The Mall E-Book

S.L. Grey

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 444

Beschreibung

Dan works at a bookstore in a deadly dull shopping mall where nothing ever happens. He's an angsty emo-kid who sells mid-list books to mid-list people for the minimum wage. He hates his job. Rhoda has dragged her babysitting charge to the mall so she can meet her dealer and score some coke. Now the kid's run off, and she has two hours to find him. She hates her life. Rhoda bullies Dan into helping her search, but as they explore the neon-lit corridors behind the mall, disturbing text messages lure them into the bowels of the building, where old mannequins are stored in grave-like piles and raw sewage drips off the ceiling. The only escape is down, and before long Dan and Rhoda are trapped in a service lift listening to head-splitting musak. Worst of all, the lift's not stopping at the bottom floor. Plummeting into the earth, Dan and Rhoda enter a sinister underworld that mirrors their worst fears. Forced to complete a series of twisted tasks to find their way out, they finally emerge into the brightly lit food court, sick with relief at the banal sight of people shopping and eating. But something feels different. Why are the shoppers all pumped full of silicone? Why are the shop assistants chained to their counters? And why is a cafe called McColon's selling lumps of bleeding meat? Just when they think they've made it back to the mall, they realise their nightmare has only just begun...

Leseprobe

Dan is an angsty emo-kid who works in a deadly dull shopping mall. He hates his job.

Rhoda is a junkie whose babysitting charge ran off while she was scoring cocaine. She hates her life.

Rhoda bullies Dan into helping her search, but as they explore the neon-lit corridors behind the mall, disturbing text messages lure them into the bowels of the building, where old mannequins are stored in grave-like piles and raw sewage drips off the ceiling. The only escape is down.

Plummeting into the earth in a disused service lift playing head-splitting Musak, Dan and Rhoda enter a sinister underworld that mirrors their worst fears. They finally escape, but something feels different. Why are the shoppers all pumped full of silicone? Why are the shop assistants chained to their counters? And why is a café called McColon's selling lumps of bleeding meat?

Just when they think they've made it back to the mall, they realize the nightmare has only just begun...

S.L. Grey is a mysterious, genderless persona. In the past, one of S.L. Grey's avatars shelved books in a public library, spent thirteen years in a bookselling chain for 13 years, and gained an MA in Vampire Fiction. Under a different guise, S.L. Grey has animated horror films, won an award for South African fiction and written a love poem to a zombie...

First published in the UK in 2011 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © S.L. Grey, 2011. All rights reserved.

The moral right of S.L. Grey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-0-85789-042-9 (hardback) ISBN: 978-1-84887-886-0 (trade paperback) eBook ISBN: 978-0-85789-271-3

Printed in Great Britain

Corvus An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd Ormond House 26-27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

CONTENTS

PART 1 >>

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

PART 2 >>

chapter 23

chapter 24

chapter 25

chapter 26

chapter 27

chapter 28

chapter 29

chapter 30

PART 1 >>

chapter 1

RHODA

My first instinct is to grab his hand, snap back his index finger, and floor the fucker. Instead I keep absolutely immobile, sucking in deep jags of oxygen to try and still my heart. It’s jack-hammering like it does when I’ve taken too much MDMA, but it’s vital I get my shit together and calm the fuck down. I shrug my shoulder out of his grasp.

‘Sir?’ he barks, voice nasal and commanding. ‘Why were you running?’

‘I’m not a sir,’ I say, turning my head so that he can get a good look at my face. He flinches as I knew he would, but doesn’t bother trying to mask his distaste. Most people at least attempt to hide their shock, but not this guy, although I’m not yet sure if this is because he doesn’t give a shit, or because he’s too dense to know better. He’s swollen-faced, moustachioed, looks like he does his talking with his fists. He’s wearing a curry-stained, beige security guard uniform and his belly flops over his trousers like a sack of dead puppies. A whorl of grey Brillo-pad hair and a finger of fish-belly white skin poke through the gap where his trousers are missing their top button.

‘Ma’am? Why were you in such a rush, hey?’

The last thing I want to do is ask this Neanderthal for help. But I’ve run out of options. ‘I’m looking for a kid.’

‘What do you mean, ma’am?’

‘I’ve lost a child.’

‘What do you mean, you’ve lost a child?’

‘I was here at the mall with him and he’s disappeared. Clear enough for you?’

The guy stands up straighter, places a hand on the gun holster at his hip and pulls out a walkie-talkie. He stares at me suspiciously, clearly trying to figure out what someone like me is doing out with a child at this time of night. Across the aisle, two shop girls with identical fake hair and smudged eyeliner are goggling at me as they lock up a shop selling cheap accessories. I look directly at them and mouth ‘fuck off’. They shrug their glittery bags onto their shoulders and hurry away, heads down, heels echoing on the mall’s tiles. They disappear around the end of the corridor, the trace of a nervous giggle floating back my way.

‘Your accent,’ he says. ‘You a tourist? You don’t look like a tourist.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

He takes stock of my army surplus clothes.

‘I’m not a tourist,’ I say.

‘This child you say is missing, boy or girl?’

‘Boy.’

‘Where did you last see him, ma’am?’

‘At the bookshop.’

‘Which one?’

‘The big one – Only Books or whatever it’s called.’

I wait for him to take a step back before I get to my feet. My knees are bruised and crack sickeningly as I stand up straight. The bastard hasn’t tried to help me up or ask if I’m okay. My palms are numb from where I tried to catch my fall, and I shake them vigorously to try and get some life back into them. I make a fist, and the thumb on my right hand feels stiff, the joint popping when I swivel it. I shove my hands in my pockets, fingers finding the envelope and curling over it protectively.

If he calls the cops I’m fucked. I have to appear normal. Under control.

‘Can you describe this child for me, ma’am?’

I have to clear my throat a couple of times to force the words out calmly. ‘About eight years old, Sponge Bob T-shirt, black hair, bit overweight.’ I take a deep breath, which helps. ‘He’s probably just wandered off.’

The guy holds up a hand. ‘I’ll be the judge of that, ma’am.’ He growls self-importantly into his walkie-talkie: ‘Simon, come in, Simon.’

There’s the crackle of static, then: ‘Ja, boss, Simon here, over.’

‘Simon, we have an issue here. Small child lost his mother. Keep an eye out for a small black boy—’

‘He’s white!’

He glares at me again. His eyes have a yellowish, jaundiced look about them. The flaccid skin on his face is pitted with ancient acne.

‘Excuse me, ma’am?’

‘He’s not my kid. I’m just looking after him.’

‘What is the name of this child, ma’am?’

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.

Fuck.

I can’t remember.

‘What were you doing while you left him at the bookshop, ma’am?’ Yellow Eyes asks again.

‘I told you. I had to go to the toilet. I thought he’d be cool there.’

I glance up at the wall clock. Nine fifteen. Zinzi said she’d be home at ten thirty or so. She’s going to freak the fuck out when she gets back and finds that the kid and her car are AWOL. But she’ll be fired for sure if the parents find out she’s let someone like me babysit their son. Mind you, they can’t be that fussy if they’ve employed Zinzi. Supernanny she’s not.

Sweat dribbles down my back, and I’m adding my own stench of nervous perspiration to the foul odours in the windowless security office. It already reeks of old cigarettes, dirty carpet and pizza topping.

Next to me, the man I’ve dubbed Fingerling is checking the security camera footage. He’s the only one in here who didn’t flinch at the sight of my face, probably because he’s also a freak. There are two shiny stumps on his right hand where his index and middle fingers once were.

‘Let’s go through this again, ma’am,’ Yellow Eyes says, clearly enjoying this. ‘You say that a friend of yours asked you to watch the child while she went out?’

‘How many more times? She’s not a friend. She’s my cousin.’

‘She also a Brit?’

‘No.’

‘And what is your business in South Africa, ma’am?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘We’re just trying to get the facts straight, ma’am.’

‘Yeah? Oh well, in that case I thought I’d come out here, do a bit of big game hunting, you know the usual shit you do in Africa. Look, what’s with all the questions? Can’t you just go and find the kid?’

My phone beeps and vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen. It’s a message from Zinzi:

<Hey babes. Will b home @ 11.30. That cool?>

I breathe out with relief. I’ve got an extra hour.

‘You think it’s a good idea to leave a child alone in a mall, ma’am?’ Yellow Eyes says.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I say. ‘They chucked you out of the police force, right?’

His face reddens. I turn to Fingerling.

‘Please. You must find him,’ I say. ‘Please.’ Right now I’ll do anything. Beg, scream, plead. Right now I’m willing to make any kind of deal.

Something nasty is squirming in my belly. Something that’s telling me the shit’s about to hit the fan.

I know I shouldn’t have left him. But I only thought I’d be gone for five minutes. I wasn’t really worried when I legged it back to the bookshop, maybe slightly anxious about how I was going to convince the kid to keep his mouth shut about our spur-of-themoment outing to Highgate Mall. I pushed past the skinny chick restocking the New Arrivals shelf and headed to the kids’ section where I’d left him absorbed in the Where’s Wally books. I was already fingering the car keys in my pocket, mentally already back at the house, opening the precious little package I’d just bought.

But the floor of the children’s area was empty except for a pile of pink and green scatter cushions. I darted through the aisles: past Cookery, Self Help, World Religions, increasing my pace as I passed the bright shiny blur of Science Fiction and Fantasy, the glossy magazine aisle, the titles blurring in front of me. When I reached African Literature I was actually jogging, pulse quickening, feeling the first tendrils of panic.

The blonde behind the counter was flicking lazily through Heat magazine, licking a finger as she turned each page.

‘Hi,’ I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. ‘I’m looking for a kid.’

She looked up, mouth puckering into a moue of revulsion as she took in the left side of my face. ‘Sorry?’

‘A kid. Wearing a Sponge Bob T-shirt. He was here. I left him here.’

‘You’re not supposed to do that.’

Now wasn’t the time to lose my temper. ‘Did you see where he went?’ I said.

‘Sorry,’ she said, turning back to the magazine.

I slapped the counter, palm stinging with the force of it, feeling a burst of satisfaction when the bitch jumped. A sandyhaired guy, who was methodically bundling credit card slips behind her, glanced up.

‘Problem?’ he said to the blonde.

‘This person says they’ve lost a child, Bradley,’ the blonde said.

‘Small kid, about eight?’ I said. ‘He was in the children’s section. You seen him?’

The guy shook his head. ‘Would you like us to call security?’ he asked, voice slightly concerned, but it was clear he didn’t really want to get involved.

‘I’m sure he’s around somewhere,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know.’

I checked the aisles again, knowing it was pointless, knowing that he wasn’t there. I saw a quick flash of pale white skin disappearing around a corner opposite the magazine display and I followed, feet thudding on the rough carpeting, heart skipping with relief.

The aisle was empty.

If I didn’t find the kid, I would be fucked in so many ways. Just starting to think of it made me feel sick.

My phone beeped. I ignored it, stashed it in the pocket of my combats. It wouldn’t be him; he’s the only kid in Joburg without a phone. I couldn’t talk to anyone until I found him. But where the fuck was he?

Then I had it – the computer store. He wanted to check out the games when we’d first arrived, kept babbling about Grand Theft Auto or some shit. I hadn’t really been listening, too busy worrying about the meeting with Jacob, too busy thinking about what I was going to say to convince him to give me what I needed.

I raced blindly out of the bookshop, bumping into an obese woman laden down with late-night groceries. We danced around each other, pirouetting ridiculously as we kept blocking each other’s paths. I shrugged past her, sending a bag of hair dye and tampons skittering across the floor. I didn’t stop to apologise, too intent on trying to remember which floor the fucking store was on. Increasing my pace, I pulled my hood over my head, shielding my face from the stares of the passing meanderthals. I dodged bins, skipped past blank-faced cleaners pushing brooms, and thudded onto the escalator. I shoved my way between two teenage girls standing side by side, ignoring their yelps, and almost fell over my feet at the top. My All Stars squeaked and slapped over the tiles as I raced past darkened shop windows, and then I saw it.

A Lara Croft cut-out stared back at me seductively, no sign of life behind her. The shop was shut. I rattled the doors anyway; I had to do something.

I had to think logically about this. What the hell did small kids get up to in malls? Then I looked up and saw the stick figure signs for the toilets. That was it! He’d wanted to go just after we’d arrived.

The door to the men’s screamed as I pushed my way inside, ignoring the stench of piss and the guy shaking himself off in front of a urinal. He looked me up and down then exited hurriedly as I started booting open the stalls, one after the other. Nothing but stainless steel bowls, sodden discarded toilet paper squares and cracked tiles. One of the floors was wet with Christ knows what.

Could he have gone back to the car? Would he remember where the hell it was parked? I backtracked, searching for the parking-lot exit, mind blank, but with the vague idea that it was next to a store selling fake Persian carpets and hubbly-bubblies.

I flew down the escalator again, and that’s when I skidded as my wet shoes hit the tiles. I landed hard, next to a marbled pot plant, and right into Yellow Eyes’ grip and a world of shit.

Fingerling manoeuvres the mouse with his good hand, and the screen wobbles, comes to life. It takes me a few seconds to realise that the too-skinny, hooded figure racing blindly down shiny anonymous corridors, leaping up the escalator and pushing past two miniskirted teenage girls, is actually me. My mad rush through the mall hadn’t gone unnoticed – strangers’ faces stare after me, they shake their heads, look disapproving.

‘It was before this! Look in the bookshop. About an hour ago.’

Fingerling looks up and shrugs. ‘Can’t. Power went out. Lost most of the footage.’

‘No it didn’t.’

I’d remember if it had, wouldn’t I? I don’t recall the lights flickering, dimming, and then surging as they do when the backup generators kick in. I would have been at the Vida e Caffè in the food court, stomach squirming, waiting for Jacob, toying with my latte, jumping every time I caught sight of a tall rangy guy that could be him. I’d give anything to be back there now.

‘Just try! Please! Don’t you have backups?’

At the back of the room a lanky guy with cruel eyes, overgrown eyebrows and a name tag reading ‘Simon’ enters. He catches my eye and shakes his head. I can’t read his expression.

The screen wobbles and rights itself again. I immediately recognise the guy on screen. He’s standing behind the counter of the bookshop, serving a customer who’s buying a pile of meaty novels with shiny covers. The clerk had blatantly stared at me when I’d first entered the bookshop with the kid. He was ruder than most. Eyes flicked from my left cheek to my chest, couldn’t tear his gaze away. I’d told him to fuck off. Who was he to stare, anyway? Dyed black hair and My Chemical Romance T-shirt. May as well have had ‘emo’ tattooed on his forehead. Thinking about it, he hadn’t been there when I’d returned to find the kid gone.

Simon walks over to me. He stands too close, deliberately invading my space. I catch a whiff of cheap deodorant and the tang of a breath mint that doesn’t hide the booze on his breath.

‘Ma’am, we might have a problem here.’

‘Of course we’ve got a fucking problem!’

‘No need for that sort of language,’ Yellow Eyes barks. ‘What do you mean, Simon?’

‘Ma’am, we’ve spoken to the people who work in the bookshop. They say they don’t remember any child.’

My stomach plummets again. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

‘No one remembers seeing you with a child. They remember you, though. Very clearly.’

‘You need to talk to that guy!’ I say, not liking the way my voice sounds. I point to the screen, at the black-and-white image of the emo guy. ‘That black-haired guy! He saw us! He definitely saw us!’

‘He says he saw nothing,’ says Simon.

Fingerling shakes his shaggy head, pauses the screen and reaches for the phone.

I’m limp with relief. ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ I say, encouraging him. ‘Call him again. He’s talking shite.’

‘I’m calling the cops, ma’am.’

‘No!’ I say too quickly. ‘The kid will turn up. I know he will.’

‘Madam,’ Fingerling says warily, ‘we have to.’

I check out the distance to the door. Five metres. If I don’t think too hard about it, if I just get up and run, if I do it immediately, I can just about make it.

Chapter 2

DANIEL

I’m sitting in my alcove in the service corridor behind Only Books, eating a packet of Niknaks. I watch Josie and Katrien as they lean against the wall under an emergency strip light, smoking. They can’t see me where I sit and I get the chance to see Josie acting relaxed.

‘It was hectic,’ Katrien is saying. ‘Five minutes till the end of the shift and there’s a fucking lockdown.’

‘Shame, man,’ Josie empathises. She takes a drag on her cigarette and shifts her foot on the wall behind her. Her knee juts out a little higher and her short skirt rides further up her thigh. She scratches at her hip. She’s wearing a tight purple shirt with a white design of a phoenix, and her green velvet skirt sits above the knee. The way the light’s falling, I can see the soft fluff on her upper leg, the part blondes don’t have to shave. I like the way Josie acts when she’s alone, or with someone like Katrien, someone she obviously trusts. With the customers watching, or even with the rest of the bookshop’s night staff, Josie feels like she has to be on show. She’s that beautiful. Seriously. It must be hard for her.

‘I had to meet Bobby at ten and the bloody lockdown lasted till after eleven,’ Katrien says.

‘Ja, and I heard it wasn’t anything serious. Just, like, three guys with one gun, and they only hit McDonald’s. Complete overreaction.’ Josie takes a deep drag, the smoke seeps out of her nose as she exhales, trickling out of the corner of her mouth. She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes and I wonder what she’s thinking.

‘I think I heard there was a politician here for dinner, so I suppose…’

Josie drops her stub and mashes it out with her sandal. ‘It’s ridiculous, I swear.’

She’s about to light another one when we all hear the sound of footsteps along the corridor.

‘Bradley, sweetie,’ Josie performs as he comes along, jangling his keys in his trouser pockets. I can’t understand how anyone could flirt with Bradley. He’s so insipid, yet they fall over to laugh at his unfunny jokes. That’s what you get if you’re the boss, I suppose. Big boss that he is. Floor manager of a bookshop. Whoopee.

‘Stalker,’ laughs Katrien. ‘I’m going to report you to the authorities.’

‘I am the authorities,’ Bradley says. ‘And it’s time to get back on counter. Movies are over and the zombies have descended.’

‘Another Dan Brown flick and everyone’s suddenly a reader,’ mumbles Katrien.

‘I need to buy a drink first, okay?’ says Josie.

‘Sure, I’ll come with you,’ Bradley says. ‘For the walk.’

They turn and notice me sitting there. Katrien smiles at me. Josie grimaces like the dog just shat on the carpet. Bradley blushes up his scrawny neck. ‘What are you doing here?’

I feel my face burning in response. ‘Uh, dinner break?’

‘Well, it’s getting busy. You’re supposed to be merchandising with Khosi.’

‘Ja, I’m coming.’

Stupid fucker. He always sends Khosi and me to merchandise at the end of a shift so that he can hang over the counter making inane small talk with the girls. Of course, Khosi’s a girl, but she’s not Bradley’s type, I guess. So it’s always her and me, doing the invisible duties. As if Bradley’s got a chance with any of the late-staff girls anyway. And he’s mainly got the horn for Josie. Katrien always hangs out with Josie but I don’t think they’ve got much in common. She’s not bad herself, I suppose; she’s like Josie’s supporting actress, but she dresses in these shapeless outdated hippie clothes.

The three of them walk away and I can hear Bradley saying something in his monotone and Josie replying with a peal of giggles, looking back at me, then giggling again.

I crumple up the Niknaks bag, chuck it in one of the janitor’s buckets and start on the Nosh bar. The minute hand on my watch nudges up to the nine. No fucking way I’m going back on shift early. In fact, I’m taking an extra few minutes; call it my smoke break.

I hear someone whistling, the echoing slap of rubber footfalls. A butcher from Woolworths, bald head covered in a plastic cap and stained white overalls tucked into blue wellingtons, ambles by, picking his nose as he goes. He stands for a while outside the coldroom door, its triple-glazed port window spider-webbed from an old robbery, finishes his nostrilful and keys in the entrance code: 1-2-3-4. I’ve watched them dial that code in countless times. Woolworths install this hi-tech security system and then don’t trust their staff to remember the code.

I count down four seconds and the blast of cold meat-air whooshes up the corridor like the wind in front of a subway train. If I were someone else, the stench of frozen blood might put me off steak for life. But I’m not.

I’d better get back on shift now. As I’m walking toward the mall exit, the neon lights flicker off and the emergency lights come on. The air-con grinds to a halt, like someone switching off the sea. At first I think it’s another lockdown like last night’s. But this is not just a brief brown-out; the emergency lights stay on. Great, a power cut. They were amusing the first few times. I’d get to go home early, maybe get a drink first. But now they happen every week, and Only Books has installed minimal battery backups. Which means we have to carry on working, writing everything down and then spend ages after our shift when the power comes back on entering all the sales and manual credit card transactions. Management has its way of spoiling my fun.

My heart sinks a little at the sight of the corridor’s double exit doors, lined with their thick and scuffed black rubber fold, sealing Highgate Mall’s workers and deliverymen away from the shoppers. Out of my safe place and back into the world of retail slavery. I’m just about to open them and step back onto the stage when a kid slams in and runs down the corridor. I almost shit myself. He’s a fat little dark-haired guy in a red T-shirt and jeans, and goes sprinting past me. But he’s making no sound. Maybe he’s barefoot, I don’t know. I think about following him to see where he’s going, to see if he’s okay, but then the lights come up with a suck of power and I decide to head back. It’s not as if there’s anywhere for him to go.

Khosi is on a ladder in the Only Books display window, filling it with the crap that people who proudly say ‘I don’t read’ read. Only Books. Yeah right, make that Only Books, Coffee, Chocolates, Chips, Gift wrap, Stationery, Even Fucking Cellphones. Corporate bullshit.

When I walk in there’s a sour old bitch haranguing Katrien at the counter. Bradley, who a minute ago was probably regaling her with stories of his weekend Dungeons and Dragons blowout or some such shit, is nowhere to be seen.

‘I haven’t driven all the way over here to waste my time. You people said the book was here and I expect it to be here!’

Katrien’s saying, ‘Ma’am, can you just tell me who—’

‘I don’t care!’ screams the woman, glancing at the three customers waiting behind her, assuming they’ll support her. ‘My God. The service here is pathetic, isn’t it?’ They shift on their feet, trying not to be part of the scene.

Katrien’s tapping away at the computer, mumbling, ‘The Leonardo Code… we don’t seem to have a record of that one.’ Baiting the woman, seeing whether she can score a star on the Crack Chart we hide in the back office.

‘Listen, darling,’ the woman drawls in the tone she obviously reserves for retarded waitresses. ‘Just call your manager, okay?’

Eventually Katrien’s forced to call Bradley. Po-faced, he finds the right book on the Evergreen Backlist display heap and sends the woman on her way with the standard ingratiations. Katrien and the next customer stifle their smiles as the woman huffs out of the shop.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Bradley asks me, tapping his watch.

‘Uh, tidying poetry.’

‘Mm,’ he says, already forgetting me and taking up his place against the counter. I load a trolley with books for shelving.

A few minutes later Simon, the mall security guy, comes into the shop trailed by Sipho, our store security guard. At this hour it must be serious to get Simon out of the security office and away from their special coffee and porn.

I watch him talking to Katrien and Bradley, then Bradley beckons me over to the counter. Katrien mutters, ‘Something about a missing kid.’

‘What sort of kid? Did they—’

Simon stands across the counter from me. He reeks of highproof, low-quality alcohol and halitosis.

‘What’s your name?’ Simon asks me.

‘Daniel.’

‘You see a small kid anywhere? Uh, eight, nine. Black. We’ve got this… uh… lady… in the office who says you saw her with him here.’

‘When?’

‘An hour ago, she says.’ Behind him Sipho shifts uneasily, not sure what he should be doing. Intimidating me, tearing up books, strip-searching the customers, whatever they teach you in security guard school. So he starts fiddling with the products on the counter.

‘I don’t know. Lots of people come into the shop.’

‘You’ll remember this… lady,’ Simon lowers his voice a fraction, glancing at Khosi loading the window. ‘Blerrie boemelaar. Bald and scars and everything.’

‘Oh, ja. I did see her. But I don’t remember any child with her.’

‘Okay,’ says Simon. ‘Nobody saw anything here.’ I can see this investigation is exhausting him and he just wants to go back to his office and have another drink. ‘Thanks, Chief,’ he says to Sipho, who jerks around to escort him out and knocks over a stand of Nelson Mandela commemorative fridge magnets on his way out.

I can’t help but remember that weird-looking woman. She was in the store about an hour ago. There are certain customers who just make me want to run the moment I see them, and they are the ones who always, without fail, end up at my till. This one was a youngish black woman with an unconvincing English accent she was obviously putting on to make her sound posher than she was. Because she had a shaved head and dressed like a bum. On the side of her face was this huge scar, the sort of scar you don’t know how to look at. She was hanging edgily around the counter, smelling of smoke and sweat, but I could see she wasn’t going to buy anything. I didn’t want to help her, but I wanted her to go away and stop lurking around where I could see her. That scar was making me uncomfortable.

So I said, ‘Can I help you?’

She took a long look at me, appraising me up and down like I’m some sort of freak show, her lips curling in disgust. Then she said, ‘Fuck you’, and walked a few paces away, jittering, her eyes twitching from door to shelf to floor to counter.

Now I wonder if the missing child could be the boy I saw in the service corridor. It can’t have been the same one. Hers is a black kid, right? The boy I saw was white, Greek or Portuguese or something. Although it’s quite a complex route from the back of the bookshop, there’s no way out except back into the mall. That kid would never have got lost back there. It’s not worth worrying about. He’s probably sleeping in his parents’ car on the way home by now.

I start picking up the Mandela magnets and tidying the other junk that’s mixed up on the counter. Nine twenty-five; five minutes to closing. Jesus, what a long day. I need a drink.

I go into the orders cupboard and flick the lights to signal the time to the remaining customers and Bradley follows me in.

‘Hey, Daniel, buddy.’

‘Yes?’

‘You mind locking up for me tonight?’ he says, handing me his shop keys.

What the fuck, arsehole? I’d rather you do the hour’s extra work you’re paid triple to do and leave me the fuck alone. ‘Ja, sure, no problem.’

‘You are working tomorrow morning, right? So you’ll have to get here first to open up. Seven thirty?’

‘Okay.’ I know I’m being a bloody pushover, but what am I supposed to do? If I cash up regularly and always keep the keys safely, maybe Bradley will make me supervisor. I could really do with the extra money.

Bradley skips over to where Josie is waiting and says, ‘We’re on.’ She smiles and they go to the back office to collect their stuff.

The safe key isn’t on Bradley’s bunch so I follow them. I tap in the code and open the back office door.

‘I knew he’d—’ Josie’s saying and then she stops and blushes.

Bradley’s laughing, then turns his back when he realises I’m there.

I smile at Josie. ‘Oh, hi.’ Then tell Bradley that I don’t have the safe key.

‘Oh, sure. Here.’ Bradley fishes the key out of his pocket.

I try to stay calm as I walk back to close the front door, but I have visions of ramming Bradley’s long safe key up his fucking nostril.

chapter 3

RHODA

There are fewer places to hide in malls than you’d think. I squash myself in between an abandoned cleaner’s trolley and one of those giant, pointless plant pots, scrunching my knees up to my chest. The stench of dirty rags and bleach makes my eyes water, and the damp stinking tendrils of a mop brush against my cheek. I pull out my phone, click it onto silent, hold my breath and wait.

The clip-clop of Fingerling’s boots echo past me, then, just as I’m sure I’m safe, he hesitates. Fuck. He’s so close I could reach around the pot and grab his trouser cuffs. The mall’s muzak cuts out abruptly, and his walkie-talkie erupts into a hissing buzz of static, making me jump. Yellow Eyes’ voice cuts through the crackle, saying something in guttural Afrikaans that I can’t understand. Fingerling responds with a sigh and the words: ‘Nee, boss.’

My lungs are aching from the frantic chase earlier, and the shallow breaths I’m sucking in through my nose aren’t helping. Christ. I should’ve got the fuck out of here when I had the chance. I’d easily lost Yellow Eyes after I’d dodged into the parking garage (fat bastard), and I’m pretty sure Simon the Sadist must still be curled into a ball on the filthy carpet in the office, clutching his bollocks.

There’s no sign of the cops yet, but even if the South African police are as hopelessly crap as I’ve heard, I probably only have five minutes at the most.

Fingerling’s heavy tread backtracks towards the escalators, and I breathe out in relief and shift my position to ease the cramp in my thighs.

Should I? Why the hell not? I reach into my pocket, pull out the envelope and pick open one of the wraps. I dip my finger into the powder and rub it over my gums. It’s heavily cut with baby-powder, but weak shit or not, it’s as if a breeze of cool oxygen has blasted into my brain, instantly clearing my head. It tastes bitter and familiar, and I start to breathe easier, the stitch in my side fading.

I peer out from behind the pot, and shuck forward on my knees to get a better view of the bookshop’s entrance. The doors are closed, the windows darkened and blank. A couple stalks past, the guy pressing his hand into the small of the woman’s back, pushing her onwards. They don’t glance in my direction, too intent on getting the hell out of here. I don’t blame them. Maybe it’s the blow messing with my head, but the mall seems to have taken on a seriously creepy atmosphere. I hate malls at the best of times, but now that I’m surrounded by lifeless shop windows, deserted aisles and empty moving escalators I can see why Dawn of the Dead was such a mind-fuck.

The bookshop’s glass doors finally crack open, and the blonde bitch emerges, laughing at something the guy next to her is saying. Even from here I can tell that she’s not really listening to him, too busy thinking about the next thing she’s going to say. She flicks her hair over a shoulder, runs her hand through it and adjusts her shoulder bag. They push through the blue door opposite the shop, the guy checking out her arse as she walks through in front of him.

But where the hell is the lying bastard? If he’s left already, I’m fucked. My last chance. If I don’t find the kid there’s no way I can go back to Zinzi’s place. Would Jacob help me out? Not much hope of that. If I clear out my account I’ll have enough cash for a couple of tanks of petrol, but that’s it. Nowhere near enough to get me to Cape Town. And forget buying a ticket home. Even if I had the cash there’s no way I’m going back there.

But I don’t have a choice. I can’t hang around here any longer.

I stand up carefully, stretching my feet one at a time to shake out the pins and needles. Slipping behind a pillar, I check both directions. No sign of Fingerling or Yellow Eyes. Taking another pinch of blow to fuel my escape I prepare myself to leg it.

There’s a rattle of keys and the bookshop’s door screeches open again. I crouch back down.

Thank fuck. It’s him.

He peers up and down the corridor as if he’s looking for someone (as if that blonde bitch would give a twat like him the time of day), his shoulders slump and he mutters something under his breath. He pulls out an iPod, sticks the earphones in his ears and slouches across the aisle to the door opposite. I count to ten and race across the aisle, slipping into the stairwell behind him. I take the stairs two at a time, making sure that I keep one level below him at all times, but it looks as if he’s going all the way to the top. I hang back when I hear the exit door banging open, then leg it up to the top of the stairs and push my way out into the night.

The roof is deserted, the empty parking spaces illuminated by yellow lights, and after being inside the stuffy mall I’m momentarily disoriented. The bunker shapes of the various mall entrances cast deep shadows around the flat concrete roof, and the neighbouring buildings loom uninvitingly in the distance.

But where the fuck has he gone? It’s not as if there’s anywhere to disappear to. I jog a few metres away from the exit, and then I see him. He’s trudging towards the far end of the lot, back hunched, muttering to himself again. He doesn’t even glance around as I close the distance between us, ears probably full of Nickelback or whatever toss wankers like him listen to. He’s heading towards the only car – a crappy red Fox with rusting hubcaps and bald tyres – which is half-concealed behind a pay station. While he fiddles with the door lock I race up behind him, grab his left arm and shove it up behind his back.

‘What? No!’

‘Shut up!’ I say, pushing his arm higher and using my weight to slam him into the side of the car. He bellows in pain.

‘Keep quiet and I won’t hurt you,’ I hiss.

‘No, man, please! You can take it. Whatever. You can…’ His voice is way too loud. I yank his earphones out and they dangle out of his pocket. A faint tinny trace of music pulses out.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ I say. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘Let me go!’ He wriggles again, and I’m forced to yank his arm up even higher. Air hisses out of his mouth as he gasps in agony, and his knees buckle and smash against the car door. He’s way taller than me, has a good few kilos on me as well, but the flesh on his arm feels flabby beneath the fabric of his shirt.

‘What do you want? I haven’t got any money!’ His voice is panicked, almost tearful. ‘Please don’t hurt me. You can take the car.’

‘I don’t want your piece of shit car,’ I say to him. I lean my body into his. He reeks of some sort of cologne – the sort you get free in magazines.

‘What do you want?’ His voice escapes in a squeak, which would be comical if I felt like fucking laughing right now.

‘I’ve got a few questions for you,’ I say.

‘I’ll do what you want. Just let go of me.’

I release my grip on his arm, and he falls forward against the car. He swivels his shoulder and rubs his arm. I wait for him to turn around to face me.

‘You!’ he says, eyes wide with recognition. ‘It’s you!’ His face is paler than before, and his cheeks are trembling with fear or shock or both. For a second I almost feel sorry for him. He’s a good head taller than me, and from the way he suddenly clenches his jaw and tenses his body it’s clear that he’s realised this. But I don’t wait for him to react. Lashing out with my right foot I slam it into his crotch. He drops instantly, writhing on the ground, rolling in the tarmac, the edge of his T-shirt trailing in a pool of oil.

He gasps desperately for air, face scrunched up in pain, tears streaming blackly down his cheeks as his eyeliner smudges. He gags and a thin stream of white puke dribbles out of his mouth. I pull out my cigarettes and light up while I wait for him to stop moaning, puking and coughing. My hands are trembling, but I can’t let him see any sign of weakness.

‘What did you do that for?’ he says when he can speak. He struggles up onto his hands and knees, then sinks back down again, clutching his balls. ‘Fucking psycho!’

‘Why did you do it, eh?’ I say, blasting smoke in his face.

‘What do you mean? Do what?’ he whines.

‘Tell them you didn’t see the kid.’

‘What? I don’t under—’

I boot him in the stomach, slightly harder than I’d actually meant to. He makes a ‘whoof’ sound and whips his head around desperately, clearly searching for someone to come to his aid. Not much chance of that. There’s the roar of an engine below us, the screech of sirens in the distance and steam billows out from one of the air-conditioner vents. But the parking lot remains desolate.

I drop to my haunches and look down into his eyes. ‘Let’s try this again,’ I say.

‘Ugh – please, what do you want?’

‘Why did you lie?’

‘I didn’t… I don’t know wh—’ I place my foot over his hand and press down gently, letting him know I could stomp on it at anytime.

He puts his free hand up in surrender. ‘Okay, okay.’

‘Did you see where the kid went?’

‘What kid?’

For fuck’s sake. ‘The kid I was with when I came into the store. You saw me. Don’t pretend you didn’t.’

Something stirs in his eyes. ‘White kid, right?’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘He was really with you? But he looked so…’ He wisely leaves the word ‘respectable’ unspoken.

‘Did you see him?’

‘Yeah.’

Thank Christ. ‘Where?’

‘In the corridor behind the shop.’

‘Was he with anyone?’ He doesn’t answer immediately and I press my foot down with more force.

‘Hurts!’

‘Was he with anyone!’

‘No. I thought he was just playing around.’

‘Why didn’t you stop him?’

‘I told you. I thought he was just messing around.’ Now there’s a flash of impatience in his voice that surprises me. I’d better take charge again, take a different tack.

‘Get up!’

‘Huh?’

‘Get up!’

‘Okay! Okay!’ His eyes shift again, and his fingers skitter towards the bunch of keys that have fallen under the car. I know exactly what he’s thinking.

‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘Think about what?’ he hedges as he stands slowly and leans back against the car.

‘What’s your name?’

‘What’s that got to do—’ I grip his collar and snarl in his face.

‘Daniel, Dan.’

‘Well, Dan. Nice to meet you. I’m Rhoda. So tell me something, you want me to tell your boss you fucking lied? Maybe have a word with that blonde you want to fuck?’ He blushes and I press home my advantage. ‘You want to be known as the prick who let a child get lost and did nothing about it?’

‘I didn’t know. I fucking told you.’

‘You lied for a reason, Dan,’ I say, dropping the cigarette butt next to his hand and stomping it out. He flinches. ‘I know the security guards questioned you, and you lied.’

‘They said the missing kid was black.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what they said, I swear.’

Fuck. Morons.

‘What were you doing with the kid, anyway?’ he says. Shit. It could be that he’s not as stupid as I’d assumed.

‘I was babysitting. Kid ran off.’

He wipes his puke-snot with his sleeves, shakes his head and smooths his hair. ‘So it’s you who fucked up,’ he says. ‘Not me.’

‘I need to find the kid,’ I say. ‘And you’re going to help me.’

A sneaky expression flicks into his eyes. ‘You can’t make me,’ he says.

I really didn’t want to have to do this. I reach into the inside pocket of my hoodie and retrieve Zinzi’s knife. I actually have no clue how I’m supposed to use it, but Dan doesn’t know that. Far as he knows I’m some high-strung junkie arsehole. I do my best, trying to recall scenes from Guy Ritchie movies. I press the button on the side and it clicks open smoothly.

‘I’ll ask you again,’ I say, making my voice sound almost bored. ‘Will you help me?’

He doesn’t speak for a few seconds, eyes not leaving the knife. He grimaces and wipes his mouth again.

‘Well?’ I say, almost cheerfully.

He nods.

I’ve pulled up my hood as a precaution, but we don’t meet anyone as we head down towards the mall’s delivery entrance. We wander past an empty truck, a few wooden crates, cardboard boxes and an abandoned forklift, a crumpled box of Rothmans on the seat. Dan walks slightly bow-legged in front of me, dawdling almost. I think about elbowing him in the spine so that he’ll get a move on, but decide against it. I don’t want to push my luck.

He stops and points towards a pair of thick metal doors cut into the side of the windowless building.

‘Through there,’ he says.

‘After you.’

‘What? Why do I have to come?’

‘Just go.’

He pushes against the doors. ‘Locked,’ he says. ‘It’s after hours. See, we can’t get in.’

Fuck. There’s no way I want to go back through the mall again, but there’s a keypad next to the door, and Dan is avoiding looking at it.

‘Why do I think you know the combination?’ I say.

‘I don’t!’ he whinges.

‘Dan, Dan, Dan,’ I say, now almost enjoying myself. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ I pull out the knife again and click it open.

‘Okay, okay!’ His fingers tremble as he keys in the number. I file it away for future reference. 1-2-3-4. Always the same. ‘You need help,’ he says as we push through the doors and into a narrow brick-lined corridor. ‘Psychiatric help.’

He trudges ahead, and I reach into my pocket for another pinch of blow.

‘Where now?’ I say. The corridor snakes off in opposite ways. I’ve lost all sense of direction, so I can only hope he isn’t going to do anything stupid, like lead us straight to the security office.

‘This way.’

He takes the left-hand fork and we head deeper into the gloom. The corridor reeks of oil, concrete dust and a faint trace of rotten meat. Clearly this is the part of Highgate Mall that the customers never get to see, and it’s as basic and stripped down as it gets. There’s not even a ceiling to mask the workings of the airconditioning system; massive silver pipes and insulated wires loop from the ceiling like spilled metal innards. We push through another set of those heavy black doors, and he strides on confidently.

‘What happened to your face?’ he says without turning around.

‘Fuck you.’

He shrugs. ‘Just trying to be friendly. You’re not from here, are you?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘What’s with the accent?’

‘What’s with the questions? Let’s just find the kid, get out of here. You’ll never have to see me again.’

‘Okay.’

The ceiling is even lower here, and I have to shrug off the beginnings of claustrophobia, which isn’t helped by the effects of the blow.

I open my mouth to speak ‘You sure you—’

He whirls around, and before I have a chance to block him, his elbow rams into the side of my face. Pain explodes in my cheekbone, and I reel back and slam into the brick wall.

Fuck!

He’s haring back the way we came, and the bastard’s quicker than I would have expected. Blocking out the bright bloom of agony and the taste of blood in my throat, I race after him. I round the corner, then slow to a jog.

He’s slamming his body into the heavy black doors, punching and kicking at them like a toddler. He’s practically howling in frustration.

‘Hey!’ he shouts at the top of his lungs. ‘Hey! Help! Let me out!’

He pushes against the doors again, but it’s clear that they’re not going to give.

Slowly, eyes wide with panic, he turns to face me.

I am going to fucking kill him.

chapter 4

DANIEL

It’s near eleven and we’re in Woolworths. It closed at nine; the display windows are quarter-lit and only a few downlighters around the periphery of the shop are kept on. The perfume counters are lit up from inside, and the spotlights under the mannequins shine up their skirts. The mirrors at the perfume counters reflect them jaggedly and the mannequins look on, watching their own humiliation from a thousand angles.

I never liked mannequins. Their dead eyes, their peeling skin, their pert little nipples, hard as the rest of them to the touch.

Scarface is hurrying me on. ‘Come on, come on,’ she keeps saying.

‘You think I want to hang around here? In fact, this isn’t my idea of—’

‘I said come the fuck on!’ she screams and shoves me in the back. ‘Shut up!’

‘Okay,’ I say.

I’m going to show her that the child is gone and then I’m going home. This is how this evening is going to go. And you know what they say when you’re getting held up or hijacked or whatever. Just co-operate and it will be over.

We navigate our way along a line of light-impaled mannequins into the food section. Scarface looks around nervously, as if she’s being followed. In an empty shop. Here was proof of what I’d heard about drugs: delusions and paranoia. She hasn’t stopped sticking her powdery fingers in her mouth since she found me in the parking lot.

I knew the scary bitch was on drugs. Cocaine, heroin, tik, whatever it is. But while I’m bigger than her, she’s faster than me, and vicious. I can still taste puke in my mouth, and my stomach fucking hurts. It’s the first time I’ve been beaten up since high school, and never so seriously. I thought she was going to kill me when I tried to run, but I think she realises that she needs me to get her through the mall. I don’t know what she expects to see once we get there. That kid’s long gone.

She’s forced me to bring her through the Woolworths delivery entrance instead of back through the mall, so now I have to take her the long route through the store. But with any luck the silent alarm was triggered as soon as we came in, and the cops are on their way right now.

You know, if she wasn’t so aggressive I might actually want to help her. All she wants, after all, is to find that boy she’s lost. I’m just glad she’s put away the knife.

‘What the fuck are you waiting for? You’re not going to try—’

‘Give me a break, okay. I’m trying to figure out where the back exit is.’

‘Try there,’ she orders, pointing out a door with a small window and an electronic keypad.

‘Nah, cash office. We’re looking for the coldroom. That’s the door that opens out to our corridor.’

She pulls her hoodie further over her head so that I can barely see her face any more.

‘What are—’ I start, then notice the red-spotted security camera over the cash-office door. Fuck. Do I act like a criminal and rip a coat and a cap off the nearest hanger or do I act innocent? Wait a minute. I am innocent. I’ve been kidnapped by this drugaddled crazy woman. When they see the tapes, they’ll know exactly what happened. I look straight at the security camera and make a fearful face in Scarface’s direction. I wonder if anyone is monitoring the cameras now.

Again she smashes me in the back, right in my kidneys. ‘Good try, Danny. Your Oscar’s in the mail. Now let’s fucking go.’

‘Christ,’ I shout. ‘Stop hitting me, okay? I’m helping you out here. You could try and be nicer.’ She starts laughing, an empty cackle that sounds like a lifetime of desperation. ‘I know you’re in trouble. I’m trying to help you.’

The laughter dries up. ‘Yeah. A prat like you would willingly help someone like me. I know what you think of me.’

‘Ja? What do I think of you?’ I challenge, rubbing the small of my back.