Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [21]
'It's a serious offence, Toby.'
'Worse than the tamper job you just did on this little guy?'
'Oh, please. That's the equivalent of stealing stationery. Aiding and abetting a hack job on corporate property? That's a whole other category. That's goodbye plush apartment and cushy job. Firing offence, no written warning required.' I have to feed him the lines, cover up the snap of excitement. It's like finding the wall blocking your way in a dead-end alley is only made of cardboard, that you can push right through it. I know exactly how to use this.
'You could have just come out with "no",' says Toby, pulling his shirt over his head. It clings to the damp on his back, so he is all elbows tangled in rumpled cotton.
I yank the tee down to his chin, so he can see me, see how serious I am. His lanky arms are still caught in it, sticking stiffly above his head, like he's being robbed.
'I didn't say I wouldn't do it, Toby. I just want you to appreciate the risk I'm taking on your behalf.'
'Okay. Got it. Muchos graçias, scary intense girl. Can I have my t-shirt back?'
I step back so he can finish getting dressed.
'And speaking of dangerous favours…' I rummage in my suitcase for his present and toss it to him. He stashes the phone just in time, as the door cracks open.
'Uh-oh,' Toby stage-whispers, 'evil housemate alert.'
Jane pokes her head in, bearing gifts. 'Oh, hey, your food is here. What are you guys doing?'
'Fucking,' Toby says brightly. 'You wanna join us?'
Kendra
As soon as I step out into Long Street and the warm sheet of rain that soaks through my clothes, I realise I can't face going back to the loft right now. Not because of the gaping holes in the walls where the builders have knocked through the kitchen, or the dust that the absorbent tarps are supposed to sponge up right out of the air, but because it's too weighed down with memories.
The way your brain works it's always rewiring itself; the layers of association tangled up with different people and places recontextualised by new experiences. You can map out a whole city according to the weight of memory, like pins on the homicide board tracking the killer's movements. But the connections get thicker and denser and more complicated all the time.
I feel like the tarps sop up emotional residue along with the dust drifting down to settle on the carpets, filming the walls; the shouting matches we degenerate into at two in the morning when he stops in for a 'chat' after a night out with his friends – and wants to leave straight after. Five months ago, I liked the glamour of being a kept woman. It made a change from being just another impoverished Michaelis student. But now it just seems stale and tired and terribly naïve.
I walk down the steps to the underway, below the new deco curls of the signage that says 'Long' and 'D', and stand on the platform along with some kids who epitomise the Michaelis breed, with their overtly punky hair and ramshackle clothes, cultivating the ugly look for the shock value.
The tunnels rumble and shush with far-off trains. It's 98 seconds till the next connecting train to Chiappini Street. If it wasn't so humid and soggy, I'd walk.
The rumbling amps up and the train rides in, sending plumes of water skating up on either side of it. The plastech doors slide open and I push past the crowd to slide into a seat while there's still one going. The train rises slightly, hissing as the hover reinflates, and glides off, the neon lights on the tunnel walls slipping into blurred darts as we pick up speed towards Adderley Station.
I've got several spools to drop off with Mr. Muller. It was a mission to find someone who still dabbled in oldschool processes like film. If I were a real artist, Jonathan teased me, I would have done it myself as a point of pride.
Four Ghosts down, the sense of panicky urgency has eased up. Andile didn't tell me it would be like this. That I would have to placate it. Or maybe it's just the residual humiliation of Toby trying to kiss me. The