46

The watcher slept.

Curled up in a ball to trap every bit of warmth to his body, the eleven-year-old boy drifted between slumber and unconsciousness. He was unaware that for days his body had been failing him, but he did know he felt really sick. His lungs had slowly filled with fluid and his temperature was critically low. Every now and then, he coughed but didn’t rouse.

Under the bridge was not the best place to doss, but it offered good protection from the storm. It was dry and rarely did anyone wander by and rudely kick him awake, or chase him off their turf. No one paid attention to street people in Cape Town. Maybe their eyes brushed over them and made out the shape of a human being, but their presence didn’t register. The street community was not a productive part of the city. He’d been living and begging on the street for long enough to know.

He had lain down under a stone arch, making sure his tattered polyester jacket was zipped right up to the neck and the newspaper stuffed in his sneakers was still dry. He wished he still had the blanket he took from the woman’s house, the one who had given him hot chocolate. That blanket was worth more than diamonds right now. Obviously, it wouldn’t still be where he’d left it. He never should have let it out of his sight. Everybody on the street knew the value of a blanket in winter, so he wouldn’t be seeing it anywhere but in his dreams.

The season was about to change and he couldn’t have been happier about it. This winter was harder than most. He wondered if he went back to the lady’s house, if she would open her door to him again. She had looked like a good person, not afraid of him or disgusted, unlike a lot of women with nice houses. But she was probably still angry because he stole from her house.

He slept, and dreamt. He dreamt of the dying girl in the sewer, a dream that didn’t want to leave him no matter how he tried to beat it back. The girl whose body he still expected to see every time he passed an open drain, curled up at the bottom. The girl whose picture had scared him to death when he had seen it at the nice lady’s house. He dreamt of her arm …

… reaching up to him, trying to bridge the distance. She was covered with leaves and discarded junk; plastic cups and bottles and paper. Her body was twisted in a strange, broken way. A red knitted cap was askew over her face, leaving her head partly uncovered. Her entire body looked to be frozen in place, like she couldn’t move, but her eyes burned bright. The look in them was unmistakable. It was one of pure terror.

She was still alive. The boy couldn’t believe it. Twenty minutes earlier, two girls had driven up while he was eating a chocolate bar under a tree, about to push off to a less deserted area to sleep. They had driven with no lights, and he had barely made out the car. He ducked behind the tree. The two girls got out and whispered for a long time. The boy waited. They put their arms around each other; one of them wept and the other tried to keep her quiet. Finally, they’d opened a passenger door and struggled to drag something out. It looked heavy.

Bent double under the weight of their load, they had stumbled to the edge of an open drainage canal and lowered it. They’d patrolled the length of the canal, hissing back and forth to each other. Whatever they were deciding had taken a long time. They’d nodded, picked up the bundle and rolled it down the brick-walled verge of the pipe. The bundle had rustled, thumped and landed on the bottom with a thud. One of the girls had slid down the verge after it, holding on to the other girl as she’d lowered herself down the top half. She’d disappeared out of sight for several minutes. The other girl had drifted back over to the car and started pacing the pavement. It sounded like she’d started crying again. Or maybe vomiting. The boy hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath until the girl in the pipe gave a low call and he’d sighed in relief. The other one ran over. It had been a tussle lifting out the first girl but they’d managed. They’d scrambled into the car and driven away.

The watcher had waited for what felt like years. When he’d been sure they weren’t coming back, he went down the slope, too, scraping a leg on the cement and drawing blood. He crawled in and squinted into the stretch of dark in front of him, but wasn’t able to see anything. The pipe had broken in two and the other half plunged further down at a sharp angle. He’d rooted around for a stick long enough to poke around and feel his way deeper inside.

His stick knocked against the shape of something big. It looked like a human being. It made a sound when he poked it, and he jumped. He snuck closer and knelt. In the dim light he could see it was a girl, or a boy with a pretty face and too much hair. She was lying near the bottom of the slope of the broken pipe.

She tried stretching an arm out to him and he tried to reach back, but the distance was too far. He tried leaning in, one arm and leg braced against the edge and his body thrust forwards. It was no use. Tired, he finally gave up. Maybe if he just jumped in … but how would he get out? He wouldn’t get himself out, much less the two of them.

The girl’s whimpering faded to low mewls, and then to the sound of breath rasping in and out of her windpipe. The boy considered going to get help, but the girl gave a mournful moan when he tried to move away. The boy understood. She couldn’t bear to be left alone.

Minutes passed and the body went still. The boy waited some more, listening to the sound of his own breathing. Nothing answered save the wind. Using his stick, he shifted leaves and dirt off the girl. She didn’t move. Her chest and one of her arms were outside her tracksuit top. He worked his stick around, pushing the body onto its side and twisting the top off. He hooked it up the slope. It was brand new Nike and looked like the real deal. The night became less unforgiving as he drew it around his shoulders.

The boy trudged to the closest police station. The policeman behind the night-desk yawned in his face and threatened to arrest him for telling stories while high on tik. The child shrank and fell silent. Then the policeman gave him two rand and told him to piss off. The boy ran back into the street with the coin, knowing no one would ever believe him.

He tried to forget.

The watcher slept, and his breathing and circulation slowed to feeble murmurs and thrums. Within an hour, they had stopped.