‘I don’t understand,’ she says, ‘why here?’
‘Why else? Your mother loved flowers,’ he says.
‘Loved killing flowers, more like,’ she says. ‘She killed every plant we ever had.’
‘Okay,’ he says, ‘correction: loved cut flowers. I sent her some every year on her birthday. Lilies,’ he sniffs, ‘were her favourite.’
Kirsten remembers the huge flower arrangements arriving once a year. She had always assumed they were from her father, but realises now that would have been out of character for their relationship: there hadn’t been a flicker of romance in it. She doesn’t remember ever seeing them touch. She didn’t realise that holding hands was a thing couples did until she saw someone else’s parents do it.
When the bouquets arrived her father would complain of hay fever. He’d throw out the flowers as soon as a single petal turned brown; inspected them daily until he found one.
‘It’s buried under that tree,’ he says, pointing at a leopard tree a hundred meters away. Kirsten and Seth grab a shovel, swing them over their shoulders. They must have looked daunting in their ripped clothes, their skin bruised with black blood.
‘Whoah,’ says Miller, feigning surrender. ‘Settle down there, puppies.’
‘Let’s get a move on,’ says Seth. The sun was sinking fast.
‘Seriously, whoah,’ says Miller. ‘I’m gonna need to pat you down, cowboy.’
‘No need,’ says Seth, taking his gun out of its holster. ‘I’m packing. So?’
‘Well, will you be kind enough to leave it in the car, please?’
‘Why?’
‘Son, no offence meant,’ he says, hand on hips, Hawaiian shirt restless in the breeze. ‘But I don’t know you, I can’t trust you. A couple of weeks ago the love of my life was murdered for a reason I’ll never understand. Then you two show up in your punk clothes saying you’re the people Carol told me to expect. I’m hoping for the best, etc. etc., but I will not walk into a field in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of strangers with a gun. I am not armed, I think it’s fair to ask you to leave your weapon in the car.’
Seth thinks about it, then shrugs: ‘Fair enough.’ He walks towards the boot but Miller stops him, putting his hand on the warm metal.
‘It’s broken,’ he says. ‘Hasn’t sprung open in years. Just put it in the cubbyhole.’
He does what Miller says. Gives Kirsten a quick questioning look; she barely nods. They rush to the tree, Miller falls behind.
‘Which side?’ Kirsten yells from under the canopy.
‘Where you’re standing!’ yells Miller. The twins begin to dig. Kirsten struggles with one arm, but is able to use her foot for leverage. The ground is baked clay. Keke’s phone beeps with a SugarApp warning. Code orange: 3 hours left.
‘Are you sure?’ asks Seth, swiping his brow. ‘You sure it’s here?’
They both look up at the same time, and find themselves staring up the barrel of his gun.
‘You have got to be fucking kidding,’ says Kirsten.
‘We are who we say we are,’ says Seth. ‘We’re the good guys.’
‘I know,’ he says, ‘Keep digging.’
They know he means for their graves.
BABY STARTER KIT
34
Johannesburg 2021
The heavy-set man, clad in charcoal jeans and polished workman boots, looks completely out of place in bright and bonny BabyCo. He is standing before a twirling display of sippy cups that plays a childish song and ends in a forced giggle. He wishes there were more customers so that he could at least attempt to blend in. The cheerful products on the shelves seemed to age right in front of him. It was like browsing in a pastel-shaded ghost town.
He knows he is excellent at his job, but this isn’t his job; this is the antithesis of his job. If there was a polar opposite of what he was good at, this would be it. But he is not one to shirk orders.
He grabs a blue silicone beaker with an animation of a sniggering snowman on it and slings it into his basket. He hopes no one he knows will see him in here. It would be difficult to explain. Another reason he gave in motivating for ordering this all online, but The Doctor said no. It was urgent, he had said, and he didn’t want any kind of papertrail. Moving towards a new aisle, he jumps when a BabyCo-bot surprises him on the corner. The bot is clown-themed: wide eyes, red nose, grotesque painted-on smile. A uniform of bright, clashing colours and a hyuck-hyuck-hyuck chuckle. Scary as hell, thinks the man. No wonder this shop is a graveyard.
‘Congratulations!’ effuses the robotic shop assistant. ‘May I give you a hug?’
‘Not unless you want your arm broken,’ the man says.
‘Pregnancy is such a special time. You and your baby deserve the very best!’
The man tries to walk past the bot, but it blocks his way.
‘What can I help you with?’ the clown says, glowing and hyuck-ing at him.
The man growls.
‘We have great specials on disposable nappies!’ shrieks the machine, lighting up. ‘A pack of 40 newborn-sized diapers for only 999! Get 2 packs for 1750!’
It assaults his ears with a tune.
The man pushes up his sleeves, cracks his knuckles. Moves his head from side to side. Indulges in a quickie fantasy where he snaps the bot’s neck with a flick of his wrist, and drags its body to the stuffed toy section, to later frighten some kids.
The daydream perks him up. He takes a deep breath.
‘I need a…’ but he trails off. What does he need? If he knew, he wouldn’t be standing around here like a gimp.
‘Yes?’ says the bot, desperate to help.
The man realises his scarred arm is showing, and pulls his sleeves down. A scar like that has no place in BabyCo.
‘I need a… starter kit. For babies.’
‘Can you repeat that please?’
‘A starter kit.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get that.’
‘Everything you need when you’re… you know. Expecting.’
‘You need everything?’ the bot asks. ‘I can help you with that!’
It spins around and starts taking products off shelves, scanning the barcodes on its chest as it goes. A packet of glow-in-the-dark dummies, an Insta-Ice teething ring, a self-regulating temperature taglet. A swaddling blanket puffed up with clouds and zooming with planes. The BabyCo-bot stops and its head swivels around to look at the man.
‘You’re going to need a bigger basket.’
UNLUCKY FIRELIGHTER
35
Johannesburg 2021
‘You fucking viper,’ hisses Kirsten, thinking of the 26 years of lies.
‘Au contraire,’ says Miller. ‘I’m one of the most loyal members of the Genesis Project. Was born into it. Not a bit of traitor in my blood.’
‘Did my mother know?’ she asks. Miller looks like he is going to say something, then shakes his head. ‘It’s complicated.’
Seth spreads his feet, wields his shovel like a sword.
‘Don’t get uppity, whippersnapper,’ says Miller. ‘Dig.’
‘Fuck you,’ the twins say, at the same time.
The gun glints in the late afternoon sun.
‘Where’s the packet?’ asks Kirsten.
Miller pats his pocket.
‘You never gonna get it, sweetheart. It’s over.’
To illustrate his point, he zips his pocket open and takes out a plastic wallet. He opens the wallet and pulls out what looks like a notebook full of bookmarks and stickies. It is wrapped up with an old fashioned flash-disk on a lanyard, like a retro ribbon.
‘Inside this book is everything you need to know to bring down the GP,’ he says. ‘Do you think I would hand it over to you punks?’