Читать книгу The Score - HJ Golakai - Страница 8

Vee tore into the guava, spat out brown and popped the rest in her mouth. A welcome breeze ruffled her hair. Lifting both arms, she made a disgusted face as the material of her blouse smeared against moist armpits.

“Where de hell dis child at?” she muttered, swinging the front gate back and forth. Waves of heat shimmered off the tarmac of the deserted street. Tiny lasers of sunshine drilled into her scalp and corneas, making her crabbier by the second. “Twinkie!”

Nothing except another sweep of air. “Tristan Heaney! For God’s sake if I –”

“Right behind you.”

Vee jumped, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea that more African countries had laws protecting minors from corporal punishment. Because this lil pikkin was going the right way …

“Told you I was getting an ice lolly. Why you got to be all yelling on the street and acting country?” Tristan brushed a wheat-blond fringe off his forehead and shot a cheeky grin as he tore the wrapper off the frozen treat.

Vee bit back a smile. Tristan’s delight was imitating her, never mind how ridiculous it sounded in his Rondebosch Boys prep affectation. “It’s ‘ackin’ kuntry’, mister man. And you shouldn’t be shopping for goodies on your employer’s time. Get to work.”

“I needed sugar for the trip.” He chomped into a lolly of the most unnatural green – if she had to describe it ‘neon-lime’ would do – and held it out. “Want some?”

“No, I’hn want none of your diseased ice cream. Didn’t I tell you to stop buying from that nasty shop, before you go catchin’ sum’n?” Tristan shrugged and carried on chomping. Vee shook her head. At his age, food from a sparkling supermarket or the creepy kiosk down the road was all the same thing. Another child headed down the highway to street food hell. She wasn’t one to judge.

“You sound like my mum. Only old people have to eat properly because it’s good for their health.” He tipped his chin at the bulging bag looped over a slat of her picket fence. “That’s why I brought you those.”

“Very delicious, thank you.” Vee took another guava from the plastic shopper. “Never seen the white ones before, though. And guava jam! That’s sum’n else.”

“Mum makes it herself. Since Dad died …” Tristan averted his eyes and concentrated on the lolly, “she does stuff like make jam.”

Vee nodded quietly. All she knew about her young neighbour was that not long ago he’d been part of a happy unit of four, yet only three occupied the cream-and-olive house on the corner. More like two, since Tristan’s elder brother, a UCT student, only dropped by the odd weekend. Mrs Konstantinou, landlady and omniscient of all things concerning Leicester Street, had mentioned the father had died of cancer a year earlier and their mother, an executive in something or other, hadn’t returned to work. The woman barely opened the door to anyone, but seemed to trust Vee with her younger son.

“Well, thanks for picking them. I’ll pass by later to thank your ma myself.”

“Cool. I like your thank yous. Will you bring that fried banana and ginger stuff you made last time?”

“It’s called killi-willi, and it’s plantain not banana. Now come on.” Vee prised the ice from his fingers and stuck her palm to his forehead to restrain him as he flailed for it. “You’hn come here to run your mouth, no way.”

Tristan backed out of reach, face souring. “You’re grumpy today.”

“Move from here.”

“Yes, you are. Your accent goes crazy when you’re angry. And how come you’re home in the middle of the day?”

“How come you home?”

“It’s school holidays. School kids are home all day during school holidays.”

Vee opened her mouth and then shut it. Across the street, a silver Opel reversed into a space between two other cars. Her jaw clenched.

“Your friend’s here. She looks pissed.”

“Yes, BBC Claremont. Thanks for the update.”

She flicked his ear, and he grinned and ducked into the yard. Vee watched, touched by the seriousness with which he readied himself for his task, retrieving the leash dangling from a mulberry branch, dusting off a raggedy ball and favourite chew-toy from off the front lawn. Then he whistled and smacked a hand against his thigh a few times. Almost instantly, a large black Alaskan husky bounded through the back door, leapt completely over the veranda stairs and made towards him like a rocket.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Tristan chided, laughing and thumping his thighs some more. “Sit.” He clicked his fingers and repeated the command. A little crushed but not thwarted, the dog obeyed, barking and wagging his tail ferociously.

She pursed her lips and folded her arms. Monro was trained to answer to only her commands. “Since when you taught him that? Look, don’t go teaching my dog all kinda kata-kata. That’s outside the confines of your job description.”

“Huh?” Tristan frowned.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Vee tipped her chin at Chlöe and turned back to Tristan. “Now go on and walk him, and don’t be taking all day about it either. Be back here by …” she glanced at her watch, “one. Latest one-thirty. And stay within the neighbourhood. What’s rule number one?”

“Unaccompanied little boys are like candy for paedophiles,” Tristan droned.

“Exactly. You already a paedo lollipop with that blond hair and weird eyes. Don’t be talkin’ to nobody in a van or a trench coat. Don’t talk to strangers, period. And rule number two?”

“Five blocks out is five blocks too far,” Tristan added, rolling his eyes. “I don’t even know what a block is. This isn’t America.”

“Don’t play dumb. I’ve told you a thousand times what our grid is.” Since she’d hired Tristan he’d been pushing boundaries, in the vain hope she’d either trust him to roam the streets unmonitored or forget the allowable distance they, his mother included, had established.

“Every square of buildings cut by roads on all sides, that’s a block. A big block is a city block. A small one is a residential block. You’re allowed to walk five of either and then turn around and bring your lil narrow butt right back. If you go past Rosebank, you’re too far out. If you reach Kenilworth Centre, you’re too far –”

“Ag, that’s not off the grid, it’s only four and a bit from this direction!”

“You got me?” Vee stared him down.

“Fine. I’ll just take him to the stupid park,” he grumbled. Like other small, clean and safe parks in the southern suburbs, Arderne Gardens off Main Road cramped Tristan’s style, but it was a setting they agreed on. He could at least watch Monro harass the ducks while the lazy security guards turned a blind eye. “Maybe I should quit, then you can quit work and be a stay-home mum.”

“Fineboy you want dis money here or not?” Vee waved the cash, half his monthly pay.

Tristan counted it. “Where’s my extra?”

“For what?” Vee ignored Chlöe, who sauntered to the veranda with a loud grunt of exasperation. “We’hn talk about no extra.”

“We so did! When I’m on duty outside of my normal working hours, that’s extra. I wasn’t on for today, so pay up.”

“Scram, you lil –” Vee lunged to cuff him again and Tristan sprinted, Monro bounding through the gate after him. “And you better get a haircut with that money! Mttsshw. Lookin’ like a ghetto Justin Bieber.”

“You seriously arguing with an eight-year-old?”

“That child gon send me grey.” Vee sank into a lawn chair and reached across the wicker table to refresh her mango juice. “You know he’s eleven. He’s small for his age.” She avoided Chlöe’s scowl and sipped. “So what brings you to these parts?”

“Don’t even. You broke every working woman’s cardinal rule and cried at work.”

“I damn well did not cry.”

“Damn near. And I know you’re gonna make Nico pay for that. The entire office is yammering about it. Must you always butt heads with the powers that be? Didn’t you have enough of that with Portia? You trying to get fired?”

“Who say I’hn been fired already?”

“Ag, rubbish. He hasn’t got the balls to fire you. We’ll drag his arse in front of the CCMA so fast.”

Vee hid her smile from the defiance in Chlöe’s pout. It was useless pointing out the Council for Conciliation, Mediation and Arbitration, defender of workers’ rights, was unlikely to weigh in on petty office squabbles. “Jus’ take it easy,” she said. “I am.” Barely. A vein of rage still thumped in her neck.

“Take it easy,” Chlöe muttered. “How can any living thing take it easy in this bloody heat?” Flushed and dewy with sweat, her freckles throbbed a more prominent russet than their usual cinnamon. She twisted a cascade of hair off her neck into a knot behind her head, moaning in joy at the intermittent breeze. Her face scrunched, unsure. “So … are we … ?”

Vee banged the glass down. “Hell no! This is his deflection strategy; pick a fight he knows I can’t win, then twist my arm. He think he free to be jerkin’ pipo all over while he screwing that fat-ass, muppet-faced bitch – screwing with me in the process, like I’hn got nuttin’ better to do.”

“Women can’t call each other fat anymore. It’s been outlawed by feminists,” Chlöe drawled sleepily. Her eyes bulged and shot up. “Wait, what?! He’s schtoepping Schoeman? See-ree-ahhs? You can’t be serious. I did not pick up on that one. My radar must be glitchy lately.” She swigged juice, swirled it round her mouth in contemplation. “Are you sure?” she pressed, then shook her head just as quickly. “Yeah, course you are. You’re always up on the stuff I miss, and it explains a lot. Damn. Sly fox. What else is he hiding?”

“He –” Vee quickly stoppered her mouth with her glass. Van Wyk’s personal problems were an open secret; the drinking, not so much. Pissed off or not, loose lips sank ships. And Chlöe’s were the loosest of all. Vee knew that between her and Nico lay enough animus to fuel a small HR war, but Bishop could whip it into national headlines in a single news cycle. “He gets away with these stunts because his minions dem all scared of him.”

“Hhmph. He is friends with Portia after all,” Chlöe snarked under her breath.

“Well, he can kiss my black ass and tell me the flavour. Who he think goin’ to some hairy buttcrack in the Karoo to write about mud huts? Not if I can help it.”

“Then please help it with all your might, because I do not do village.”