There are sirens in the distance. Private security, not police. You can tell by the pitch of the wail. The tsotsi looks up and sees half the building standing at their windows, watching. He gives us a cheerful wave and steps back into the trees, his Bird darting about his head.
We know what's coming. None of us say anything. The Mongoose paces the window ledge, whiskers quivering. The sirens get louder. The Bear lies motionless on the pavement beside the metal frame of a licensed vendor's stall.
The air pressure dips, like before a storm. A keening sound wells up soft and low, as if it's always been there, just outside the range of human hearing. It swells to howling. And then the shadows start to drop from trees, like raindrops after a storm. The darkness pools and gathers and then seethes.
The Japanese believe it's hungry ghosts. The Scientologists claim it's the physical manifestation of suppressive engrams. Some eyewitness reports describe teeth grinding and ripping in the shadows. Video recordings have shown only impenetrable darkness. I prefer to think of it as a black hole, cold and impersonal as space. Maybe we become stars on the other side.
I turn away as it rushes down the road in the direction of the running man. Mr Khan covers his daughter's eyes, even though it's her ears he should be protecting. The screaming only lasts a few awful seconds before it is abruptly cut off.
"Tsk," Mrs Khan says, to break the silence that's weighing down on us, like someone has turned up the gravity. "This city."
But I've thought of something else. "Where are your parents?" I murmur, remembering the poison hallucination, the shop assistant with the name badge – Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! – bending over my five year-old dream self.
"The parents? Someone will have to tell them," Mrs Khan agrees. "Come you," she says to her daughter, hustling her away from the window, and all us rubberneckers too.
24.
By morning, when I wake up groggy and grumpy from lack of sleep, the municipal street-cleaning crew has already done the rounds. The blood has been hosed down. The Bear's corpse is gone. The only evidence that it was ever there is a black stain on the tarmac like a blast radius and the yellow police tape cordoning off the street.
If only the cleaning crew could do the same for my car. Benoît stares at it without saying anything. I wasn't the only thing that got knocked about yesterday – the Capri got trashed too. Comprehensively. The door panels have been kicked in, the headlights smashed and a mostly illegible word, that might read "FUK" if you squinted at it right, has been carved into the paintwork on the bonnet in letters four inches high. The windscreen sags under fractal spiderwebs, caused by multiple blows from a metal object, like, oh, say the crowbar I found lying on the back seat. Which had also been used to gouge up the leather. The cherry on top was the smeared shit – human, judging from the smell – on the bonnet. I guess I should be grateful whoever made the deposit didn't do it on the upholstery.
"Hazards of the job," I tell Benoît. But it's easy to be off-hand now. Yesterday, when the taxi I'd found to take me and my eau de drain downtown from Sandton pulled in to Mai Mai, the market was already closed up, evening shadows stretching across the parking lot, deserted apart from the ruins of the Capri. I insisted the taxi driver stick around while I got the car started. I didn't know if they were still there, hunched under the tarp watching, or loose in the city somewhere, but I gave them the finger anyway. I should have left the car there, but I'm stubborn like that. Also: not about to be overly intimidated by a cluster of junkie tunnel rats.
Benoît looks at the bruises and scratches on my arm as I drive. They look worse today. If I'd thought about it, I wouldn't have worn a sleeveless dress.
"You should have called the police," he says.
"The police don't care, Benoît."
"Then you should let me come with you."
"Don't you have your own day job?"
"I'm quitting anyway."
"And you have travel arrangements to make."
"You could just say "no thank you", cherie."
"You could do me one favour. It's dodgy, though."
He sighs. "I wouldn't expect any less from you."
"Hey, D'Nice is way worse than I am."
"But not nearly as cute."
"I'm telling your wife," I retort, but it's autopilot. Our easy banter is now laced with jagged edges.
"My polygamie offer is still open," he says, valiantly keeping up the façade.
"I might consider it, if you can get me the home address for one Ronaldo, bouncer at Counter Revolutionary, surname unknown. He works for Sentinel, same silly helmet on his badge." I flip a hand at the insignia on Elias's nametag.
"I'll see what I can do," he says, as I pull up outside the bottling plant where Benoît has been assigned to patrol today. Sentinel likes to shift security personnel around, so no one gets too comfortable, too familiar with the ins and outs, and sells the info on to someone like D'Nice. Who can be guaranteed to sell it to a gang of armed robbers.
"I don't have to do this," Benoît says, staying in the car. "They could live without a security guard for the day."
"What, and risk Elias's job?" I keep my hands on the steering wheel, the better to resist touching him.
"At least take my phone."
"I'll be fine. I'll stay away from storm drains and junkie tunnel rats with screwdrivers. Promise."
He looks pained. "I'll see you later, cherie," he says, and leans across to kiss me chastely on the cheek.
It's only pulling into Mayfields golf estate half an hour later that I realise he seized the opportunity to slide his phone into the change tray under the handbrake. Sneaky bastard.
Unfortunately, the smell of drains still lingers in my car and clings to me when I step into Mrs Luthuli's. She's polite enough not to say anything, and she makes me strong tea, adding milk and sugar without asking. I drink it while she hunts upstairs.
After about ten minutes, she comes back downstairs with a shoebox. She puts on her glasses and starts removing the photos one by one. "What is it you're looking for, exactly?"
"I'll be able to tell when I see it. May I?" I up-end the box onto the counter and sift through the photos. Most of them are cold dead things.
I latch onto one and turn it over. It's a photograph of a white wedding. A man and a woman – Song and S'bu's parents – squint into the sunlight at the bottom of a set of steps that could lead up to a community hall or a very plain church. His white suit has big lapels, she is holding a bouquet of pink roses and cosmos awkwardly. There is a faint wisp of attachment. Faded, fragile, hard to see in the light, but there. I've never worked with photographs before, unless the photograph was the lost thing in question. It never occurred to me to try to reach through the image. I get a flash of the World Trade Center again, which is frustratingly absurd.
"It's not fair," Mrs Luthuli sighs. "They lost them so young."
"May I borrow this?"
"I don't know if I have the negatives…" She looks uncertain. But I am already out the door, following the tenuous wisp like Theseus and his ball of string. Let's just hope there's not a Minotaur on the other side.
It turns out that a Minotaur would be a dramatic improvement on what I actually find, which is nothing. Benoît's phone rings as I drive in aimless circles, trying to catch the ghosts of threads that keep fading, like bad radio signals. It's hopeless. Songweza could be anywhere in the city: sipping a mochaccino in a Parkhurst café or tied to a chair in a dingy garage in Krugersdorp. If I could get close enough, I might be able to pick up the thread, but where the hell do I start? I glance at Benoît's phone, which is pumping out the first twenty seconds of Gang of Instrumentals' "Oh Yeah" on repeat. The display indicates that the incoming call is from a private number. I let the call go to voicemail, but it rings again, insistently, distracting me so that I miss the dead-end sign and head down a culde-sac. The third time, it's easier to answer – even if it's his bloody wife calling from Burundi – than to have to listen to "Oh Yeah" one more t
ime.
"Hola," I say, squashing the phone to my ear with a hunched shoulder, as I yank the car through a three-point turn. Oh, for power steering.
"I don't have an exact address for you," Benoît says, "but I can tell you he lives in Hillbrow."
"You have no idea how much that means to me right now," I say, steering the Capri back towards the highway.
"Even if I got it from D'Nice?" he says.
"I don't care where you got it, my love."
"Okay, good. He says you owe him R200 for the information."
That sours my mood, but only slightly, because as I get closer to the city, I feel like I'm tuning in to the right channel at last. The wisp of thread solidifies, still delicate, but now actually leading somewhere rather than tapering off into nothingness.
When I see it, it's like a smack in the face. Not the World Trade Center. High Point. And the thread from the wedding photograph leads right to it. So close to home I could have tripped over it – if I'd bothered to look up, if I'd bothered to take the poison dream seriously.
I find parking two blocks away. The car guard does a double-take at the state of the Capri. "Hayibo, sisi."
"Just make sure it's still there when I come back," I say and walk down towards the twin towers of the apartment block.
If Hillbrow was once the glamorous crown of Johannesburg, High Point was the diamond smack in the centre of the tiara, with swinging bachelor pads and luxury apartments for young ambitious professionals and urbane cosmopolitan families.
The entrance is situated inside a pristine open-air mall, an island of consumerist sanctity with clothing stores and a fast-food eatery, pavements you could eat off and patrons not so desperate that they'd try. It's almost normal – practically suburban. I soon see why. The perimeters are tenaciously patrolled by boys built like bulldogs, with shaved heads and mace and bulletproof vests.
It's the broken windows model of law enforcement, the notion that smothering the sparks of civil entropy will help stomp out the embers that flare up into serious crime. No loitering, no littering, no soliciting – although it seems the sharply dressed dealers standing chatting on the corner have diplomatic immunity, as long as they stay out of reach, like the homeless sleeping in rotten sleeping bags across the road.
I head inside, up an escalator, and scout out the entrance to the apartment block. Four heavily trafficked security doors that open with a tag only. There is a caged security office beside the doors, and I try my luck.
"Hi, I'm a visitor. Flat 612," I say, making up a number.
"Name, please?" The bored security guard is a different breed from the youngsters outside.
"Zinzi December."
"Cha, sisi. There is no Zinzi December on this list."
"No, I'm sorry. I'm Zinzi December." I take a shot in the dark. "I'm here to see Ronaldo."
"Ronaldo who?"
"Ronaldo Flat 612."
"You don't have his surname."
"I've forgotten."
"You must phone him, then. Get him to come fetch you."
"I don't have airtime," I plead, pathetically.
The security guard shrugs, goes back to reading his tabloid. The headline reads MORE JOBS DOWN THE TOILET! The Bear murder didn't even make the front page.
"I'll go use the payphone," I say.
I head back down, looking for a back entrance, a fireescape, anything. Instead, I spot one of the young bulldogs. I walk up to him, careful to seem innocuous and un-loitery. "Excuse me, can you help me?"
The kid turns to me attentively. He must be nineteen max, with blue eyes that burn with a puppy dog eagerness, the kind that might just as easily translate into a wagging tail or a nasty nip.
I weigh the odds of pulling the journalism card. Shelve it back in the pack of tricks. "I'm looking for a missing girl."
"Wrong block, m'am. This building is clean. You should try across the road. Ask those guys," he says, indicating the sharps on the corner with a tight little nod of his head. "They know plenty of missing girls, believe you me."
"I'm sure they do. Mine is in this building. I absolutely know it and I need to get in."
"You with the police?"
"No. I'm a sort-of… a private investigator. I find lost things. People too. It's usually less investigating, more finding."
He brightens at the prospect of action. "Let me find out if it's okay." He speaks incomprehensibly into the radio hanging next to his mace-spray. I look away politely, watching the sharps. I hope Song is in this building, and not the grim peeling low-rise across the road with its curtains drawn in the middle of the morning. Most traffickers don't even bother with shipping containers. They advertise instead. It's never prostitution. It's a secretarial or shop job that pays unreasonably well. People are desperate as well as naïve. Once they've got them, the girls are gangraped to put them in their place, hooked on drugs, and then put to work.
"Ja, it's cool," says the boy, coming back to me. "But I'm coming with you and no making a scene to upset the tenants. This is a good block," he adds sternly.
"No problem." He escorts me back up the escalator and tags me through the security gates. The guard inside his cage doesn't even look up from his newspaper.
"Do you know someone called Ronaldo? Really big guy. A bouncer."
"Nope. Sorry. But we have maybe twelve hundred tenants living here. Sometimes more if they sneak guests in to stay, which is an eviction offence. Sorry, hey, but the lift is out, so we're going to have to walk up. It's the tenants. We have water supply issues. People turn on their taps, nothing comes out and they forget about them, so when the water comes back on, it floods. It's got into the elevator shaft. It's going to cost a million to fix."
"What do the people who live on the 26th floor do?"
"Walk. Even with groceries or prams. But it's okay, we've told them that until the lift is fixed, they can throw their rubbish out the window, and we get someone to clean it up. It's not nice, but you have to be fair to the tenants. So what floor is your girl on?"
"I don't know yet."
"Well, I hope you're fit," he says pushing the door open on a bleak cement stairwell. "I go up these stairs maybe eight or ten times a day. Disturbances with some guys drinking. Or a door gets stuck. We're like security and maintenance. We had something similar happen before, you know."
"Similar?"
"To your girl. There was a woman who was raped. We knew it was a tenant. So we just waited outside. Me and her, standing by the doors for two days until the guy came out. Then we had him arrested." He stands aside to let an old man carrying two bulging and battered Checkers packets pass. There are no numbers to mark the floors, but by my reckoning we've gone up seventeen or eighteen floors when Sloth grips onto my shoulders hard.
"I know, buddy." I can feel the thread tugging like an excited toddler.
Which is when the door above us bursts open and releases a flurry of girl into the stairwell. She collides with Security Boy, trying to barge past, but he catches her against his chest and holds her.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says, restraining her. "You okay?"
"Let go of me, you cock!"
I was wrong. Songweza is not a Gothpunk princess, she's nu-'80s indie mod rocker. More colourful wardrobe, same amount of eyeliner. And she's a handful. Or an armful.
"Song Radebe?" The question is moot: she looks exactly like the photographs in the magazines. Slightly scruffier, maybe, with a mane of braids held back with a bright purple alice band and matching purple snakeskin cowboy boots. She sees me, or rather Sloth, and her eyes widen.
"Oh crap." She wriggles out of Security Boy's grasp and darts back up, taking the steps three at a time.
We emerge from the stairwell into a sun-drenched corridor and a stand-off: Songweza is trapped between us and Marabou and Maltese. The door to room 1904 stands ajar behind them.
"Okay, people," Security Boy says, his hand hovering near his mace, ready to draw, "let's sort this out."
"Well, look wh
o's here," sneers the Maltese.
"You're late to the party," the Marabou says. "And you haven't been answering your phone."
"What are you doing here?"
"Oh sweetie, don't you check your voicemail? Your services are no longer needed. We found her all on our ownsomes."
"My phone was stolen."
"Very unprofessional," Maltese tuts.
Song looks from me to them and back again. Then she drops into a crouch, puts her hands over her ears, and screams loud enough to be heard in Cape Town. I don't know about her singing, but all that voice training has paid dividends. The screaming, one note perfectly sustained, sets off the Mutt, which starts yapping in a hysterical frenzy.