THE FIRST TIME WE SAW them they were standing on the street corner just down the road from Sandkasteel flats. They were difficult to miss, a gathering of crows bunched on a street corner, each of them holding an identical black leather briefcase, identical dark cloaks flapping on a windy Camps Bay summer day. There was also the way they stood, all facing outward towards the sea, not talking, pale faces expressionless and still, eyes hidden behind identical sunglasses. Who let them out? They gave me the creepy feeling they were sniffing the incoming sea air for maximum information while they waited patiently for someone. Maybe they’re blind.
But just then a ridiculously long car pulled off the road, parked across two driveways, and came to a stop. And the driver just sat there waiting. Eventually one of the crow-like people walked over unhurriedly, avoiding a tree and a signpost and negotiating the bumpy ground and kerb – definitely not blind – and the driver let his window down. I saw the woman put her hand into the window. Maybe they know each other. I drove off then.
‘Cool outfits,’ Simone said, affecting insouciance. ‘I want one of those cloaks.’ I made a face at her and talked about something else until we reached her school. But it bothered me all the way into town, right through dinner and into a disturbed sleep that featured crows flapping their claustrophobic wings around me. Who were they? What were they doing in our neighbourhood? They could have been members of some academic club, but it seemed doubtful. Academics didn’t stand in groups on street corners. Academics didn’t hire limos. This lot were in-your-face weird. They wanted to be noticed.
There was no way I was going to let paranoia rule my life but part of me was always alert, always waiting. The criminals who bartered children for sex were just biding their time, waiting for us to become careless. People like Nada Sarrazin were relentless; they did not forgive or forget; they were always watching, even from behind the high walls of a maximum-security prison. Nada Sarrazin’s sneering face never left me, the contemptuous curl of her lip. But it was contemplating her rage that kept me awake at night. Who would have dared to give her the news of Albert Sarrazin’s assassination? Perhaps her hotshot defence lawyer. And there must be paid lackeys on the outside, ready to act on her orders, ready to enact revenge on the killer.
I didn’t see the crow-people again for a couple of days. By then I’d almost decided to ignore Enid’s warning and to let it go, concluding they were probably related to a church of some sort, probably one of those new Christian churches drumming up support wherever they could get it.
At home an equilibrium of sorts had re-established itself. Simone had her head stuck in a book: The Vanishing Face of Gaia: A Final Warning by James Lovelock. She said that it was given to Amber’s father who said she could read it and then explain it all to him. Over breakfast with the book open next to her, she announced that climate and population growth were a tightly coupled system and that we were probably doomed. Had I heard about the chaos theory that a butterfly flapping its wings could cause a hurricane?
The dark-cloaked group was there again that morning when we drove past. They didn’t look like your average happy-clappy bible-thumping lot. It was that odd way they had of doing things in unison, as if a single hand pulled the strings, as if some common earthly purpose drove them to occupy that corner. This time we were caught in a long queue of cars waiting to turn. One of the cloaked people, an older woman, walked across to Simone’s window and indicated she should open it. Another woman separated herself from her cabal of fellow worshippers and came over to my driver’s side, brandishing a leaflet. As I waved her away, I heard the woman on Simone’s side speak in what sounded like French and then Simone quickly closed the window.
‘What did she say?’ I asked Simone. ‘Did she just speak to you in French?’
Simone mumbled, ‘I don’t know what she said,’ and gazed mutely out her window all the way to school.
Tell me a secret (II)
https://secrets.net/chatlounge/
(Everyone. Has one. What’s yours?)
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diable: |
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I feel you do not trust me entirely |
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butterfly: |
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Why do you say that? |
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diable: |
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You have not told me why you call yourself butterfly. I can only imagine it is because you are very pretty and everybody tells you so |
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butterfly: |
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Are you flirting with me? |
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diable: |
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Most people think that a butterfly should be free. Could it be you don’t feel free? |
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butterfly: |
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You are an annoyance. Ice-cold. Go away |
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diable: |
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We have a house in the country. There are many butterflies. My uncle is a collector |
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butterfly: |
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Does he have a big net? |
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diable: |
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Sometimes i go with him |
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butterfly: |
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Tell me |
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diable: |
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Their wings are so fragile we catch only one in the net. My uncle handles it so gently. You cannot believe he is the same man |
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butterfly: |
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And then? |
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diable: |
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He puts it in a jar with chloroform and we wait. He goes outside to smoke but i watch |
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butterfly: |
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And? |
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diable: |
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I watch till the wings stop beating. Sometimes they fight against it. Sometimes they give up quickly. You can watch life vanish inside that jar and death take its place |
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butterfly: |
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Have you ever opened the jar? |
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diable: |
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Never. You do not know my uncle |