Consent (The Loan Shark Duet Book 2) Page 3

  Morning is surprisingly cold. I shiver in my T-shirt. My body aches from the uncomfortable position. Too wary of the possible dangers, I haven’t slept a wink. Charlie shifts, yawns, and gives me a bleary-eyed look.

  I cup his cheek. “How did you sleep?”

  He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. The dark circles under his eyes say it all.

  We crawl out from under the bushes. I bring my toilet bag from the car and find a garden tap at the top of the path to the beach where we can wash our faces and brush our teeth. I give Charlie the toothbrush I bought at Quick and help him with his grooming. Dressing behind a tree, I pull my bikini on under my dress and try not to think about the fact that Gabriel bought it for me. Charlie will have to swim in his underpants until I can make another plan.

  “Hu–hungry.”

  “Me, too.”

  Not having enough money left for food, I let Charlie finish the apple from his snacks and fill up his empty soda bottle with water.

  “Ready for more adventures?” I shade my face with a palm, looking up at the road that snakes past the houses to the top of the hill.

  Charlie groans, but he follows as I start walking. After an hour, we hit the first small commercial area. It’s a strip mall consisting of a grocery store, a Wimpy restaurant, a bank, a pharmacy, and a liquor store. I stop at every store to ask for a job, but as expected there’s nothing available. With an unemployment rate of over forty percent and me not having formal qualifications or referral letters, I have zero percent chance of landing anything, not to mention that the affirmative action law isn’t in my favor.

  By midday, we hit another residential area and a beach. I’m famished, and Charlie is tired. We stop at a beach kiosk selling ice cream and hot dogs. I count out my last few cents on the counter, but it’s not even enough to buy Charlie an ice cream.

  The man waiting behind us in the queue clicks his tongue. “Eish,” he says in the local dialect, “you look hungry, little miss.”

  I turn to look at him. He has brown, wrinkled skin, like the coloreds who are a mix between black and white.

  He shuffles past us to the front, goes through his pockets, and takes out a bill, which he hands to the vendor. “Give this lady and man each a boerewors roll.”

  I gape at him, blinking back tears. From the state of his clothes and the way the soles of his shoes flap when he walks, he’s worse off than us.

  “No, please.” I hold up a hand. “It’s very kind, but I can’t accept.”

  He makes a tsk-tsk noise and rumbles off something in Zulu to the man grilling beef sausages on the gas grill behind the counter.

  Before I can protest again, the vendor places two boerewors rolls with all the trimmings in our hands.

  I avert my eyes, ashamed that we robbed this poor man of a meal, but too starved to refuse him a second time. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Charlie has already dug in. We sit down on a bench facing the sea to eat. The bread is toasted and the beef sausage thick and juicy with fat. The chakalaka sauce is dripping with onion, peppers, and tomato. It has just the right amount of chili to give it a bite without burning. Charlie devours his in seconds and licks every drop of sauce from his fingers. I finish half of mine and give him the rest.

  The man who bought us lunch walks past, a bottle of Coca Cola under one arm and a loaf of bread under the other. A worn jacket with patches on the elbows stretches over his crooked back. The stitches are visible where the fabric is pulling apart on the shoulders.

  “Wait!” I jump up and run after him.

  He turns and smiles. “Yes?”

  “Do you have a number?” I wipe the windblown hair from my face. “I can call you when I get a job to repay you.”

  “Not necessary,” he says with a shake of his salt-and-pepper head, “but you’ll have a hard time finding anything here.”

  “You don’t know of something?” I ask hopefully.

  He laughs softly. “If I did, I would’ve told you.”

  “Thanks again for the food.”

  “Good luck.” With a wave he’s gone.

  We’re going to need more than luck.

  To distract Charlie, I take him swimming. He hangs around in the shallow water until his lips are blue and his teeth are chattering before he lets me towel him dry. For a while, we lie in the sand, looking up at the clear, blue sky. It will be dark in a couple of hours. We need to head back to the car. While we walk I talk and sing to keep Charlie’s mind off the effort, simultaneously watching out for unfavorable elements. At least here, in the residential area, we’re safer.

  At the strip mall, we sit down on the lawn of a small park facing the back of the shops to rest. This is what I tell Charlie, but I have an ulterior motive. When a waiter at the Wimpy brings out the trash bags, I tell Charlie to stay put and run across the road.

  “Excuse me,” I call as I near.

  The man looks up. He has a skin as smooth and dark as oil and his apron is a pristine white.

  “Are there any jobs here?”

  He shakes his head. “Aikona.”

  “Maybe some leftover food?”

  He shakes his head again and dumps the bags in the trashcan.

  “There must be something someone didn’t finish. I’m not fussy.”

  “People take home what they don’t eat in doggie bags.” He pushes past me, heading for the door.

  I grab his arm. “Please. Don’t make me go through the trash.”

  He jerks free and slams the door in my face.

  Swallowing my pride, I look around, and when I see no one, I lift the lid on the trashcan and tear open the bag on the top. The inside is a mashed-up version of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners with splatterings of coffee and milkshake. I push back my sleeve and plunge my arm in up to my elbow, but all I grab is mush. It will be easier to take out the bag, but it’s heavier than I thought. I battle and grunt, and just as I’m about to free the bag from the bin, a hand closes around my throat. Uttering a shriek, I drop my loot.

  “This is my beat,” a voice growls.

  I look up into a pair of bloodshot eyes. The man holding me stinks of brandy. His clothes are oily and his hair and beard dirty.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, battling to get the word out with the pressure he’s putting on my windpipe.

  From the corner of my eye, I watch Charlie. My heart sinks when he gets to his feet, his face scrunched up in fear.

  “I didn’t know.” I lift my hands. “I won’t come back here. Just let me go. My brother is on his way, and he’s going to hurt you. I don’t want trouble.”

  He glances over at Charlie. When he sees my brother’s bulky frame moving toward us, he releases his grip on me. I scurry away as fast as I can, intercepting Charlie halfway.

  “Va–Val?”

  Charlie would never hurt a fly, but my threat worked.

  “Let’s go,” I say, taking his arm and heading back to the road.

  We have to wait an hour before the last visitor, a man who was jogging on the beach with his dog, leaves the parking lot where our car is hidden. Only then do we get into the car and settle for the night. Thankfully, Charlie falls asleep quickly, but I’m not so lucky. My mind works overtime. We need money. The only plausible solutions are to find a job, rob a bank, or beg. I don’t want to beg or steal, but work is hard to come by.

  The surprising part is I still miss Gabriel. I miss his arms around me and his mouth on my skin. My body needs him with more intensity than ever. If he was here, he would’ve kept me safe, like he protected me from Tiny, but what will he do to my baby? Will he blame me? Or hate me? Will he believe it was an accident, that I didn’t plan this pregnancy to manipulate my way out of my debt? No. He won’t believe me. A man like Gabriel never slips up, and he won’t understand failure. There was a good reason why he gave me the birth control pills. He won’t want this baby. He won’t be forgiving or understanding. Yet, lying here, staring at the roof of our stolen ca
r, I want to run both from and to him. He’s the only man I simultaneously crave and fear.

  A noise pulls me from my reverie. It sounds like an empty can being kicked on the tar. I look over to Charlie. Please don’t wake up and panic. If he makes a sound, we’ll be discovered. The metal clang becomes louder. Laughter follows. I turn on my stomach to peer through the back window. Four men are walking our way. They’re kicking a beer can between them. The red end of a cigarette glows in the corner of one of the men’s mouths.

  I close my eyes. Don’t let them venture into the bushes. My heart starts galloping as they come nearer and nearer, making a raucous racket. The walking and swimming must’ve exhausted Charlie, because he sleeps through the noise. My nails dig into my palms as I wait for them to leave, but they sit down on the side of the lot, and from the way they make themselves comfortable, they may stay for a while. They talk and talk until the conversation turns into an argument, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. They’re speaking in Zulu. One of the men puts a six-pack of beer in the center of their circle, and they each crack open a can. Another chooses a song on his phone and plays it at top volume. Charlie stirs, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

  They’re getting wilder, laughing and smoking pot. The smell is unmistakable. When they take out flip knives and start throwing them at stray cats, I break out into a cold sweat. On top of that, my bladder is full, and I don’t know for how much longer I can hold. As long as the men are here, we’re trapped. The feeling is nauseating. Right now, I’ll do anything to be back in Gabriel’s strong arms, except sacrifice my baby.

  After a long time, one gets up and walks into the bushes, heading straight for us.

  My throat closes up. I stop breathing. A short distance from our car, he stops and opens his fly. Aiming straight at us, he relieves himself in the bushes.

  Don’t let him see us.

  A tilt of his head, one missing leaf or the shine of the moon on the body of the car, and we’ll be discovered.

  He shakes himself dry, zips up, and, to my utter relief, turns back to his buddies.

  My body is a shaking mass of nerves. I’m shivering all over, feeling cold to my core. I stay awake, hardly breathing, watching their every move. After what feels like an eternity, they get up and walk away. The air leaves my lungs in a gush of relief. To be on the safe side, I wait ten minutes before I dare it out of the car and near the lot. There’s no sign of the men. I make quick work of emptying my bladder behind a bush and flick on my penlight. On the tarmac lies a burned spoon caked with blood, an empty plastic bank bag, and several dented beer cans. We can’t stay here. It’s only a matter of time before we’re caught, raped, and murdered.

  The newspaper headline at the stand we pass the next morning doesn’t help to ease my nerves. A family was tortured to death in their home last night for their television and laptop. Charlie walks next to me, grumpy and sulky. This is no joyride for him, either. I wish I could talk to him and ask his advice. I’ll give anything for a shoulder to lean on, for someone to share a small part of my burden. Determined not to sleep in the car, we walk farther today in my quest of finding a job. At the grocery store, I manage to beg a few expired loafs of bread, and this keeps us going for two days.

  When Charlie swims, I rinse his clothes and let them dry in the sun. At night, we sleep hidden between the tall grass in the dunes. It’s more comfortable, but colder and wet. Charlie develops a cold, but I refuse to give up hope. More than once I’m tempted to withdraw money from the bank––I still have the monthly allowance Gabriel paid me––but the minute I do, Gabriel will know where we are. I may as well sign our death warrants.

  After a week, there’s no more pretending that this is a holiday. Charlie doesn’t believe me, any longer.

  “I want to go ba–back,” he begs.

  I pat his leg. “Soon.” What else can I say?

  Another week of going hungry and washing under cold beach showers, and I finally hit the jackpot. We’re outside a dry-cleaning store when a Chinese man drags a woman out by her collar, screaming in Mandarin. I don’t understand a word, but from the shirt with the burned hole he holds up as he shouts, it’s not difficult to gather what the rift is about. He goes back inside and returns with a handbag that he throws at the poor woman. She cries and begs in English, saying she’s sorry, but the man is a statue with his finger pointing north. When she realizes her begging has no effect, the woman leaves with hunched shoulders, clutching her bag to her chest.

  I jump at the opportunity. An hour later, I’m hired. The only reason the man, Ru, is taking me on is because he can pay me cash under the table. This is his way of avoiding social charges, and it suits me. There’s no money trail that leads to me. The pay is low, but he lets Charlie stay with me while I work, and for half of the money he pays me per month, he gives us a room with a toilet and basin in the back. It has a door exiting onto the street so we can come and go freely when the shop is closed.

  The room is dirty, but with Charlie’s help we clean it with the products from the shop, scrubbing away fungus in the basin and grime in the toilet, the origins of which I don’t want to consider. The mattress is stained with coffee and semen, but I cut plastic trash bags open and tape them around the bed.

  The following day, we go back to get my clothes from the car, but the long walk isn’t worth the effort. Someone broke into the car and stole our belongings, down to our soap and toothbrushes. When I tell Ru about our misfortune, he allows us to take clothes from the box filled with unclaimed dry-cleaning.

  The money I earn is barely enough to feed two people. Our new lifestyle isn’t so much different from our old one in Berea, except back then I still had my dream of making a better future for us. My dream may be dead, but my hope’s still alive. We’ll get through this. I work long hours, sweating over the ironing board while Charlie plays solitaire at the plastic table in the corner we use for lunch breaks. The rhythm is harsh, and my pregnancy doesn’t help. I’ve never been more tired in my life.

  I soon discover another reason why Ru’s happy not to have me employed on a formal contract. He can treat me however he likes. He makes me work twelve hours per day instead of the legal eight, but I don’t dare complain. It’s hard to put one foot in front of the other after ironing from six in the morning to seven at night with an hour lunch break. Most evenings, I fall asleep the minute I hit the mattress next to Charlie.

  After a few more weeks, three months to be exact, my jeans are stretching over my stomach, and I can’t fasten the button any longer. There’s nothing else in the box of unclaimed clothes to fit me, so I keep the two ends of the waistband together with an elastic band I wind through the buttonhole and around the button. Some woman are lucky and don’t show much for the first four or five months of their first pregnancies, but I’m not one of them. I have a definite bump. If my boss noticed, he doesn’t say anything.

  Nausea hits me on and off at all times of the day and night. Sometimes I vomit, and sometimes it’s only a sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach that lasts all day. I’m losing instead of gaining weight, which must be because of the vomiting. Our future may not look bright, right now, but I can work on it. We’re alive. All I have to do is get through this pregnancy and have a healthy baby.

  It’s in April, during the first week of my second trimester, when I hand a well-groomed lady her dry-cleaning that I faint.

  I come to my senses lying on my back on the floor. Someone is slapping my cheek. Shit, it stings. Ru is bent over me, speaking in loud, angry words.

  “Stop shouting at her,” the lady says. “She needs a doctor.”

  I push onto my elbows. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not.” The woman looks down to where my sweater has moved up, exposing the pants I keep closed with an elastic band. “You’re pregnant.”

  This evokes a new marathon of words from my boss. He spurts them at me with animated hand signs, which mostly points at my stomach.

  The woman
pushes him away. “Stop it right this second or I’ll call social services.”

  This shuts him up.

  “You need to see a doctor,” the woman says.

  “I’m fine, really.” I let her help me into a sitting position.

  She purses her lips while studying me. “I’m taking you.”

  “No, I just need a minute.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m paying.”

  I want to die of shame, but concern for my baby overrides my pride. “I have to tell my brother where I’m going, or he’ll worry.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  I tell Charlie to stay in our room and lock the door. When I get back to the front shop, Ru starts protesting again.

  “I’m reporting you,” the woman says, waving a finger in his face.

  Unhappy but pushed into a corner, he lets me go, leaving him in the lurch in the middle of a workday.

  “I’m Cynthia,” she says as we get into her luxurious car.

  I don’t reply, praying she won’t think I’m returning her kindness with rudeness. The less anyone knows, the better.

  She drives me to a fancy clinic and introduces me to a lady friend who’s a gynecologist. When the receptionist asks for my identity document, I start to argue, but she tells me it’s standard procedure, and I can’t see a doctor if she hasn’t registered my details. I don’t have a choice but to hand mine over. Cynthia gives the receptionist my address, and when I say I don’t have a phone, she gives her the number of Ru’s shop.

  As if understanding my fear, Cynthia pats my hands. “Don’t worry. This clinic is very discreet. No one will know you were here.”

  After an ultrasound and blood tests, the doctor tells me I’m fine and my baby is healthy, but I’m undernourished. She prescribes vitamins and a protein shake, which my Samaritan pays for at the pharmacy.

  “Thank you,” I say when Cynthia drops me off at the shop. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

  “You’ve been pressing my husband’s shirts for over three months. Besides, I was going for an expensive lunch date with a friend. I’m happy to have used the money better.”