Bitter Pill, page 2
The bathroom was empty, quiet except for the rumbling of the geyser in the roof. Robbie dropped his towel and stood before the mirror that stretched horizontally across the communal ablutions. He still had a long rake mark visible across his chest, the result of a weekend rugby match, the first of the season.
Robbie had an easy smile, pale-blue eyes, and light-brown hair that needed a cut. His looks came from his mother’s side. She’d always told him it was both a blessing and a curse—she was probably right, he reflected.
His impulsive father, Milton Cullen, had struggled to handle the attention his wife’s looks attracted. A chicory and pineapple farmer in the Albany district of the Eastern Cape, he was old-school: the family lineage could be traced back to its 1820 Settler roots. Slow with words, Milton Cullen used knuckles to protect his turf. Robbie had tried hard not to follow too closely in his father’s footsteps. It hadn’t always been easy, but he’d just about got it right.
Robbie leaned closer to inspect his complexion in the mirror, his image cut in two by a rusty stain. He touched a mark on his cheek, moved quickly away from the blemished reflection.
He pictured his laughing, dancing mother. His moody, reclusive father. The gene map was no blueprint for behavior, he thought. Robbie hadn’t touched another girl during his relationship with Melanie, nor threatened a rival. Like the alcoholic’s son who never drinks. Well, not the greatest analogy, he thought ruefully, rubbing his temple.
Melanie, his ex, was also a farmer’s child, from the same district, chicory and dairy. After six years together she’d been as much a part of his family as he of hers. Her mother had cried when she heard they’d split up. Robbie fiddled with the elephant-hair bracelet on his left wrist: an old anniversary present.
It was time to stop hoping Melanie would come back to him, he resolved. Time to focus on the practical challenges of the year: midyear exams coming up, a job next year—and hard cash.
Cash. He was almost at the point of placing an advert in the Classifieds: “Student. Will do anything legal for money.”
His father had wanted him to study Agriculture at Cedara near Howick. But Melanie chose music at UCT. Decision made—all he had to do was pick a degree. So where exactly was a BSc in Computer Science taking him now?
Robbie’s thoughts wandered. He suddenly found himself picturing the black lace of Fallon’s bra, the curves of her breasts underneath. Six years with the same girl…
A loud voice startled him.
“Nice ass! You been working out?”
Dennis le Roux, a fellow Kopano inmate, appeared behind him, threw his towel over the shower railing and balanced his shampoo bottle on a basin. Denny was a gangly Mechanical Engineering student with curly brown hair, a gummy grin, and eyes that moved like goldfish in a glass bowl. He was also a part-time barman at the Blue Venus in Claremont.
“Muay Thai,” replied Robbie automatically, snapping back to reality.
“Muay Thai, indeed,” said Denny making a mock-karate pose. “Just know it’s working for me.”
“Piss off, you perv.” Robbie laughed. Muay Thai, the art of eight limbs. After several unsavoury incidents involving students over the last year—muggings, stabbings, even a murder—Robbie took his classes quite seriously. And it was useful pre-season training for rugby. He wasn’t the only student who thought self-defense skills would stand him in good stead if a thug came for his cellphone. His instructor was worried about his temperament, though. Every time he took a blow, he’d lose his rag and fly in with flailing fists—Melanie’s soothing effects dissipating, perhaps. He had compassion, endurance, courage, and honesty, his instructor said. But patience was the missing influence. Robbie respected the advice, so he supplemented his skills with a can of Bulldog Mace whenever he went out.
Denny disappeared into a toilet cubicle, the Varsity newspaper in hand. “So what’s up, boykie?” he asked as he closed the door. “Big night out?
“Well, I’m totally boxed today if that’s what you were looking for.”
Robbie stepped into the communal shower area, turned the tap, and squeezed a dollop of Radox shower gel into his hands. He tried to focus his thoughts. Cash. Study. A job next year. His father said there was a place for him on the farm. No way I’m going back to Albany.
He scrubbed under his pits then rubbed gel vigorously into his scalp, as if trying to wash his mind clear.
Don’t think about the farm. Don’t think about Melanie.
His thoughts returned to the previous night at Blue Venus.
Fallon.
Why did she leave so suddenly?
Denny flushed and emerged from the cubicle, mumbled something.
“What you say?” Robbie asked over the roar of the shower.
“I said, did you find any talent out last night?”
Robbie finished rinsing his hair, turned off the tap. Could never be bothered wasting time in the shower. He grabbed his towel, wrapped it around his waist, and made his way to a basin.
“Funny you mention it,” he said, rummaging around in his toiletry bag. “I had…fumblings in the Venus.”
“What? Fumblings with your penis? Can it be true? Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Erm, not sure exactly,” Robbie said, a little embarrassed. “Some chick. Didn’t get her name.” He avoided mentioning Fallon.
“Hectic, bru. Everything happens in the Venus. Man, I love that place.”
“Said with the commitment of one of its most well-loved barmen.”
Denny worked on Tuesdays and Fridays.
“Full on. So is our heartbroken farmer boy about to cash in on years of frustration?”
Robbie ignored the comment, dipped two fingers in a tub of Prep cream, and lathered up his face. Maybe a shave would give him a fresh start to the day. Or the week! He positioned his old Gillette Mach 3 below his right sideburn and dragged downwards. He needed a new blade.
“Hey! You heard about a chick called Angie Dean?” Denny asked.
Robbie nodded his head. “Think so.” Hot little first-year from Tugwell; one of his mates had hooked up with her at some stage.
“Story goes her drink got spiked in the Venus last night,” Denny continued.
“No shit?”
“You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you, Casanova?”
“Hey man, I had eyes for one girl only.”
“Of course you did, hotshot. What was her name again?”
Robbie laughed. “Fuck off. So what happened?”
Denny explained what he’d heard; rumors going around that she’d woken up in her room without her bra or panties; everyone talking about it on Upper Campus, cops involved—but no one was sure whether she’d actually been raped. “Apparently she’s a basket case today.”
“Geez, news travels fast,” Robbie said, trying to think if he’d spotted her in the club the night before.
Denny guffawed. “Spiked drinks—can you credit it? And check out the irony.” Denny held up the Varsity in one hand. “They’ve even got tips in this week’s paper about how to tell you’ve been spiked.”
“Yeah?”
Denny started reading. “‘One. Your drink tastes odd.’ Your drink tastes odd? Hmmm, barman, do you think my triple cane and cream soda tastes odd?” He mimed downing a glass of liquor, then shrugged. “‘Two. You can’t think straight.’ Seriously? This is advice?”
Robbie smiled and shook his head; he was busy on his neck, trying to finish up around his Adam’s apple where the grain was all over the place.
Denny continued: “‘Three. You behave wildly.’ Check. ‘Four. Uncoordinated movements.’ Check.” He imitated a burst of dance-floor gyrations, swinging his arms around like a manic policeman conducting the traffic. “Wait, there’s more: ‘Five. Blackout.’ Hey presto! I’ve got it. Who spiked our drinks at the German School Beer Fest?” He stumbled against the bathroom wall and mimed throwing up in a basin.
Robbie rolled his eyes and rinsed off the excess shaving cream.
Denny calmed down, took a deep breath. “I know, I know. ‘You always make fun of everything,’” he said, in mock seriousness.
You always make fun of everything. Pretty much summed Denny up. Everything was a joke; nothing ever serious. But he was good company.
“You ever met this Angie Dean?” Denny asked.
“Maybe once or twice. I know who you’re on about,” said Robbie.
“Apparently Tony Beacon was with her at the time. You know him, right?”
Apparently. Great word. You could place it before just about any statement and deliver up the wildest rumor in the guise of bald fact.
“Sure. The Tonester.” Robbie nodded. He knew Tony Beacon well—well enough to know he didn’t need to go around spiking girls’ drinks. He had so much cash falling out of his pockets it was more likely to be the other way around.
“Seems everyone’s in on this Mickey Fun,” said Denny.
“What?”
“You know? Mickey Fun, Mickey Finn. It’s the name they’re giving to drink spiking now. Slip her a Mickey.”
“You’ve lost me, Garmin.”
“What? You’ve never heard of Mickey Finn? He was an olden-day pickpocket or something.”
“If you say so, dude.”
Denny kicked off his towel and stepped into the showers. He chose the same one as Robbie had; the only one with an unblocked rose.
“Seems like Mickey picked the front pocket,” Denny laughed. “Get it? Picked the front pocket?”
“Hilarious,” Robbie replied. “Weird to think I might have walked past Angie last night. It’s a pretty grim day when a guy needs to drug a girl to have sex.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Denny. “Says the stud from last night.”
“Hey, it’s not like I went home with the chick.”
“More’s the pity. We would have so much to talk about right now.” Denny poured the shampoo straight from the bottle onto his head, patted it into his hair with clumsy hands. “Never fear, let me entertain you with a limerick.”
“Oh Jesus,” said Robbie. “No, thank you.”
Unperturbed, Denny boomed out loudly:
“There was this girl, Angie Dean,
Who knew not where her pussy had been.”
Robbie zipped up his toiletry bag, gave his face a last look in the mirror. He caught the reflection of Denny mid-thought, working on the next couple of lines while rubbing shampoo into his head. He shook his head again and made his way to the door, Denny’s verse disappearing in the steam behind him.
“She claimed late at night,
In terrible fright…
That she’d revealed all to a person unseen.”
THE EXECUTIVE
Usually, Julian Lynch played golf on a Thursday. His regular fourball always teed off at Steenberg just after lunch; it was one of the highlights of his week and it necessitated a busy morning in the office to free up his afternoon.
Today, though, he’d left work just before ten o’clock without telling his secretary where he was going.
His secretary, a plain-looking girl by the name of Christine, had noticed his choice of an open-neck short-sleeve shirt rather than the usual white or pale blue monogrammed shirt and tie. “Casual day?” she’d joked when he arrived. But he hadn’t answered.
Christine was unlikely to advance her career much beyond administering basic clerical duties and she was content with that fact. Now, with her boss apparently gone for the day, she stole into his office, careful to shut the door behind her, and switched on his computer to consult his online calendar. For some reason, he’d always refused to synchronize his calendar with hers, an irritating habit that regularly left her appearing misinformed as a result—and served as justification for her habits of sneaking through his files.
Lynch’s Windows password was “Holly”; she’d used it often. She opened Outlook and then checked his calendar.
10:15
Holly
13:00
Golf
Holly.
That was odd, Christine thought. Surely Lynch’s daughter would be at school?
She had worked for Lynch at the Green Point offices of Premier Marque Asset Management for nearly two years and she still couldn’t work him out. He intrigued her and frustrated her at the same time. Or perhaps he intrigued her and the job frustrated her. Work had always frustrated her; it just wasn’t her thing.
Their relationship was formal, yet relaxed enough. His instructions were always clear, his conduct professional. He followed a set routine and answered all his own emails. She knew about his divorce, though not from him, and she knew not to ask about his personal life.
But she did wonder.
She scanned Friday, which listed the weekly management meeting, then closed Outlook. On impulse, she clicked on Internet Explorer and checked the history of sites visited. She had snooped on her boss many times before. As usual, his history was blank. Did he even use the Internet?
So what’s he like?
Under cross-examination from other staff, Christine would always defend her boss. She was that type of assistant. He had a right to privacy, she’d say, which was ironic given her own inquiring tendencies.
And then she’d wonder why he never had a girlfriend.
It had occurred to her that he was gay, and that perhaps that’s what ended the marriage—but she’d laughed at the thought. He…didn’t look after himself well enough.
He was unusual-looking. Tall and thin with scraggy hair. A slim, lanky version of Ozzy Osbourne, she’d decided once. Except for the smile. And that voice which always maintained its single pitch—almost a monotone. Different glasses too. She’d always wanted to date a rock star, but couldn’t quite imagine Julian Lynch with a black vest and a rat on his shoulder.
Lynch’s desk telephone rang.
“Hello, Julian Lynch’s phone,” she answered.
“Lynch.”
No niceties. She recognized the voice of one of the Johannesburg directors.
“He’s not in, Mr. Kenwood.”
“Get him to phone me.”
The call went dead. That was Premier Marque, Christine thought. Kenwood knew exactly who she was but couldn’t be bothered to greet her, just assumed she’d know who he was. She scribbled down a quick message and left it neatly on Lynch’s keyboard. He was in demand; something about an offshore scheme involving all the directors. She liked it when he was in demand.
Christine swiveled on Lynch’s worn leather chair and wondered if he was coming back to the office before golf.
After three years, Christine still couldn’t decide whether she liked him or not. She certainly thought about him a lot; told herself it was because she admired his love for his daughter.
She flicked through the unopened correspondence in Lynch’s in-tray, recognized the bimonthly VAT return; a Post-it attached included a note in the distinctive ink of Lynch’s fountain pen: “Contact Sonya from SARS.” She didn’t know who Sonya was.
Outside of work, her boss was very predictable. He had his golf and he had his young daughter, Holly. He never revealed any other clues to his private life, just his tee-off times at Steenberg and news about Holly. When he spoke of her, it was the only time his voice lifted out of the monotone range.
Not that he offered up information. Like blood from a stone, Christine would tell her colleagues in frustration. But when she wanted to see that he was human, she’d point to the glass-framed photo of Holly on his desk and ask after her. And Lynch would lower his pen and raise his head and smile, and then tell her about Holly playing netball or Holly and her friends or Holly’s latest school-concert performance. She remembered the way he’d described Holly’s arched hands while she played the piano. And then he would smile again and get back to his work, and Christine would smile too and return to her desk, satisfied.
Lynch’s previous secretary still worked for the company and Christine had once asked her opinion of him. She’d said the same: nice-ish, consistent, private. “Impenetrable” was the word she’d used. She’d known the attorney who handled Lynch’s divorce; said it had dragged on for ages. Holly had been an infant; the wife had blocked Lynch from seeing his daughter.
From time to time, Christine scanned Lynch’s emails, but there was never anything interesting. He must have another computer at home, she figured.
On another occasion, she’d asked him whether he wanted to join her and a group of friends at the Waterfront for drinks after work. He’d looked up at her and flashed a smile, pink gums visible as if his teeth were too short. She’d thought he was pleased and about to accept, but he returned to his work and shook his head without reply.
Now he was gone for the day and he’d left her with nothing to do.
Holly.
Perhaps there was something at the school. But he’d never put her name in his calendar before.
Leaning back in his chair, she remembered that moment when he’d turned down her offer for drinks. And if he had said yes? she wondered to herself. What might have happened then? What if they’d ended up talking casually at the bar? What if, with the courage of a drink or two, she could have got him to open up to her? What if all he needed was some human comfort and in a moment of madness, they got a room together?
Christine laughed out loud at the thought. She’d never had much luck with men. She closed down Lynch’s computer, took a moment to compose herself, and returned to her desk to play solitaire.
Meanwhile, outside the grounds of St Augustine School for Girls in Claremont, Julian Lynch parked his red BMW and checked the time on his Rolex. Ten past ten. In five minutes he’d hear the bell ring and the girls would filter out into the grounds for first break.
He hoped to catch a glimpse of Holly.
He needed to see her.
DARK VIDEO
On the other side of the world—another hemisphere, another continent, another time zone—a swarthy middle-aged man leaned back in his Aeron desk chair, reading the morning paper.
