. My heart is beating too fast and too high. I have to concentrate to push back the wooziness that’s threatening to cloud me. The air stinks; an intense concentration of that frozen blood smell that I know from down the corridor, mixed with ammonia and fish. The massive fridges, no doubt full of hanging carcasses, wheeze and crack as we pass.

  I hear a crumpling thump behind me and Scarface curses under her breath. I turn around and see her picking herself up from the floor, swearing in that joke accent of hers. She wipes at the knees of her jeans and her hands come away dark.

  ‘Jesus H. Christ. It’s fucking fish blood or something. I need to wash my fucking hands.’

  She finds a sink and some stainless steel counters ahead of us. I look down at the pool of blood, unconvincing in this light, and then up, half-expecting to see a massive fish hanging from a hook in the ceiling, but there’s nothing. The darkness and the smell are getting to me. This has to be the goods receiving area and the delivery door has to be somewhere near. It has to be. I want to show this freak where I saw the boy and I want to go home.

  Now Scarface has finished washing her hands – surprisingly fussily – and is shaking them dry. I walk past her around a bend to the right and, thank God, see the delivery door that leads into my corridor. I recognise the web of cracks where the bulletproof glass in the little window was shot. I type the access code into the keypad and the door hisses open.

  The air in the familiar corridor rushes into my lungs like the breeze from a Highveld storm. I have never felt so happy to see full-strength neon lighting, cheap face brick and slick concrete in my life. I’m on home ground again. Fifty metres away is the scuff mark where Josie and countless other smokers lean against the wall. Just past that is my alcove, my safe place. It’s been two hours; it seems like weeks.