Ritual (19 page)

Caffery scrolled through the report for the name of the driver. Kwanele Dlamini. He half closed his eyes and read it again, a little smile at the edges of his mouth. Dlamini. It sounded the way he imagined a Zulu chieftain to sound. African.

So, then – he pushed his chair back and got his jacket – it seemed there was a little visiting to do. Just a little visiting.

Thom wanted to write Flea a note so she didn't forget he was going to borrow her car. He needed to be reminded of appointments like this, and it made him think she would too, so he insisted on sitting at the table and putting it on a Post-it in his laborious handwriting. Flea stood at the sink, her arms crossed, studying his faintly bruised-looking eyes, the dark lashes lying diagonally across the pale skin, the way he crabbed himself over the paper to write. His colour had come back, but somehow she knew it would never return properly. If someone had asked her when she'd last seen her brother, she'd have answered truthfully: on the day of the accident two years ago.

It wasn't that she hadn't seen him physically since; in fact, she hadn't left his side, not through all the hospitalization in Danielskuil when they'd told her he might die, or during the dreadful journey home via Cape Town with the air hostess who wouldn't give her a paracetamol for him because the airline was afraid of being sued, or during the eight weeks of the investigation into their parents' death. She'd seen the physical Thom, his body, the shell he was in, but her brother was gone. You could look into his eyes and see nothing. So she would say that the last time she had seen him was that day at Boesmansgat when he emerged from the sinkhole crying and vomiting, thrashing his arms in the water.

Under him yawned the dark hole, a hundred and fifty metres wide, and three hundred metres deep. Like an oubliette for a sleeping predator. It was a grave too. Bushman's Hole had taken three divers in the last decade, and now two more: David and Jill Marley. Dad had gone first, heading straight down into the dark. Mum followed. Thom had made desperate grabs for them, and for a few moments he'd even had a precarious grip on Mum's right ankle, but he couldn't keep hold. It was as if, determined to get to the bottom, they had both turned face down into the gloom. Which was unthinkable because the bottom was a hundred and fifty metres deeper than they'd intended and they had both known it was suicide to go even ten metres deeper than the dive plan.

They'd planned it scientifically, because if David and Jill Marley knew anything it was respect for the water. Bushman's Hole was the pinnacle for them, the height of a lifetime's addiction to extreme sport diving. It had started a long time before the kids came along, so long ago that Flea didn't know the exact equation it had sprung from. But she did know one thing: it was Dad's gig. Mum had gone along with it, had got an enthusiasm of sorts going, but Dad was the addict, fatally attracted to it, and Dad who, in his quiet moments in the study, dreamed he was in the deep.

He'd been wearing a video camera on his helmet in Bushman's Hole. He'd have filmed his descent, and his own death. But the South African investigators had never found the bodies or the camera, and with only Thom's fractured memories to go on they couldn't do much more than put the Marleys' death down to either 'narcosis' from a miscalculation in the deep-dive gas content or possibly a hyperoxic blackout. The British coroner, who'd got permission from the home secretary to hold an inquest without the bodies, ruled out narcosis – the disorienting euphoric effect nitrogen can have at too much pressure. Because the 'Trimix' combination of gases the Marleys were using was specifically designed to combat narcosis, the coroner guessed instead that David Marley had begun to breathe too fast and deeply, shutting down the sensitive carbon-dioxide receptor in the back of his neck, which had knocked him out. When he'd started to drop Jill had tried to stop him – that much they knew – and maybe descending so quickly she'd held her breath, causing the Trimix system's oxygen sensor to over-deliver oxygen. In effect she'd died in exactly the same way as David had: from hyperoxia, too much oxygen.

He'd been a kind man, the coroner, and had added in his summing up that the Marleys' son Thom had done the right thing to let them go. As difficult as it was, it was one of the most important rules in technical diving and he'd stuck to it. He should be commended for it – should be proud. Instead, of course, it was destroying him. He'd let his parents die.

Flea didn't know what she felt guiltiest about. That she hadn't been with Thom in Bushman's Hole when it had happened, or that, deep down, she'd been glad that Thom had gone along on the trip to Danielskuil. It used to be her Dad pushed, always urging her on – 'See that tree, the big one? Bet you can climb
that
, Flea Marley!' She'd never thought of saying no, just done as she was told – knowing in some dark corner of her heart that if she didn't it would mark her out as different. Weak, somehow. Not a true Marley. But then Thom had come along, a shy little thing who didn't walk until he was nearly two, and Dad's focus shifted away from her and on to Thom. The message from Dad was clear:
Never show fear.
There is no place in this family for cowardice
. It became instinct, the same instinct that had driven Thom years later when he had climbed with his parents into the cold, motionless eye of Boesmansgat.

After his parents had disappeared, Thom had had to spend six hours coming back to the surface, stopping every few metres to decompress and allow the concentrated gases to expand and leave his body because helium lodged not in the soft tissue like nitrogen but in the bony cavities and took longer to dissipate. Tears filled his mask and a helium bubble had formed in his inner ear making his head spin. One of the police divers who'd come in when the alarm was raised had had to clip him to the shot line D-ring with a karabiner and stay with him because he'd lost the feeling in his hands and didn't know any longer which way was up. The last ten metres were the worst, the most dangerous of all, and the most frustrating because each stop was for more than an hour and he could see the surface, could see the sun filtering down, but had to wait, had to stay there in the cold, with only one thing to think about: how he'd failed and, worse, what was happening three hundred metres below him.

As far as anyone knew, and the truth was no one did know for sure, there wasn't a big enough outlet at the bottom of the sinkhole for a body to pass through, so Mum and Dad would have settled, unmoving, on the bottom. Using Thom's statement, the investigators had worked out the approximate area they'd have ended, and sent a remote-operated vehicle, a small submarine mounted with a camera, down to search the side and the very deepest corner of Bushman's. But the ROV could see nothing. There was no point in waiting for the bodies to float. As they began to decompose, when most bodies would lift to the surface, the Marleys never would; the gases of decomposition would be under too much pressure to float them and, anyway, the diving equipment would keep them weighted down until they rotted where they lay and all that was left of them was the bony pickings. The investigators had run out of resources. There was nothing more that could be done to recover them.

There were other bodies around the world suspended in their own silence, nosed and buffeted by currents and fish, divers who'd died in places so treacherous that it would cost the lives of other divers to rescue them. She'd been lectured on it by the South African police, by her counsellor, by Kaiser, to accept that Mum and Dad's last resting place was on the floor of Bushman's Hole. And she'd made a kind of peace with it. But she never stopped thinking about it.

Sometimes Flea got pictures of them on her inner eye, fleshless, eyeless armatures floating on an axis. She'd turn them over and over in her idle hours, trying to place them, trying to imagine how they'd be lying. Thom said Dad had gone first, but she hadn't needed to hear it from him. In a way somehow connected to his meditation in the study, and somehow to the long hours he had spent with Kaiser, she knew instinctively it would have been that way: Dad going first. And so her mind had settled on a picture with Dad lying face down, arms plunged into the sand up to the shoulders, as if he was embracing the floor of the cave, while Mum was always lying on her back, facing the surface with her arms up, as if she was still hoping someone might notice her mistake and pull her back to the world.

But now, standing at the sink, the midday sun coming through and picking out all the dust and details in the kitchen, Flea thought more about the way they'd sunk. Could they have gone down in the opposite direction, away from the corner of the hole that had been searched? Was that what Mum had been trying to say?

At the table Thom was writing fastidiously. She imagined saying to him:
Could there be something
wrong in what you remember about the accident?
Maybe we should sit down and go through it all
again?

But no. No point in upsetting him over something flimsy. An hallucination. She turned on the tap and let the sink fill, soap bubbles swirling and catching the sunlight. She looked again at the way the greyish veins meandered down her inner arms. The ibogaine was going to open her skull, pour light in – and maybe by this evening she might be able to explain what she was missing. She wasn't going to talk to Thom about it, but one thing was sure: she was going to ask Mum on which side of the hole they'd ended up.

Kwanele Dlamini's last known address was in Nailsea: a brick-built Georgian-style detached three-bedroom house on a nineteen-nineties gated development. The houses were almost identical in their textured sandstone, each had a portion of lawn, a garage and a US-style mailbox at the front. Dlamini's house was at the end of the road, with a view of the airport control tower at Backwell Hill, but when Caffery rang the bell the door was answered not by Dlamini but by a blonde woman in belted low-rider jeans and a pink T-shirt that said 'PORN STAR' in glittering letters.

'Long gone,' she said, when he asked for Dlamini, 'back where he come from, and I won't be hearing from him again. Don't ask me to contact him – I've tried, believe me.'

But she invited Caffery in anyway. She seemed to want the company, and he knew from the look she gave him, checking out his body through his open jacket to see if he was in shape – from that and from the way she walked in front of him, moving herself carefully, conscious of her hips – he knew right then that he could if he wanted.

They went to the back of the house into the living room where two little girls in identical pink trackies, their blonde hair scrunched on their heads in pink silk flowers, lay on the floor watching
Bratz
on a plasma-screen TV. The tracksuits had 'Barbie' spelled out across the bottoms. Caffery thought the girls couldn't have been more than ten or eleven.

'Hey,' the woman aimed a tanned foot in a pink tennis sock at one child's feet, 'keep the volume down. I'm going to be in here and I don't want no interrupting.'

They didn't answer, but one held up a remote control and turned the volume down a few notches. The woman took him through etched-glass double doors into a palm-filled conservatory looking out over a fenced garden with a pink and lavender swing seat in the centre of the patio.

'Nice kids,' he said.

'Yeah.'

She pushed a Dobermann from where it sat on a wicker sofa. It loped away into the living room, its claws ticker-tickering on the tiles, and she bent over to plump up the cushions, blowing off dog hairs.

'He was importing stuff, gave the business his best shot, and when that didn't work out it was like everything fell apart.' She pressed the cushion on to the sofa and stood back to allow Caffery to sit. 'I can't tell you where he is. I tried to get in touch with him, but he's disappeared. Back home.'

'This his house, then?'

She snorted. 'Oh, please. Do me a favour. It was my ex's, before Kwanele, but now it's mine and the girls'. And long may it last.'

'The girls aren't his?'

She gave him a look, as if she thought he was joking. 'You winding me up? Do they look like his?'

'I don't know – I've never seen a photo.'

'Well, he's black,' she said condescendingly. 'Very black. South African.' She sat at a small glass table, crossing her legs prettily. The long blonde ponytail hung down over her shoulder. She looked as if she spent a lot of money in tanning salons. 'What do you want to know about him? See, me, I don't care how much trouble I get him in. I'll tell you anything you want.'

Caffery took his jacket off, draped it over the arm of the chair and sat down, rolling up his sleeves. It was hot in here. Still only May, but the conservatory soaked up the sun. 'Who are you?'

'Rochelle,' she said, offering him a well-manicured hand. 'Rochelle Adams.'

He shook it. 'Rochelle,' he said. 'What I'm thinking about here is about religion. Mostly that's the question I have about Kwanele. I'm wondering about his beliefs.'

'He didn't have none. No church, if that's what you're asking.'

'What about other beliefs? Beliefs from his old country.'

'Oh,
that
.' She put a long nail into her flossy hair and itched, her eyes half closed. 'Yeah – that was part of our problem. I mean, he loved me and he loved the girls, but he never really gave up all the shit from back home.' She dropped her hand and looked at him as if a lightbulb had just come on. 'It's that vulture, isn't it? That's why you're here. I hated that thing – it stank like someone'd died in that car. I wouldn't let the girls in there, not with that thing dangling like it was watching you.'

'So why the vulture? Do you know what it meant to him?'

'The lottery, weren't it? The vulture, you know, sees into the distance. So the idea goes, according to Kwanele, you get the vulture's vision. You can see into the future, see the numbers or something. And the worst thing is, two weeks after he got the bloody thing, he only turns round and wins. Just like he said, nearly a grand, so I'm, like, not a leg to stand on. And he's like, "This is great – I'm going to make it into soup – drink it, get even more power out of it." And I'm "No way, Kwanele, no way." So he doesn't make it into soup, but he won't take it out of the car either. Except then you lot have it off him and turns out it's not a vulture after all, and there's me, laughing my knickers off. You can imagine, can't you?'

'Is that the only superstition he brought from his country?'

'God, no. It was everything with him. There was this bit of dolphin tail on a gold chain round his neck. Only little.' She held out her fingers, showing him how big, a gap of about an inch between the thick-polished nails. Her bracelets jingled and collided with each other down her tanned arm. 'He was like, "It's for sociability", and when I asked him why a dolphin, because I love dolphins, me, he goes on about how dolphins swim in a pack and how this bit of bling is
somehow
going to make sure he's always swimming in a pack, and I'm just livid, me, because I love dolphins, and I'm like that.' She held up her hand so her palm was facing the imaginary Dlamini, and cocked her head, suddenly all sass. ' "It's me or the charm, Kwanele." ' She sighed and dropped her hand, half smiling, half exasperated. 'And you hear all these stories, don't you? About how the blacks are repressed in South Africa or whatever, but you meet someone like Kwanele and, honestly, you can't help thinking, Yeah, I'd bleeding repress you, mate, with that crap coming out of your mouth. I mean,
dolphins
, for Christ's sake. What did they ever do to hurt him?'

She stood, went to the long low sill that ran round the conservatory and picked up an earthenware jar painted with geometric designs. It was about as big as a large grapefruit and it had a little lid that she took off delicately. 'This was what he picked up last November after he got it into his head there was a devil following him.' She brought it over to show Caffery, holding it out on her flat palm. He looked inside. It was dark and stained. 'Meant to be a charm. Defence. He said it was all right for a woman, she only had to sleep with the Tokoloshe to stop it, but a man, well, it was harder for him to get rid of it.'

'Get rid of the what?'

'The Tok-o-loshe. Don't ask me how they spell it – some African word, innit?'

'What's the Tokoloshe?'

'Name of the devil he reckoned was after him. Always crapping himself about the Tokoloshe – said he'd do anything to stop it.' She put the lid back on the pot. 'I kept it 'cause I like the pot.' She held it up and admired it. 'Pretty, isn't it? I like all these ethnic things, me.'

'Can I see it?'

She handed it to him. He weighed it in both hands. It was heavy, and weirdly warm, as if it had trapped the heat of the spring sunshine on the windowsill. He lifted the lid again.

'What're the stains?'

'Blood. That's what a man has to offer the Tokoloshe. A bowl of blood.'

Caffery looked up. 'Blood?'

'Only chicken blood or something,' she said. 'Smelled effing awful after a day, so I made him put it in the garden, and the next morning the pot was on its side and the blood was gone, and all we could think was an animal came in the night. That, or the dog.' She gave the Dobermann a dubious look where it lay in a patch of sun, blinking. 'Course Kwanele told me it was human blood, trying to scare me, but I'm like, yeah, where'd
you
get human blood? The same place you got your so-called vulture?'

'He said it was human blood?'

She snorted. 'Yeah, as if. But Kwanele? One hundred per cent convinced. Pays a shitload for it, says he knows it's true because he's seen the video of the blood being taken.'

'There's a video?'

'Nah. He was just saying it, weren't he? I mean, if it existed it'd be like a snuff movie, wouldn't it? And there's no way I believe snuff movies exist.' She scratched the tip of her nose thoughtfully. 'What about you? You're police. You ever seen a snuff movie?'

'No,' Caffery said quietly. 'At least, not the type you're talking about.'

She smiled. As her lips parted the frosted lipstick held them together a fraction longer than they would naturally, then popped to reveal perfect teeth. 'Yeah, I bet you've seen some things in your time. I bet you have.'

When Caffery had arranged for someone from Portishead to come and pick up the earthenware jar, he stayed with Rochelle for another thirty minutes, asking her questions. She was polite, cooperative, but he wasn't stupid. He knew what was happening in her head – he could tell from the way she pulled her feet up under her on the sofa, the way her fingernails made little circles on her collarbone while she was talking. He left open in his head the idea of whether he'd try to take her to bed. He was easy about it. Either he did or he didn't. As it worked out, by the time they'd finished talking he decided he liked her a little more now than he had when he'd walked in and that she didn't deserve the shit he'd bring to her doorstep so he dropped the idea. After half an hour he got up and thanked her. They were almost at the front door and he could see she was irritated he hadn't made a move. When he hesitated, he knew she thought this was the moment when he would ask her.

'Yeah?' She rested her hand on the hall radiator and cocked one knee a little in front of the other, pushing her hip out to the side. 'You forgot something?'

He looked at her neck, at the bangles on her tanned arms, then back at her face. 'In case you're wondering, I think you're very pretty.'

She blushed. He hadn't thought it was in her to blush. 'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, lot of good it does me.' She pushed her hair behind an ear, lowered her eyes and waited for him to answer. When he didn't she smiled. 'Do you – uh – want to stay for coffee?' She twisted her knee round a little towards the radiator, opening her leg outwards from the hip. 'Or beer. I've got some in the fridge.'

He looked at her thigh in the jeans. Then he looked at her manicured hand on the radiator. Earlier she'd told him she was a manicurist and did lots of acrylics. She'd said she thought a good set of acrylics was the sexiest thing a woman could get to please a man.

'Thanks, but I'll have to pass.' He got out his keys. 'Don't think of it as a missed opportunity.'

'No?'

'Not at all. Think of it as a lucky escape.'