The Mall (13 page)

‘What the hell?’ he says.

Both doors are emblazoned with toilet signs, but they’re nothing like any I’ve ever seen before. The men’s decal is a silhouette of a man holding a huge stylised penis over a
urinal. The ladies’ shows a fat woman balancing over a too-small toilet seat. If they weren’t so neatly rendered I’d assume they were Banksy-style jokes.

‘Fuck it,’ I say. ‘I bloody hope they’re not locked. I really, really have to go.’ I push the door of the ladies’ tentatively, and it creaks open.
‘Thank God. See you in a bit.’

Dan nods and disappears into the men’s.

Bloody hell.

Whoever designed the ladies’ bathroom won’t be winning any awards for subtlety. It’s like walking into a tiled womb – everything is pink, right down to the toilet
bowls, the double sink and the stall doors. The taps are gold-plated and shaped like the heads of swans, and even the tampon dispenser is spray-painted pink. There are mirrors everywhere, including
a full-length one on the far wall that cruelly reflects a gaunt grubby skeleton with too-large eyes and baggy trousers. But now I’m here, my bladder can’t hold on a second longer. All
of the stall doors, except for one at the far end, are double width, as if for disabled people. I choose a middle stall and the relief is almost overwhelming.

I flush and steel myself for another assault by mirror.

It’s worse the second time. The water in that canal must have been way filthier than I realised; my grey T-shirt is a dull brown colour, and there are rust-coloured stains splotched all
over my combats. As usual, I avoid looking too closely at my face. But it’s clear enough that I’m a human turd in antiseptic Barbieland, and the stench rolling off me is making my
stomach churn. I need to clean myself up.

I plug the sink and turn the taps on full. I dunk my head, letting warm water pour over my neck, not caring as it flows into dirty pools on the floor. I fill my hands with squirt after squirt of
pink floral-scented liquid soap and work it into my scalp, rinse it off, and repeat the process.

Better. Much better. But not good enough. I pull off my T-shirt, smother it in soap, and scrub it as best I can. The water turns black, but it’s doing the trick. Using my T-shirt as a
swab, I scrub under my arms and around the back of my neck.

I turn my back to the mirror and peer over my shoulder. The familiar old keloid scar tissue that bleeds down from my neck and over my shoulder leads down into a thick bloom of new bruises, and
an ugly scrape spreads across my ribcage. I’ve seen worse. No permanent damage.

I rinse out the T-shirt and wring out the soap. The water still runs slightly muddy, but fuck it, the shirt no longer stinks of sweat and gore and maggoty water. Is it worth sticking it under
the hand-dryer? Probably not. It would take hours to dry.

There’s the sound of a flushing toilet behind me, and I jump and drop the shirt. I whirl around. The stalls’ doors are all open, except for the one nearest the entrance.

‘Hello? Is someone there?’

Nothing.

The dread coils in my stomach again, and my heart goes into a gallop.

I walk over to the closed stall and nudge the door with my foot. It doesn’t budge. Whoever was responsible for designing the toilet signs has excelled with this one. I have no clue what
it’s supposed to represent. It shows a stick-thin figure leaning on crutches, its out-of-proportion, misshapen head cocked spastically to one side, its single leg too thin to hold up the
weight of its body. Bizarre. Maybe it’s a toilet for one-legged amputees. The signs must be Banksy-style piss-takes after all.

I knock. ‘Hello?’

Still nothing.

The toilet flushes again. I put my ear to the door. I can’t hear anything but the last traces of water running into the cistern. There’s no tell-tale sound of scuffing feet or
rustling of clothes.

Fuck it.

I get down onto the floor to peer under the door. There’s a good fifteen centimetres of space above the floor, and I wince as my naked stomach and breasts press against the cold pink
tiles.

The stall appears to be empty. No feet, no shoes, just a sodden square of toilet paper and a spreading puddle of brown water around the base of the toilet.

A blocked toilet. What could be more normal than that? What the hell’s wrong with me? Nothing’s going to come after us here. Like Dan says. We’re safe.

‘Rhoda!’

The scream lodges in my throat and I sit up too quickly, stars dancing in front of my eyes.

Dan’s looking down at me, eyes wide. And it’s not my face he’s staring at.

I get to my feet and cross my arms over my breasts.

‘You could have fucking well knocked!’

‘Sorry. You were ages. I’ll just…’ He starts backing away to the door. ‘Hang on, what were you doing on the floor?’

‘Just fuck off, Dan!’

‘Okay. Look, sorry, I’ll just go…’

‘Yeah. Do that.’

I retrieve the sodden T-shirt from the floor and pull it over my head, shivering slightly. It’s warm down here, so the damp clothes shouldn’t be too uncomfortable.

Dan’s waiting for me outside, and doesn’t catch my eye when I join him.

‘Look, Rhoda, I’m really sor—’

‘Whatever.’

Apart from his acute embarrassment, he’s looking better. His hair is also sopping wet and clean, and his face is free from the worst of the dirt.

‘Let’s head back to the escalators,’ I say.

‘Okay.’ He still won’t meet my eyes.

‘Dan. It’s cool, okay? Chill out. No big deal.’

He nods.

‘I mean, it’s not as if there was much there to see, right?’

This time he does catch my eye. ‘I’m still, you know…’ His stomach growls, and we share a smile, breaking the awkwardness.

‘Ditto,’ I say. ‘I’m also fucking starving.’

‘How long have we been gone?’ he says.

‘No idea.’ I’ve totally lost track of time. But it can’t be longer than twenty-four hours, surely?

There’s one of those mall-style bins pretending to be something else in the centre of the aisle, and I flip open the lid and start rooting through it.

‘What are you doing?’ Dan says prissily.

‘Thought you were hungry?’

‘I am, but—’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers, Dan.’

There’s not much in here, just a balled-up newspaper, an empty soda can and a pile of those styrofoam chips people use to pack fragile ornaments. I dig down deeper, and pull out a
half-eaten baguette filled with cheese and mayonnaise. Bingo! It’s almost as if it was left there for us. I sniff it. ‘Seems cool.’

I strip off the plastic covering, break it in half and offer Dan a piece. He may not approve of my shopping methods, but he doesn’t hesitate to grab it out of my hand. We eat while we head
back to the escalators, and it takes us less than thirty seconds to polish off the food. My stomach begs for more. I’m even hungrier now that I’ve eaten something.

‘Not bad, was it?’ I say.

‘Nah. First time I’ve ever eaten… you know…’

‘Bin food?’

‘Is that the technical term?’ he asks.

‘Yeah. I’m a regular fucking connoisseur of eating shit.’

He looks as if he’s thinking about a snappy comeback, but he’s clearly way too knackered for that. We both are.

We head between the escalators and sit down side by side with our backs to the wall in an alcove that’s actually pretty snug. It wouldn’t be a bad place to hide, and I have to remind
myself that this time we actually want to be found. I stretch out my legs and allow myself to relax. The shifting dread in my stomach is lessening somewhat. It’s over. We’re okay.

Dan yawns. ‘What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?’ he says.

‘I don’t have a home.’

‘When you get out of here, then.’

‘Have a fucking shower, try not to get arrested, make sure that kid is found.’

‘In that order?’

‘Sure. You?’

He rests his head on the wall behind him. ‘Double Quarter-Pounder with Cheese. Then a trip to a psychologist.’

‘Seriously?’

‘No. I hate McDonald’s.’

It’s a lame joke but we both try and smile anyway.

‘How are we going to explain to the cops what happened?’ he says.

‘God knows.’

‘Because we
are
going to have to go to the police, you know that, right?’

‘What are you trying to say, Dan?’

‘I just mean… maybe you don’t want to because…’

‘Because I’m clearly a criminal?’

‘No…’ He pauses. ‘Well… yeah.’

‘Dan, I just bought a bit of blow off a guy, no big deal. Besides, whoever was fucking with us down there needs to be stopped before someone actually gets killed.’

I can imagine the conversation with the cops: Yes, officers, things started going pear-shaped after I dumped the kid to buy some drugs, kidnapped Dan at knifepoint and ran into a maggotspewing
monster. It’s not going to go down well. But one thing’s for sure. I can’t keep on running.

There’s nowhere to run
to
.

But I’m not totally without options.

‘Dan? Look, I know you don’t know me very well, but I couldn’t crash at your place for a night, could I?’

He doesn’t answer. His head is resting against the wall behind him, hands slack in his lap. I can tell by his measured breathing that he’s fast asleep.

chapter 12

DANIEL

I’m paddling in the sea. It’s a perfect-weather day, body-temperature water, and I’m bobbing there, feeling… feeling nothing. No fear, no expectation,
no judgement, no eyes watching me. Invisible. It’s pure contentment. I see a distant figure walking toward me across the beach. At first I think it’s Josie and I enjoy watching her long
legs as she approaches, but then it morphs into Rhoda. As the figure gets closer, though, it be comes bigger and bigger, too big. It’s covered in dirty scabs. It isn’t human.

Then I hear that strangled, drowning-elephant shriek again, like a thousand wrongful deaths balled up into this blob of hate. It’s coming fast. I try to turn and a wave smashes me down,
punches all the breath out of my lungs. It rolls over me with a metallic grating like tools being crushed in a house-sized blender. I can’t breathe; I’m drowning, but in my last moment
I’m grateful to the sea for saving me from the creature.

I wake up suddenly, adrenaline bypassing the normal morning formalities. Where am I? How could I let my guard down? Ready to run, I look around. Rhoda’s hunched in a ball next to me,
stirring from her own sleep. I breathe the dream out with relief.

These bright corridors still seem a bit unreal. As if all of it was a dream. But my shit-and-whatever stained jeans, the bruises and cuts on my body, Rhoda herself rubbing the sleep out of her
eyes in the corner of the alcove, tell a different story. Despite myself, my mind lodges on the memory of her topless in the bathroom last night.

‘The fuck you looking at?’ mutters Rhoda. The closest I’ll get to a sweet and cheery ‘Good morning’ from her.

‘Not much else to look at. Either hideous security shutters or you. I got tired of looking at the shutters.’

‘Arsehole,’ she mutters. Closest I’ll get to a laugh, I suppose. ‘Hey, Dan. Listen to that. The escalators are working.’

Thank fuck. The roller door that was blocking the top of the escalator has been raised. That means the mall’s open and we’re going to go home. Rhoda scales the escalator two steps at
a time, slings her frame around the corner and bounds up the next flight. When I catch up with her, she’s standing on the middle level. My level.

The flight of escalators ends here, forcing shoppers to track through the entire level to get to the next floor. Architects who design malls clearly graduate from the
Satan-fucking-with-ratsin-mazes-for-sport academy. It’s a relief to know exactly where I’m going now. ‘You sure you want to get out of here?’ I ask. ‘You don’t
want to do some window shopping? Check out the sales? Brunch?’

‘Fucking funny. Ha ha. Now let’s go. Jesus, I need to see the sky.’

Rhoda races ahead, following the signs to the main entrance, past shops with their lights on, but their doors closed. I check my cellphone for the time but it’s dead, of course. Beads of
condensation stipple the screen. The phone rattles when I shake it. I can tell it’s about half past eight by the mall’s state of almostreadiness.

‘Fuck it!’ Rhoda swears when we get to the main exit. It’s still locked down. She kicks at the metal door and the crash resonates through the marbled halls. I rattle the
shutter too. More to prove to Rhoda that I’m trying to do something than expecting any effect.

‘Hey!’ someone shouts from above. A grotesque man with purple jowls is leering over the mezzanine railing. He’s dressed in an elaborate admiral’s uniform, gold braiding,
medals, cap and the whole bit, but the get-up has this cheap, over-ironed sheen that spells Security Guard. Christ, they pay these poor buggers nothing and then make them dress up like clowns to
suit the mall’s theme. Except admirals don’t belong in a Joburg mall, six hundred kilometres from the nearest sea. And the poor guy looks so unhealthy that there’s no way he could
chase down a shoplifter. His face blooms as if he’s about to suffer a heart attack any minute. More immediately, the way he’s leaning over the railing, I worry that he’s going to
fall over it any second.

Rhoda and I step back out of falling-freak range.

‘Don’t shake the door!’ the man yells, jowls juddering.

‘Sorry. Can you help us?’ I try. ‘Um, what time will the door open?’

‘Open?’ he says, as if he hasn’t heard of the concept.

‘Yes. We need to get out.’

‘You know you need access. You browns don’t have access.’

‘What the fuck,’ hisses Rhoda.

‘You stay there,’ the security man orders, medals jangling as he stumps towards the stairs. ‘You need to go to control. Wait there. I’m coming down. And you, dark brown,
don’t kick the door.’

‘Do you think the lockdown’s because of me?’ said Rhoda. ‘What are they going to—’

‘Relax. They only do a shutdown if there’s something really serious. They wouldn’t want to restrict shopping hours. Something else might have happened. Probably a bank robbery.
There’s like two a week. There’s no way they would do all this just for you. You didn’t even steal anything.’