dust
has been disturbed that Mum only ever came here to think in one place, and I gingerly
follow her tracks now, as if walking more heavily might somehow raise the dead.
I’m led to the windowless bedroom they must have shared. There is a neatly made up
double bed with a navy-patterned duvet cover and matching pillowslips, the feather
pillows gone lopsided from gravity. My gaze takes in the Moses basket on a stand
in the corner of the room, made of some woven kind of off-white plastic, a hospital-issue
blanket draped over the end of it.
But the footprints I’m following don’t extend past a vintage armchair, set up at
the foot of the bed that faces a retro-looking, empty wardrobe with two mirrored
doors that swing outward from the centre. There are still hangers inside the wardrobe,
pointing every which way, and both doors are wide open as if the thing has only just
been hurriedly emptied.
Cautiously, I enter the dim bedroom and sit down in the chair, this tight and constant
ache in my throat. I imagine Mum sitting here: then and now. I imagine her, then
and now, listening for the front door to open; for the confident footsteps that will
take him through the living room, down the hallway, to her. I imagine him placing
a hand on her shoulder and the two of them looking at each other, reflected in the
doors.
Only it’s Simon Thorn with one hand on my shoulder and my mobile phone in the other,
and my eyes are wide, my scar dark with fearful blood. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks
me hoarsely, his face shadowy in the mirror.
My throat is still clamped tight from the shock of seeing him here. But seeing him
has also made me notice something behind him on the wall, to the left of the door.
And I point to it now. Simon turns to look, then turns back, puzzled.
The walls are a faded olive-green colour, save for a darker, rectangular patch just
beside the light switch. On the wooden bureau below is an empty, glass-fronted photo
frame, the warped cardboard backing lying abandoned beside it. I take my phone from
Simon’s outstretched hand and see Wurbik’s number repeated in the screen of missed
calls.
‘Please turn around and go back outside,’ I say quietly as I rise from the armchair
and hit call back .
I meet Wurbik on the ground floor. Boon’s back inside his shop, talking to a customer,
but I see his eyes slide sideways, taking in the fuzz gathering outside. ‘Ask him,’
I say urgently, ‘what she took. Get him to tell you. Then tell me. Please? It’s important
I know what it was.’
Wurbik nods as we mount the stairs, a police photographer and a forensics guy following
closely behind us.
When we stop on the first landing, Wurbik reminds me again: ‘She’ll be on the evening
news; it’s already on the net, just went live.’ Then he opens the door to the apartment
and the three of them fan out, making very little noise for such big men.
Upstairs, Simon—now freshly shaven, in a clean but dingy white T-shirt and grey trackpants
with frayed cuffs—turns the TV up loud as I sweat the lentils with a spoonful of
tinned curry powder and chopped onion, then drop two cans of tomatoes right over
the top and leave it on a low flame to turn into sludge. Dinner sorted.
I get out of the kitchen in time for the lead story, which is Mum.
There is that cropped photo of her beaming, long hair hanging down across her shoulders,
big blue eyes crinkled up at the corners, my tanned and disembodied arm slung around
the base of her neck.
‘Wow, she looks young,’ Simon exclaims softly. ‘You wouldn’t—’
‘Know we were related?’ I say absently and he falls silent, listening.
I don’t really take in the words that the pretty reporter lady is using, although
some part of my brain must be ticking away, mulling them over, because later, a long
while after we’ve turned off the TV, I remember she mentioned they found Mum’s bank-issue
name tag. It was in the gutter near one of the exits to the Flagstaff
has been disturbed that Mum only ever came here to think in one place, and I gingerly
follow her tracks now, as if walking more heavily might somehow raise the dead.
I’m led to the windowless bedroom they must have shared. There is a neatly made up
double bed with a navy-patterned duvet cover and matching pillowslips, the feather
pillows gone lopsided from gravity. My gaze takes in the Moses basket on a stand
in the corner of the room, made of some woven kind of off-white plastic, a hospital-issue
blanket draped over the end of it.
But the footprints I’m following don’t extend past a vintage armchair, set up at
the foot of the bed that faces a retro-looking, empty wardrobe with two mirrored
doors that swing outward from the centre. There are still hangers inside the wardrobe,
pointing every which way, and both doors are wide open as if the thing has only just
been hurriedly emptied.
Cautiously, I enter the dim bedroom and sit down in the chair, this tight and constant
ache in my throat. I imagine Mum sitting here: then and now. I imagine her, then
and now, listening for the front door to open; for the confident footsteps that will
take him through the living room, down the hallway, to her. I imagine him placing
a hand on her shoulder and the two of them looking at each other, reflected in the
doors.
Only it’s Simon Thorn with one hand on my shoulder and my mobile phone in the other,
and my eyes are wide, my scar dark with fearful blood. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks
me hoarsely, his face shadowy in the mirror.
My throat is still clamped tight from the shock of seeing him here. But seeing him
has also made me notice something behind him on the wall, to the left of the door.
And I point to it now. Simon turns to look, then turns back, puzzled.
The walls are a faded olive-green colour, save for a darker, rectangular patch just
beside the light switch. On the wooden bureau below is an empty, glass-fronted photo
frame, the warped cardboard backing lying abandoned beside it. I take my phone from
Simon’s outstretched hand and see Wurbik’s number repeated in the screen of missed
calls.
‘Please turn around and go back outside,’ I say quietly as I rise from the armchair
and hit call back .
I meet Wurbik on the ground floor. Boon’s back inside his shop, talking to a customer,
but I see his eyes slide sideways, taking in the fuzz gathering outside. ‘Ask him,’
I say urgently, ‘what she took. Get him to tell you. Then tell me. Please? It’s important
I know what it was.’
Wurbik nods as we mount the stairs, a police photographer and a forensics guy following
closely behind us.
When we stop on the first landing, Wurbik reminds me again: ‘She’ll be on the evening
news; it’s already on the net, just went live.’ Then he opens the door to the apartment
and the three of them fan out, making very little noise for such big men.
Upstairs, Simon—now freshly shaven, in a clean but dingy white T-shirt and grey trackpants
with frayed cuffs—turns the TV up loud as I sweat the lentils with a spoonful of
tinned curry powder and chopped onion, then drop two cans of tomatoes right over
the top and leave it on a low flame to turn into sludge. Dinner sorted.
I get out of the kitchen in time for the lead story, which is Mum.
There is that cropped photo of her beaming, long hair hanging down across her shoulders,
big blue eyes crinkled up at the corners, my tanned and disembodied arm slung around
the base of her neck.
‘Wow, she looks young,’ Simon exclaims softly. ‘You wouldn’t—’
‘Know we were related?’ I say absently and he falls silent, listening.
I don’t really take in the words that the pretty reporter lady is using, although
some part of my brain must be ticking away, mulling them over, because later, a long
while after we’ve turned off the TV, I remember she mentioned they found Mum’s bank-issue
name tag. It was in the gutter near one of the exits to the Flagstaff
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