“Fuck,” says Luke, “don’t do that.”
“Did you fall?”
“No. It’s something . . . growing,” says Luke.
“You’re paranoid, Luke, it’s the weed.”
“I’m going to have it seen to,” he says, ignoring her. Then he jumps up. “Shit, I forgot my essay. I have to hand it in.”
“Don’t leave me,” says Jude.
“God, you’re needy.”
He reaches over Jude, takes a pen from the beer crate that is her table and writes something in the middle of her back.
“What is it? What does it say? I haven’t got a mirror. What does it say, Luke?” But he is already halfway out the door, pulling on his jeans. He blows her a kiss and then is gone.
Around the corner Luke stops and feels the lump on his leg. Is he paranoid? What if he is dying? The truth is, he’s too scared to go to the doctor. Shit . . . He fishes in his pocket, brings out the coke he had scored earlier, snorts it and is flying.
Françoise
Dudu is lying on the mattress that serves as a sofa and their bed, watching a soapie and flicking through a magazine. She has had her hair braided at the station and is wearing a hot pink top and a tight denim skirt that shows off her curves.
She and Françoise have been renting the room above the Chinese shop in Woodstock for three months now. In that time Dudu has gone to school, Grade 11, got herself a boyfriend with a car, Pascal from Congo, and found them a TV.
Her eyes track from the magazine to the TV screen, which is the only light in the dim room. The picture is fuzzy and the faces look yellow.
“I’m going to work now.” Françoise unplugs her cellphone from the charger and slips it into her bag.
“Why don’t you come out with me and Pascal afterwards? We’re going for KFC.”
“Not tonight.”
“That’s what you say every time I ask. Come on. You need some fun. How are you going to meet guys if you are always working?”
“I’m not going to meet guys at KFC.”
“That’s what you think.”
“How are we going to pay bills if I am not working?”
“One night out won’t change anything.”
But it will, thinks Françoise. If she just takes her eyes off the wheel for a second they will lose control of their lives, skid off the road and crash. She will have to hurry or she will be late for her shift and she is still on probation. If she loses her job they won’t be able to pay the rent. The manager fires people for any reason he chooses. Being late is a big one.
“Bring me a Coke,” says Dudu.
“You should be studying. You’ve got exams in a month.”
“Who needs exams? I have a plan,” says Dudu.
“Not now,” says Françoise. Her jeans still feel damp from the line. There wasn’t a chance to dry them properly. She pulls her denim jacket over her T-shirt. “I’m late for work.”
“Relax. You won’t need to work soon,” says Dudu. “I’ve got it all worked out. What I’m going to do is . . .”
But Françoise is already out the door and running down the concrete steps. She doesn’t want to hear another of Dudu’s crazy plans. Rounding the corner of the stairs she nearly trips over a toddler who is playing in a puddle of filthy water. The whole place stinks since the sewerage pipe overflowed. They are living in a cesspit.
Françoise takes a taxi down Main Road, gets off and runs to the Spar. But when she gets inside the cashier on the shift before is still cashing up. Françoise turns to the notice board near the entrance while she waits to take her place at the till. She reads the adverts every week, looking for a better job, with better pay. Every time they need experienced people. Today there is a new advert. An A4 sheet tacked to the felt board with a pin.
Models needed for Life Drawing class. Phone Ivor Woodall . . .
She writes his number down on the back of her hand before she goes to check in at her till. The manager of the store comes over.
“You’re ten minutes late.”
“She was still cashing up.” She points at the cashier who is just leaving. “I was here, waiting.”
“Don’t backchat me. You were late.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” she says, opening the till.
“Remember I can replace you – anytime – you hear me? You understand?”
“It won’t happen . . .” But he is gone and a customer is waiting.
When she has finished putting the woman’s groceries into a plastic bag she looks up and scans the store. There he is in aisle two. He has come in every Monday at the same time since she started working here. And every Monday her heart beats a little faster when she sees him.
She knows exactly what he will buy because he buys the same things every week. He is tall and athletic, broad shouldered and long-limbed, but his face doesn’t match his body. It is not tanned and chiselled like the guys in the soapies Dudu watches. He has a boyish face, earnest and apprehensive one second, the next open and smiling. His thoughts register on it like clouds across the surface of the sky.
Today he is wearing a black T-shirt with some writing on it. As he walks towards her down the aisle she sees that it says Look Busy – Jesus is Coming.
Blasphemous. The nuns at The Sacred Heart would faint. But they are gone, obliterated – corpses, then bone, then dust. Lured into the false safety in the church where Françoise had lined up for communion in her white dress and Dudu had mouthed the words to Mass, in their other life. Sister Beatrice, who had washed the cuts on grazed knees of the children in the school yard when they fell, was hacked to death.
Françoise watches the young man as he goes up and down the aisles with his shopping basket. She mentally ticks off his list for him: double-ply toilet paper – very soft – very luxurious; two per cent milk; haloumi cheese – very expensive; Greek yoghurt; cucumber; linguine; cat food (he has a cat). Once there had been a box of condoms – he had flushed bright red at the till. There had been an awkward moment where she was about to pick it up and drop it into the plastic bag when he had reached for it and their fingers had touched. She couldn’t look him in the eye.
He is in a hurry today. He does the aisles in a few minutes. Still, when he is done he waits with his basket until her till is free. He always does this. Even if there is a longer queue at hers and another cashier is free. He waits his turn. The other cashiers tease her.
“He likes you,” Chantelle at the next till had assured her during a smoke break. Françoise had tried one of Chantelle’s cigarettes but it had made her choke. Then Chantelle had given her a swig of Coke to help the choking, and it had fizzed out of Françoise’s nose. She hadn’t laughed so much since . . . she can’t remember.
“How do you know that he likes me? You’re making that up.”
“It’s obvious, the way he stares when you’re not looking. And he always chooses your till. He’s kind of . . .” Chantelle flicked the ash from her cigarette into her empty polystyrene coffee cup and then stood up. Break was over. “He’s kind of old fashioned.”
And here he is now. Next in the queue.
“Hello.” He smiles at her. She frowns because she is embarrassed.
“You’ll never get a boyfriend like that,” Dudu told her. “You scare people off.