Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [39]
Overage players.
Tendeka
We arrive at the Green Point market, to find that Emmie is AWOL. Ashraf tries to convince me we've got the wrong row, but I know exactly where her stall is supposed to be, wedged between the downloads booth and the over-pierced goth girl with her radical handmade fashion, all velvet, lace and PVC with complicated lacings, now also available in Pluslife, according to a sign in dayglo purple highlighting.
I know we're in the right place, only instead of Emmie with her plastic chickens and wire jewellery, there is an aggro Kenyan punting kangas and cowrie bracelets, and for all I know dodgy defuser interference devices under the counter, who starts screaming at me when I ask why the fuck he's working the stall registered to my wife, Emmie Chinyaka? Especially when Ash paid the full month's rental in advance two days ago.
'You should look better after your wife, hey?' the Kenyan cracks smugly.
I drop Ashraf's hand abruptly. I would wipe that smirk off his face if it didn't mean I'd have to deal with the cops.
We cause enough of a fracas that the market manager, who introduces himself as Mr. Hartley, no first name provided, materialises and takes us to his office stadium-side.
It seems Emmie terminated her contract yesterday, and took a refund on the rent, no problem for management with so many clamouring to fill the space. Only 50% of the eight thousand though, due to last-minute notice clauses. She sold off her wares and her shadecloth to some of the other traders, packed up the scant remains, and left. No, unfortunately, terribly sorry, he doesn't know where she went or why.
'Have you tried the hospital?' Mr. Hartley says with sugary concern, like we wouldn't have thought of that already. She's not due to pop for another month, unless it's a miscarriage or a premature, both eventualities Ash obsesses about constantly. We don't have a clue who the father is, whether it was some border guard demanding a toll, or a militia rape. Emmie won't talk about it. But Ashraf and I have discussed it, and we believe the kid shouldn't have to carry the karma. This is the chance to make something good out of the worst possible scenario. And soon he'll have two dads. We're going to name him for Ash's father.
'I'm sure she's at home,' Ash smoothes. 'Thanks for all your help. I'm sorry if there was any misunderstanding.' I hate it when he apologises for me.
It takes an hour to get to Delft by train with the strikes. Of course, these don't affect the corporate lines.
It's a 2k walk to the temporary residential hostel where Emmie's been staying; a severe three-storey block, identical to the hundred other severe blocks surrounding it, a warren of concrete bunkers. We've given Emmie an open invitation to come and stay with us, at least until she has the baby, but she always refuses, which makes Ashraf crazy with worry.
'Temporary' residential is a hideous joke, of course. The two girls she shares a room with have been there for three and a half years, and still no word on when their assigned RDP housing is going to come through. It's another perfect example of the system's egregious failings. There's a backlog of 1,190,000 or something, and that's just counting the legal applicants, not the African refugees or the rurals coming in under the radar, the ones who can't afford to wait around for the proper health clearances.
A man, scrawny and dark, not local, opens the door to the dank stairway. 'What do you want?'
'Is Emmie here? We were supposed to meet her at the market–' Ashraf starts.
'She's not here.' He tries to close the door on us, but I lean on it with my full weight, so he's forced backwards.
'Emmie! You here? You all right?' I'm aware of Ashraf and the guy following in my wake as I pound up the stairs, three at a time. A kid with snot crusted down his lips peers down, blankly disinterested. A woman in the communal kitchen looks up startled from the Daily Voice with its screaming headline 'DYING FOR A CURE? MUTI MURDERS MULTIPLY'.