

Silk Threads

By Frankie Kay

Published by Frankie Kay

Copyright 2013 Frankie Kay

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be sold or shared. If this copy was not purchased for your use, please acquire a legal copy directly from a distributor. I hope you will recommend Silk Threads to your friends and encourage them to visit me at my blog http://frankiekay.wordpress.com/ where I have posted links to all editions and other information about myself.

Adult-content rating: This book contains content considered unsuitable for young readers 17 and under, and which may be offensive to some readers of all ages.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Connect with Frankie Kay

About Frankie Kay
Chapter 1 PROLOGUE Winter 1990

HANDS pulled above her head, legs and lacy lingerie tangled, the girl stared up at the ceiling. Like an abandoned mannequin, her alabaster skin shone smooth and bloodless against the scarlet bed-cover.

The suite, an exclusive getaway high up in the Drakensburg, overlooked a narrow ravine plunging hundreds of metres to a clear mountain stream.

For the second time that evening, a man, sporting a red do-rag and a ghetto accent, slipped into the room and standing at the end of the bed, studied the restrained figure.

With her throat exposed and long, blond hair artfully tumbled, the girl appeared to be holding a pose, as if waiting for a photographer to click the shutter. A leather strap, dark against her chest and the red smudge on her carotid, told a different story.

Moving to the headboard, he unlocked the handcuffs and her arms, heavy in death, flopped down. Checking her corneal reflex once again, he brushed her eyes closed.

He washed her still-warm body, flushing the soiled paper-towels down the toilet before dressing her and carrying her to the car. Positioned on her side, the girl appeared asleep, snug in her windbreaker. He tucked a blanket along the back seat and under her body, holding her in place. Splashing a little brandy on the blanket he tucked the bottle into the crook of her arm.

Returning to the cabin, the man packed the girl's belongings into a large bag. He searched the room, the cupboards, the tiny bathroom, even under the bed for any evidence of a woman's presence.

Back at the car, he exchanged the do-rag for a peaked cap, his bomber jacket for a chauffeur's overcoat. Pulling away, he drove carefully, climbing even further up the mountains towards the pass that lead to the desert, far inland.

THERE are many places to dispose of a body in the Drakensburg. Like any range of mountains, they offer endless possibilities: deep ravines, caves. Every year, hikers and trampers disappear; some are never found.

Chapter 2 JOHANNESBURG JUNE 2010

"WE want Lisa Van der Linde found," said Mr Aylesworthy in his slow, precise, lawyers' voice and David sitting across from him at the VLC Africa headquarters in Johannesburg, thought it would be interesting to get into the mind of this girl, missing for more than twenty years. He believed, getting into the minds and often the lives of missing people was the way to find them.

His partner Robbie, always more cynical, believed to find a missing person one should follow the money. From what they knew so far, this girl was extremely wealthy, and upon the death of her father, would be even more so.

"Three years ago, we began the search for Ms. Van der Linde, in Europe," Mr Aylesworthy continued, in his pedantic manner, "because she was most certainly residing there after she left Zimbabwe in 1988. We expanded the search to the other continents when we were unable to locate her. Our premise, was that she would not have returned to Southern Africa with its poor future prospects, a deteriorating economic situation and the additional fact that her parents were themselves, domiciled in Europe.

"To date however, we have not been able to locate her anywhere in the world and are now finally turning our eye to Africa, where we perhaps should have begun our quest."

Mr Aylesworthy allowed himself a self-deprecating smile, his forefinger tapping an envelope on the desk in front of him.

"You will see in the files, the search elsewhere in the world has been thorough, and yet yielded absolutely no information with regard to Lisa. A resolution was passed at a recent meeting of the board of the Van der Linde Corporation, to request of you to join the search. Since you are based here, with branches in several Southern African countries, we feel you are best placed to cope with the search on this continent. You are of course, welcome to extend your investigation wherever you deem necessary."

"Do you have any evidence Lisa Van der Linde is alive?" asked David.

"No, but we also have no evidence to the contrary, as you will see when you read the files. We need to know conclusively either way. An extraordinary sum of money is at stake, a large corporation cannot afford to have a matter such as this hanging in limbo, so to speak.

"As you already know, she is the only daughter of Johann Van der Linde, the majority shareholder of the Van der Linde Corporation. Her father is ill and upon his death his shares and a controlling interest in the VLC, will pass to her.

"Her last contact with us was shortly after her twenty-first birthday, back in 1988, when she attended a week-long series of meetings at the VLC headquarters in Rotterdam. Within a month of these meetings, she sent us written instructions to use dividends attributable to her, to purchase VLC shares as and when they became available."

Mr Aylesworthy spoke slowly, deliberately and precisely and David wondered if all lawyers were taken aside at some time point during their training, and taught how to speak like that.

"She assigned her proxy and seat on the board to her father, Johann Van der Linde, even in respect of those shares later accrued. I represent the family interests under the Van der Linde umbrella," he continued.

"You will find everything that has been done so far in the search, in that file," he said, pointing again at the thick folder on the desk, "included is a flash stick and a CD with transcripts or recordings of all interviews."

Mr Aylesworthy paused, steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair.

"Mr. Brewster, you have an excellent reputation. We know you have solved some difficult missing person's cases in the past. We want Ms. Van der Linde found and we accept your terms as outlined in our email correspondence. Please peruse the file, and if you have any questions, get hold of me before next Friday, when I return to Rotterdam. Of course, I am available on email and on Skype. We would appreciate regular updates."

DEALING with lawyers usually fell to David rather than his partner Robbie, and he always allocated adequate time when dealing with them.

In his experience, lawyers valued their own time, but not that of others, and had been agreeably surprised this morning when he arrived at the firm to be taken directly into Aylesworthy's office. He had been even more surprised when Mr Aylesworthy kept the meeting to an absolute minimum. He handed over all the relevant documents, gave a brief over view of the case before shaking his hand and walking him to the door.

Chapter 3

_Thursday 20th May 1982_

Pretend.

That is what I will do. I will just pretend and no one will know how scared I am, what I am feeling.

What I am feeling now is panic.

I have been forced into going to the Barham Green Community hall, which is in the 'coloured' area of Bulawayo. Sister Mary Margaret wants me to 'integrate' socially with other races. It is not the race thing that bothers me so much as integrating with people.

I am terrified of people. I never know what to say, and I hate having to talk to anyone. Why can't they just let me stay quiet? Why do I always have to say things to them, look at them? Why do they always expect me to reply?

I am not so scared of Sharleen anymore. She is the only person I speak to at school. I help her sometimes with numbers and science, she helps me when I need to go to a shop or speak to people. I can't do lots of stuff.

So I pretend.

### * * *

LISA put her pen down, shut her diary and standing, smoothed her hands down her hips.

She walked down the stairs, through the hallway and out of the door to the waiting chauffeur and car.

Pushing her head back against the leather seat, she closed her eyes in an attempt to get the sick feeling out of her stomach. She felt short of breath and wiping her sweaty hands on her skirt, once again, wished she did not have to attend this function. It would be torture.

Alone in her world, she didn't want to meet people, certain they didn't want to meet her. She thought the whole idea of social interaction over-rated.

If Sharleen had not promised to attend, Lisa would have found some way to get out of it, although until today, their association had only been at school.

THE driver turned into an entrance way and peering through the dark tinted windows, Lisa took in the groups of teenagers who loitered near the building and in the adjoining playground.

She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a long, deep breath in an attempt to clear her rolling stomach.

Pulse erratic, he climbed out of the car, her head down in a defensive hunch.

Her driver spoke, but Lisa, unable to absorb anything, only mumbled in reply and walked a short distance, numb with terror.

Father Duncan surged out of a group of kids towards her. Taking her hand, he pulled her along, releasing her near a group of white girls, none of whom she recognised.

Lisa stood alone, twisting her watch strap backwards and forwards, peeking through the curtain of her hair.

A cluster of girls came around the side of the building in short skirts and high-heeled shoes, Sharleen in the centre. The leader of the pack.

Lisa thought Sharleen looked fabulous, wished she could look like her, wished she had a small waist and large breasts. Hers were still different sizes.

Sharleen smiled and greeted Lisa with a casual "Hiya girl," and Lisa flicked a grateful glance at her without answering.

Fortunately, Father Duncan ushered everyone towards the hall.

LISA, neither religious nor social, found the next hour excruciating. The function began with a prayer, which seemed to her to go on forever. Clusters of chairs faced Father Duncan who stood behind a lectern. After the prayer, he encouraged everyone to sing hymns and later handed pieces of paper to each group with discussion points.

Lisa looked around at the other kids, most of whom appeared to be enjoying themselves. Perhaps they were also pretending? She wondered what she looked like. Did she look as uncomfortable as she felt?

After a final prayer, the groups broke up and Father Duncan encouraged everyone to mingle and make new friends.

Lisa stuck to Sharleen and several other girls who attended Founders High, the local 'coloured' school. Mostly Lisa remained quiet unless directly addressed, while the girls gossiped about other girls and also about boys, none of whom she knew. They compared manicures and hairstyles, makeup and hair accessories.

Lisa stood between Sharleen and Helen, a willowy, light-skinned girl with an elaborate hairstyle. Dressed in a short tube with a wide leather belt around her slim waist Lisa thought she could be a model: trim figure, long, slim legs and ankles.

"There's Eugene," Helen hissed. "Is he looking my way? Do you think he is interested in me?"

Lisa mentally shook her head. Of course he was; all the boys were.

Although Helen had previously ignored Lisa, she now began talking to her, animatedly moving her hands, laughing and thrusting her hip outwards, all the while swivelling around to better advertise herself.

Right up against Helen's side, Lisa turned her head.

Her eyes met those of a man standing with his shoulder against the wall, near the floor length curtain.

Tall, with a muscular, slim body he remained immobile, among a group of young coloured boys, posturing and showing off.

Lisa, staring at him across the hall decided he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. His piercing, green eyes seemed to look right into her and for the first time in her life, she couldn't look away; didn't want to look away.

A hand on her arm brought her back to reality. Helen standing at her shoulder asked a question and with a hollow feeling Lisa realised the man must have been staring at Helen.

A few boys sauntered over and began chatting, using slang Lisa could hardly understand. Apparently it was Eugene over against the wall, but she lost sight of him when the others moved.

She had lost sight of Sharleen too, and although she could have joined a group of girls she knew from school, she felt frazzled; unable to maintain a façade any longer. She decided to escape outside where it was dark, and she would not be required to talk to anyone.

Moving through the side door she walked along the waist high flower bed, until it turned back against the car park wall. She levered herself into the corner above the flower bed and leaning back against the taller wall, closed her eyes in relief.

SHE relaxed, until something brushed against her knee. Her eyes flew open and her heart thudded hard; once, twice and then raced off at full speed.

Eugene stood close to her. Far too close to her.

"Lisa," he said, with a strange inflexion that made her name sound like, "Lizaa."

His voice was soft and she felt his breath on her face. She sat staring at him, her hands on either side of her thighs with her elbows locked.

He put his right hand on the wall above her head and clasped her wrist with the other, his body covering hers.

"Lisa," he repeated.

Wide-eyed and mute, she nodded.

"I followed you out here. I saw you were not enjoying it in there," he said, jerking his head towards the hall.

Still mute, she nodded again. She knew she appeared stupid and scared. But was she really scared? She was excited, sure. Not scared. He'd looked dangerous, earlier in the hall, and everything she had heard from Sharleen confirmed this.

And now he was here, suffocatingly close.

"I ah..." she started "I ah... don't really know...," she tried again.

His lips moved into a small smile. Sarcastic? Understanding? Lisa didn't know. She was hopeless at reading people's expressions.

"I watched you arrive," he said, and her eyes dropped. Eugene took her chin, forcing her head up.

"Cool car."

Lisa's heart began beating its crazy tattoo again. She could feel it pounding in her chest, so loud she thought he must hear it. She had a strange feeling under her ribs, almost a cramp.

"I hate it," she said in a low voice.

"The car?"

"All of it. The car, the chauffeur, everything." She waved her hand towards the hall, "People."

He dropped his hand from her chin, once again claiming her wrist.

"People, yeah. I just ignore them all. The car, no."

"I can't ignore them; I just have to pretend."

"Pretend?"

"Yes, I pretend I am not in the car," whispered Lisa. "Pretend I'm not in there. Pretend..."

"You never have to pretend with me," he interrupted. "Always remember that."

Once again, she nodded.

On the flowerbed, her eyes were level with his. His hip pushed against her knee, body angling towards hers. Oxygen seemed scarce again and Lisa took a deep breath.

"Next week when you get out of the car, what will you pretend?"

"Ah...," she broke off, swallowed and tried again, "ah, I don't think I will be coming next week."

"Come next week," he said. "I want you to."

She stared at him in the half light, her eyes wide.

"When you arrive, pretend there is no one there at all, just an empty yard."

He smiled slightly; so slightly his lips only tipped up at the edges. "Now you know the layout and bullshit that goes on inside, you can run on autopilot."

He grabbed the open ends of her small jacket, tugging upwards, straightening her back.

His knuckles brushed against her breasts and an electric shock raced through her body. She couldn't breathe. Her body arched towards his and her eyes drifted closed.

He smiled again, leaning into her.

"Come next week," he said, his voice soft, lips brushing her ear. He put both his hands on her cheeks and tilting her head upwards put his lips against hers. He slipped his fingers into her hair, cupping her head with his hands.

"Plenty hair," he said. "Too short... Never cut it again, Lisa. You hear?"

In a daze, Lisa let out the breath she didn't know she had been holding and nodded.

He tugged her off the flower bed wall.

"Let's go wait for your driver," he said.

Lisa's legs felt all rubbery, but he supported her under her elbow. Not the elbow next to him, the one on the other side. His body, right up against hers, so close she could feel heat coming off his, enveloped her.

He guided her into the darkness of the car park, where she could hear her car idling and released her with a gentle push. She stumbled towards it and when she looked back, he was gone.

Lisa slumped into the back seat and waited for her heart to slow, too numb to analyse what had happened.

Of course she had heard about Eugene from Sharleen, how he had reappeared recently from who knew where. He had been the topic of most break-time conversation among many of the coloured Convent girls for the last three weeks or so, all talk about what a bad, bad boy he was. How he spent much of his childhood on the streets, that no one knew who his father was. How his mother started on drugs, alcohol and different men until she faded away.

Before she met him, Lisa had been puzzled how girls could find a thief and possibly a violent murderer, attractive. Now she knew. He was very, very attractive, mysterious, dangerous and bold.

In control.

And he had singled her out; had spoken to her. Why, when there were so many, much prettier girls to choose from? Girls who had been trying to gain his attention.

EUGENE stood with his shoulder propped up against the wall watching the black BMW leave the grounds.

He levered himself off, moved along the dark line of trees, and out of the gate. Keeping to the shadows, he set off down the road in the opposite direction to the one taken by Lisa, moving with a fluid walk that quickly covered ground.

Eugene could walk alone at night in this part of town. Apart from his reputation, he was quick on his feet, had good reflexes and carried and knew how to use, a large, sharp knife.

He fitted in with the fabric of Bulawayo, able to hold his own among the blacks and coloureds, also able to pass as white in most circumstances. He had never penetrated Lisa's kind, though.

LISA arrived home and, while waiting for the driver to open her door, noticed there were several other cars parked in the driveway. Her parents had guests.

She shuffled past a young girl in classic maid's uniform and immediately climbed the stairs to her room, hoping to avoid both her parents and their guests. There she found her supper on a tray, covered with a net, to protect it from flies.

SHE tossed and turned throughout the night, her stomach a tight knot.

Each time she felt herself drifting into sleep, she remembered Eugene's voice in her ear, his hands on her clothing. She would roll over, only to be reminded he wanted her to return, how he had stared at her.

Lisa woke in the morning with diarrhoea and spent Friday in a daze, drifting sleepily through classes.

TO teachers and classmates, Lisa did not appear much different than normal. The teachers had discovered although Lisa Van der Linde appeared inattentive, avoiding eye contact, she was extremely capable intellectually. Good at arts subjects, she excelled in mathematics and science. In class, Lisa never volunteered an answer to a question. Addressed directly, she became flustered, whispering the answer, her glance shifted to the side.

Some of the staff took this as a challenge, interpreting her avoidance as disrespectful, a notion fostered by her unfortunate appearance. So far, none of them had managed to effect any changes in her behaviour.

### * * *

Saturday 22nd May 1982

I didn't write anything yesterday for lots of reasons. I am not sure if I can write what I feel, I am not sure if perhaps I just dreamed what happened. Imagine if I wake up and it was all a dream. A scary dream. An exciting dream.

So now, it's Saturday and my parents are socialising and I am, as usual in my bedroom and I am a little calmer about what happened.

I listened to the girls talking about Eugene on Friday at school, but I didn't really learn much about him, just he has been away for some time, drives a sports car and is secretive and desirable.

The big question is what do I do? I can't ask anyone for help, certainly not Sharleen. She would like to get closer to him. She would like to be his girlfriend, but so would all the other girls who hang out with Sharleen.

At first I couldn't think, you know, yesterday, but now I can ask myself some questions:

Like, did it happen? Did Eugene come outside and talk to me?

Did he tell me to come again next week? - Yes, he did.

What does he want? - I don't know.

Do I care? - No.

Eugene is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me. He is not the most frightening thing to happen to me. I am not frightened of him.

He smells so nice. I can still smell him.

His voice is so soft and it makes me get shivers and I feel tight under my ribs when I think of him.

Does he want me to be his girlfriend? Do I want to be his girlfriend? I don't know what a girlfriend does.

Usually I pretend when I don't know how to do something. How can I pretend about something I can't find anything about? I don't find anything in books about how to be a girlfriend.

Now the big question: Do I go back next week? If I do, what will happen?
Chapter 4

LISA spent the week in turmoil. She vacillated from one extreme to another, unable to make a decision about attending the Thursday social. Her firm resolve to stay at home would waver, and eventually disintegrate. The force of her compulsion to see Eugene, experience the excitement of him again, too strong to withstand. Within an hour or two, she would once again stand firm in her resolution to stay at home.

She spent every break time with Sharleen, hoping to hear snippets of information about him. It was not difficult; the group of girls who hung out with her couldn't stop talking about him. They all had schemes of how to catch his attention.

One of Sharleen's friends was told by her father he would beat her, if she went anywhere near him. Eugene he said, was a dangerous person to be around, but would not elaborate. It appeared to Lisa this added to the incentive of the chase.

Eugene had been seen with various women, but not linked with one in particular. A group of young boys appeared to gravitate to him, but none seemed to have any strong influence.

One of the girls had a brother who hung out with Eugene. He laughed at the idea of fixing his sister up with him.

THURSDAY evening however, found Lisa on her way out to the hated chauffeured car. Baffled by the irresistible impulse propelling her, Lisa chose to distract herself by thinking about where she was going, rather than the situation she would have to face once she arrived. She was going to Barham Green, where you HAD to live until Independence in 1980, if you were of mixed race.

Lisa couldn't understand it. Her parents were also mixed race, her father Dutch, her mother English, and yet they lived in the 'white' area of Khumalo.

Mixed race meant mixed with dark people, like blacks and Asians, Sharleen told her. You were different if you have a black mother and a white father, rather than a black father and white mother, she explained. Also, if your grandparents were from South Africa, you were different from a home-grown coloured person. It seemed so confusing, the differentiation unnecessary.

Lisa's reflections did not divert her fears in the slightest and by the time the car cruised into the parking lot, she had sweaty palms and her stomach hurt. All week, she practised the event in her mind, mentally practised walking across the lot, pretending it was empty. Practised how she would walk to Father Duncan, how she would look for Sharleen.

Lisa knew the layout of the hall, and it did help. What could never be practised was the unexpected, what she should say when someone asked her a question to which she didn't know the conventional reply.

The driver parked the black car, climbed out and opened the back door. Lisa climbed out, thanked him and turned, head down, shoulders hunched. Then it seemed, she collected herself, straightened her shoulders and looking around, zoned in on the group around Father Duncan. She lifted her chin and began the long walk in their direction.

Lisa, terrified, her mind blank, had Father Duncan in her sights and planned that once she spoke to him, she would look around for someone else she recognised.

This week, Sharleen stood among the group talking to him, making Lisa's next planned manoeuvre easy.

Once in the hall, Lisa found herself a seat fairly close to the exit door, although she did not know anyone in the cluster of chairs.

Once again, she found the event boring and a little embarrassing, but this evening she slipped out as soon as the session ended. There wasn't anyone there she wanted to talk to. She wanted to see Eugene again.

She made her way to the flowerbed and hopped up onto the wall, hoping he would see her.

He had not been in the hall, and she hoped he would see her sitting in the dark.

ALTHOUGH she sat waiting for Eugene, Lisa didn't hear him when he rounded the wall. He took her hand immediately and led her across the car park, into the trees that bordered the property.

Tucked against his body again, Lisa's heart beat rapidly.

"I'm glad you sat close to the door," said Eugene, ducking his head down to hers as they walked away. "I want you to myself."

He led her over to a concrete block with a manhole in the centre and pushed her down.

"I saw you arrive. You did a good job, Babe."

Lisa felt a surge of pride, inordinately pleased that he was pleased with her. For the first time in her life, she had been praised for something she did very badly.

Some people found mathematics and science difficult, she found people difficult. Everything about people scared her; talking to them, entering shops, asking questions.

Lisa was eager to make Eugene proud of her.

### * * *

Friday 28th May 1982

There is something to this writing thing; it helped me to sort out what to do. I am not sure I would have made the right choice if I had not written things down. I think it's because I just write what I think, when I think it. I don't try to write like I do at school, you know all correct grammar and everything. I can write like that. I can't talk like that though! I wish I could.

Eugene came last night and found me outside and I hope none of the girls at school saw me with him. I don't know what will happen if they find out about us. They will hate me.

I like the way he talks to me, telling me what to do, and also he doesn't force me to look at him. He comes close to me and talks in my ear, or he moves me around until I am how he wants. I want to do what he wants, I don't know why, but I like it so much.

Last night he gave me a ticket to a music concert. When he first told me about it and that he wanted me to go, I just froze up. I literally can't go into a place I have never been to before. I get as far as the door, and then just walk past. Sometimes several times; never able to enter! Even somewhere I really want to go to. It's why I go places with Sharleen. I just keep my eyes on her back as she walks into shops so I don't have to see all the people staring at me and worry about where to go once in the shop.

Eugene told me all about the inside of the Sibson Hall, what to expect, what to wear and it does help a little. I so want to do what he wants, so I gave the ticket to the chauffeur immediately I got into the car, before I have time to change my mind.

I will try very, very hard to go into the concert because what happened last night was worth all the stress of last week.

I was worried that Eugene wouldn't come back to see me, but he did, and he wants to see me again next week, and he will kiss me again, touch me. I begged him to come to the concert with me, but he just smiled and kissed me, touching me all over, until I couldn't think properly anymore and I forgot my fear of going to strange places.

I want him to touch me again.

Why? Why do I want Eugene to touch me? I usually hate anyone coming close to me, let alone touching me. Yet I crave his hands on me.

I know I am supposed to feel revulsion that Eugene is part black. I mean, isn't that why people have to live in different suburbs? So they don't touch black people? I don't really know what I am supposed to feel but I know our servants don't like to drink from the same cups as us, and don't touch us like we do to white people.

Do I care Eugene has black blood in him? I don't know. I didn't notice. Eugene doesn't look black. He hardly looks coloured, he has straight silky hair, not anything like Sharleen's which is kinky and stiff when straightened.

So, according to the coloured gossip, where does Eugene fit in the Barham Green hierarchy? Sharleen says he has a white father, and a coloured mother. How coloured? Sharleen says it's important exactly the proportion of colours which determines what category of coloured class one fitted into.

As far as I can see, Eugene doesn't fit into any category of coloured person. He doesn't come from Barham Green anyway.

I think everyone talks about Eugene not because he has straight silky hair, but because they are scared of him. He looks scary. The girls like him because he doesn't talk to them, or try to kiss them or anything, he never calls them by their names, ever; like it's too personal. Also, the girls say he is a criminal, that he makes his money from stealing cars and things and this makes him exciting. Some say he has even killed.

Coloured people are as racist as white ones. They have a stack of names they use to talk about black people too, which change all the time so no one finds out.

I have also noticed something else about names. Coloured people use lots of names for people. A girl can be called 'cat' or 'foxy.' if a boy calls you that you know he likes you. The boys call each other things like 'dude' or 'chommie.' If the girls don't like a boy, they call him 'scat.'

Us white people call each other by our names, always. Or I call my mum 'mother' and my father 'papa' how you say it in Dutch.

And we never use a name for a black person. I don't think I have ever heard my mother use the word 'black' even. She doesn't say anything, and she says 'mulatto' instead of coloured or 'mixed race.'

When I told Sharleen, she laughed and laughed. She asked how we were supposed to know who we were talking about if we never use the word 'blacks' but I am too scared to ask my mother.

But when Eugene says my name, "Lizaa" like he does with that accent of his, my stomach curls. He hardly ever does though. He calls me 'Babe,' another coloured slang word, but I like it. Sometimes he calls me 'Baby Doll' and I like that too.
Chapter 5

LISA peered out of the window as her chauffeur manoeuvred the limousine through the entrance to the Bulawayo Academy of Music.

She saw cars parked in every available space, and people streaming into the open doors, assisted by black suited ushers, just as Eugene had described.

She lost her nerve, however, when the black BMW swept up to the steps, smoothly stopping right in the middle of the road.

She realized she wasn't going to be able to go through with Eugene's wishes. She was not going to be able to get out of the car, and walk into a strange place on her own, no matter that Eugene had described the inside of the auditorium, what she should wear and who she was likely to see. She had only been able to attend the Barham Green social, because she had known Sharleen would be there. Here, she knew no one.

About to press the intercom to instruct her driver to take her home, an usher opened her door.

"Your ticket, please, Ma'am."

Eugene.

Staring up into his face, Lisa handed him the ticket he had given her a few days ago. He reached into the car and took her sweaty hand.

"This way Ma'am," he said for her chauffeur's benefit.

"Did you think I would desert you?" he asked her quietly, as he helped her settle in her seat. Lisa said nothing, only stared down at her hands, working at her watch strap.

Utterly captivated, Lisa sat spellbound, the music enveloping her. It caught her imagination, her sense of order and her response was unexpected.

The piece built to a crescendo and Lisa, caught up in the beauty of it, frowned, almost annoyed when the lights came on.

She waited until the rush waned and, since it seemed to be what one did, moved to the doors and into the foyer where tea and eats were served. Pulling her program out of her pocket she noted the name of the composer: Mendelssohn. She had to find out more, the last half hour had been almost magical.

At the eats table the server handed Lisa a cup of tea, which she took with a plate of small cakes to a spot against the wall.

She stood, head down, munching her cake. Within a few minutes, black pants and black shiny shoes appeared in her view. Too close to her. Far too close.

Lisa edged away slightly until she heard Eugene's soft voice.

"After you go to the ladies, follow where I go."

He immediately moved away and she watched him walk up a flight of steps and disappear from sight.

She waited until the rush for the ladies died down and went in. She washed her hands and dried them, nervously rubbing her palms down her thighs, hoping no one would see her disappear up the stairs when she came out of the restroom.

She stuck her head out and saw only a few people standing at the refreshments table and decided it would be safe to chance it.

No one appeared to notice her dash up the steps.

She found Eugene, his shoulder propped up against the wall, at the top of the stairs.

He watched her surge up the last few steps, his green eyes shadowed by his long, dark eyelashes his lips curving slightly, more on one side than the other.

"You need to look like you belong, coming up the stairs, Babe. Walk up like you belong here, no one will notice you that way."

"What's this place?" Lisa had never been into this building, had never noticed it before.

"These are practice rooms. People who come for lessons use them."

"Did you take lessons here?" Lisa asked wide eyed.

"Nah... My mum did. She played the violin."

"Your mum can play the violin?" asked Lisa amazed. "Like the guy playing today? She can play like that?" She had never met anyone who could play a musical instrument and until today, had never heard an orchestra playing live.

"Come this way, Babe."

Eugene led her along a corridor to a door near the end. He opened it and led her through into a small room with a piano on one side, a stool in front of it. A small table stood to one side of the piano, with a heap of sheet music, and a water jug standing on it.

"Does your mum still play?" Lisa asked.

"No. She's dead. Did you like the music?"

"I loved it," she said, her face animated. "It made me get a feeling, deep down in my stomach. I never knew music could do that to you. Oh, I can't explain it. But I liked it."

"I knew you would. That's why I gave you the ticket. I also gave you the ticket, cos they have these cute little sound-proofed rooms up here and I want you here regularly."

Lisa felt her face warm and her heart rate increase.

Eugene pulled her towards him, took her face in his hands and brought his head close to hers, his thumbs slowly brushing against her cheeks and downwards towards her lips. She thought he intended to kiss her, but he didn't, simply stood, bending over her. Close. His fingers stretched around the back of her head, holding her tight. He slowly tipped her head to one side brushing his lips over her ear.

She shifted her feet, instinctively moving closer, and her fingers curled up around the lapels of his jacket.

Eugene took her hands, crossing them at the small of her back, one strong hand clasping both wrists. Mouth near her ear again, he said, "Lisa, you follow my lead. No touching me unless I give you permission."

She nodded, not sure if she could abide by this instruction, or if she knew what he meant. Her hands had moved of their own volition.

He breathed in her ear, nibbled the lobe. His mouth began a slow journey, along her jawline to her mouth. He brushed his lips along hers, slow, seductive, well-rehearsed.

Experienced women of the world often found themselves no match for Eugene's practiced manoeuvres; Lisa never stood a chance. Compliant, yielding, aroused to the point of fainting, she spun into the overwhelming sensations to which he introduced her. He pulled her towards him, supporting her with his body and the hand clasped around her wrists. His other hand, at the back of her neck tilted her head to receive his kisses.

EUGENE took hold of her shoulders and pushed her down onto the piano stool, sitting opposite her. Dazed and swaying, Lisa stared up at him, unfocused.

"Look like you gonna bail, Lisa," he said teasing her. She didn't mind, he sounded amused, but caring.

Opposite her, on the teacher's chair, he pushed one knee on either side of hers, forcing her legs open, his hands resting on her shoulders.

"You know Sandy Myers? From school?" he asked.

Lisa frowned, concentrating with effort. "Ah. Yes. She's in my class. But I don't know anything about her."

"I want you to get to know her. I want you to visit her home, so invite her to yours first. She will accept, cos your folk's parties are something she would not usually be invited to. I have some others I want you to work on, people who visit your home and have kids your age, but who go to other schools."

"I don't usually mix with people my parents invite. I usually stay in my room."

"Fine, but this weekend, I want you to come out and meet them, even for a little while... for me."

"Why? What is it you want me to do?"

"I will tell you when the time is right. For now, I just want you to learn how to meet people and to get what you want out of them... for you to take control."

Eugene took her head between his hands again and moved his face closer to hers.

"You can do anything," he said, "especially if you have me to help you."

Lisa believed him. He was the first person who had ever paid her any attention. He centred all his attention on her and it made her feel special.

"When they arrive, just go out to the pool and greet them, don't take too long talking and then go to your room. Pretend you are a movie star giving them the time of day. Remember it's your house and you are rich. They will want to talk to you."

"But I am not the kind of person they are interested in. They have never asked about me. Look at me, why would anyone be interested in me?"

"You are rich, Babe. Guys are always interested in rich girls. They don't care if you are beautiful or interesting or clever. So we will use them... you and me. Cos I know underneath you are all those things."

"You think I am interesting and clever?"

"Yeah... you are beautiful too, Lisa."

Lisa's eyes dropped, but he forced her chin up.

"Look at me, Lisa." Eugene waited until she did. "You are an ugly duckling. One day, you gonna be beautiful, inside an' outside. Just wait, believe me."

Lisa wanted to believe him, but her mirror told her otherwise. So; she had good skin and nice eyes, but her hair grew thick and unmanageable. She had crooked teeth, and a huge hooked nose. She wanted to look like her mother: tall, chic, blue eyed. Perfect.

She favoured her father in looks. His dark skin, and dark brown eyes, his thick mane of hair and unfortunately, his hooked nose. Other than her blond hair, she did not resemble her mother in any way.

Eugene, stroking along her thighs, kneading her muscles, brought her attention back to the immediate. He moved up to her hips then to her arms.

She straightened her back, pushing her breasts outwards and tipped her head back, closing her eyes. He kissed her on the mouth, his lips soft on hers, becoming more demanding and intense. He had one hand on her cheek, the other on her hip and when he pulled away, she felt drugged, her eyes heavy and her brain mushy.

"FIRST off, I want you to stop eating all sweets. No more bread, pastries, potatoes. No Mazoe orange juice: too much sugar. Also, no sugar in your tea. If you feel hungry, eat biltong, and put things like sausage into your lunch basket."

Lisa, blurry, disorientated and dreamy said, "Ah... My mother doesn't have biltong in the house. She's English and doesn't like it."

"Do you?"

"Love it."

"So, tell someone you want some. Tell the cook."

"What should I drink, if I can't drink orange juice?"

"Water or tea," said Eugene.

"I hate tea, and I don't really like water," she said.

Eugene's voice became softer, menacing, his accent stronger.

"Lisa, if I hear you eating any of these things, I will punish you. You want I do that?"

"No, no," she said quickly, "I will be careful and I will try to drink tea."

"Good girl. You want to lose weight slowly, over a long time, or you will get flabby. We don't want that. In two, three years you will be slim, and beautiful."

He pushed away from her and stood.

"You should go now. The concert will be finished soon and you want to be down there before anyone comes out of the auditorium. Remember, act like you belong and no one will ever question you. Same like on the weekend, look people in the eye and expect that they want to talk to you. And they will want to talk to you, believe me.

Eugene leaned down and kissed her again, long and hard before pulling her to her feet. He opened the door, pushed her out and watched her as she moved down the corridor and away down the stairs.
Chapter 6

Thursday 10th June 1982

I went again to Barham Green. I wore what Eugene told me to wear: a long skirt and a shirt with buttons right up the front. Flat shoes again.

He said he didn't want me to look like the sluts inside. He wants me to be able to walk in high shoes before I start walking in public in them. He says I will practice wearing them first. He told me to wear a short jacket, similar to the one I had on last week and no stockings.

I thought he wanted me to wear the clothes so he could have sex with me. But he didn't.

I want to have sex with him.

I was so sure everything was heading that way, he made me close my eyes and he stroked me all over. With my eyes closed, I was more sensitive. Then he told me not to move, and that was SO hard. My body kept wriggling on its own and every time it did, he stopped moving his hand or stopped kissing me.

He let me lean back on him, his head was against mine and he talked into my ear, softly, on and on. Sometimes I didn't really 'hear' what he said, but when I lie at night in bed, I remember what he says. I am lucky, I can keep him close to me. I can remember exactly what he says, exactly as he says it and I can run it over and over, like a tape in my mind. Problem is, I can't run the feelings I get from his hands in my mind so I try to write about them.

Eugene had his hands on my stomach, on my hips and over my front. Sometimes I just wanted to scream and tear my clothes off. I know how nice his hands feel on bare skin. I want to feel his hands on my skin.

I started crying when he told me my horrid car had arrived and that I needed to go. I wanted to stay with him, I wanted him to carry on touching me, I wanted him to have sex with me. I thought he told me to wear a skirt and blouse that opens up like that so he could take it off like I read in books. But he didn't and I wanted him to, and I started crying. I asked him why he didn't want to have sex.

" _Babe, sex is nothing. I had sex earlier on this evening, it's nothing special. It's like a massage, or a cold coke on a hot day. I want to make you feel so good, I want to make you feel so much that you lose control completely, do things you really don't want to do. I know you have good control._

Sex is nothing special, believe me, and yes I will be the first person to have sex with you."

I lay in bed that night remembering, over and over: "but yes I will be the first person to have sex with you..."

### * * *

Lisa's bedroom window overlooked the driveway and tennis court. Guests at the Van der Linde Saturday parties, arrived mid-morning and Lisa often sat watching her parents greet them.

Today, expansive as ever, her father had stood at the door. He kissed the women, shook hands with the men, occasionally throwing his arm around their shoulders.

Certain she couldn't do that, Lisa wondered why, since her father apparently enjoyed physical contact.

Of course her mother didn't kiss people. Not if she could help it. Hannah Van der Linde, tall and regal in her tailored clothes stood near him, her elegant, slim hand offered to both men and women.

Now, well after mid-day, Lisa watched a group walk out onto the court. Mixed doubles. Four 'beautiful people,' the only sort her parents invited to their parties.

She took a deep breath, her hands fisted in her stomach, kneading and pushing the fear twisting there.

Eugene had insisted she go outside and learn to mingle with people. He had played a game with her, practiced greeting people, smiling, blurring her eyes. He said if she blurred her eyes enough, she would not be able to see facial expressions and people wouldn't scare her as much.

But she didn't want to go outside, didn't want to mingle with any beautiful people. They scared her. Her mum scared her.

Lisa opened her diary, picked up her pen and wrote:

Saturday 12th June 1982

Eugene wants me to start making friends with people. I don't want to. I am scared of people, I would rather stay in my room, but he says I must go out to the pool and meet them. He says if I go out there, and sit and watch, I will learn how people talk to each other. He said to remember they want to meet me because I am rich.

Most importantly, he said he knew I could do it, with such conviction, that I have to at least try. I really want him to be proud of me and I want to make him look at me in that special way again.

I don't want to go outside...I'm sitting here writing and hoping the problem will just go away on its own.

Lisa didn't know what to wear. Eugene hadn't told her about that.

She opened her cupboard, eventually picking the top garment off the pile. She stuffed a hat over her hair and made her way downstairs, her hands clammy and shaking.

She slipped through the side door, and made her way over to the pagoda, eyeing her mother warily, busy on the opposite side of the garden.

Her father appeared unsurprised at her unusual attendance, only put his arm across her shoulders and plucking a drink off a nearby tray for her.

Lisa had taken only one sip, when a woman came bustling up and grabbing her by the hand demanded she meet her daughter. Samantha, she said, was shy, but Lisa discovered soon enough she wasn't shy at all. She just didn't want to be at the Van der Linde's. She wanted to be at Hillside Dams with a group of other kids, including her boyfriend.

I know the feeling, thought Lisa, pleased to discover she wasn't the only one who wanted to be elsewhere.

"Why don't you go with your friends?" Lisa asked and Samantha laughed rudely.

"My mother is a snob."

Lisa, who didn't know what she meant, asked instead about some of the kids around the pool. Samantha seemed happy enough to point out all the Bulawayo notables, often with sarcastic remarks about them, or their parents.

LATER that evening, Lisa pulled out her diary and completed the entry she had begun in the morning.

...later on Saturday 12th June

I did what Eugene wanted. I went outside immediately before lunch.

I looked around at everyone and decided to pretend, like Eugene told me. It's not that hard, I pretend about lots of stuff. I pretend I am not fat, ugly with crooked teeth. I want to be slim like my mum, but I am not. I am fat. Why? My father is big, brown and loud, but not fat. His tummy is hard and flat, mine is soft and round.

My mum's is thin in the waist and it is not at all soft. She is not soft in any way. Her eyes are blue, like glass.

I am scared of her eyes.

She has long fingers without too many rings on them. Too many rings are vulgar, she says. According to her, lots of things are vulgar.

I would never, ever try to kiss her; anywhere, even on her cheek. I am scared of her. She is perfect. She never shouts or laughs or cries.

Papa is so big, he makes her look small, and yet she isn't, she is tall and so beautiful, all the time. I don't think I have ever seen her when she is not beautiful and dressed up, with makeup. I wonder what she looks like when she sleeps.

Probably beautiful.
Chapter 7

ROSE, waiting outside the door of 'Barbara's Salon', watched the girl dressed in blue Convent School uniform step down from the pavement onto Grey Street.

She watched her grab her little cap to her head as she braced herself against the icy wind and, not for the first time, thought school uniforms must have been designed to make the girls wearing them ugly. Perhaps it was a subconscious protection method devised by the nuns, and boy Rose thought, it worked.

The girl walked badly, shambling, her head pulled down into her neck, shoulders hunched forward. Thick around the middle, her blue tunic clumped around her waist, riding up, exposing fat thighs.

It had to be Lisa, thought Rose, the girl Eugene had told her about.

He presumed she would turn up at the salon because he had organised the appointment, but would be too shy to enter on her own.

ROSE intercepted her outside the door.

"Lisa," she said, in her soft voice, "I'm Rose. I stepped out for a short break. What a lucky coincidence, since you are here now."

Lisa flashed a quick look at Rose but kept her head down, angled slightly away and to one side.

Looking up into her face, Rose realised the girl was taller than she at first appeared. Large brown eyes set far apart gave her a wide eyed, vacant look. A thick single eyebrow met in a bunch above a fleshy, hooked nose. She had lank stringy hair, cut short, and it stuck down, helmeting her skull.

Pushing the door open, she gestured Lisa into the salon and through the main room with its soft, comfortable chairs, clustered around a low round table.

The salon had been converted from an old house and what had been bedrooms were now used as treatment rooms. Eugene's instructions were that Lisa have minimal contact with other clients.

Rose led her past a glass counter with cosmetics and other beauty products, past a woman having a manicure and into an empty treatment room. She told Lisa to take a seat and explained exactly what she intended to do: a massage and a face wash, a foot massage, a manicure and a pedicure.

"You growing your hair?" she asked.

Lisa nodded.

"Fine, we will wash it next time you come, I won't have time today."

Rose ran her fingers through Lisa's hair, pulling it up slightly at the end of each stroke. Who on earth cut this girls hair? Greasy, thick, and poorly cut, the dried ends curled outwards from her head.

Potential, Rose thought, surprised. Perhaps with a good scalp massage and a decent trim, she could make something of this hair. Lisa certainly had plenty of it.

"Did you bring the money for the treatments?" she asked.

Lisa nodded, and pulled an envelope out of her pocket.

"Great," said Rose. "Change into these clothes sweetie, and soak your feet in this dish of warm water for a few minutes. When I get back, we can get on with your massage. I will be along in a minute."

Rose left the room, closing the door and when she returned, found Lisa sitting with her puffy feet in the hot water. She had stripped off her clothes and donned the smock provided.

Lisa's ankles had a line around them where her socks dug into her flesh.

Rose put her hand on Lisa's forehead gently pushing it back against the chair. "Relax, sweetie," she said. "I am going to start with your feet, then a full body massage. We'll move onto your face after you are relaxed. It is important to look after the skin on your face. You have a good skin, but we must still look after it."

That at least was true. Lisa had excellent skin, an even light brown with good texture and no blemishes. Although nothing could be done about her nose, something could be done about her crooked teeth and Rose wondered why they had not been attended to. With braces, they could be straight in a year or two.

She had nice eyes, with lovely long lashes which she kept lowered most of the time.

Rose itched to pluck the single eyebrow. It would accentuate Lisa's large eyes and take the attention away from her hooked nose, but Eugene had left explicit instructions to leave it. He had also instructed she only trim, buff and clean Lisa's nails, with no added polish.

She was happy to comply with his wishes; Rose owed her life to him. Without him, she would have bled to death on the floor of her boyfriend's kitchen. She would do anything for Eugene, anything he asked.

Until now, he had never asked anything of her, she had done all the taking. He had picked her up off the floor, carried her to ma Moyo. He had been patient for the two years when her mind refused to work, refused to acknowledge her boyfriend tried to kill her, had killed her baby and killed the possibility of any more. Eugene encouraged her to take this job, persuaded her to learn to massage, learn about food and nutrition. Yes, she would do anything for him... anything.

Lisa appeared shy and uncomfortable with her massage, although probably normal for a fifteen-year-old girl. She said little in response to questions Rose asked and did not volunteer anything herself. She mostly kept her eyes closed and seemed to enjoy the treatments at times, especially the foot massage. Lisa had put her head back and appeared to doze off.

At the end of the session, Rose wondered what on earth Eugene wanted with this girl. Her first impressions had not changed, Lisa seemed almost retarded. She either did not answer questions or responded in monosyllables and she never initiated any conversation. When asked a simple question such as 'what form are you in?' Lisa answered promptly, but failed utterly to answer a more abstract one such as 'school uniforms are terrible, aren't they?'

"So, will you come back on Thursday?" Rose asked. "I must write it down in the appointment book, so we don't get a double booking."

Lisa nodded, "Will you be here?"

"Yes sweetie, I will be here, and if I can't be, I will send you a message."

Rose did not think she had made any impression on her, and yet Lisa seemed concerned she may have to deal with someone new.

Lisa did not mention Eugene's name at any time during the session.

Once again, Rose wondered what he wanted with this girl and who she was.

### * * *

Monday 14th June 1982

I like the way I feel. I like the way my heart beats fast and I feel I can't breathe.

I do breathe, but sometimes I think it is only occasionally. I go through the day as normal doing normal things, and suddenly I think of Eugene and my chest squeezes tight and my heart races and I can't think of anything at all.

I don't think I look different. So far no one has said anything. I don't see much of my parents so that is OK and the servants never notice anything.

I day-dream, of living on my own somewhere quiet where I don't have to have anything to do with people, where I can do things alone.

Thinking things.

I don't have any problems with things I can do in my head. I wonder what I can do as a job, using my head.

I would hate to have to talk to people all the time, like my parents do.
Chapter 8

LISA opened the envelope containing her ticket for the concert on Saturday night. She had signed up for a full year as a 'friend of the orchestra.' Each week, tickets and a program were sent to the Van der Linde residence.

Beethoven, 'Eroika,' she read.

She had only heard a few pieces by Beethoven. The library contained hundreds of books about him, which she could take out and study. Familiar with the format at the concerts, she was now quite happy to attend. The knowledge that Eugene would meet her at the top of the stairs with a wicked sneer on his face, his green eyes shadowed by his eyelashes, take her to his special room and make her feel so good, encouraged her to overcome her fear of people.

Her heart beat faster when she remembered his eyes staring down at her, his hands all over her.

Last week he had caught her at the top of the stairs, pulled her hard against the wall and kissed her, covering her body with his, pushing against her. She had trouble walking to the little room at the end of the corridor; it seemed her legs were jelly and didn't want to obey.

As far as she knew, no one had discovered their liaison. None of the girls at school had mentioned anything and they made huge stories out of the smallest piece of gossip.

Everything Lisa knew about Eugene came from the girls at school. They speculated endlessly about where he lived, how he managed to drive such a smart car, who he slept with. Lisa drank it all in, thankful they made no mention of her, no linking of her name with Eugene's.

She had to keep it that way.

He threatened that if anyone found out about them, he would disappear. He would walk away from her and she would never see him again. Lisa was absolutely certain if he did, her life would end.

### * * *

Saturday 19th June

I had my fist orgasm, and now I know what I have been looking for since I met Eugene, like I was searching for something but didn't know what.

I went to the Academy and I found it.

Now I know why, when I went home after being with Eugene my stomach was sore low down. It felt like I was being stabbed there, in the same place, inside, low down... a nice stabbing.

He was teasing me as usual, going too slow as usual, but instead of stopping and instead of making me stay still, he allowed me to move.

Well, at the end anyway.

It's cold now. I wore a polo necked jersey, but when I went to our special little room, he had the heater on, glowing in the dark under the desk.

He already had his jacket and tie off and he had opened his shirt a bit and I could see his chest. I wondered what it felt like, what it would feel like to touch his skin, feel it under my hands.

Then, he told me to lie down on the floor and to keep still, like we have been practicing. He pulled my jersey up over my head, so I couldn't see and I couldn't move my arms, but at that stage I was still trying to keep still.

Eugene's hands on my skin felt better than mine. If he picks up his hands I don't know where he is going to touch me next, so it is a shock, a mystery each time he does that. He stroked me all over, around and around. Over my tummy and over my bra, feeling through the material. He brushed under my arms and along my sides, and then he would suddenly change and I felt his hand on my thighs and back to my tummy. After a while, I could only think about his hands, all over me rubbing and brushing. He kissed me all over too, nipping slightly with his teeth, then blowing a little until I couldn't think, I couldn't concentrate on keeping still. I felt hot all over. I couldn't see through my jersey; I could only feel.

Then I started to wriggle I think, and he put the heel of his hand on the bone under my panties and pushed hard, and it was sore. But he was kissing and sucking my nipples and I couldn't stop moving, and he pushed harder.

He told me again to keep still.

I pulled my legs up to try to take the pain away, and my skirt ended up in a bunch and suddenly I couldn't move. I thought I was breathing in and breathing in. He was pushing with his hand and kind of rotating at the same time, and then he rubbed his fingers across my panties and a sharp, tight feeling took away everything and all the air I had been breathing in, came out and I was screaming and trying to push myself against his fingers to make the feeling come again.

And it did, over and over, in waves, pushing from deep inside me, squeezing. Stabbing.

My fingers and lips felt tingly, sort of like they didn't belong to me and I had a buzzing in my ears.

That was my first orgasm and it wasn't anything like I read about in books. No one said that was why I moved about, rolling around at night with a tight feeling low down in my stomach. No one said it was why when Eugene stroked my nipples, I felt a tug, a kind of impatience, almost like an irritation. Now I know why I was frowning. I wanted that feeling.

It was all heading there, all along. I just didn't know it.

Then Eugene took my jersey off my head and he kissed me, and I put my arms around his neck to try to pull him down and he took my hands again, and told me I can't touch him unless he gives me permission.

He turned me over and rubbed my back. It was tight and I had been sweating. He took off my bra and rubbed up and down along my back, like Rose does, but it felt much, much nicer. He took my zip down and pulled my skirt off and my panties and rubbed all over my bum and thighs and down to my ankles.

This time when the feeling started growing, I knew.

Now I know what it feels like.

The carpet felt scratchy on my skin, but not in a bad way. Eugene rolled me from side to side and the rocking motion made the feeling grow. I wanted to open my legs, but I was scared to move in case he stopped.

I love the way he does things to me, touches me and moves me about with his hands.

By the time he turned me over, I knew where I wanted to go. Back to that place, where my mind is like a white light and everything comes down to one point.

Now, with no bra on, when he sucked on my nipples, I could feel his tongue swirling, his teeth shaving. I was not so annoyed there was something in the way, something stopping me. But in the end I was stretching for that place again, and not getting there. Eugene ran his hands down my whole body and then along my panty line and said 'good wax' and I didn't care about the wax, I wanted him to touch me in the centre.

I knew what I wanted.

I tried to move over, but he held me with his teeth, on my nipple. When I moved, he clamped deeper and after a while he was biting right into it and I didn't care, I had to get under his hand. I had to get to that place.

The second time was harder, and I can't remember as much, but when I got there, I was soaking wet and my body was tired. He turned me on my side and I slept for a little while until he woke me up and dressed me like a baby, and sent me on my way.

And this time, I slept without rolling about and squeezing my legs together. I have been there now, and I know.
Chapter 9

INSPECTOR Brewster walked downhill on his way to work. His home was only two blocks from the police station and although he officially clocked in at 8.00am he liked to be at work much earlier. He liked to walk to work; it gave him time to think.

Today he thought about Bulawayo, how it had changed in some ways and not at all in others. Bulawayo's colonial planners had it all worked out: the industrial areas, with black worker accommodation close by to the west, the coloured areas to the east. The white areas, from affluent Khumalo to working class Hillcrest lay to the south and south east of the city centre.

Since Independence in 1980, two years ago, segregation by colour was no longer permitted. Anyone could buy a house in any area, and yet there had been little movement between suburbs. A few wealthy Indians had bought huge mansions in areas previously reserved for whites, a few blacks too. Although, Paul thought with a smirk, he had not heard of any whites moving into the black areas. They instead moved to South Africa or Australia.

He needed to look for a new job to make way for up and coming blacks, especially ones who had fought in the war, who were destined to sit in his chair. Not particularly worried about the job, he guessed he would no longer be able to walk to work. Ex police Inspectors were in demand in all areas, as managers and in the security line. They were, after all, managers of people and were reliable and trustworthy.

Recently he had sensed a change politically, had become aware of tension between the newly formed partners in the government, which he hoped would not end in violence. Paul had had enough of violence, enough of war. It had affected him, lost him his daughter and most of his wife. At least he still had David, alike his mother in looks but not in temperament. David favoured his uncles, Sylvia's brothers; all huge blond men, good natured and kind. Paul stood six foot three, but he still felt dwarfed by his wife's three older brothers.

His mood brightened thinking about his son, of his sports ability, his physique, his outgoing nature.

Shaping up to be an excellent sportsman, chosen in all sports teams offered by the school, he excelled at golf, rowing, shooting... well anything involving his body.

Nowadays money could be made from sport, especially professional golf or soccer, and David was good at both.

And Robbie, Martha's son, would go places. Extremely bright at school and now safely in at Milton, he would be able to choose any path he wished. With race no longer an issue in Zimbabwe, nothing would hold him back. At first when he organised Robbie a place at Milton Senior, Paul worried he had done the wrong thing.

Robbie was slight and Paul had been concerned he may not be able to hold his own against the white kids. Recently, however, he had been to the school to check up and been reassured.

Well, he thought, some of what he owed Martha had been paid off by getting Robbie into Milton.

Paul didn't fully understand the relationship between his son and Robbie. They often spent time together, and yet they weren't exclusive friends. David had his own friends from school he would visit or play with. He wasn't sure if Robbie could say the same. It appeared Robbie, a quiet, studious boy preferred to stay in his room with a book, reading.

Paul had never had the guts to ask Martha who had fathered Robbie. They had hardly noticed she was pregnant; she had continued working much the same as ever.

She quietly walked off to the hospital one afternoon, and arrived back at work a day later, with Robbie strapped to her back. Paul heard later from the doctor, hers had been a long, hard labour. He calculated Martha must have picked the baby up and come to work almost as soon as he had been born. Sylvia, four months pregnant with David at the time, was helpless with morning sickness.

Paul had never known what he would have done without Martha.

### * * *

MARTHA's relationship with Sylvia Brewster can only be understood by a person who has ever hero worshipped another.

Martha, little more than sixteen, and collecting dry wood in a little copse of trees saw Sylvia making her way across the vlei towards her. Drifting leisurely through the knee high grass, trailing her hands through the longer strands, Sylvia appeared almost otherworldly.

Martha couldn't take her eyes off her. She thought Sylvia was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen; thought she was the angel in the only bible storybook the family owned.

As Sylvia walked along, the breeze ruffled her silvery blond hair and the sun glinted through it creating a halo effect. Dressed in a flowing white sun dress and holding a floppy hat, it appeared to Martha, as if Sylvia floated rather than walked.

MARTHA watched her push a branch aside and stoop to enter the small copse. She saw Sylvia's face change, pale to bloodless and watched her dark blue eyes grow huge in her porcelain face.

A bloated yellow and black striped spider crept slowly up its broken web and onto Sylvia's skirt.

Martha, aware the spider was neither poisonous nor dangerous, instinctively recognised terror. Primal fear, and Sylvia's instinctive reaction. She froze, stock still, blood draining from her peripheries. From a few meters away, Martha thought she may faint. She swiftly moved over and swept the spider and web away from Sylvia's skirt with her hand, casually brushing it and the fat spider onto a bush nearby.

With a strangled gasp, Sylvia collapsed into Martha's arms, sobbing and jabbering incoherently, her face blotched and twisted.

Martha was already an admirer when Sylvia drifted across the open vlei. She became her slave when Sylvia fell into her arms, her hands clinging, tears pouring down her face, her body shaking and shuddering uncontrollably.

It is difficult to describe to someone not brought up in rural Rhodesia, the gulf between the third daughter of a black farm worker and the last born daughter of the household. It is unimaginably vast. So to Martha, the reality of Sylvia clinging onto her for dear life, thanking her in huge shuddering sobs, appeared almost illusory.

Always seen from a distance, in the car, or in the house, Sylvia had seemed almost unreal to Martha, a distant image, a mythical being.

Of course Martha knew who Sylvia was; everyone on the farm did. The youngest child, the only daughter of the family, Sylvia never experienced the emotional problems of the 'gawky' stage, always a perfect porcelain doll.

MARTHA had soothed Sylvia like a little child, petting her and stroking her and even that took on almost a dreamlike quality.

Black people did not touch white ones in Rhodesia in the 1960's and so for Martha to be holding and supporting one, was almost outside of her understanding.

She did however, hold and stroke Sylvia, for almost a quarter of an hour. When she had calmed, Martha walked with her across the vlei and back to the farmhouse. She explained to the maid of the household what had happened and left in a daze to collect her abandoned firewood.

Eight months later, Paul and Sylvia married, and Martha moved with them to the Kezi Police Station and later to Nkayi.

Martha's hero worship of Sylvia Brewster never diminished. She would, for Martha, be forever the angel in the bible storybook.

In later years, Martha offered the same support she gave Sylvia in the little copse of trees. Always there to hold her, soothe her, wipe her tears. Sylvia needed that, she needed someone who accepted her for what she was, a lost frightened girl scared of the little things in life, the spiders and creepy crawlies.

### * * *

MARTHA walked through the house to the master bedroom, now alone with Sylvia Brewster. David and Robbie had cycled to school, and the Inspector had walked to work hours ago. Martha would take some tea to her and then begin the daily routine of cleaning up the house, making beds, doing the washing.

Sylvia Brewster would wake slowly, bath and then put her face on. Accounted a beautiful woman, blond, slim and well preserved, she was also an alcoholic. The endless worry when they had been stationed in Nkayi had begun the downhill slide into the bottle. She was too nervous a woman to be married to a police officer living in an out of town station in the middle of a bush war.

Although raised on a farm, Sylvia largely remained in the farmhouse as a girl and never favoured the outdoors. Good Afrikaans girls were expected to remain in the house cooking, sewing and learning to be ladies.

She had become a mess of nerves when she drove on the dirt roads. The endless strain of the land mines, which might blast her to tiny pieces at any moment, were all too much for her. She also worried endlessly about being shot at, or attacked in the police camp.

When their three year old daughter drowned, Sylvia drowned her sorrows in alcohol. However, unlike many drunks, she managed to hide her addiction well. Their life continued without many changes. When they moved to Hillside, she maintained the image of a normal housewife.

Everyone had servants, and the Brewster's knew they were lucky to have Martha work for them. She had been their maid all their married lives, and knew all their secrets. She helped maintain the illusion of normality. She made sure groceries were in the cupboard, food on the table and the house clean. She also made sure Sylvia woke to her tea, first thing in the mornings, and ate something.

Martha often coaxed her to eat, with small delicacies she knew Sylvia could keep down. On some days Sylvia would potter around the house in the mornings, sometimes working in the garden or walking to the shopping centre to get small things needed in the house. Other days, she would lie on the couch reading or listening to music on the radio. Occasionally she would lift the piano lid and play.

She would eat a light lunch with her first vodka and tonic of the day. By the evening, she would be mellow and tight.

SINCE it was Friday, Martha knew Inspector Brewster would be taking David and Robbie to the Matopos. He finished work at 4.30pm, walked home, and liked to be gone as soon as possible.

Martha had their clothes, blankets and tents packed into large duffels. When the Inspector arrived home from work, she would move the food already organised in the fridge and freezer into the big cooler box along with several blocks of ice made during the week. Then all he would need to do would be to carry it all to the car and they would head off to the Matopos Dam where the Inspector had a little sail boat. The Inspector and the boys would camp near the dam that night, sail a bit more in the morning before heading to the National Park.

Martha would remain at home with Sylvia.
Chapter 10

LISA ran up the steps at the Academy to find Eugene at the top. Today, he was not dressed in his black suit disguise.

Today, he was dressed flash.

No sign of greeting gentled his face, when she arrived expectant, at the top step. His sharp green eyes stabbed from under a hat, pulled down at an angle.

He made no move towards her, his shoulder propped against the wall. He didn't touch her, or kiss her, only pointed along the corridor to their little room.

Scared, Lisa flicked a brief glance up at him, but only managed to take in a deep burgundy shirt with several buttons open and a shiny gold necklace. A bright yellow trouser suspender hanging down over his hips, swayed against his thigh with each step.

Trailing him slightly, she could see little else except his shiny shoes.

He said nothing to her on the way to the practice room. He yanked open the door and stalked in; swung around and stared down at her, his face tight. Lisa ran through a mental list in an attempt to identify what she had done wrong.

"You wanna be thin?" he asked, his voice harsh and grating.

Lisa nodded.

"Well you don't gonna get thin you eat shit," he said, towering over her.

He spoke with a goffal accent. A goffal is a bad word for a coloured person, Lisa knew. White people can't use that word, only coloured people can. Upset and apprehensive, Lisa kept her head down.

"Tol' you no sugar 'n no juice, now you fucking eating shit. Splitz... Fucking, fruit splitz, full of sugar." After a beat he asked, "Well, what do you got to say, girl?"

"Sorry, I didn't know it was sugar, I thought fruit was OK," she whispered, scared.

"Well now you do. I tol' you I punish you an' I meant it," he said. "Lose the clothes."

Lisa's eyes widened, but she immediately began to remove her clothes. She hesitated when only her underwear and shoes remained.

"Keep the shoes," he said.

She flashed a brief look over at him, at his tight mouth, shiny gold chain and diamond stud. She slowly peeled off her underwear and stood with her head down.

Eugene pointed to the carpet, "Kneel," he said.

Lisa sank to her knees opening her legs when he tapped her knees apart.

"Sit on your feet, hands on your thighs." Eugene showed her how, laying her hands palm upwards on them. "Head up, eyes down."

He sat on his chair, his long legs thrown out and watched her from under the brim of his little hat, his arms across his chest.

Soon Lisa could hardly feel her feet, her shoes dug into them and the weight of her body ground them into the floor. Her back hurt from holding it upright and she could feel tears starting at the back of her eyes. She had been so hopeful for something exciting tonight, couldn't believe she was kneeling like this instead of kissing him and having him touch her.

After about twenty minutes, Eugene finally spoke. "OK Lisa, you can get up now, but listen up. You do what I say, hear? The clothes you wear, what you look like, sex, I am the boss. You hear?"

Lisa nodded, not sure what he meant.

EUGENE held her under her arms and helped her stand. She struggled to straighten her legs, get the blood flowing into her feet. He sat her down in the chair, knelt and removed her shoes. He massaged her feet and behind her knees, kneading and pressing with his strong fingers.

When she had recovered enough he said, "Put your clothes on."

Lisa dressed slowly, one layer at a time, silent and troubled until she stood before him fully clothed. Eugene leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth.

"Good girl," he said, "See you next week. No sugar, hear?"

Lisa nodded and left without another word.

### * * *

Saturday 24th July 1982

This week Eugene didn't punish me when I went to our special room at the Academy, quite the opposite. I don't usually write when I get home, when it's late, but I need to get this down, now.

Eugene has a rule that I can't touch him. He always touches me, and I thought until tonight it was OK. But I was wrong.

We were standing up in the door way of our little room and Eugene had kissed me a few times, stroking my face and my hair. He picked up my hands from my sides, spread my fingers open on his chest and told me I could touch him tonight, but only because he had given me permission.

I still didn't know what he meant; that it was a special gift.

Now I do.

I want to do a very good job of writing this experience.

I need to write it down. Although I can remember everything he says to me, I can't remember the things I feel, and Eugene felt amazing.

HE was wearing the white shirt with black suit disguise he looks so nice in. It was buttoned up to the top and he had a tie on.

I rubbed my hands on his shirt first but it wasn't that nice, wasn't exciting. I had never touched his skin before, in fact I have never touched anyone's skin before tonight. I took off his jacket and tie, and opened the buttons on his shirt, and I slipped my hands under the shirt and onto his chest.

It was as if I could feel all over my hands. His chest is so soft, the skin that is, and there are muscles underneath which are hard, and the bones, above his chest, near his throat which are sharp. When Eugene picked up his hands to play with my hair, I could feel his muscles moving under my fingers, sliding around under the skin, but hard.

Although I was feeling his chest, it was almost as if he was feeling mine. And his smell... I have always loved the way he smells, but with my nose against his chest I could smell only him, like a perfume.

He has nipples like mine, but much darker and not soft at all. They were round and hard and small and kind of tickly when I rubbed my face across them. I hardly had to duck to reach, I am much shorter than he is. Eugene has no hair on his body, not like my father does, all over his chest and his back too. Some of the boys who come to my parent's parties also have hair. I am glad Eugene doesn't.

I couldn't stop exploring, my hands seemed to know what they wanted to do and so did my mouth. And he didn't stop me, although I looked at him a few times to ask if it was OK to carry on. Each time he nodded at me, a rush, squeezed my ribs and I felt squiggly in my tummy.

Eugene's stomach is hard, I can see the muscles underneath the skin move, especially when I run my fingers around there. So I scratched lightly with my fingernails, across his stomach and watched the muscles bunch and flex.

He groaned.

It was a low sound in his throat, and I got such a shock, I looked up and saw his eyes were closed and I couldn't believe it, couldn't believe I was making him groan like that. So I did it again, and I rubbed my face against his stomach and I licked him. I don't know why I did that, but I wanted to, it seemed right and he groaned again. He put his hands in my hair and pushed me against his hard, hard stomach. So I kissed him and sucked him and licked him all around his stomach and it was amazing.

Yes, I know I don't have enough words for the feelings, there are simply not enough words.

I could feel him through my fingers, right deep inside my palms and I knew he could too. His muscles rippled under my hands, under my mouth.

When Eugene does that to me, kiss me on my skin I mean, he does it so slow, to tease me. But I couldn't. I wanted to, I couldn't stop myself, something pulled me along, making me crazy.

I stroked fast and I kissed and rubbed my nose and licked fast. And I wanted to kiss his chest too, like I was doing on his stomach and he let me, he stood there and let me kiss him and smell him.

I found the crease in his armpit and I put my nose there to smell more and my knees nearly buckled from the sensation. I couldn't smell him properly, his shirt was in the way and it was scratchy compared to his skin. I tried to pull it off, but it was stuck at the bottom on one side so I went around to his back and pulled it off completely and I saw his back in front of me. It was wide and the muscles were better there than in the front. They started tight and close above his trousers and went sharply outwards. If I leaned into his back I could put my hands around to his front, up to his chest and back up to his back. He was so soft and so hard all at the same time.

I have read lots of books about sex. Recently I went back to those I read the holidays before I met Eugene to the places where he describes sex. I can tell you, he does as bad a job as am doing now, because the feelings are everywhere.

Standing at his back, I only reached about the middle of Eugene's shoulder blades, but I stroked him from the top by his neck, down, down and over his pants onto his butt. Then I did the same at the front and I could feel the bulge at the front, so I did it again, down the back, round to the front. Down.

I wanted to touch him without his trousers too. I wanted to touch him all over.

I knelt down at his feet and took off his shoes and I started to take off his belt. I was scared to check first to see if he would let me continue, I was scared he would stop me, so I kept my head down. My hands were shaking and I couldn't get the belt strap out of the loop of his trousers, but I kept my head down, still on my knees. I had my fingers inside the band of his trousers trying to get the top snap off and I felt a slight fuzz of hair under my knuckles.

I think if I had not been on my knees already, I would have fallen down. My brain was clouded, muddled. I couldn't get the stupid button off the top of his trousers, until I found out there were two buttons, one on the inside and the other one on the outside.

Eugene has long legs and the tops are powerful, but that was not what I was interested in when I finally slid his trousers down.

I couldn't believe what I saw. No one told me how big it would be or how ugly. I sat back on my heels staring. I reached out and put my hand where the fuzz began, and down, along the side and onto his balls hanging underneath. It moved, danced at me. I don't know why, but I leaned forward and kissed him, on the end and he groaned again and grabbed my head, his hands buried in my hair. So I opened my mouth and it popped inside and suddenly I wanted it more. Deeper. Eugene guided me, pulling my head so I sucked on the side, then deep inside then nuzzling all around, then going back.

I couldn't stop my hands, it was almost as if they had a mind of their own and Eugene felt wonderful. From his stomach, down to his hips, around to his butt and back again. Over his thighs and across the folds between. I wanted to explore more, I wanted to suck and kiss, but he directed me back, so I held the thick part of his shaft in my hands and he pulled me back and forwards, in and out and it was magic.

Eugene had a grip on my hair and I could feel his body heating up and he started to move in jerks and streams and streams of liquid went into my mouth. I knelt there and drank it in, I wanted it inside me. I sucked and pulled until no more came out and when it stopped I wanted to carry on, I wanted more.

Eugene knelt down in front of me, put his head on my forehead and thanked me.

I was so surprised I think my mouth fell open. Why would he be thanking me for something he had given me?

I didn't care, I would do it again any day, any day he let me.
Chapter 11

LISA sat through the first half of the concert unable to concentrate, hardly hearing the music, working her watch strap, twisting the belt on her skirt.

She desperately needed to speak to Eugene.

The tea break dragged on, and when everyone had finally gone back into the auditorium, she ran up the stairs to find Eugene waiting for her at the top.

Sensing her mood, he didn't move to pin her against the wall, kiss her or touch her body. Instead he took her elbow and led her down to the practice room at the end of the corridor.

He sat, and pulling her onto his lap wrapped his arms around her, rocking slightly. He spoke quietly into her ear, "Talk to me."

"She wants me to go with them," Lisa wailed.

Eugene waited, rubbing her shoulders with his hands. When Lisa said no more he repeated, "Talk to me, Babe."

"These holidays... my mum wants me to go with them. To England."

Eugene continued to hold her without saying anything, rocking her while she fought hysteria.

"Every year, we go on holiday... usually in August. My mum is English, and can only stand living here if she knows she can go home at least once a year," Lisa said, with gasps in between phrases, her voice ragged.

"Tell me more. Pretend you are writing."

"My mum is English, and my father Dutch. He has business interests in both places, as well as here and South Africa, but his family run the Rotterdam end. Usually, he sees to business when my mother visits her family in England. I tag along, although she mostly dumps me off with one family member or another." Lisa's hands twisted in his.

"Tell me more about your family in England. Do you have cousins? Are your grandparents both alive?"

"My mother is an only child, and her mother is dead. My grandfather, the stockbroker is still alive. He lives in Chelsea. My mother has lots of distant relatives, and many friends in England. She likes to spend the full holiday when she goes. Sometimes my father comes home with me when school begins and she stays for a while longer."

"Tell me about your grandfather, the stockbroker."

"I don't know him that well," said Lisa, "He doesn't talk much, at all. He was supposed to be a very good stockbroker, though. He is quite old, but not doddery or sick," Lisa answered, calmer now.

"Tell me about Chelsea," said Eugene.

"I can't remember much, I don't notice things like that," she said, in a confused way.

"Is there enough room for you to stay with your grandfather?"

"Oh, I see, yes, the house is quite big," she replied, recalling the triple story, redbrick house.

"Do you think you can get your grandfather to teach you how to be a stockbroker?"

Surprised Lisa replied, "I have no idea. I suppose I could try. I am good with numbers, and I suppose you have to be good with numbers to be a good stockbroker."

"Fine," said Eugene, "you go, learn how to be a stockbroker... will be useful."

"No, Eugene," she wailed, "I can't be away from you for that long. I want to stay here. I can too. I can pretend I am sick at the last moment, or I..." her voice rising into hysteria again.

"Lisa," Eugene said, his voice calm, quiet. He stood, pulling her up with him and led her to a rug near the door. Kneeling, he tugged her down, facing him.

"Shh," he said, pressing his forefinger on her lips. Lisa gulped, tears slipping down her cheeks, her eyes begging him.

"Shh," he said again.

He stood, stared down at her silently for a beat and then moved over to the piano.

He ran his fingers along the keys and began playing.

Frozen, Lisa knelt on the floor watching him. She watched his slim fingers fly over the keys, muscles flexing under the smooth skin on his forearms.

Her eyes drifted closed and she relaxed back onto her feet.

One piece flowed seamlessly into another; metred, soothing.

Music filled the tiny room, filled her mind, replacing her worries.

When she opened her eyes, she looked directly into his. Sitting slightly sideways, he watched her, a soft smile curving his mouth, his habitual sneer absent.

He eventually dropped his hands from the keyboard and into the silence said, "Yes. You must go," and Lisa nodded.

"We'll work it out, Babe," he said softly, and she nodded again.

### * * *

Wednesday 11th August

Gramps is nice I think. He is not like mum. He is short and thin, but maybe he was taller and now he is old he became shorter.

I like him. He doesn't say things that are not necessary. He told me to speak to the housekeeper about meal times and such. He doesn't touch me at all and he walks around most of the time in a dressing gown.

He has a whole section of his own on the second floor, a sitting room, his own bathroom and his bedroom of course. The sitting room is pretty, it has nice windows and you can see the river and some parks. His servant has a room on this floor too although I am not sure where.

Gramps is teaching me how to buy and sell on the stock market. I like it a lot, I can do it all on my own and I like reading the company prospectus. Also, the graphs and things are easy for me. They talk to me. I feel I can get into the boardrooms and listen to what the directors want us to hear and what they are hiding. Gramps says that is the trick: to guess the lies. He is going to introduce me to his own broker. You can't buy and sell on your own, you have to have a broker. I was a little worried about it, but Gramps says he only works for you and makes sure you can cover any purchase you make.

I am having fun, but I miss Eugene. I miss knowing I will see him on Thursday and Saturday evenings. I know there is no possibility.

I read my diaries from the first day I met him and it helps. I try to remember what it feels like when he touches me and how I feel safe when he is near me.

I love the way he stands close to me, I feel I could melt back into him and he will look after me. I don't know why I like him to touch me when I hate anyone else touching me, but I do. He said it would get better, the touching: me hating people touching me, but it hasn't yet. I hate people touching me.
Chapter 12

BULAWAYO was shocked.

Things like this simply didn't happen in sleepy Bulawayo. Sure, we have petty theft and a few burglaries, some stolen cars, Bulawayo said. But an armed robbery like this... No ways. Half a tonne of gold stolen, a stack of dead bodies. In Bulawayo?

How could this happen?

Everyone talked nonstop about the Bonanza Mine gold heist, wondered how the robbers knew no gold had been collected from the mine for two weeks, so double the amount required transportation. How they knew the radio frequencies on the security vehicles, how they knew when the convoy would leave the mine?

How many people were involved? Could cold-blooded murderers like these come from Bulawayo?

Surely not. Surely we couldn't breed and then harbour men like this?

All these questions kept Bulawayo talking and gossiping. One thing that is done well here is gossip. The security firm was involved, they said, the robbers were South Africans, the security firm was slack.

In truth, no one knew anything. The robbers had stolen the gold, and killed several people in the process, both security guards and three of their own and no one had any clue at all. Including the police.

MUGWAZI, the officer-in-charge of the gold heist had investigated quite a number of people for the robbery, but narrowed it down to three main suspects. One white, one black and one coloured. The criteria he used: knife killers. All three were believed to have used knives to kill in the past.

He remembered the bodies of the dead robbers, their gaping red throats. They had been dispatched with a single fast, hard slash with a large knife; blood everywhere, soaking away into the ground on the red hillside. Whoever did this knew what he was doing, he knew where they would be lying and he went to them one by one. Killing in cold blood.

According to the medical examiner, the cuts had been made so as to minimise the blood spatter upwards, so the killer didn't get too messy. This man had killed before.

The security guards had been shot from a distance, and Mugwazi knew it was easier that way. It took a different type to move in close, to kill with hot breath against his cheek. He couldn't, could never get right up close to a person he knew, and holding him down, slash his throat like a goat. All three suspects were thought to have done this in the past. He shuddered.

The three dead robbers were young homeless men, men who had lost families during the war. He found no one to question, no one who cared about their deaths.

The white and black suspect had been involved in the war recently ended and it was there they had learned to kill with a knife.

The white guy, Marshall Scott, lived on a plot on the airport road. He had no alibi. Brought into the station in cuffs after 'resisting arrest,' Scott told the police he had been at home for more than two weeks and refusing to say more, sat silent.

Scott stood a little under six feet. He had a large jaw, almost with overbite, below lank dark brown wavy hair and tired brown eyes. He obviously hadn't shaved for several days, his shirt torn and dirty. His knees and ankles soiled and discoloured from ingrained red mud were slightly cleaner than his bare feet. He appeared tired and resigned, sitting on the rickety chair in the interrogation room.

Scott couldn't prove he had been on his farm the whole time, his workers said he moved like smoke. They said he had come back from the war a changed man, said he would take off for weeks on end, when no one knew where he was. When he returned, he often sat silent and brooding on the veranda of his ramshackle house.

During the war he had been in 'special ops' and had killed people, usually with a knife. It was silent. He could also shoot well. Brought up on a small gold mine close to where he now lived, he was fluent in both local languages. Mugwazi didn't like him for the robbery. He didn't have an alibi and Mugwazi felt sure he would have had one if he had been involved. Also, the murdered accomplices had been in the war, but on the other side and their paths were unlikely to have crossed.

The black guy had so many aliases, Mugwazi didn't know which one to use. He was known as Chooks on the street, a name rumoured to have stuck to him for blowing up trains during the war. Mugwazi had also heard it was short for Tshuma.

Relaxed in the interrogation room, he had laughed and joked and fooled around. His story: he was at home in his 'rural area' the entire time. He said he had plenty of people who would attest to that.

He gave Mugwazi the creeps.

Through all his playing and fooling, Chooks' eyes remained dead, his face smiling around them. Mugwazi could imagine Chooks cutting a man's throat with a knife. Like Scott he could shoot, and like Scott he was familiar with radios. Unlike Scott he was huge; huge and black, with a head shaved so close it shone. He had a barrel body and a thick neck and he walked on the balls of his feet as silent as an elephant.

He may have known the 'mujibas,' the youths murdered on site, may have fought with them during the war. He had worked as a driller on a mine, moonlighting during the night and on the weekends as a freedom-fighter. Sent to Russia as a youth and instructed in the use of explosives, taught to blow up railway lines, his preferred method of killing was with a knife. He didn't carry one, he usually took one when he entered a farm house, killing the family with one of their own kitchen knives.

Mugwazi favoured the coloured suspect, Eugene Leclerc most for the robbery.

Eugene had not said a word to the police since his arrest. Different officers had tried several approaches, but he had remained unresponsive, his face tight, his narrowed eyes glittering.

At 4.30pm he walked free, sauntering out of the door with his controlled 'big-cat walk', a sneer twisting his face.

Chris Nyakhumbi, the member in charge of the Central Police Station, had received a call from Eugene's lawyer, Ndlovu at 3.45pm asking about his client. He pointed out the various options available to the police, insisting they either charge Eugene and be prepared for the consequences, or release him immediately.

Ndlovu pointed out that simply by holding his client for as long as they had, in a locked room without food, they had breached the law. At 4.20pm, Nyakhumbi ordered his release.

At 6.30am the next morning, the police once again picked Eugene up from his flat.

Although there was no known relationship between them, he had inherited both the flat and a small electronics repair shop below from a Frenchman, thought to have been a mercenary in his youth. Eugene employed a manager, made a good living out of the repair shop, and the business was squeaky clean. During the time Eugene spent in custody the previous day, the police searched thoroughly for the gold, but found nothing. The premises was as clean as the business.

Eugene was placed under arrest and taken to the Central Police Station, the charge: accomplice in an armed robbery. Ndhlovu provided the court with Eugene's passport. This showed an exit stamp from Zimbabwe the day before the robbery, and a re-entry stamp from Botswana three days later. They walked out of the court room, and immediately filed a harassment case against the Zimbabwe Republic Police.

It was well known Eugene hated the police; loved to mess with them.

MUGWAZI had observed Eugene carefully during the time he held him in custody. He studied the way Eugene sat, motionless, his long legs thrown out in front of him. How his brilliant green eyes stared straight through his interrogators, the sneer never leaving his mouth.

He appeared dangerous, reminding Mugwazi of a caged leopard.

He had never been convicted of any crime, although word on the street told that to cross him was dangerous, sometimes fatal. Men who tried, ended up either dead or badly beaten. And no one fingered Eugene.

The police suspected him of leading a group of thieves who broke into houses and stole cars. Once again, no one dared sell Eugene out.

Mugwazi regretted that they did not have more information on file. The Police now had a massive situation, dead bodies, a heap of missing gold and no leads at all; nothing linking Eugene to the crime.

Mugwazi also had pressure from above. His immediate superior was, like Chooks, an ex-freedom fighter who did not like the idea of one of his own being a suspect in an armed robbery.

Trained in the days of Rhodesia, Mugwazi accepted there would always be tension between men like himself and officers like Nyakhumbi. Nyakhumbi had been handed his Inspectors bars immediately upon joining the force at the end of the war, by virtue of his rank in the freedom movement alone. It had taken Mugwazi years of study to attain that rank, and he wasn't convinced ex freedom fighters made good police officers anyway.

Eugene had a weak alibi; anyone could have carried his passport through the Botswana border post to get the necessary exit and entry stamps. One passport photo appeared much like another, and immigration officials hardly bothered to look at the passport holder before they stamped them.

Mugwazi still leaned towards Eugene for the robbery. Whoever this killer was, he valued money more than life. He was prepared to kill for money, would do anything for it.

Mugwazi was horrified to think of someone like that, roaming the streets of Bulawayo, ready to strike again whenever the feeling took him. It was why he had chosen to become a policeman. To remove cold blooded killers from the streets, put them away so they couldn't harm innocent citizens. On this occasion he had failed.
Chapter 13

LISA, head down and deep in thought, walked down the steps and across the pavement towards her car parked at the curb side.

A chauffeur held open the back door and as she moved towards it, she flicked a brief look up at him.

Her eyes widened and she gasped in shock. It was Eugene.

She fell into the back seat, her legs unable to hold her up.

Eugene shut her door and moving to the driver's side, climbed behind the wheel, joining the traffic smoothly.

Lisa paled and almost fainted. She had a thin line of sweat on her top lip, her lips felt numb and her fingertips tingled. She sat rigid in the back seat, unable to control the tears which slowly filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

Eugene drove some way along the road, and finding a parking, stopped the car. He removed his cap, and climbing into the back seat, reached over, drawing Lisa into his arms, stroking her hair and rubbing her back.

"Don't cry, Baby Doll. Aren't you happy to see me?" he soothed, "I came over especially to see you, and now you are crying." He comforted her, calmed her with his hands and hushed words spoken in her ear.

Lisa gulped and sobbed for several minutes into his shoulder, until she brought herself under control. "You gave me such a fright, but I am so happy to see you."

Eugene wiped her face with a handkerchief.

"I wasn't expecting you." she said, "How did you get over here and when?"

"You are full of questions, Babe. I am here, that's all you need to know, and also, I am in the house."

Lisa's eyes widened. "In the house," she whispered, "how did you do that?"

"Easy," he answered, "I'm screwing one of the maids."

He shook his head. "Man, these girls over here are loose," he said. "Anyway, I can pop her a pill, or give her a shot of whiskey, and then come visit you. No one the wiser."

Eugene took Lisa's face in both his hands and kissed her full on the lips. "I missed you, Baby Doll," he said, grabbing her by her elbows and pulling her towards him.

"SO," he asked, "where are we going?"

"I was going to the museum," she answered, "I told Gramps I was. Didn't they tell you when you brought the car round?"

"Sure they did. Is that where you want to go?" he asked, putting his cap on his head.

"Ah," she began, "Well... ah, now you are here it changes things. Will you come in with me?"

"Sure I will, if that's what you want," he replied, as he climbed back into the driver's seat.

### * * *

Tuesday 17th August

Eugene comes to my room at night, for ages. I know he only leaves in the early morning, because I wake up so late.

He still doesn't let me touch him unless he says so, and he hasn't done that yet, not once. He has bought lots of fun 'toys,' one of these are 'nipple clamps', that look a little like clothes pegs, but they have an adjustable screw so he can make them tight or loose, and also they have a hook so he can hang different weights on. At first, they were sore, and sensitive and the NEXT DAY, wow... it was amazing. I didn't wear a bra, and it felt so nice.

He also brought 'restraints' and put them on my ankles and wrists. They have rings on the sides, so he can tie me to things, or my legs to my wrists. Even writing about it makes me excited! He says he has lots of others, but I have to wait so he can slowly try them out, one by one.

Last night he came with a bundle of dry, fibrous rope, with a nice fresh smell. It's about as thick as my little finger and kind of scratchy. He bundled it together and rubbed it all over my body, across my nipples. He doubled it and pulled it from my knees up towards my tummy and back again. He put a piece around my throat and tightened it up and I could hear the blood roar in my head.

Then Eugene led me to the shiny wooden floor in front of the fireplace and pointed for me to lie down.

He pushed the rope under my back, brought it round to the front and tied it off. Comfortably, not tightly.

I liked the feeling of his hands on me, as he tied the knot and checked it was snug. He brought the two pieces of the rope together and pulling them down towards my feet, brushed his hands over my skin. Smoothing it down, over my stomach, stroking with his hands.

The large knot pressed into that bone, the one where Rose had left a little tuft. I dropped my head back onto the floor when he tied that knot. His knuckles touching my skin there, kneading, sent such waves of feeling through me that I had to rest my head and close my eyes.

He drew out two long loops from the knot. He slipped one loop on to my left leg, then the other over my right foot and up. As he tightened them, the rope chafed my already sensitive skin, the knot, bumped on that bone again. When Eugene tied the knot between my thighs, his fingers touched me and again, I couldn't watch, my head wouldn't stay up. The rope touched me, and his fingers touched me and I wanted more.

I could feel him pulling the loop, threading it first down one leg, and then the other. I felt his hands on my skin and saw his dark hair as he leaned over me. He stroked my legs, all the way down, and all the way back, his smooth hands contrasting with the rough rope.

I watched him again, pulling a loop, threading it down over my leg, tightening it up, adjusting the knots. He repeated this, right down, like stockings in a pattern...except I couldn't move.

The longer he went on, the more I felt I was caught, like a fish in a net. When he reached my ankles, he took the end of the rope and pulled my legs backwards, towards my bum and tied the rope off on my tummy. Round and round again, the scratchy rope sensitising me where it touches. Over my breasts and behind my back, I can feel his fingers moving against me and I want more, I want him to touch me more.

Then he does my arms, the same as my legs. Round, tie knot, twist in the middle. A big bundle at the wrists. He joins the two ends together and I am bent backwards.

I can relax into the rope. It is like they are holding me and Eugene sits in a chair and watches. Watches me for ages, until my body feels like it is floating away from me.

I can't say it is pain, it is beyond that. He walks over to me and grabs my hair, twists it around his hand and pulls me so he can kiss me, slides me on the shiny wooden floor. I feel completely at peace, completely in his control and it is where I need to be. I am never happier than in this place.

He licks me on my nipples, red from being squashed by the ropes. He licks me all over, kisses me, strokes me. I try to move to him, but I can't. I can only lie, and wait for him to move me to the place where I want to be.

Removing the ropes is as erotic as tying them up.

Chapter 14

EUGENE slipped into Lisa's room one night soon after ten, dressed in a black tracksuit and black canvas shoes.

Lisa, already in bed, wore only a short nightie of a light cotton weave.

Silent, her wide eyes tracked him, as he crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed next to her, hardly depressing the mattress.

Lisa loved this bed, a huge four-poster, with a canopied roof of a thick velvet material. She loved the feel of the carved, wooden posts and the headboard under her hands. She would never again touch a carved surface without remembering the times she spent tied to that bed, while Eugene tried out a succession of his new 'toys.'

He reached out and took the book she had been reading, closed it and put it on her bedside table. He pulled the light bedcover down, helped remove her pyjamas, and pulled her onto her knees. He slipped his canvas shoes off and climbed onto the bed directly in front of her, also kneeling on the bed. Lisa had her hands on her thighs, her eyes lowered.

"You will be beautiful one day; inside there you are beautiful. Soon," he said, stroking along her arms, over her breasts and to her stomach. Over and over. He ran his hands from her shoulders, down her arms, then slipped his fingers under hers, picked her hands up and pressed them against his face.

Lisa's head snapped up and she found herself looking directly into his green, green eyes. Leaning forward slightly he kissed her on the mouth, his lips soft against hers. Lisa slid her hands upwards, into his hair, his soft, slightly too long hair and pulled him against her, pushing further into his mouth.

Memories of the last time he had let her touch him surged through her, and she wanted to do that again, now.

His hair tingled the palm of her hands and between her fingers, his unshaven chin brushed rough and exciting against her cheek. She shifted her body closer to his to reach around to his ear and the skin on the side of his neck.

Eugene wasn't passive. He rubbed her back, kneaded her shoulders, held her around her waist. He brought one hand around to the front and his finger brushed over her nipple. Lisa jumped and yelped. He returned his hands to her back, stroking and massaging.

SHE ran her hands over his tracksuit jacket, but couldn't feel enough, it was too padded. With a frustrated growl, she reached down and ripped it off, over Eugene's head, leaving his chest and back bare for her to explore.

This time, Lisa didn't check with him to ask if she could continue, she greedily licked and nuzzled and stroked. Naked, the touch of her body against his excited her further.

Boldly, Lisa pulled down his tracksuit pants, certain of what she would find and she wanted it again.

She had lain in her bed so often dreaming of this, of licking and kissing and sucking his body into hers, of Eugene thrusting into her mouth, deep down.

Kneeling, Eugene brought her to the height to take him in her mouth, suck him down, down deeper. She held him with her hands, and as she had done before, she stroked down from his stomach, stroked his soft skin. Her hands slid around onto his tight butt and slightly higher to where his back muscles began.

His muscles flexed and jumped under her hands and it gave her a feeling of power.

Eugene began moving faster and Lisa held his hips with her hands, pulling him back and forward, completely lost in the moment until she heard him call her name. He grabbed her head and tilted it backwards.

Her eyes flew open, startled, caught mid stride. Streams of semen shot out, spraying all over her chest and face, running between her breasts. With a strangled cry she tried to put her mouth back, to catch the last, but he held her head tight in his hands.

She let go of him and almost sobbing, rubbed her hands on her chest, feeling the slimy, slippery liquid under her fingers.

Lisa flushed and frustrated, dropped her eyes from his. He gently pushed her down on the bed, against the pillows and wiped off her face and chest.

About to cry, she swallowed to stop her throat closing up. She hardly ever had a chance to touch him and now it was over.

Eugene pulled her onto her side, facing him. Lying with his chin in his hand, he watched her, his 'almost' smile hovering around his mouth, his strange eyes soft, shadowed by his long eyelashes.

In contrast, Lisa lay tense and near to tears, hands by her sides. She flashed a glance up at his face and away immediately, unsure if she could still touch him. He seemed relaxed, content. Like a big, lazy cat. Like the leopards at the zoo.

Without looking up, she reached out a hand and ran her finger tentatively, from his collarbone down his chest, along his rib cage. Opening her hand, she ran it up his hip to the top of his thigh. She jerked her hand away and laid it back on her hip. Eugene mirrored her action with his hand and Lisa gasped. She ran a finger from the middle of his chest, down to his stomach and waited to see if he did the same. He did. So she leaned forward and sucked his nipple, and he did the same and then...

Monday 23rd August

...And then I lost all sense of order. I didn't know who was touching who. I remember trying to wait for him to mirror what I did, but I think I became too impatient and I started touching, touching. He was hard again and I wanted him in my mouth, right down deep, deep inside me, but I also wanted to feel him, smell him more.

I remember climbing on him trying to smell his special smell, under his arms and around his neck and then...then suddenly I felt something round, hard, soft sliding into me, filling me and I stopped, dead still. I had to. I didn't want that feeling to go away, I didn't want that magical thick feeling to leave me. And it didn't, it moved in and filled me up and suddenly my attention was completely on finding that place. That place where everything disappears to one point. I had been there before, I know how, now.

He moved under me, I remember that, I remember that fluid glide. I also remember he had my breasts cupped in his hands his thumbs brushing slowly, slowly over my nipples and then I can't remember enough to write accurately. There was one place where my whole attention gathered and I stroked my way up, up, up, and over and I knew for a certainty Eugene was wrong when he said sex was nothing special.

He was very wrong.

I collapsed on top of him, my body slick with sweat. I felt my damp hair sticking to my neck and heard my breathing whistling.

I didn't want to slip off Eugene, but it seemed my bones were no longer holding me up. I was scared it was all over, that I would have to wait ages again to be able to touch him, but I couldn't stay up.

Eugene's body is magic. It is soft, so soft on the skin and so hard underneath. I love the way his muscles move underneath his skin. I love the way he moves. I think my breathing had almost slowed to normal when he shifted on the bed, sitting up and I wanted to cry, I thought he was leaving. But he didn't leave, I felt him back on the pillow beside me ripping open a packet with his teeth.

" _You wanna help me out here Lizaa," he said, with that wonderful voice of his and yes, I wanted to do that._

He was still hard, but I had never seen a condom let alone put one on. It was rolled tightly, looked like a coin and had to be peeled on.

This time, he moved over me and it took longer for me to find that one place, where my mind goes before it explodes.

He was wrong you know, sex wasn't like a cold coke, on a hot day. Nothing we have done so far compares with this feeling which is so right, everything fitting. It didn't end there, Eugene only left when I finally fell asleep.

### * * *

EUGENE sat next to Lisa watching her while she slipped further and further into sleep, sprawled face down, half out of the blankets, hugging the pillow under her chest. His cynical smile tugging his mouth, he counted his unused condoms and packing the used ones into a bag, slipped quietly out of her room.

As always, he walked his cat burglar walk, pausing first in the doorway; keeping to the walls.

Instead of going directly to his room, he went down the main stairs, avoiding the step that creaked, to the ground floor.

He trod over the lovely rug in the hall, thick and soft underfoot, to the door of the library. And because old habits die hard, he gently pushed the door with his hand and peeked inside before he slipped into the library.

A beautiful old room, in a beautiful old house. A house that would one day be Lisa's.

The room stretched two stories high, with layers and layers of books, old and modern, leather bound, hardback and paperback.

The wooden ladders gave access to the first few tiers and a narrow staircase followed the next layer in a spiral ensuring all the books could be accessed one way or another. A stained glass dome in the middle of the ceiling as well as little electric lights set into the base of each bookshelf, provided adequate lighting.

Eugene walked slowly around the room, touching the leather reading chairs, smoothing over the wooden balustrade, stepping on the large rug in the centre of the room. His eyes tracked around the room as if searching for something, until they alighted on a particular cabinet. He moved silently over to it, withdrew a book and opening the cover turned it to catch the light to better see the first page.

Satisfied, he quietly closed the book and tucking it under his arm, left the library as silently as he had entered it, making his way to his small room over the garage.

### * * *

Wednesday 25th August 1982

I love Bach. Johann Sebastian Bach. I should have come across him before. I read about him, but I suppose he lived so long ago, I wrote him off as redundant - you know old fashioned. But I think he is the father of all modern music. I'm ordering as many of his records, now while I am in England.

Why do I love him? - he helps me to relax, to get totally involved in the music, get lost I suppose - my brain is wired like his, I am sure.

He has these amazing progressions, which recur over and over sometimes in a different key and others in a different movement. Patterns, hundreds of them, some complex, others simple all through his music and I love patterns, that's why I love mathematics so much. It's so easy to make patterns, although they don't mean anything necessarily.

I can't say if I love Eugene. In some ways, I think I am in love with him, you know from what I pick up in books and from what others say about love, but in other ways I don't think I can be. I mean I always think about him and it makes me feel squishy in the tummy, and I like him touching me, and I have never liked that before, but I always want to do what he wants, and that is not love. I read that the girls are always 'spirited' and 'have a strong mind' and I am neither. They want their own way and the men always want them to have their own way (sort of) but Eugene doesn't. He wants me to do EXACTLY what he says, and I want to do exactly what he wants, and that is not spirited. So that is not love, well like it is in books. Also, he ties me up and he hurts me, and I like it and I have never, ever read that in books. Also, people in books start off all passionate and then they live together and then you don't get to hear what happens after that. Eugene says we can never live together. So we can't be in love.

I look at my parents and wonder if they are in love. I can't imagine my mother feeling for my father like I do about Eugene.

She is so cold, so perfect, so beautiful. Like a diamond

My father touches her, puts his hands on her, and it makes her look so small. His hands are so big and they are brown and she is so white and I don't think she likes it when he does that. I have never, ever seen her when she is not perfect, stiff.

When Eugene touches me I feel like a liquid, all runny.

### * * *

FOR the first time, Eugene allowed Lisa to be with him in the day time, in public. He told her they were safe in London. He said no one knew them there, and Lisa revelled in the experience.

They spent the days wandering around London, looking at the sights, sitting in parks, eating lunch in out of the way restaurants, or street side cafés. Eugene accompanied her to the hair dresser, and insisted she have a facial and a manicure. He bought her a few new outfits and bottle of perfume.

Lisa loved every moment of it, lived for the moment. When they went back to Zimbabwe, she would not be able to do this again.

As much as she loved the daytimes spent with Eugene on the streets of London, she loved the night times more, her four poster bed and the freedom of as many hours as in the night, alone with Eugene.

EUGENE insisted Lisa spend time with her grandfather, who seemed to enjoy her company, although he didn't admit as much.

When she first asked him to teach her about his profession, he gave her a few piles of books to read. Only after she devoured the pages in short time did he begin to show her the practicalities of working the stock market.

Lisa proved an apt student. She learned quickly and her grandfather never needed to explain anything about the graphs and numbers. He showed her how to read a balance sheet and how to interpret the financial columns. Left to read each and every company prospectus he had available, he asked her to work out which counters she would buy if she had one hundred thousand pounds.

"Remember," Lisa's grandfather said, "keep your strategy simple with stocks. Never look at the money value of any share, look to the numbers of a particular stock you own. Treat stocks like heaps of real commodities. If your research indicates gold are the correct counters to be buying whilst silver are the correct counters to be selling, then set about acquiring a heap of gold counters and selling your heap of silver counters, optimising the terms of your trades. Never count the monetary value of your portfolio at any particular time; after all, that value changes constantly and confuses the issue. Your focus should be upon adding as many shares to your portfolio of your chosen counters, the only relevance of price is with respect the relative numbers of counters exchanged on any day of trade. The enjoyment is in deciding which counters should be acquired and which should be released on any particular day."

By the end of the holidays, he decided he had a prodigy on his hands and allowed her to trade with a real portfolio rather than the shadow he had thought to teach her with. He recognised in his only granddaughter, a person with the qualities that made him an especially successful portfolio manager.

Lisa, far better with the mathematics than he had ever been, had a phenomenal memory. She could read a document once and never forget any detail.

He knew several people with photographic memories, a useless talent, if the knowledge could not be related to anything relevant.

Lisa's memory appeared to be contextual, and she could put together and relate quantities of data without knowing exactly how she reached a particular conclusion. Most people would call this 'gut feeling' but Lisa's grandfather knew it to be more than that. Her decisions were based upon all of the information in her head, on sound knowledge. No element of luck involved.

Lisa started out with a clean slate, unencumbered by prior prejudice. She read company prospectus' with a fresh eye, noticing trends easily. Quick to spot companies lagging behind the times, she identified several up and coming prospects in the 'software' sector.

Impressed with his only grandchild, Lisa's grandfather conceded admiration was not an emotion he commonly admitted toward anyone.
Chapter 15

Tuesday 14th September 1982

On Saturday, I met a dog. A gorgeous, light brown dog, with yellow eyes.

Sitting near the pool, hiding behind my dark glasses, and under my hat, I noticed him come around the corner of the house and stop. He stared directly at me. I am sure he did, although his eyes didn't move. He came up to me and said hello. He had a short stump of a tail and it wiggled, fast.

The mother of the guy who invited me came and shouted "kennel" at the dog, and he went away.

I heard her say he had opened the latch on the gate again and escaped. She says she would leave him out, but he knocks children over and looks fierce.

I thought he was beautiful. I haven't noticed dogs at any party before, maybe they are always shut away in the kennels.

I found him in a book I found in the library, he is a Weimerana. I wish I could have touched him, I wanted to. I have never touched an animal before. His coat was shiny, glossy and his eyes...steady.

When she called him away from me, he ran like he loved it, like he was so good at it, sort of rocked backwards and forwards as he ran, his large ears flapping happily.

I am much, much better at this whole meeting people and talking to them and going to their houses.

I couldn't have done it without Eugene though. He tells me all about the people, who they are, what they own, what he thinks they would be like.

Mostly, I try to be friendly with the girls. I am not pretty and they know the boys don't like me, so they don't mind, especially when I help them do things.

What I mostly like is that Eugene asks me all about the houses, where the doors are and what is in the house, videos and stuff, and what the fence is like. I know he wants to go into the house, because of the questions he asks, but I don't care. I want to do what he wants me to. I like the way he sits close to me and talks quietly in my ear and strokes my arms when I tell him.

I once left a window open for him to use and told him and he was annoyed. Well I presumed he was. His face had a look I have never seen before. His eyes became sharp (a little like my mother's) and his nose was tight near the edges. He told me I was never to do anything like that ever.

He didn't have to say what he would do if I didn't obey him. I know what he will do. And I could not bear it if I never saw him again.

I wonder why these people keep on inviting me, I mean Eugene told me it was because I am rich, but they never take my money. So what has that got to do with it? They do sometimes come and visit me at home - I add them to the list of people to invite for my mum's Saturday parties. At first I was worried she wouldn't like me there, but it's like she doesn't notice; like I am a guest too. Except she doesn't go around giving me drinks or talking to me.

One of the boys kissed me, about three weeks ago at a party in Hillside. It was really strange. I felt nothing, well other than yuk. He grabbed me by my shoulders and pulled me towards him and I didn't like it. Eugene told me to pretend it was him doing that, but I couldn't really pretend very well. The guy didn't do it again and I hope he doesn't.

I wonder what they would think if they knew I kiss a coloured boy... coloured man.

Most white people in Bulawayo would still not like it if their daughter had a coloured boyfriend and certainly not be very happy if they knew he touched her all over.

### * * *

23rd September 1982

It's so hard to make anyone understand that I can't do some things. Sometimes I want to do things and I try and I find I can't do them and I want to, and then I feel like crying. Like going into a shop. I can't describe what I feel like, just I am scared.

The other thing people can't understand about me is that I forget. Plain forget things. I think Sister Mary Margaret sort of understands, or maybe she likes it cos I get high results at school.

The other day I forgot to go to swimming at 3.00pm. I became involved in a book and then next thing I knew, my driver was looking for me. I only stayed at school so I could go to swimming and then I forgot and the swimming teacher didn't believe me so she gave me detention.
Chapter 16

INSPECTOR Brewster scrubbed his face with his hands, pushed back his chair and stood. He had put off the moment too long already. It was now 3.30pm and although this day featured as one of his worst, it would not get any better when he arrived home.

First thing in the morning he had received confirmation the 'red brigades' had swept through Kezi, and killed many people. They burnt homes, sometimes with people inside, murdered and raped, and the regular police had been forced to stand by. This was Zimbabwe, and the red berets were deployed to rid the rural population of 'dissidents.'

Police personnel were instructed to house the Gukurahundi, as they were commonly called, at police stations and to turn a blind eye to the 'killing fields,' in rural areas.

Paul had learned from discussions with his wife's relatives who lived in Kezi that the Gukurahundi had set up in several locations. He had felt inadequate when asked what they should do if the red brigades came to their farms.

Many people, including foreigners and local townspeople had stereotyped ideas of what went on between white farmers and their black staff. It was often a much closer, more inter-dependent relationship, than many imagined existed. All relationships were different too, from family to family and farm to farm.

Martha's family had lived on Sylvia's family farm for as long as anyone could remember.

Paul, although greatly indebted to Martha, had never developed any sort of verbal rapport with her. He depended totally on her to look after his wife, yet they never once mentioned the fact that Sylvia started drinking soon after lunch.

He relied on Martha to look after his home, feed him and his family. All he gave back: an unvoiced appreciation, a tiny room next to the garage and a pathetic wage at the end of the month.

Martha had been the rock when their daughter drowned, quietly going about her daily chores, ensuring food arrived on the table, clothes were washed and the house cleaned. On every occasion he had been ambushed on the roads, or away on patrol for long periods of time, Martha had been there for Sylvia when Sylvia took refuge in the bottle.

Martha, not a person who displayed an excess of emotion had a flat face with slightly oriental slope to her eyes. She had grown round over the years, and he had never seen her without a 'dook' on her head. She wore simple clothing and 'pata pata takkies' (canvas shoes worn by many working women) and an apron, when at work. Although she didn't smile or laugh much, she was not a morose person. David liked her and they too had a working relationship. She never reprimanded him, yet remained authoritative enough to keep him in line.

The bottom line is we all respect her, he thought. A poorly educated woman, born and brought up on a farm in south western Zimbabwe who would not have earned the same respect out of this situation, and he would now have to tell her she had no family left at all.

The red berets had come last night and killed everyone. Her brothers, sisters, aunts, mother, granny. Their houses burnt to the ground. Everyone, all killed in one night.

Paul thanked a god he no longer believed in, that it was school term, and Robbie was in Bulawayo. He could easily have been at home and would have perished along with the rest of the family.

Paul had seen too often the effects of wholesale massacres, when he had been working in the rural areas during the war. The people spared were often left with guilt issues, haunted by questions: 'Why was I left out? Why was I not there too? Do I deserve to live?'

The Ndebele, the tribe to which Martha belonged, have a need for family, and for proper burial rites and procedures. People murdered and their bodies taken away and thrown down mine shafts or otherwise disposed of caused spiritual problems with those left living. Whilst Paul did not understand these issues, he respected them. Closure in death is important for most cultures and he accepted Martha's needs would be different to his.

He still did not have any idea what to say to her. It was a given he would help her financially, continue to educate Robbie, but how could he tell her she could not go home to bury her family?

When Paul reached home, he had to open the lock on the gate himself. Usually Martha organised for it to be opened by the gardener at about 4.30pm. Unaware of her afternoon schedule, or if she took a rest after lunch, he passed through the kitchen. He eventually found her in the laundry room with Robbie and David, the two boys doing their homework at a desk against the window.

David had never seen his father in the laundry, or back from work so early. He glanced at Martha and back at his father. He and Robbie stood up and left.

The bush telegraph had obviously reached Martha. At least he didn't need to break the news to her, Paul thought with relief.

"I'm sorry, Martha," he began. She seemed normal, except her face appeared tight, especially around her eyes. It did not appear as if she had been crying, which made Paul relieved and guilty all at the same time. He stared down at his shoes shaking his head slightly.

"Nothing you could do, Inspector," she said.

The silence stretched out, "I will have to go there," she said.

Paul had been told there were no bodies and the village had been entirely destroyed. The bodies had been removed to an unknown location although the local police knew remains were usually dumped in a quarry or down mine shafts or pushed into drinking wells. The houses had been burnt and many of them had fallen down in the heat. She would find little more than a few scattered possessions, cooking pots and the like, perhaps a few chickens and skinny goats.

"There are no bodies," Paul said.

Martha looked up at him, puzzled, a frown on her face.

"The houses are all burnt up. They took the bodies. I heard from the police there. They are not allowed near the place, but the madam's brother went to look, he found nothing."

Sylvia's brother Mark, who had phoned this morning told him he had gone anyway. The village had been on his farm and the people killed, his workers.

Paul warned him to back off, although this advice went against his principles, both as a policeman and as a man.

The Ndebele were mixed up in a political argument which had nothing to do with them, they had done nothing except be born into the wrong tribe.

Conscious for some time of political tension between the so called partners in the new black government, he saw this tension manifesting itself in the countryside. Any farmer, or policemen for that matter, who refused to keep his nose out of this politics would likely end up dead too.

He was convinced a white farmer, who brought in a foreign journalist to witness heaps of dead bodies, had been killed. He didn't want the same thing to happen to Mark. The killing had been dressed up as another 'dissident' attack and retribution in the area, against innocent people resulted.

He looked across at Martha who had an empty, uncomprehending look on her face. This kind of event had no precedent in her experience and she did not know how to accept the finality of it.

"All of them dead? Everyone?"

"We don't know enough yet, but in some other places there have been survivors, children who ran away and hid in holes or up trees, people who were away visiting and happened to be from home. But this happened at night..." he broke off. Both of them were aware rural people went to bed early and most would have been in their beds when the red brigades came. "Mr Cloete is looking and will let me know if he hears anything. He is also very sad and sends his regards to you."

Martha nodded as if she understood, but she had stopped processing what he said.

"Please tell me what you want to do and if you want anything from me," Paul asked her, "but if possible, wait a few days in case they come back, they will know people who they missed may come back and also other family."

PAUL did not fully understand the reasons behind these killings. Martha's family had lived on the Cloete farm for generations and although there were several members of the family who had joined the liberation fighters and the ZIPRA army, they were mostly either back living at home, or in South Africa struggling to get jobs. He doubted the north Korean trained fifth brigade as the red berets were formally known, had any positive proof that any member of her family had been involved in the dissident movement. Joshua Nkomo had been forced to flee, with reports abounding that there had been a mass mobilisation of his troops. Police intelligence disputed these rumours. The red brigade seemed to be indiscriminately killing people. They were succeeding in terrifying the population. They were cruel and efficient.

Martha asked the question Paul had been dreading, "Why? Why do they kill everyone? The children, old people? Why take the bodies? How do we end this?"

"I don't know Martha. I am a policeman and I am supposed to stop this happening, and I can do nothing. I don't know what they want or how to stop it."

After a pause, he asked, "Does Robbie know?"

She shook her head, "I only heard at lunch time."

"Do you want me to tell him?" Paul asked, hoping she would refuse. He didn't know Robbie well. Theirs was not a close relationship. He felt more distant from Robbie than Martha and had no idea how he would broach the subject.

Martha shook her head, "I will tell him."

### * * *

"WHAT do you mean, all dead?" asked David.

"That's what they said. The Gukurahundi came and killed everyone."

David shook his head slightly from side to side, as if trying to process what Robbie had told him.

"Why?" he asked.

Robbie shook his head and shrugged.

"You mean everyone, you know, kids... everyone?"

Robbie nodded again.

"When?"

"Last night. The Inspector came and told Martha just now."

The news his father had to give Martha had to be serious, David had never seen his father come home so early from work and he had a serious look on his face.

Sitting in their favourite place, their backs against the garage wall, he didn't know what to say to Robbie, couldn't understand why anyone would want to kill a whole village of people. How could they? Surely someone should be stopping them?

"Who is the gook gook... whatever that word is?"

"Gukurahundi, it's the nick-name for the fifth brigade. Army. They've been around, you know, done this before. We heard about it some time ago, but they were far away then. Up till now they stuck to the communal areas not the farms, so we thought we were safe. In the communal areas they throw people down wells, often alive. Then they shut the tops, and go away. Can never use those wells again. I mean, would you?"

David shook his head. "Army? It's the army killing people?"

David decided he had to speak to his father about this, Robbie wasn't making much sense. He couldn't believe the army would be killing people and anyway, he didn't know what to say to Robbie. What could anyone say to a friend who had lost his entire family. David knew most of the people who had been killed. He had sat with Robbie listening to Robbie's gogo tell stories, had eaten sadza with him and other kids in the family huts, collected cattle and goats with them.

Robbie's family lived about 2km from the Bezuidenhout's homestead, a cluster of about six huts and several 'kitchens' or open sided huts in which the women cooked and the kids played in and sometimes slept in. When they went to Kezi for the school holidays, David would mostly stay with his mother's grandparents, who had more room. His own grandparents, housed three of his uncles and their families. David couldn't imagine what the farm must look like, the smouldering huts and the missing people.

He eventually went looking for his father, to ask him for an explanation, but when he went into the house, his parents were in their room. In the evening, his mum played the piano and David knew when she did that, he couldn't interrupt. His father sat watching her, his head against the couch back.

THE next day when he arrived home from school, he found Robbie already at the table in the laundry doing his homework and Martha ironing sheets. David, shocked to find them there had presumed they would be gone, gone home to Kezi. It seemed almost surreal, as if nothing had changed, and what Robbie told him yesterday was not true.

He slipped into his chair, pulled out his homework and tried to concentrate on it.

His father had not been forthcoming about what had happened, but David's uncle Mark proved the opposite. He arrived at the house shortly before Paul Brewster returned from work. David heard from him how the fifth brigade soldiers had come to the farm in the middle of the night, herded entire families into huts and set them on fire. They shot anyone trying to escape, shot most of the animals and moved on to the next farm. His uncle Mark had lost almost his entire labour force in one night.

The fifth brigade had been sent in to weed out 'dissidents' he said, and raged on about how small children and old women 'must be' dissidents too.

The whole affair was incomprehensible to David. He couldn't understand why so many people had been killed, and by the army, whom he thought protected people. He also couldn't understand why his father cautioned Uncle Mark to keep out of it. His father called it politics. David thought politics were speeches made by people on TV. How could that have anything to do with the army killing small children and goats? Uncle Mark spoke to Martha and Robbie for ages in Ndebele, and then climbed into his old beat up land-rover and roared off down Cecil Avenue.

The following day, Friday, Paul Brewster resigned his position at the Hillside Police Station and took up the post at a large firm in Bulawayo as the 'losscon' manager.
Chapter 17

12 October 1984

It's difficult to describe Bulawayo in October. The heat, the unbearable heat.

Temperature is a difficult thing to describe. Feelings, emotions, sensations. Trying to describe or recall them is difficult. To describe what happens when it's hot or when Eugene touches me, or better still, when Eugene allows me to touch him, is much easier.

In October the tar melts underfoot, and becomes sticky. If I were to walk on the road without shoes, it would, scorch my feet.

Everything is dry, the clouds build up only to blow away, and sweat runs freely. There are fires too. All because of the relentless heat. October in Bulawayo is unpleasantly hot.

By October, there is usually water rationing. Not only is it hot, but gardens are dying and the bath is only half full and the shower only two minutes long. Of course, that doesn't apply to me. My mum simply pays the fines to the City Council. We flush the loo as normal and bath as usual. We have a borehole for the garden, so the lawn remains green and lush, and the pool sparkles blue. But I've read about the drought and the water rationing, and heard some of the girls talking about it.

You don't want to be doing anything too much if you can help it, outside in October; except swim, of course. I love the cool water on my skin, love the feel when I slice through.

The Convent pool is as always, crystal blue. The black lines wave clearly from the bottom against the white tiles. Since Form One, I have never seen a speck of green in the Convent pool. But that is the Convent: the classroom floors are always polished, the lunch tables always cleaned, the loo's sparkling.

The nuns, always fussy.

You can't wear stiletto heels in the hall, it does more damage than an elephant, they say. You must cross the road at the pedestrian crossing, and you have to wear a swimming cap in the pool. And thank goodness for that. Imagine coming across someone else's hair in the pool!

My hair has now grown about half way down my back and Rose carefully trims all the dead ends. It's still thick and unmanageable, but I pull it into a tight band at the back of my head, so when it goes greasy, it is not too noticeable.

Rose says it doesn't matter that it goes greasy, she says it means it can be washed more often. She says it will look nice all the time.

Rose has promised to come and keep house for me when I leave school and look after me and of course, I want to believe it's possible.

But I only believe it because Eugene says it will happen.

Left to myself, I would never be able to go off and live in a flat on my own, learn to be an estate agent. I would stay at home, finish my 'A' levels, be pushed into going on to university. I don't want to do any of that, don't want to marry a man acceptable to Papa or travel. Left on my own, that's what will happen.

I'm going to block the whole problem from my mind. Leave it to Eugene to make plans.

Except, he says there are a few things only I can do. I have to go for a job interview, and I have to go and see my father.

I didn't want to get a job. I wanted to stay in my flat, work the stock market.

We have discussed my future many times, my money, what I should do when I leave school. Eugene has always insisted that my money is my own, to do with as I please.

Last week, we were in our little room, Eugene sitting opposite me on the piano stool, when I once again brought up the possibility of remaining in my flat, working the stock market. Studying by correspondence, perhaps.

" _But you already know how to work the stock market. You have already doubled your portfolio. You need to learn what to do with the money you make. I know you will make much more." he paused for a bit and then said softly, "I'm very proud of you, Babe."_

Shocked, I looked up, right into his eyes, and I got such a rush, almost as strong as when he touches me.

So I agreed to have the interview. I will do anything to make him look at me like that again.

And my father. I have to see him too. I'm not that scared of him. He has never hurt me, but he hasn't taken an active role in my life. Too busy running a multimillion dollar business, I guess.

I am still terrified of my mother. I avoid her if I can, and if I can't, I hide behind my blank face. Luckily she isn't interested in me. It would be far worse if she were. If I were forced to discuss my plans with her, my new flat, job, things wouldn't go as planned, unless of course, the plan coincided with her wishes.

Chapter 18

LISA had never been into her father's offices which were located in a tall, old fashioned building built with red sandstone, close enough to the Convent for her to easily walk there.

Aside from the Van der Linde Corporation Southern African headquarters, the building housed a few insurance companies and several law firms.

Not surprisingly, the VLC offices were plush, but in an old fashioned way. They had continued the old world theme of the building in the furnishings inside their offices.

Eugene told her she would push open the double doors and find a receptionist. He described the reception room, the blinking lights on the telephone, the antique desk and most importantly the receptionist who scrutinised Lisa with raised eyebrows.

"I would like to speak to my father, Mr Van der Linde, please. My name is Lisa."

Lisa thought the receptionist's eyebrows would disappear entirely into her hair line at this unusual request.

"Please take a seat," she said, directing Lisa to the waiting room sofa. Lisa watched her pick up the telephone and minutes later followed her along a wooden panelled corridor to her father's office, her stomach churning unpleasantly.

She dreaded this, although Eugene had described the inside of the office in detail.

"How do you know what my father's office looks like?" Lisa had asked.

Eugene's only reply had been to tilt his head to one side and smile, his cynical smile. Lisa remembered it as she was shown through the door, and almost smiled too.

Johann Van der Linde, already standing behind his desk, seemed larger and more intimidating than normal, dressed in corporate clothing, king of his imposing castle.

He was a huge bear of a man, with enormous hands, massive shoulders and legs, and a mane of dark bushy hair, only beginning to turn grey.

Eugene had told her Johann would either have a fierce look on his face or a genial one. He instructed her to blur her eyes when looking at him if he had the former and smile if he had the latter. Lisa blurred her eyes anyway, and smiled.

"Lisa," her father boomed. "Welcome. You have never been into my office before. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Lisa's father spoke with a slight accent, pronouncing welcome 'velcome' and this as 'zdis'.

He moved around the desk, and taking Lisa's arm above the elbow, directed her over to a group of leather upholstered chairs in the corner of the room. He settled himself in one opposite her and invited her to talk.

"I will be finishing school at the end of this year and I need to sort out somewhere to stay." Lisa paused, watching her father to see how he reacted to this announcement. When he didn't, she continued.

"I applied for a job as a trainee estate agent with Bicknim Agencies, I have been accepted and will start working in January next year. I have found a flat which I would like to buy, and need you to authorise the release of funds."

Her father digested her news quickly, and made up his mind equally quickly. She had presented him with a fait-accomplis. He could either try to bully her to change her mind, or go along with her plans.

The genial look gone from his face, Johann Van der Linde switched to Dutch.

"According to the terms of the trust fund set up by your grandfather, you have control of a chunk of money when you leave school. If I remember correctly, your grandfather was specific this was not age dependent. If you are leaving school at the end of this year, you will be able to access this money on the last day of school.

"I am aware you and your grandfather have been playing around with stocks for a while, obviously you will be free to continue to do so without his restrictions. When you leave school, the money you will receive will be plenty adequate to buy something as small as an apartment. If I correctly recall, you will come into your full inheritance when you are twenty-one years old with no constraints at all. I will direct you to our lawyer who can go over the fine details with you."

Pushing his hands together he continued.

"The lawyer responsible for your trust is in the UK, but you can deal through ours here at first if you wish. You will also, at twenty-one years old, become a minority shareholder of this company, the Van der Linde Corporation and you will be eligible to a seat on the board of directors. Of course this is sometime in the future," he added, dismissively.

"Now," he boomed, switching back to English, "this apartment, flat, you call it. Why are you buying an apartment? Why do you not look for a house? An apartment is so small, and restrictive, and little room to entertain. And in Borrow Street," he screwed his face in disgust. "Girl, that is not a good place, it's on the street. It's noisy and ...public. No, I will look around for a house for you."

"No, papa I want to buy this flat, well...it is the top floor of a block of flats. It is convenient for the job I am taking; it is close enough to walk. I will need to renovate it though and that is why I need the money released."

The appreciation that Lisa could simply wait until she left school and would have enough money to do what she wanted, was writ large on Johann Van der Linde's face.

"OK, so why only buy the one floor, why not buy the whole block of flats and you can have your privacy? You can add things, I don't know, a lift or a car park. Is there a lift?"

Lisa's voice was soft in contrast to her father's booming one.

"Well, not all the flats are for sale at the moment. Only recently have any flats become available and it was one of the reasons I chose that block. I can buy the whole top floor and renovate it to my tastes. I can buy other flats as and when they become available, and working at Bicknim, I will be in a good position to do that."

Johann van der Linde stared at his daughter.

"I see you have it all planned out. What about the renovations? Do you have them organised too?"

"Well," she said vaguely, "the lady at Bicknim gave me the name of someone she knows, but I have not yet contacted anyone. I needed to know when we would start first."

Johann Van der Linde smiled, "Well my girl, you seem to know what you want. Would you like me to speak to the contractor?"

"Perhaps, thank you Papa, but I need to start learning to do things on my own, but I promise I will come to you if I need any help."

Eugene had suggested Lisa use this strategy with her father. A typical male chauvinist, her father firmly believed women simply couldn't function in certain areas. Eugene was fairly sure Johann Van der Linde would forget about the whole project allowing Lisa to continue without the need for any 'help' from her father.

"I think you can go ahead and speak to my lawyer, I wish you were going to move into a better area," he grumbled, shaking his large head, "the town centre, it is not safe, is it? And it's noisy."

Lisa stood up in an attempt to bring the interview to a close.

"It will do me fine for the moment, I can think of buying something else later when I am more settled."

Eugene had given Lisa several variations of this line. She could have said 'it will do me fine now, while I am single,' or 'until I decide if I want to stay in Zimbabwe,' depending on how she gauged her father's reaction. Lisa, well aware her father would want his only daughter to live in a plush neighbourhood, hoped he would not try to interfere. She hoped he would be too busy and simply forget about her as he appeared to do most of the time.
Chapter 19

LISA climbed up three flights of stairs to her new home. Unpretentious? Yes. But that suited her perfectly. No gardeners to have to talk to, no lawns to mow or swimming pools to clean. No room for parties. No one would want to visit her here, on a busy street corner, opposite a brown, government school playground.

The money to purchase, renovate and furnish it had been released by her father's lawyers and she was now the proud owner of all four flats on the top floor. She had visited there when she purchased the flats, but had not been back.

Eugene and Rose had taken over the renovations and furnishings and Lisa had been content to leave it all to them. She had concentrated on her 'M' levels with her usual single minded determination. Now it was all over, she could move on and begin her life, and Lisa was excited. Excited she would be able to spend time with Eugene that was not stolen time. No more meetings at the Academy, no more excitement in her bedroom, in London.

She reached the top floor and walked past three doors to the flat she was to occupy and realised she felt tense. The kind of tenseness she had never before experienced with Eugene. Or Rose, for that matter, except for her first couple of appointments at the boutique more than two years ago now.

They would be in the flat expecting her reactions to their renovations, perhaps comments about the furnishings. Lisa was often at a loss about what to say in such circumstances, or if she did say something it would be the wrong thing.

She took a deep breath, and pushed the door open to a small narrow hallway, with a wooden display cabinet on the right against the wall. On the top of this cabinet, close to the door sat a carved silver bowl and behind it a matching, antique invitation holder.

Lisa almost felt compelled to put her keys into the bowl, it felt so right. In the middle of the cabinet a round vase of flowers graced a lace cloth. Three original paintings hung on the left hand wall and a patterned rug lay on the floor.

The flat was quiet, little street noise filtering through the walls although a busy road ran directly below.

Lisa moved forward, left through an archway into the lounge, taking in the furnishings: the chairs, the carpets, a small dining table in one corner.

She was uncertain about what she should feel; how normal people would react if they stood in a room prepared only for them.

She moved through the lounge into a short passageway beyond, glanced into a room on the left furnished as her office, a narrow toilet opposite. Then still on the right, the kitchen. She assumed Eugene would be waiting for her in her bedroom, the door at the end of the passage.

She had not practised anything to say about her new home, unsure about what he would expect from her. She delayed entering, looking instead at the decorations on the wall. Lovely little watercolours of flowers in delicate silver frames; pansies and cosmos, rose petals and irises.

The flat still seemed quiet, although she could hear the fridge humming gently in the kitchen and a slight traffic noise penetrating the walls.

Eventually, she pushed open her bedroom door and walked inside. It was sparsely furnished with a large bed, canopied with a mosquito net and two bedside tables each with Chinese looking lamps on them. Two comfortable chairs with a low circular table between had been positioned in one corner next to the glass door leading to the balcony. The combination of the glass door and the two windows on either side of it ensured most of that wall let in the strong African light and were draped with heavy plain curtains. The floor was carpeted in beige, the rest of the colour scheme matching. The wood, unpainted dark mahogany and other trims a darker shade than the carpet. The smallish room adjoined another, fitted with cupboards along both walls, filled with clothes, shoes, belts and handbags. Colour coded and organised. Rose, Lisa guessed with a slight smile.

"Eugene," Lisa called out softly, "Rose, are you here?"

Silence answered her.

The flat is empty, she thought. Rose and Eugene had left her to explore on her own. They had created a perfect place for her, one she would not have been able to make on her own, and left her to explore it alone the first time.

Lisa plopped down on the bed, lying back with her hands over her face. Once again, Eugene had got it right. He always had. Right from the first day, he saw inside her, her fears and her strengths.

Jumping up, Lisa hurried back to her office, where Eugene knew she was confident. Clearly incomplete, it contained the bare essentials: a desk, probably antique, a small commode with a kettle and a lovely tea set laid ready on a silver tray. The tea leaves were in a delicate little pottery pot which matched the tea set to perfection.

Lisa picked it up, opened the lid and sniffed. She pressed the button on the kettle and heard it start up. Milk. She presumed it would be in the kitchen, in the fridge and decided to collect it later.

She noticed a cupboard below the tea things and opening it, found a tiny little fridge containing milk and a small plate prepared with cheese, pickled onions and a few celery sticks.

For her. All for her. Why? Why did Eugene do this? She knew why Rose did: because Eugene asked her to. Did Eugene only do things for her because she had entrée to wealthy people's houses he would later rob? Was it worth all this effort? Was she?

Lisa sat down in her office chair, gazing blankly out of the window at the playground opposite and the brown school building beyond.

Eugene and Rose's motives were beyond her understanding, as were most personal relationships. She had never understood her parents, had never connected with any servants and felt only affection for her grandfather.

Did she love anyone, as discussed around the swimming pool on Saturdays at Hillside parties or as written in literature? She didn't know. She didn't know what love felt like, but she felt extremely grateful for her new home. Grateful to Eugene and Rose.

They, like no one else, knew she didn't know how to dress, or how to buy clothes. That given her way, would go to the hairdresser when she remembered and never wear makeup. They knew she would do her most productive work in this office and needed to be comfortable, safe and alone. So they set it up, that she could be.

### * * *

Wednesday 05th December 1984

This is the first day of my new life.

By the time Eugene and Rose arrived I was together again and I didn't have to make up anything about the flat.

It was perfect.

I loved it and I couldn't wait to begin the rest of my life.

Rose lives at the other end of this floor and she can get to me through the back door from my kitchen out on the fire escape.

Eugene says he will show me the other changes he has made to the flats when I am settled in. He is going to have supper with me, I can't wait. He is gone now, so I have a little time to write here in my diary, for the first time in my new life. I have started a new one, a new soft, leather bound diary, especially in honour of this day.

### * * *

Thursday 06th December 1984

Rose woke me up at six this morning with some tea.

I had a lovely bath, deep and full of scent and a massage. And then she changed me completely. When she finished, I couldn't believe it was me.

She plucked my eyebrows into two huge arcs, removing that clump of hair above my nose. She washed my hair and set it in a fancy way, and when she did my nails, she put coloured polish on them.

I asked her why she waited for so long to do this, to change me like this and she said it was what Eugene wanted.

I wish she had done it before; I look much nicer now.

Today, Rose selected my clothing and helped me dress. I have always had to do that on my own. I have always stood in front of my closet, clueless about what to wear, eventually picking up whatever lay on the top of the pile.

I liked it all, very much.

Now, all I have to do is wait for Eugene.
Chapter 20

LISA had one month to kit out her office before she started work and she set about it immediately.

Her IBM PC had arrived. Although computers were neither common, nor something she had been taught at school, she decided they were the face of the future. She purchased a few programs and set about installing them. This entailed several days of reading and rereading the instruction manuals. Frustrating work, but Rose left her to it without interruption.

Her telex was installed and she had a separate telephone number so she could continue to speak to her Gramps each week as she had for the last few years.

Her car had arrived, and she loved it. A second-hand, red VW beetle; ordinary, inconspicuous. No one would give her a second look when she climbed out of her plebeian bug.

Lisa began to swim at the Borrow Street swimming pool. She didn't notice any strained muscles although she felt tired after her laps, thankful Eugene had chosen this form of exercise for her. She had always struggled to run, and he insisted she keep fit and trim.

She had been in her flat almost a week when she walked through the door after a long session in the pool to find a square, off white envelope in her invitation holder. Intrigued, she opened it to find a card with a picture on it and 'Lisa' written in a swirly font. Puzzled, she went through to ask Rose what it meant.

"Well," Rose replied. "Eugene is coming tonight. I'm sure he will explain."

Lisa hadn't seen him since the day she moved in and often wondered when he would come by again, but did not know how to contact him.

### * * *

EUGENE arrived in time for dinner, which they ate at Lisa's cosy little table for two in the corner near the passage to the kitchen.

Intimate yet practical, they sat together and ate the meal Rose cooked and served. Three courses of perfectly prepared food, and at the end Eugene drank a small brandy allowing Lisa a few sips from his glass.

He explained he would communicate with her by sending her cards with pictures on them, and they would add to the pictures as they needed new ones. He told her playfully he would let her draw some of them. Lisa felt the breath catch in her throat when he said that. He meant something else, other than an art activity.

The first one simply showed a small circular dinner table with two chairs. Dinner, here in her flat, he said it meant. He pulled another one out of his pocket and showed it to her. A stick figure, drawn kneeling.

"You know that one, don't you?" he asked, and she nodded.

"I want to show you something," he said, leading her to her hallway.

He stopped in front of the huge batik wall-hanging set midway along the wall of the entrance hall. The batik was full length, made with vibrant colours and intricate patterns and when he pushed it to one side she discovered it hid a doorway. Eugene reached around her and opened it, gesturing her through, following close behind her.

She could feel his protective body around hers and it made her feel safe.

She stopped, staring around the dimly lit room at the strange furniture dotted about it. Immediately to the right of the door, lay a thick rug, blue, red and gold, about the size of a prayer mat.

Her gaze slid from a leather topped table, to an X shaped wooden frame attached to the wall, to a series of whips and canes and flat things hanging on another frame.

"This is my playroom, Lisa," said Eugene quietly, "I will introduce you to it slowly."

The room had no windows and like her flat, had been remodelled. At the other end from where she stood, was a bathroom and toilet, and against the far wall a huge four poster bed, covered with a scarlet bed-cover.

"This is my room, Lisa. I call all the shots here, and you come in as my visitor and on my express command."

Eugene's voice although quiet, developed an edge to it, a commanding tone, to which Lisa always responded. It reminded her of the first time she had met him and she reacted as she had on that occasion.

"I have a gift for you, Lisa. I hope you will keep them forever, when I am no longer in the picture. To remember me by."

Lisa shook her head, her brain skittering away from the idea she would ever be without him.

He smiled slightly, picked up a small black leather bag and shook out the contents.

She recognised nipple clamps, the leather wrist and ankle restraints he had used many times and a pair of shiny handcuffs. They were new to her. She reached out and ran her finger along them, along the engraving. Lisa. Her name, in a swirly font.

"Your golden bracelets," he said, with his wicked sneer.

From out of a black, velvet bag, Eugene withdrew a soft piece of material, gossamer thin, hand-painted in brilliant colours.

"It's silk," he said.

He withdrew a single thread from the edge and holding it up in front of her eyes tugged, until it broke in half.

"Our bond is like a silk thread. One thread is easy to break. Woven..." he snapped the scarf between his hands, "it's very strong. Weave us, Lisa."

Lisa stared up at him, struggling to read his expression.

Slowly, she sank to her knees and placed her hands, palm up on her thighs, her eyes down; the position Eugene had taught her more than two years ago.

She couldn't say things as well as he did, could only show him. She had no idea how to weave anything, or what he meant. She would do whatever he wanted so long as he didn't leave her, so long as he continued to direct her life.

She accepted his terms, whatever they were.
Chapter 21

LISA began work at Bicknim on the third of January, in the accounts department. Mrs Simpson, her new boss, intended Lisa remain there for three months, moving on to the maintenance section, eventually rotating through all the departments.

Nervous at first, she discovered she could hide out in the back office with two other women, one of them in her mid-fifties, the other, mid-twenties. Both smoked almost non-stop.

She quickly concluded they were incompetent and lazy, had sorted out for themselves a niche and spread the work out to make sure they appeared constantly busy. They were only too happy to have a trainee working in their department.

Lisa regretted she had not done 'commercial' at the Convent: accounts, shorthand and typing. It would have been much more useful once she left school, than the 'academic' subjects she had done.

She bought the books the girls at the Convent would have used and studied them. Bookkeeping posed no problem with her maths skills. She struggled with typing, until PC Magazine, included a free program, a fun game with letters 'falling' from the top of the screen which she had to 'shoot' by pressing the correct letter.

Lisa put her time in the accounts department to good use, by writing a program to do all the accounts on her computer. She installed it onto her home computer and began using it to ensure it worked, mirroring the Bicknim accounts.

HER life settled into a routine. Routine suited her. Rose woke her at 6.00am with tea, opening the heavy curtains to the rising sun. She would complete a short exercise routine, followed by a bath and a massage. Rose would do her make-up and hair.

On swimming days, Rose would meet Lisa at the entrance to the pool, help her into her swim-suit and swimming cap, and help her redo her hair and makeup once she had finished.

She would arrive home to another routine: drop her keys into the silver bowl, glance hopefully at the small invitation holder. Her pre-dinner routine would be the same whether she had a card or not.

Lisa didn't like to make predictions or guesses. She didn't like excitement. Usually it relied on a surprise and except for her sessions with Eugene in his play room, she didn't like surprises.

Towards the end of the time Lisa spent in the accounts department, she came home to find Eugene sitting on her couch.

He rose when she came in and greeted her.

"Lisa," he said with the strange inflexion only he used when saying her name.

Lisa's heart rate jumped at the sound. Eugene did not often call her by her name other than in his playroom, and it never failed to excite her.

"Ah, hello," she replied, pleasure lighting her face.

She did not have a card in her invitation holder, but hoped he would stay and eat with her. She loved it when he did that, encouraging her to talk, teaching her how to learn.

He brought her books: company law, accountancy, philosophy. On some occasions he spoke to her, or they watched videos. They practised scenarios, when he would pretend to be a doctor, or a shop assistant and she would be expected to act in a particular way.

Of course, it was easy with Eugene, much easier than with strangers, but it did help, had already helped and Lisa was slowly learning to be more confident.

"Rose is waiting for you, Babe," he said, in his soft voice, his hand cupping her chin. "Go to her and have your wash-up and massage. I will wait for you here."

He picked up the book he had been reading and Lisa left the lounge and went through to Rose in the bathroom.

"I CAME tonight to show you something, Babe. A video. I have it ready to roll here," he said. He walked over to the VCR and pressed 'play.'

It was a home video, a shot of a girl walking along the street. Herself. Lisa watched herself, walking back from work, her head down and her shoulders hunched, clearly oblivious of everyone around her. She also noticed she walked badly, almost like a caveman!

Did she look like that always? Did she always walk like that?

They watched the video for a few minutes, until Eugene turned it off.

"I want you to go to flat 402, now. Down the corridor. Wait for me there."

LISA went out of her own flat, down the corridor to the door next to Rose's flat. She pushed it open and found herself in a room with a wooden parquet floor and mirrors all along one wall. Attached to one wall was a bar, about hip height, in one corner lay a carpet, about 3m by 4m with a few pieces of gym equipment nearby.

"I have prepared this room for your use. Rose has been doing yoga, and will soon be able to help you with it," he said, pointing at the mat. "You will learn to dance, I have organised an instructor, but mostly I want you to use this room to see what you look like to others. I want you to come here and practice walking in high-heeled shoes, I want you to practice asking people for things, or dissing them if you want! Watch yourself in this mirror, and you will be able to remember what you looked like when you deal with people. So you can practice, like we do, but when I am not here."
Chapter 22

LISA always pre-planned her routes carefully, writing herself explicit directions. She had a complicated way of drawing directions, pictograms to help her negotiate lefts and rights. Invited to a party in Khumalo, she left her flat at about 2.30pm.

Deep in thought, she swung around, almost bumping into a woman coming out of the door of Eugene's flat.

The woman glanced briefly at Lisa. Short, with a dainty face, and small upturned nose she walked away on her high-heeled shoes, her large bottom flicking from side to side.

Curious, Lisa wondered if she perhaps cleaned Eugene's flat. She had never thought much about how Eugene lived, or who cleaned up after him; had presumed Rose did.

Watching the petite girl walk down the stairs, her black hair, artistically arranged in ringlets down to her shoulders, Lisa decided she didn't clean flats, wasn't a maid. Someone as beautiful as her would not need to work as a maid. Could she be living with Eugene? Could she be related to him?

At the bottom of the steps, Lisa turned left to go out to her car which she parked in the small courtyard at the back of the flats and the girl went to the right, out the front doors.

Climbing into her VW and carefully negotiating the difficult exit, Lisa realised she hardly ever thought of how Eugene lived, or if he lived next to her. He had told her his flat was on the other side of the playroom, but she had never been into it. He had never invited her there. She presumed Eugene occupied part of both flat 402 and 403. The end of his flat near hers had been remodelled to accommodate his playroom and the front half of 402 had been opened up into her practice area. Eugene's flat was in the middle of the two and he had access to both.

Lisa had never been curious about his flat, it was not in her nature to be. If he had invited her in there, she would have been interested to see how he lived, but since she wasn't interested in furnishings and decorations, she would only want to be there if he was, or if he wanted her there.

As she accelerated down Selborne Avenue, past the museum, it occurred to her that if Eugene could pass through from flat 402 to hers, so too could the girl she had seen walking ahead of her out of the flats. Concerned, she resolved to ask Rose about it.

Lisa had never discussed her relationship with Eugene with Rose. She knew Rose spoke to Eugene regularly and could contact him in an emergency, and he gave Rose explicit instructions about how to prepare her or dress her on certain occasions. Eugene organised every last detail if she went anywhere, always behind the scenes.

Since he never touched her when she had her period, Lisa presumed Rose passed on those kinds of embarrassing details.

Turning left at the intersection into Khumalo, Lisa smiled gently to herself as she recalled how Rose coddled her during those times. How she packed hot water bottles on her back and massaged her gently for a long time to release the muscles, even if she didn't have cramps. Rose fed her soups in the evenings and made sure she slept properly.

They had become close in some ways in the time they had lived together, but remained distant in others.

Rose sometimes chided her if she stayed up too late working, or if she ate badly or if she didn't look after her hair; swam without her cap.

Generally, their relationship was companionable but superficial. Rose was interested in diet, clothing, home-making and Lisa was usually involved in her portfolio, her music and reading. Both respected the other's talents and allowed each other space to indulge in their own interests. Lisa was very happy, very comfortable with her life with Rose.

LISA attended the party and that evening during her massage, asked if Rose knew the girl next door.

Rose snorted and said, "Of course I do. Avril Lehar, a Barham Green girl. Her parents were hard-working, god fearing people and I think she was the death of them. She went to Founders High and when she left, she shacked up with a German guy, and when he went back home, moved in with Brent Wynman. He owns a trucking company..., well he did until recently. He has been in the wars, so I hear." Rose had been working on Lisa's right side, and she paused as she moved around the massage table.

"How long has she been here?" asked Lisa.

"About a month or two, I think," answered Rose. "I am not sure exactly, but I also saw her out yesterday, so I guess Eugene has given permission for her to move about a bit."

"Does she live there all the time?" Lisa asked, "or does she have her own home."

"She still owns the house in Barham Green. Rents it out, I think. But she stays here all the time, cleans up after Eugene. She doesn't work, if that's what you mean."

Lisa lay on the bench considering what Rose told her. She had many more questions to ask, but decided she would wait for a while and try to find out more from Eugene.

### * * *

LISA was soon granted an opportunity, she had a card in her invitation holder. Eugene was to dine with her that evening.

WATCHING him move through the inter-leading door linking her flat and the playroom, reminded Lisa that Avril could do the same. Eugene smiled at her, his greeting interrupted by her blurted question.

"Ah... you can pass from my flat all the way to 402?" she asked.

Eugene walked over to her and put his hand against the side of her face, leaning into her slightly.

"Babe," he said gently, "I am here for dinner. You need to either invite me to sit in the lounge, or you need to show me to the table if it is ready. You could also offer me something to drink."

Lisa, blank for a second, glanced towards the dinner table, set for two and said, "I think dinner is not ready. Would you like a seat and something to drink? Tea, coffee?"

"Remember, blur your eyes for necessary eye contact. You don't have to do that with me, I don't mind if you don't look at me, but it would be best for you to practice on me." He took her hand and led her to the couch sitting down beside her.

She lifted her chin, blurred her eyes and blurted out, "Someone from your flat can come into mine, and into 402. You know, where I practice."

"You can't practice if that can happen?" Eugene asked her.

Lisa shook her head vigorously, her hair flying about her head. She wouldn't be able to practice properly if she may be disturbed by someone she didn't know. She presumed he was aware of how much people scared her. He caught her chin with her hand, shaking his head very slightly.

"Is the door locked, you know from your flat?" she asked.

"Have you never tried the door? This one," he asked, pointing at the batik on the wall, and Lisa shook her head again. She had never wanted to, and when she had a card, the room door always stood ajar.

"It has a special door knob which only I have. The same for 402. Only I can go through there," he reassured her. "Don't worry, Babe, there won't be any overlap between you and Avril. She doesn't know you are here and I shouldn't think she knows about this doorway, although unlike you she would immediately try to get through it if she did."

He shook his head, a smirk on his face.

"Man, that girl loves to push a guy," he said, "she is only now starting to listen and she has been in there for more than two months."

"Who is she?" asked Lisa.

"Her name is Avril. I won her fair and square. She's my slave."

Lisa frowned, puzzled by what he meant.

"Slave? You mean like the blacks taken to America?"

"No, Baby. Not like those. She is free to leave whenever she wants, but while she stays with me, she does what I want. And I mean exactly what I want." Eugene's voice took on a tone Lisa knew well, the one that usually made her sink to her knees.

"She is mine to direct, every second of the night and day. Slave is another way of saying, 'my woman.'"

"Am I your slave too?" asked Lisa.

"No," he replied, "you are not. You go to work, and make your own decisions, about your investments, what you do with your spare time; your clothes and food if you were interested in that. She is mine, 100% and she makes no decisions on her own, I direct everything she does, I even want to know what she is thinking."

He smiled down at her, "I couldn't keep up with what you think, Babe. I wouldn't like to try."

Lisa dropped her eyes, embarrassed. Whilst, never distracted thinking about things when she was with Eugene, she often was with other people.

"Avril arrived at first sure she could twist me around her little finger, obviously what her previous masters allowed her to do. It's taken this long to get her realise what it is to truly submit to me. Boy, that girl is full of shit."

"She is very beautiful," said Lisa wistfully, her eyes down.

Eugene shifted slightly on the couch towards her and picked up her hand.

"Yes, she is. But I feel nothing for her, nothing at all. She is an object, something I use for my own pleasure and when I no longer get any pleasure out of her, I will send her away, or give her away. The last full time slave took almost half a year to break. I became bored with her and un-collared her within a year. No challenge."

"Un-collared?" Lisa asked.

"It's a term, a symbol if you like, an understanding that we both know the game. Before I get involved with a slave, I lay out exactly what to expect from me, what I expect from her. I hide nothing. I make sure on that day, the last time I speak to her as an equal, that she understands exactly what she is getting herself into. I usually give the woman a piece of jewellery, instead of an actual collar."

He sneered, "That usually tickles them no end.

"See, I don't do safe words, I decide how much a slave can take and I alone decide when to stop. That's unusual, and they need to know these things. I remove the collar either when they ask me to, or when I have had enough of them. I don't force any woman to stay with me, they can come any time and ask me to release them."

Eugene smiled his twisted smile and added, "Well, they can't do that half way through a punishment, they have to give good reasons."

"Have you ever had a slave ask you? You know, to release them?"

"Nah," he said, "usually they beg me to keep them."

Always terrified he would leave her, she was not surprised, certain she couldn't live without him.

"One girl ran away from the man I gave her to several times, came back to me, begging. It's useful. I have a group of women I can always use, if I need to," he said, arrogant as ever.

Lisa knew he did. Several times she had been surprised at information he gathered, until she figured out he had gone out of his way to endear himself to a woman in the organisation. He would keep up the association, occasionally visiting her, maintaining the connection. He had someone at her father's office and possibly one in Rotterdam too. They kept him up to date with all developments to do with the company, and her parents.

"So, this Avril, could stay with you for more than a year?"

"Yeah. Perhaps. As I said, she is full of shit."

Unsure about her attitude towards the situation, Lisa decided she would go away as usual, and think about exactly what he said. Eugene wouldn't change his behaviour. He would have a woman in his flat if he wanted to, without considering her opinion.

"Are there many people, you know, like us? Like me and Avril? How do you find girls like us?"

"I can mostly pick them out, I dunno how, I can just tell. Usually they're like Avril. Full of shit on the outside, snarky if you know what I mean, but that means it is harder for them to submit. But they want to, underneath, often don't know they do. Now of course in most countries of the world, there are clubs for people like us and we share and pass on our subs."

Lisa frowned, puzzled.

"It's all terminology. People have come up with names like slave or submissive, masters, collars. But it's been going on throughout the ages, but with different names. Now of course, it's all consensual, no one is held against their will.

"Anyone can be trained to be like you, but that's not fun. That's using pain to change what a person is like. That's sadistic, and I don't get anything out of it. I want a true submissive, not someone who has been hurt and uses the submissive route to remain protected."

Lisa, had never considered many people were like her. She had attempted to investigate the subject, even searching in the abnormal psychology section of the library, but had never been able to discover any information in the literature. She had presumed her shyness and monochrome emotions caused her desire for Eugene's dominance. It was a novel concept for her to find herself part of a group of other like-minded people.

"It's called the BDSM community. I am not into sadomasochism, but I am definitely a dominant. Most clubs have rules: who can join, what can be done there, dress code. I will take you to one sometime."

Lisa was certain she wouldn't like to go to a club like that, where she could be given away, or lose control in public. And she always did, in the end.

"If I am not a slave, then what am I?"

"You're mine, Lisa. Forever," he said quietly, a harsh edge to his voice. "I will never get sick of you."

Possessively he leaned over her, his hand on the side of her face, "Never tire of you. One day, I will find you a man who will be worthy of you, a man to match you, one who can give you what you need."

Inwardly shaking her head, Lisa found herself blanking her face out to hide her emotion, slowly schooling each part of it into an unreadable mask, something she had never done with Eugene before.

"That was well done, Babe," he said gently, stroking her face.

"I would rather die," she whispered and Eugene nodded, his hand moving to her exposed throat.

"Maybe," he said, "maybe," his eyes following his hand to her throat.

"What is a safe word?"

Eugene smiled at her typical, abrupt change of subject, his thumb gently rubbing across her pulse.

"Some clubs insist that a sub can stop a scene by shouting out a prearranged word, and the dom. has to stop immediately. Commonly orange and red are used as safe words. Orange means 'it is getting difficult' and 'red,' to stop.

"I'm sorry," he said, his arrogant sneer back, "if a man can't see what his woman is feeling, he isn't a proper dom., doesn't know his woman, isn't prepared. The clubs say it is for safety, that this kind of life is dangerous and that when you are playing at home, there are no safeguards for the subs. That's also poor preparation. I mean, if I were to drop dead while you were handcuffed to the cross, Rose would find you soon."

Lisa nodded.

"Are all dominants men?" she asked.

"No, there are women too," he replied. "I saw a dominatrix once, all dressed up in leather and black make up, who had two men and a woman in her keeping. As far as I could see, she was harsh. This lifestyle has much the same spread as a normal vanilla one. You have dominants of both sexes and gay dominants of both sexes. Generally, although sex is not limited to one partner, it can be. I don't hold much store by sex; to me it is part of the whole game."

"Vanilla?"

"You know, normal. No rope, no playroom, no pain, no submission," Eugene sneered. "No fun."

"Can Avril touch you? You know, without your permission?"

"No one touches me without my permission. No man, no woman," he said, his tone sharp and hard.

Intimidated, Lisa changed the subject. "How did you find out about all of this? I have searched for books in the library but never found anything at all like what we do. I tried to read the Marquis du Sade, but it was no good, my French is not good enough and anyway he liked hurting people. You don't actually hurt me."

Eugene smiled slyly at her, "You could have asked me. Any time. But I have shown you, slowly, since the day I met you, and I will show you more."

Lisa realised he had avoided her question, had not told her who had introduced him to it, and wondered why.

A FEW weeks later she found 'The Story of O' and 'Emmanuelle' on her bedside table as well as several of the Gor series. Soon after a translation of 'Juliette' and then other de Sade books followed. His philosophy books, rather than his erotic works and Lisa found them as interesting.
Chapter 23

_Saturday 18th May 1985_

It's the 20th May on Monday, the anniversary of the day my life began, my life with Eugene.

He probably doesn't remember it, but I will never forget that day.

I went back and read my diary, re-lived the feelings I had when he leaned into me on the flowerbed, remembered what he looked like the moment I saw him, standing against the wall, almost hidden by the curtain. I remember his green eyes and the way they held mine and the hollow feeling when I thought he was watching Helen.

Then I went and read my diary on all the anniversaries since that day.

### * * *

LISA spent Monday at work, day dreaming.

Completing her stint in the maintenance section of Bicknim, Lisa observed the staff were as slack as the accounts department. The system was wrong, outdated, and a few changes here and there would make a huge difference. It would be easy to program these tools onto a computer.

This Monday though, her thoughts were on Eugene. She realised how much time she spent thinking about him, thinking about what he did for her, what he made her feel.

Since she had moved into her flat, she had never been happier, more content, able to work.

She loved to work, both at Bicknim and in her own little office. She admitted it now, although at first she had not wanted to work at the estate agency. She had wanted to stay in her office and work from there, certain she could still buy property without being an estate agent, didn't need to learn about the business. Now, almost five months later, she acknowledged Eugene had been right, and the small challenges she encountered at work increased her confidence.

She spent time in 402 practicing: looking people in the eye, walking, laughing, asking directions. Ronald, her dancing instructor called her a clumsy oaf, but admitted she moved better now than when he first started teaching her. Lisa and Ronald concurred: she would never be a dancer. But now she had learnt the steps, she could hold her own, although she would always be awkward, heavy footed.

ALL thought left her mind when she walked back into her flat to find a square, off white envelope in her invitation holder. Eugene was to dine with her.

Rose spent a long time working on Lisa. She gave her a hot bath treatment with perfumed bath oils, a full body massage with scented candles burning and Lisa didn't mind. She wanted to look her best for Eugene, she wanted to look different, better than when he first saw her at the Barham Green Hall. She emerged from her dressing room, refreshed and prepared.

She was, however, not prepared for how she found Eugene, or her lounge. The lights had been switched off and hundreds of candles placed all around the room, her table laid with lace and cut glassware.

Her eyes tracked back to Eugene, taking in his charcoal grey pants, deep red shirt and pencil thin black silk tie. He wore an earring in one ear his dark hair brushed back, away from his face. He came up to her as she stopped in the doorway, her wide eyes taking in the room. Him.

"Happy anniversary, Babe," he said softly, and Lisa began to cry. She couldn't help it, couldn't stop.

"Don't cry, Baby Doll," he said, as he wiped her tears off her cheeks with his thumbs, "did you think I wouldn't remember?"

Lisa's head bobbed sharply. She had no idea he remembered the first time she saw him, or how much it meant to her. That, the moment they locked eyes across the room, her whole world changed direction.

He gently dried her face before sending her back to Rose to fix her makeup.

He stood, pulling out her chair when she returned, settling her in it. They sat down to the dinner Rose had prepared, the candles flickering in the background, shedding a soft light over the room, shining on the blond streaks in Lisa's hair.

Several times, the sobs grew in her throat. How did he know? How did he know what she wanted, what she needed?

Eugene maintained a light conversation throughout the main course until Lisa blurted out, "Was it fate that brought us together. Do you believe in fate? If it was, I am glad. I am glad Sister Mary Margaret made me go to the Barham Green hall. Fate was waiting for me there. Do you feel like that? Do you think it was fate?" Lisa put her knife and fork down on her plate, staring at him intently.

"No, I don't believe in fate," he said leaning back slightly, "and fate did not bring us together."

Silent, Lisa waited for him to continue.

"I didn't just bump into you at the Barham Green hall you know. I planned the whole thing. I looked for a girl, from the rich Bulawayo scene. I intended to manipulate a girl from that scene. I am good with girls; I can get them to do what I want. I planned it all in advance," he said.

Lisa kept her eyes on his face, watching him carefully in the flickering candle light.

"When I investigated you, I decided you were exactly the person I wanted under my control. You were white, rich and fit into the crowd who live in the good suburbs, the ones with the cars, the genuine paintings, safes, full of money. I planned how I would proceed with you, hook you. Use you. I am good with women," he said, with the arrogant sneer that never failed to excite her. It was how he viewed the world, she thought. Not how he viewed her. He viewed the world as something to use, to exploit. Never her.

"I walked into the Barham Green hall that night, looked across the room and saw you standing there, the girl I planned to seduce. A tubby girl, with an ugly hairstyle, crooked teeth and a huge nose. That's what everyone saw. But I saw you, Baby," he said softly. "I saw what we have created, a woman most guys would want and I wanted you for myself, to love. Others would say to dominate," he said, leaning toward her across the table, the candles glittering in his green eyes, holding hers.

"By the time I found you sitting on the flowerbed, I already knew you were special, that inside you were special." Eugene paused, his eyes moving about her face, brooding. Then he leaned back in his chair, arrogant once more.

"I saw something that night, not your attraction to me, that's normal, girls are always attracted to me," he said. "I saw you needed me. Needed me to guide you, develop you. Then the next week, you came again and I could see you were embarrassed about the car, and terrified about the people. You pulled yourself together Babe, put your chin up and braved it out. I knew how hard it was for you and I admired you. I never admire anyone you know," he said, his sneer back.

"And of course, your enormous self-control. You didn't want to come to the hall that day, didn't want to listen to all the religious crap, or the silly girlie talk. How did you do that? Self-control. I live to break that control, love that you allow me to. I like to know, must be sure that everything that happens to you is regulated by me. Run by me if you will. Everything."

Eugene paused for a while, eating a few mouthfuls. Lisa sat across from him, her face still and expressionless, cutlery lying on her plate. She remembered the evening at the Barham Green hall three years ago, remembered standing there feeling awkward, embarrassed; the long trip over in the hated car.

"From the first, you gave yourself to me fully and when you did that, you forced a responsibility on to me. You relinquished yourself to me utterly and I had to keep my end of an unspoken bargain. That only dawned on me slowly, over time. It was not something in my experience, or something I planned. Your hold on me is purely because you give yourself to me, allow me to control you. If you had tried to hold me in any way, by imposing in my life, or by demanding anything from me, you would be taking back that responsibility and it would have been easy to let go, move on."

Lisa listened to him with little comprehension. She understood the first half of what he said - that he had intended to seduce her. She was aware he deliberately used people, but she didn't understand the second half of what he said.

Lisa could recall entire conversations verbatim. She resolved to write out the relevant sections in her diary, and mull over his words carefully, consider and analyse what he meant.

"You were everything I hated," he continued, "I hate whites, hate rich privileged people," the cynical twist back on his mouth, his eyes hard once more. "I blame them for all the ills of the world, blame them for what happened to my mother. She never spoke of my father, didn't tell me his name. She named me after a composer you know, didn't give any hint of who my real father was. Some white boy who screwed her at a music-camp as if some sort of a favour he bestowed upon her," he said, his face twisting with hate.

"If I had not come along would she have been a famous musician? We will never know," he jerked one shoulder. "Anyway, I hurt whites whenever I can. Often they don't know it's me, and it helps me, it helps my soul. Heals me a little each time," he said, with a flippant jeer.

"And you, Lisa," he said, the brittle tightness smoothing from around his eyes, "I aimed to take you up, use you and discard you. Hurt you. And then I couldn't. I just couldn't."

Reaching over the table, he traced a line on her cheek.

"For the first time in my life I cared. I truly cared for someone other than myself. I didn't think I could. So, despite my well laid plans, you hooked me too."

Eugene leaned back on his chair, the soft gentle look leaving his face.

"It was the luck of the draw, the roll of the dice that I am coloured," he shrugged.

"Fate? The disadvantages of being coloured are the ones I use, stuck between two races. Luckily I am light enough to look white and can talk the talk with the blacks, hold my own with the coloureds," he said, patting his knife.

And then he laughed.

"I believe in taking fate by the throat and shaking it."

Lisa agreed with him, the bit about talking the talk with the blacks. He could talk the talk with whites too. Sometimes he would use 'goffal speak' with her, especially in his playroom. Short sentences, missing adjectives, an accent, and other times he sounded like a philosopher. He read widely, was uneducated but intelligent, and she always reacted to intelligence in people.

She wondered what language he used when he thought about things.

She often marvelled how he could morph from the illiterate street kid to the sophisticated urbanite. A change of clothes, a different body language and he slid into the roles as if he had been born to them.

Tonight, dressed as he was, he could have been at one of her mother's more formal parties and would have easily held his own, far better than she had ever been able. She had never fitted into that mould and her mother had never wanted her at the table anyway and now, here she was, learning from a coloured, brought up on the streets.

Irony, Lisa thought. Fate? Perhaps.

"We have a date, Babe," Eugene cut into her thoughts, "in 402. I'll see you there."

AS usual, Lisa went outside her flat to get to 402 and Eugene went through his playroom, and through his own flat so they would not be seen together.

The room, also decorated with candles had wine cooling in a bucket.

He settled her down on her yoga mat, removed his violin from its case and played for her.

He stood on the far side of the room, tall, taut. The candles shed flickering light on his hair and across his face. She watched him cradling the violin, as a lover would, eyelashes against his cheeks.

He played beautifully, fluently, with wonderful feeling.

She closed her eyes and as usual, the music spoke directly to her. Eugene reached her, held her. The music filled the room, pierced her soul.

He eventually dropped his violin and when she opened her eyes, he held his hand out, "Let's dance, Babe," he said.

Eugene was a fabulous dancer. She had never been able to keep up with him although she was better now, more confident with her feet.

They danced for about an hour, drank the wine and Lisa wanted to thank him, but didn't know how.

She went back to Rose, bubbling from the wine, wanting to hug her, thank her too, but again, she didn't. Didn't know how to. Instead she sat down in her dressing room and allowed Rose to remove the physical evidence of the evening; her makeup, her nail polish, her clothes.

Rose let Lisa's hair down and brushed it in long strokes from the top of her head, right down her back and Lisa tried not to be disappointed the evening was at an end.

Finally finished, Rose dressed Lisa in her nightie, a long silk one now the evenings and early mornings were cool, left her hair down and sent her through to bed.

LISA walked slowly back into her own room, shut the door behind her and turning, saw Eugene sitting barefoot and jacketless in one of the chairs near the glass door, his long legs thrown out in front of him.

"We have a date, Babe," he said, his 'almost' smile, curving his lips.

He stood, and with his eyes holding hers, pulled off his tie, and removed his shirt. Lisa gazed at his wide shoulders, almost hairless chest, his narrow hips.

Today, three years ago, she had looked across the Barham Green hall and decided he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She had not changed her opinion. Now, he was her whole world.

His eyes pulled her across the room and she obeyed. She stopped directly in front of him, hoping he would let her touch him. He put out his hand. She put hers into it and he crushed it against the bulge in the front of his trousers.

Lisa moaned and dropped to her knees in front of him, burying her face in his trousers, scrabbling to find the buttons and slide down his zipper.

Time spent in Eugene's playroom had given Lisa practice swallowing him right down and holding her breath as she slid him slowly in and out. She exulted in the stretched feeling, deep in her throat. The knowledge she was completely at his mercy. If he held her head in his hands, stopped her coming up for air, she would run out of oxygen.

Kneeling at Eugene's feet, Lisa acknowledged she was utterly content, where she belonged, thankful he had chosen her at the Barham Green hall.

USUALLY when offered an opportunity to touch Eugene, she made the most of it, greedily taking what she could, before he stopped her. Tonight, kneeling in front of him and feeling his response to her mouth and hands, Lisa wanted to make this experience special for him.

He always tried to do that for her, carefully planning the scenes in his play room. He planned all of her early sexual experiences meticulously, and she was grateful to him. She had been inexperienced and he had awakened her with knowledge and care.

Leaning slightly into him, Lisa pushed him back down into the chair.

Kneeling comfortably on the floor between his knees, she put her full attention to giving him the best possible experience.

Half lying against his thighs, she felt them taut under her, straining against the sensations. His stomach muscles bunched into small lumps and looking up, she saw his neck muscles standing out against his throat, pushing his head back against the chair, his wonderful face holding an expression she had never seen on anyone.

She held him on the point, slowly let him down several times, building up the pressure, until he finally erupted with a guttural groan, his fingers twisting her hair, holding her head still.

Collapsed back against the chair recovering, a sheen of sweat on his skin, he stroked her hair.

"I love you, Lisa," he said, slipping on to the floor in front of her.

"Don't worry, Baby Doll," he said, smiling at the panicked look on her face "It doesn't change anything, but you are everything I have ever wanted in a woman, and I never thought I would ever say that to anyone. I can't offer you a house in the suburbs, children. I can't ever be a husband to you or any woman and I hope one day you will find someone, marry and have children if that's what you want."

Lisa shook her head, as if it she could shake away the meaning of his words.

Lisa wasn't sure if she loved Eugene. What she felt for him was different from the norm and she didn't want their life together to change because of words, definitions. She didn't want Eugene making declarations entirely out of character for him. It frightened her.

She stood up and taking him by the hand, led him to her bed.

That night and early morning she devoted to pleasing him only, using what she had learned from him over the preceding three years, as some sort of thanks for what he had done for her.

### * * *

Friday 31st May 1985

I wrote down what Eugene told me the other night, about our relationship, about how he ended up feeling for me and I think I have some idea about what he meant.

It's hard to describe, until I remembered a book, by one of the old African authors I read ages ago, which describes a farm house in Africa in the old days:

A child plays in the open ground in front of the house, the mother working in the kitchen. She looks through the window occasionally and sees her daughter, happily playing with something, twisting it in her hands, sometimes scrabbling forwards, other times sitting back on her nappy enlarged backside. Laughing at times, others serious and watchful.

Eventually the mother, curious to see what it is, that has held the little girls attention for so long, walks up to find it's a snake. Sees the long, black, soft, serpent twined in her daughter's hands, spilling over onto her lap. The little girl has been playing with a snake for almost an hour, holding it in her hands, picking it up..., squeezing it.

The mother screams, tries to pull her daughter away.

The moment the snake becomes aware of the mother, of her concern, it turns, puts up its hood and strikes at the little girl.

When I met Eugene I didn't expect him to bite me, and like the snake with the little girl, he didn't. I trusted him completely, and he didn't hurt me. He let me near him, let me play with him, squeeze him and I hope no mother will come along and try to help me, because then he will not turn and bite me, kill me.
Chapter 24 JOHANNESBURG Winter 1997

JACKIE Brewster knelt on a mat at Cages, naked except for her jewellery and two ribbons around her wrist, one green the other yellow. Nowadays she couldn't wear a red ribbon; couldn't chance marks on her skin her husband might ask about.

At Cages, the ribbons had different meanings, but if a woman had no ribbons, she was an exclusive 'sub' and no one could touch her at all. A red one meant extreme pain, and extreme pain would leave marks.

Jackie had worn no ribbons for years, except upon the few occasions when Anton wanted to punish her. She had been his slave for a decade before she decided she wanted to be someone, wanted to make her own decisions, wanted to assert herself, have children.

Introduced to the BDSM scene at college, she had experimented with a few partners before Anton made her his slave on her twenty first birthday. At her birthday party. Dramatic as always, Anton placed a gold band around her throat that night, and she settled happily into her life with him.

They started Cages together, a BDSM club, in an unused underground parking garage in Braamfontein. The rough cement floor and the concrete garage pillars were left as features of the club, enhancing the dungeon effect. They built welded reinforcing-bar cages, bolted between the pillars in certain areas of the club. The cages were hired out by the members and it was for these characteristic structures, that the club became famous.

The BDSM scene was taking off, and together they created an exclusive environment where regular people could gather and indulge in their kinks with the confidence their lifestyle was safely protected. Applicants were vetted carefully, to guarantee the absolute privacy of Cages members.

Slow to mature, Jackie had been quite happy to relinquish herself utterly to him. He directed her every action, instructing her how to dress, how to act, what to do. A full time slave, she existed only for Anton's pleasure. Over time, however, she became more and more disenchanted with this life and her little acts of rebellion became more frequent. Anton finally removed the golden strap from around her throat in another elaborate ceremony here at Cages. Released, she felt only relief. She floated loose for a while, still visiting Cages from time to time, until she met her love. And she did love David, loved the way he gave her the confidence to be herself, loved the way he made her feel; that her decisions were important. Not something she had experienced before.

THEY married, had a child and been happy; happier than she thought possible. David made her feel safe, protected, and confident. He gave her freedom, something she had never had before, never wanted before and it went to her head.

They bought a house, and she furnished it, landscaped the garden. He bought her a little car, jewellery, took her on romantic holidays and encouraged her to entertain lavishly. He encouraged her to be herself and he loved her, helplessly and hopelessly, and they both knew it.

Yet in the end, it was not enough. Jackie was hooked on pain, addicted to domination. She had to feel helpless occasionally, had to feel she was utterly dependent occasionally, and it was that part of her life with Anton she missed, the part that sucked her back to Cages, kept her coming back. Jackie liked to live on the edge, loved to be dominated physically, needed to be tied up, beaten, but had no idea how to introduce the lifestyle to her husband.

She came back, over and over to Cages, knowing David may suspect, could have her followed. But she couldn't help herself; couldn't stop.

She came to Anton, to be physically dominated.

Anton was her master, David her lover.

JACKIE watched Anton lead a tall woman, wearing a leather mask, into a cage; watched him tie her to the St Andrew's cross, naked except for spike heeled leather boots and her matching mask.

Henrietta Steyn. A member of Cages since its inception, she was always masked on the rare occasions she visited. Today she wore a leather one, but she had several other variations: one jewelled with matching accessories, one of beaten gold, a thick bride's veil.

Jackie knew she was a successful business woman. All applicants at Cages were thoroughly screened, even if they owned shares in the club. She glanced around, looking for Henrietta's dom. He regularly frequented the club with one or more of his many subs., and always left detailed instructions of how he wanted his space prepared, particularly when Henrietta attended. She shuddered at the thought of him, attracted by his extreme dominance and good looks yet repelled by his cruel streak.

Jackie watched Anton place a leather blind fold over the mask on Henrietta's face, leaving her exposed on the cross.

Slamming the cage door, he turned and faced Jackie, kneeling on her mat. Walking towards her, he had a look on his face she knew well and her heart began to race.

### * * *

HENRIETTA, a magnificent sight, tall and strong had a rapacious audience. Several men watched her from the outside of the cage, some women too; and wondered what was in store for her.

She had some time to wait to find out, her gut churning.

Unable to see and tied in an uncomfortable position, Henrietta found she drifted off into an inner world, of sounds and smells and sensations other than sight. She was aware she was clearly visible to anyone walking past her cage, but since she couldn't see them, she could blank them out.

Her ears were attuned to the sounds in the club. She could hear moans and screams, the sounds of skins touched by leather, cane and nylon. She could smell sweat, fear and leather. She could feel fatigue in her legs, numbness in her fingers, the stabbing pains in her shoulders where they pushed against the wooden beam at her back.

On top of all of this: the exquisite pain of anticipation. It would slowly grow and swell; memories of other occasions in this club, of other humiliations and pain. Henrietta would no sooner control this anticipation, push it to the back of her mind when something would set off her panic again. The clang of a cage door, the crack of a whip, a nearby footfall.

On this occasion, after a specified thirty-minute wait, a dominatrix pushed open the door to Henrietta's cage.

She slammed it shut and laughed to see Henrietta flinch.

It was not a pleasant laugh.

"Hello beautiful," she whispered directly in Henrietta's ear with her gravely smoker's voice. "I am going to make you more beautiful tonight."

Henrietta recognised that voice. Donna. Domme Donna. She had seen her at work, on one occasion seen the red, slashed body of a young man who had been punished for some serious infringement. His whole body had been a mass of red stripes, some bleeding.

Donna was an expert with the single tail. Henrietta had seen her wielding it, a long thin whip with a leather strap at the end. It was rumoured that Donna could place the end anywhere on a body she chose. And now Donna would be working on her.

"I have always wanted to have you in a cage, my dear. You are such a snob, an arrogant bitch with your silly masks and your bare wrists. I have waited so long for you to be wearing a red ribbon. But I would have had to wait in line wouldn't I? I would have had to watch while others reddened your perfect skin. You must know the rush when Anton asked me to work you."

Donna stroked the whip across Henrietta's mouth and nose.

"Kiss it," she said and laughed. "Yes, kiss it and maybe I will put it where you want me to. Maybe I won't cover you entirely with my marks."

Donna dragged the whip over Henrietta's body, behind her head and along her lips. She stepped back to the edge of the cage and lashed the tail towards Henrietta's spread body. The deafening crack next to her ear made Henrietta jerk against her restraints.

Donna laughed again.

"You scared, oh masked one?"

When Henrietta did not reply she continued, "Well you should be bitch, cos you gonna hurt. Soon."

Donna moved back towards the door of the cage. Her first lash landed immediately above Henrietta's navel. Donna only kissed the tip of the whip to Henrietta skin, but it still burned, leaving a small red mark. Henrietta cried sharply, pushing herself back against the wooden cross. The first lash was followed by a second one, directly above. Both clearly marked her skin with angry red welts.

Henrietta had her lower lip in between her teeth and her head thrown back against the wall behind.

Legs wide apart to balance herself, Donna laid down a line of red welts from Henrietta's navel to the centre of her breasts, drawing a curve above, flicking first one side and then the other, leaving red raised bumps.

Taking careful aim, Donna lashed hard, directly on Henrietta's nipple.

Henrietta screamed and tried to move against the pain, but couldn't. She was securely tied to the cross. Henrietta, and everyone watching, knew that next, Donna would lash her other nipple. Donna stalked back towards the cage door, staring down the people crowding around to watch her. Her leather tail landed exactly where she wanted it to.

Again, Henrietta screamed against the pain.

Donna's next mark appeared almost immediately an inch below Henrietta's navel and had Henrietta been able to see the watching crowd, would have witnessed the eager anticipation in their eyes. Everyone knew where this was going. Still struggling with the pain of her burning nipples, she knew the pain she would endure from that tiny piece of leather landing on her clitoris.

Donna continued with her rhythmical work, lashing around and around the triangle above Henrietta's sex and seemingly without a break in this rhythm, laid a welt on the inside of Henrietta's inner thigh.

Unable to identify immediately where the pain was, she screamed and Donna laughed.

"Oh no, Miss Mask, not yet. You will know when it is time." And she continued with her work along the inside of Henrietta's thighs.

Donna's accuracy was legendary, as was her ability to judge how fast to flick her wrist. She sometimes flicked fast, leaving a darker redder welt and other times she almost caressed the whip. No matter how softly she flicked though, she inflicted considerable pain at each stroke. Without warning, Donna flicked first one of Henrietta's nipples and then the other. "No, please," Henrietta screamed, shaking her head from side to side.

Donna laughed again, "No? Please?"

A small drop of blood appeared above Henrietta's nipple, ran down to the end and formed a droplet, a pearl dangling. Donna strode forwards and sucked and Henrietta's uterus clenched, her labia filling with blood.

Donna reached down and stroked Henrietta's inner thigh feeling all along the reddened, tender welts.

"I'm not going to touch you where you want me to, except with the end of this whip. I am going to kiss you with it there, Miss Mask."

Donna moved back to the door and resumed her rhythmical lashes. She reddened Henrietta's inner thighs and on her mound.

Henrietta's body remained tense, her thigh muscles clenched against the restraints, neck muscles standing out. Sweat poured from her body.

Donna paused and said, "Right my beauty. It is time. I want to kiss you now."

Burning from the biting whip, Henrietta tried to struggle again.

"No, Please. Please don't."

Donna laughed her unpleasant laugh and lashed out with the whip. Henrietta screamed and a dribble of urine leaked, running down her inner thighs, forming a puddle on the floor.

Donna laughed again, "Nah. I didn't think you were ready for my kiss. I wanted to see you piss yourself."

Donna had deliberately stopped the lash short of Henrietta's clitoris, but close enough to move the air there.

She resumed her work on Henrietta's sex, placing well-spaced welts along her bikini line and a few on her labia. Donna finally paused, her haughty stare sweeping over the observers crowding the bars.

"You want me to kiss you now, Miss Mask?" jeered Donna and turning back to Henrietta said, "I want to kiss you now."

With one, almost nonchalant flick of the wrist, Donna landed the leather end precisely where she wanted it. Henrietta's body jerked in her straps and the ripples of her orgasm were evident as she screamed in pain.

Donna folded up her whip and stalked out of the cage, leaving Henrietta suspended from the straps. Head slumped forwards, hands purpling her body occasionally jerked with after-shocks.

She tensed when she heard cage door unlock, the light switch click. Footfalls.

"Baby," only a breath in her ear. "You are very beautiful."

Henrietta said nothing, only waited for direction. In a daze of sensation, she felt her arms drop from their restraints, a silk gown whisper over her burning skin. Words flowed through her, soothing, praising. On and on.

Time had no measure as she drifted away, absorbing his care. Comforted.

Henrietta lived for this; for this she would take the pain from the whip or anything else he chose to hand out.

Anything for his tender care.
Chapter 25 JOHANNESBURG June 07th 2010

DAVID arrived at work shortly after 6.00am on Monday morning.

He had spent much of the weekend immersed in the files provided by Mr Aylesworthy, the lawyer who had contracted DaRo to find Lisa Van der Linde.

Carrying a tog bag and wearing gym clothes, he parked his car at the back of DaRo headquarters in Randburg and walked towards the basement gym. He had hardly begun to strip off his tracksuit trousers when Robbie walked in behind him. They often met in the mornings before work using the time to catch up.

"Howzit buddy," said David, glancing over at Robbie stripping off.

Robbie grunted in reply.

They both completed a warm up and moved to the machines, choosing adjacent ones so they could talk easily.

"You remember I told you about some correspondence I had with a European company about a missing person?"

Robbie nodded.

"Well, they came through and I had a meeting with the lawyer in Johannesburg central on Friday."

"Oh yeah, I noticed you were gone most the day."

"Well no, he only kept me for about thirty minutes. Most unusual. I thought it would take longer and didn't organise anything else to do," David said with a grin, "so I bunked out and went and picked Kim up from school. We went to Steers and had a steak. It was fun... Hey, it was Friday, and she didn't have anything important on in the afternoon."

"And then you spent the whole weekend working on the case," said his friend.

"Yeah, hey I did. And it's fascinating, it's a good one, Robbie. It's going to be a tough one. She's been missing for more than twenty years, since about 1990. She's also a Bulawayo girl, although she was born in London, about our age and that may help in the search. She was last officially recorded in Zimbabwe when she filed a tax form at the end of 1988.

"She worked in Bulawayo for more than four years after she left school, so we know for sure we will be able to talk to co-workers. But you should be able to dredge up gardeners, housekeepers and such. Like you normally do." David grinned across at Robbie. "You're going home soon, to make a new baby aren't you? You can start then."

"Funny... ha ha," said Robbie. "I go this Friday coming back, 25th. I can start the search off, and I should still be able to find time to make that baby!"

Robbie released the hand-bar of the machine and moved across to one which worked a different muscle group. David remained on his, but adjusted the weights. He wanted to work on his thigh muscles more.

"The VLC, that's what the Van der Linde Corporation call themselves, began the search for Lisa Van der Linde in Europe about three years ago because she was definitely in Europe for two years after her twenty-first birthday. She spent that time liquidating all assets she had, other than her shares in the VLC. She also removed the money from her European bank accounts. There is no record of what she did with the money, or where she went after that. The VLC paid large amounts of money to various firms all around the world to find her.

"What were they doing here? You know, in Africa?" Robbie asked.

"The VLC had mines, still do, but they got lucky with several in Zimbabwe before they moved into South Africa. In fact, Lisa's dad expanded down here. His father, Lisa's grandfather, started the whole thing in Holland, but in pharmaceuticals and petrochemical products. Johann was sent to Africa, probably to get two alpha males out of the same den. And by the sounds of it, it worked. They grew big when he was here in Africa.

"I have the household accounts. The Van der Linde family lived in one of those large houses in Khumalo, entertained lavishly, every weekend, had a house full of servants, gardeners and a chauffeur."

Robbie laughed, "I wonder if Lisa hated the chauffeur as much as Kim does," and David screwed up his face.

"Probably. Although I can't see what else I can do about it."

"She an only child?" he asked. David nodded and moved over to a machine against the wall.

"I'll bring the file to your office when we are finished here. You can look at it before you go home to Zim. I'll send dad his via email so he can start around Bulawayo.

"What's funny, is the information is scant, you know about Lisa herself. You don't get much of a picture of her at all. She was a straight A student with four ones for M level, kind of like you, and also kind of like you, went to work at an estate agency."

"Hey man. Horses for courses," laughed Robbie.

"Well, it could hardly have been challenging for a girl with those capabilities. Except," David added frowning, "I listened to an interview with a man who was at the meetings Lisa attended in 1988 in Rotterdam and he wrote her off as stupid. Really strange. You see what I mean, I am not getting a clear picture of Lisa. She was brainy, yet came across stupid."

David raised his voice over the noise of the exercise machine Robbie worked.

"She wasn't stupid. When she was only fifteen, she went to visit her grandfather in London. He had been a portfolio manager, you know with stocks and shares and he taught her how to play the market. Howz this: he gave her a bundle of money to play with in August 1982, when she was only fifteen years old. According to the accountant report, she tripled her portfolio by the time she was twenty-one when she came into her full inheritance. There is a bunch of letters from her to her grandfather and notes written on them so we see how his replies ran. Her grandfather was pleased with Lisa's choices. So, she was not stupid, far from it." Robbie grunted again, to let David know he was listening.

"Strangest of all, was the interview I heard with Johann Van der Linde. It was odd, almost as if he was talking about someone whom he could hardly remember. She was his daughter!"

David's voice rose in protest.

"I can't believe they didn't go looking for her earlier. Imagine having a daughter and you lose track of her when she is twenty-three and you don't bother to look for her until she is in her forties! Weird."

"Well, he still isn't looking for her is he? It's the company he owns isn't it?"

"True," replied David. "It's the VLC lawyers who are worried about what will happen when the old man dies."

Robbie changed to the treadmill, intending to end the gym session with a 5km run. Robbie could run for miles. Growing up together they had run around on David's grandparents farm in Kezi, up and down hills in the Matopos and around Hillside where they lived in Bulawayo, and mostly Robbie could out-do him in that respect. His five foot ten inch, wiry build, more suited to running, than David's six foot five frame. These days, David didn't run much, he worried about his knees. At 115kg he had to be careful. He did spinning instead, although the stationary bicycle seat hurt his backside.

### * * *

DAVID finished his shower before Robbie and made his way upstairs to his office to collect his notes on the Lisa Van der Linde case. He liked running ideas by his partner and he wouldn't have much time before Robbie left for Zimbabwe.

Since they had joined forces and formed DaRo, they had been successful at the few missing persons cases they had accepted, although now only took on the more lucrative ones. It was what he enjoyed doing, rather than the mundane work he had to do to keep a business going. Paper-work and meetings were what mostly filled his days.

Recently he wondered if he was happier now with a big business, than when he took a little investigative work or missing person's cases, which he enjoyed, and had gained quite a reputation for. He admitted to feeling stale, unhappy, for some time and he hoped this case would relieve his boredom.

Robbie walked into his office soon after David had laid out his notes and a few of the files he had been given on Friday. They had a several issues to discuss before Robbie left for Zimbabwe at the end of the week and they tried to finish that kind of business before the noise of the office began in earnest.

"The files are pretty clear, and I'll copy you what I send my dad. I thought you may like to look at the photos of Lisa and her parents in hard copy, though. They never seem the same on a computer screen. We have photos of her taken at school, and a few taken at home, all before she left home at age seventeen. All show a blond, pudgy girl."

David pushed a few grainy photos over the table to Robbie.

Flicking through them, he picked out one taken near a swimming pool. A huge, roman nosed, dark skinned man, with a head of chestnut hair stood next to a stunningly beautiful, blond woman. She wore a hat and a sun dress and white strapped sandals.

Standing apart from her parents, Lisa wore a similar outfit to her mother, which made her appear large around the middle. She seemed out of place and uncomfortable and instead of looking at the camera, she looked down and slightly to one side. She also had blond hair, although not as silvery as her mother's and it hung down about her head in a rather unflattering style.

"Doesn't look much like her parents, does she?" commented Robbie. "Not many photos either. You would have thought the family took more over the years. I remember those kind of people always clacking away with the cameras," he added with a grin.

"The other investigators spoke to her grandfather's butler and a few of the remaining staff; some of whom recalled her from visits to the UK. It appears she changed after these photos were taken." David pointed at the year books. "She grew some, lost some weight. They didn't give much of a picture of Lisa though, except she was polite, but distant. Exactly how they described her grandfather.

"The information lacking in that file, is Lisa's life in Bulawayo. We need to get hold of school friends, boyfriends, co-workers to build a picture of her before she left and went to Europe. Before she hid her money. We need to find out why she hid her money. I think that's how we will find her."

"Well, you know what I always say, hey?" said Robbie. "Follow the money, and you will find the missing person. It is mostly due to money that people go missing, hardly ever a mistake or bad luck."

"Yeah, well read the files, I have added notes and then we can discuss in more detail. Oh, by the way, the VLC agreed on our normal percentage of the value of the missing person, and although they insist on using book values for the shares, it still means a big cut for us if we find Lisa," said David. "I also negotiated for expenses to be paid as and when, but to be deducted from the percentage if we find her. So, it is a win, win situation. We get paid either way. Expenses if we don't find her and much more if we do."

Robbie nodded. "Fine with me. Hunting people has always been your thing, Dave. I'll do the leg work.

"What's on the cards, now? I am happy with the new department, the computer geeks are getting going well, I will try get them to send in reports so we can keep track."

David smiled across at Robbie. "You would love to be there with them wouldn't you, just you are not qualified enough, chum. You don't have enough pimples and your hair will never grow long enough or scraggly enough!"

"Funny ha ha," said Robbie.

"I am about to start looking for properties in the Florida area so we can get on with that expansion," said David. "I can work on it while you are up in Zim. Obviously there is no hurry, it is something we need to do when we have time. I'll try for an admin house in Florida, and satellite ones around there. Then the other two suburbs, probably Ontdekkers area and maybe Heldekruin. I'll see. It depends on what I find on the ground."

Robbie listened, nodding again.

"Remember the Jansen break in," David asked and Robbie nodded, "the blond taking him around, looking at houses? She works for Henri's, she gave me her card and I'll go see her."

He shrugged. "We've always dealt with Henri's anyway."

"Nah, you liked the blond," quipped Robbie.

"Yeah, hey I did," said David with a smile. "I especially liked the way she looked down at Jansen's hand on her arm when he told her she could go, as if she were some sort of delivery boy. Did you see her face didn't change at all, just went kind of blank? I wonder what she really thought."

Robbie swung back in his chair and grinned. "Well, I don't think you would need to be a brain surgeon to work that one out."

"Man, I wish I had a blank face like that sometimes," David said. "She's a looker though."

Robbie shook his head, still grinning. "Only you could say that. Only you top her by a few inches, she totally dwarfed the rest of us."

David laughed at Robbie's exaggeration. It was true, she was a tall woman, and although not fat, she was big. Not willowy, he thought. Built solid.

"Any progress on that while I remember?" David asked.

"No, whoever broke in, had the code. Remember Jansen opted against paying for the video feed into our control centre. Instead he used an old computer he had lying around, to save money presumably. It all smells a little I may add," Robbie said and shrugged. "I dunno, our investigators are still busy with it. Keep an eye out when I am away. OK?"

"Sure. Before you go we better sort out exactly how we will communicate when you are in Zim."

"The internet connection from Bulawayo is inconsistent, it's best we leave the video off..."

"That's fine by me," interrupted David, "I don't need to see your face."

"So we best talk early in the morning," Robbie continued, as if he had not been interrupted by David's crack.

"Fine," said David. He collected his notes together, stood up and left the office with his easy stride.
Chapter 26

ROBBIE walked out of the Bulawayo terminus with only a back pack thrown over one shoulder.

He had not asked anyone to meet him at the airport as he liked to catch a mini bus into Bulawayo. It put him in touch with his identity. His roots. Mostly, other commuters didn't peg him for what he was, and Robbie liked that. He would worry when they identified him as a wealthy businessman living in South Africa, or worse a politician.

Mini buses ply the route from Turk Mine to Bulawayo, some the airport route. Robbie never had to wait long for one to hop onto, and the journey only took about twenty minutes. It's amazing what you pick up in a minibus, he thought, you get the climate of the place much more than when you swish around in a fast car.

ROBBIE used his time sitting at Oliver Tambo Airport in Johannesburg and on the flight to read some of the files on Lisa Van der Linde. He put in an ear plug to listen to interviews recorded by investigators in Europe, read David's notes and added to them.

Now, relaxing in the DaRo flat behind their offices in Bulawayo, he lay back on the bed, his hands behind his head.

He was happy to be home and looking forward to his time out of town with his family. He found the continuous noise in Johannesburg disturbing, the endless rush of cars and impersonal people, tiring. He liked to come home to quiet Bulawayo, and quieter rural Kezi from time to time, to recharge.

Recently it had become increasingly difficult to return focused to DaRo in Johannesburg. He felt like a hamster in its wheel, running, running.

The South African government appeared to be making the same errors as most African governments before them, but at the helm of a much larger nation.

He would like to pack it all in, and yet back in Johannesburg, David was buying new properties for more development. More paper-work, more staff.

He forced his mind back onto the job in hand, picking up his notes. He wanted to go around to Fife Street, 11th Avenue to have a look at the agency where Lisa had worked. Paul Brewster had already investigated Bicknim and tracked down a Mrs. Simpson who had owned it in the late 1980's. Permanently blind, Mrs. Simpson lived at the Barbara Burrell Home for the Blind in Illanda.

Lisa had lived in a block of flats in Borrow Street, 13th Avenue, and Robbie wanted to pass by to see them. In the accountant's notes, he discovered Lisa had bought the top floor and renovated them before she moved in. She lived there from 1984 until she left the country in 1988.

Robbie noted she had owned a VW. She must have had a driver's licence. He added a note to check on where and when she got it.

According to the investigators in Europe, Lisa had neither obtained a driver's licence there, nor bought any property in her own name. She did not earn any income in any country investigated and renewed neither her British nor Dutch passport when they expired. Robbie put a dark ring around the driver's licence to emphasise that he wanted it checked out. He also wanted to check if she had ever had a Zimbabwean passport.

Robbie, much quicker than David with figures, noticed how much money was involved and how carefully Lisa had hidden it.

Planning how to proceed with the search, Robbie allowed his mind to wonder over the facts they knew about Lisa, and also to ask himself a few questions.

WAS Lisa van der Linde alive? If not, how had she died and why was it not reported? Why had her parents not kept up with her? Had they fought? Not according to Mr Aylesworthy, but some families don't air their dirty linen in public.

If Lisa was alive, where was she and why did she not want to be found? Criminal activity was usually the answer to that one, but Lisa had gained control of a large amount of money when she was eighteen and a larger amount when she was twenty-one. What criminal activity could she possibly be involved in? Drugs?

Robbie wrote on his pad:

ALIVE.

Where? - as Lisa in a country not investigated - she speaks English and Dutch - which countries speak either? - maybe French too - according to her O level certificate.

How? - in a coma, or insane - payments to hospitals and doctors? - hiding?

Who? - with a new identity - why a new identity? - how did she get one? - who is she now?

Why? - criminal activity? - drugs? - why no police record?

DEAD

Where? - in Zimbabwe or elsewhere?

When? - where is the death certificate?

How? - accident? - why no ID? - murdered?

Why? - why would someone kill her? - sex? - money?

MONEY. Most things end up returning to that, and Lisa had plenty of money, even without the VLC assets.

His gut feeling was that Lisa was dead and someone had taken her money. She had no reason to hide. A person of her type would be living it up, playing on the Riviera, skiing in the Alps.

Something had puzzled Robbie from the start about the money angle. If someone had known about Lisa's money and had taken it off her, why did they not go after the money from the VLC? It was much, much more than Lisa inherited from her grandfather. Why not wait a short time until that money also became available?

At twenty-one years of age, she came into 9% of the VLC shares, and a seat on the board. Why on earth did she not sell her shares? Instead, she requested that her lawyers reinvest her dividends and buy more shares on her behalf with the money.

She spent the next two years, from age twenty-one to twenty-three hiding her money after she had been able to sell out of the VLC.

Robbie couldn't come up with any ideas. There appeared to be no reason for her to hide. If she had become involved in something criminal and had to hide, surely she would have cashed out of all her known assets before she hid herself.

It pointed to the fact that she was not alive to do so.

IT IS not easy to obtain an identity. One read about it in books, but in reality it was not simple. To hide well, a person needs to find an identity close to their own. Lisa would have had to find someone the same age with similar looks and also obtain their documents. Birth certificates, school reports, driver's licenses. And that person would have to be dead. Lisa would have needed an accomplice. Perhaps she had one? Is that why she needed to hide?

In South Africa, at present, all fingerprints are on record, but this wasn't the case in 1988 when Lisa disappeared. Robbie considered connecting with his buddies in the ZRP to get hold of Lisa's fingerprints. In Zimbabwe finger prints had been recorded from 1980 on all identity document applications.

He picked up his pen and wrote another note.

Then, he put his head back down on the pillow and decided to have a rest. It had been a long day and he wanted to be up early in the morning to travel home to Kezi.
Chapter 27

DAVID, pleased with the quick progress on the Lisa Van der Linde case, read through his notes. His father, playing golf over the weekend, had stumbled upon a lead, a lucky break.

Marcus Farina told Paul Brewster a rather strange story. Well, for Bulawayo anyway. He told of how his friend Steve Lukas became obsessed with Lisa Van der Linde, followed her around and finally ended up in hospital.

A strange story for the times, and for Bulawayo. David remembered Bulawayo girls as outgoing, sporty and fun, mostly easy to approach. Perhaps only in his social circle. Perhaps Lisa had not been in Lukas' circle.

With a shrug, he decided he needed to see Lukas, who worked on the East Rand. It would be best to take him by surprise and also to go over himself, to buddy up on the Bulawayo connection. He didn't think he had ever bumped into Lukas, but one never knew, Bulawayo is a small town.

He hoped he could make it to the East Rand without running into traffic. A single accident on the highway can change a pleasant one-and-a-half-hour drive to a four-hour frustration.

As it turned out, he managed it easily and also managed to get in to see Steve Lukas easily. A floor attendant pointed to Lukas' office and David simply walked in, introduced himself and explained his purpose in coming over.

They chatted about Bulawayo and the old days for a short time, until Lukas asked, "So who is it you are looking for?"

"My dad bumped into Marcus Farina, at the Bulawayo Country Club the other night and he said you knew the girl we are looking for, Lisa Van der Linde."

Several emotions flickered across Lukas' face. Surprise, embarrassment, hurt. Reluctantly Lukas answered, "Yes, though I can't say I knew her," he broke off, embarrassment now the uppermost emotion apparent. "...well, I knew of her."

"Can you tell me anything about her? We are not getting much of a picture, and it has been almost twenty years since she disappeared."

"Twenty years? Good heavens." Lukas had his elbows on the table top his hands fisted together in front of him. David assumed he must be about his own age, but guessed Lukas had much less of his hair and much more around his middle than he would have had in the late 80's.

David had given him his standard speech about protecting his sources, promising he would not disclose any names, but it became apparent Lukas would not begin his story without a prompt.

"Marcus said you thought she was someone else, and to find out more, you followed her around."

"Yeah, that's true," Lucas said reluctantly.

"What," asked David, "that you thought she was someone else or that you followed her around?"

David wheedled information out of people in several ways: appear as if he intended to beat the hell out of them, or pretend he had all the time in the world, chip away at them, look as if he wasn't going to go anywhere in a hurry. Sometimes, of course, he had to beat it out of them!

He leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest and pasted an encouraging smile on his face.

Taking a breath, Lukas began, "OK, since Marcus has already blabbed my life story, I might as well tell you the rest.

"One night, we were having a few beers in the pub at Macdonald Club. We were about to leave, but were not tanked or anything.

"I started out selling stationary and it involved lots of travelling and walking, so I generally went to bed fairly early. Anyway, we reached the steps leading to the car park from the pub and this girl appeared out of nowhere. It was quite dark, but I could see she was a looker. Long, long legs and a tiny, tiny mini skirt and a striped sailor type top."

Lukas motioned horizontally to describe the direction of the stripes.

"She was wearing high-heeled shoes and she topped us both in height. They made her walk kind of sexy, you know, swaying.

"We both stopped on the path, I mean she was something special, we couldn't help it.

"She walked up to us and asked us if we wanted to have some fun! Get this; our tongues nearly fell out of our heads. I mean, chicks didn't come up to guys like us and make any kind of offers. Anyway, we went to Marcus' car."

Lukas stopped and looked down, clearly embarrassed now. "Well, we both did her, and it was awesome. Awesome for me anyway... my first time, you know... with a girl. Anyway, that was that. We didn't know who she was, she hardly spoke to us, and when we were finished, she left. Walked out the gate."

Still looking down, Lukas continued, "I couldn't get her out of my mind. I fantasised she knew me, that she had chosen us that night because of me. I hoped she had been watching me and couldn't wait to meet me again. I went back to Macs every night hoping she would come in, but she didn't."

Without looking up, Lukas spread his hands out, palms up.

"Hey, I know now these were male teenage fantasies, but I didn't know any better at the time.

"About a month after the incident, I went into Bicknim Agencies to sell stationary, and noticed a girl there. I was convinced she was the same one, but she didn't acknowledge me at all. She was perfectly polite, but distant."

"Lisa Van der Linde," David prompted.

"Yeah," Lukas agreed.

"What did she look like?" asked David.

"Blond. Long, thick blond hair. Tall. She had brown eyes and dark eyebrows. High arched eyebrows," Lukas traced his own with his fore finger. "Her hair was kind of dark at the roots too, and her skin was smooth. It was tanned, healthy," he said.

"Yup," he added ruefully, "I was a gonna, she was a smasher."

"Well, that's strange," said David, "all the photos we have of Lisa show her as a dumpy, ugly sort of girl. Are you sure it was Lisa Van der Linde?"

"Yes, certain," Lukas said, embarrassed again. "Absolutely certain... you see I had no idea how to talk to her, but at the time I was sure she was the girl from Macs. I didn't get a good look at her face that night, so..." he broke off.

"I found out her name, found out her dad was some rich guy who owned mines and such. She lived in a flat in Borrow street... on the top floor. She mostly walked to work, although she had a red VW beetle. She dressed well, different clothes every day, but not sexy clothes if you know what I mean. Sort of work clothes, you know, jackets and skirts and such, made for each other, not like mix and match. She didn't look like all the other girls with their skimpy minis and stuff, not how the girl at Macs dressed.

"But even with the work type clothes, she was sexy as hell to me. I dunno why, I think I wanted to break through, find out underneath she was that girl from Macs."

Now Lukas had begun talking, he seemed unable to stop, words tumbling out.

"She swam at Borrow Street swimming pool. Serious, she went to the pool about twice a week, either after work, or during her lunch break and swam for an hour, backwards and forwards across the pool. She would get out, and take that gross plastic cap thing off her head, and her hair would fall down... it was awesome, like a silken curtain or something. It would sort of stick to her wet skin, right down her back.

"She was amazing looking. Her body anyway. She had crooked teeth with ugly black tracks on them and a hooked nose, which strangely, I became used to after a while. Didn't notice it anymore."

David pushed a photo across the table, of Lisa as a young teenager, "Is this the same girl?"

Lukas studied the photo, "No way," he said shaking his head, "she didn't look anything like that," he said, squinting closer at the photo, "although her father had one helluva conk on him."

He peered at the photo before moving on to the others David handed him.

"You know... it could be the same girl. Large nose, and look at her calves, they are quite good. Pluck that single eyebrow, stand up straight, get rid of the puppy fat... maybe."

"Well," said David, tapping the photos on the table, "this is definitely her. These came from the lawyer who is paying us to find her. You seem sure you found out her correct name, her father, and your facts line up with what we know of her. She went to a beauty parlour, twice a week for the last two years she was at school."

"Well, she never went when I was watching; definitely not... not once. And she always had make up on when I saw her, and her hair... it was amazing. It was long, but styled differently each day. Complicated braids and patterns sometimes. Or with ribbons plaited into it or coiled round... oh all sorts of things. It didn't look anything like that."

He gestured toward the photos lying on the table in which Lisa's hair appeared stringy and unkempt.

"Maybe she learned how to do it from the beautician," he added.

"And you never met her? Never spoke to her?

"No," Lukas said, shaking his head, "I had fantasies though... thought I would kind of get to know her from a distance first. She was so... sort of aloof; didn't like to look at you. I noticed she often turned her face to one side, even when she spoke to clients. I hoped one day she would go to Macs or somewhere like that, and I would follow, and maybe she would loosen up a bit. Well, you know; teenage fantasies!"

"Did she go out? Did she have many friends?" asked David.

"She didn't go out much during the week. She had a few friends though, her type. She occasionally saw them, mostly during the day or early evening. Usually afternoon braais at houses in Hillside or those big square double stories in Khumalo, never ever at her flat."

Sheepishly, Lukas admitted he had followed her to parties on occasions, hoping one day the host would be someone he knew, but she never did.

David tried to hide his excitement, not often handed a break like this. A surveillance, done years ago, on the subject of his investigation.

"Where did she shop? Haddon's? OK Bazaars?" he asked.

"I never saw her shop once," Lukas stated flatly, "I don't know who did it, but it wasn't Lisa. She didn't go into clothing shops... not in the time I followed her around anyway. She never once went to a dress shop, and yet she had all those different clothes. I remember being puzzled at the time, I thought girls went to dress shops all the time. My sisters spent hours and hours trying on clothes, used to drive me nuts," he shrugged and admitted Lisa spent most of her free time at home, her lights often going off at ten or eleven at night.

Sheepish again, Lukas said, "Hey, I know nowadays I would get in trouble for stalking, but it wasn't like that. I didn't want to hurt her, but I was obsessed with her, wished she was the girl at Macs."

"Do you think she was?" asked David.

"I have thought about it over the years and no... I don't think it was the same girl. Lisa never seemed interested in anyone and she didn't go out much, not as much as my sisters. She didn't look like a girl who would pick up two guys and...," he trailed off again, clearly embarrassed to say more. "She was a stay at home chick. I suppose the girl at Macs started me off and I became stuck on Lisa."

"Did you eventually get sick of her, or did you tire of watching when you didn't get anywhere with her?"

David guessed Lukas considered lying about what happened next and would need further prompting.

"Marcus told my dad you were attacked and badly beaten outside her flat."

Lucas nodded and dropped his eyes, "One night, about half nine, I was standing outside her block of flats. A guy managed to get up to me so quietly, the first thing I knew, I had a knife at my throat. It was scary, terrifying.

"I didn't hear him and he had to walk about fifty metres along the pavement to get to me. I don't know how he did it. Anyway, he had me by the hair, a great big knife at my throat and his mouth right against my ear. He told me to clear off and stop stalking Lisa. He told me this was a warning and next time I would be dead. He pulled the knife across my throat, nearly killed me... see here," Lukas pointed to a long thin scar on the side of his neck, "it left a scar it was that deep.

"With blood running down all over my shirt, he hit me. At first he held me up while he worked on my face and chest and stomach. He let me fall and he kicked the shit out of me. He knew what he was doing. I didn't stand a chance. He hurt me, hurt me bad. I had broken ribs and my goolies were so sore I couldn't walk properly for months. I had loose teeth and a broken nose too," he fingered the bump on his nose, "and he left me there bleeding all over the pavement. He took my wallet; I suppose so the police would think it was a robbery.

"Marcus was the only one who knew any different, the big mouth jerk. I woke up in hospital, and I took about a month to get right. I took much longer to recover, you know," he tapped the side of his head, "mentally. But I took his advice and never went anywhere near Lisa again. I never saw her again. I guess her rich dad had a body guard looking after her."

"Any idea who attacked you, what he looked like?"

"He was taller than me, but not very tall, not big like you. I would say he was around six foot, but strong, extremely strong. I couldn't get away from him when he started beating me up. I tried, I can tell you."

"Could you see him? What he looked like? Any idea what race?"

"No, it was dark, there are no street lights on that side of the road, but I think he was coloured, something about the way he talked I suppose. He could have been any race though; I couldn't see him in the dark. I don't think he was white, can't say why, just a gut feel."

STEVE Lukas sat at his desk after David left, thinking of Lisa Van der Linde and his obsession with her. He had never forgotten her, in fact, his memories of her had interfered in his later relationships.

On occasion he would glimpse a girl with long blond hair. His heart would thud loudly in his chest and he would feel slightly faint. He would stare eagerly at the girl until he confirmed she was not Lisa. Usually the hair was wrong. Lisa's was the most beautiful hair he had ever seen, straight and thick and long...

Lukas, aware his fantasies and reality had become hopelessly confused, accepted no real woman could hope to live up to them for any length of time. He would forever judge his memories of this first sexual experience, against the subsequent realities of a string of substandard blondes.

Well at least I never married any of them, he thought. What a hopeless job he would have made of that!

Lukas kept his sex life to himself these days, with celluloid creations, snapshots of the best poses of the best looking blonds. All the porn movies Lukas owned were of lovely blonds, as were the hundreds of still photographs he downloaded off the internet.

He had entirely given up on the idea of gaining any satisfaction from real sexual opportunities.
Chapter 28

ON Wednesday morning, David pulled up outside the offices of Henri Properties, surprised he had never been in to this branch before. Easy to find, the building had adequate parking, parallel to Republic.

When he and Robbie formed DaRo, their first branch opened in Randburg, and they had used the Henri's branch along Jan Smuts.

They found the manager efficient and at the same time pleasant to deal with. When DaRo expanded, they always consulted the nearest Henri agency for property.

This branch was glass fronted and built with red brick, several stories high. A glass door, to the left of the shop front, led to the upper floors.

He climbed out of his car, dug in his wallet for the business card he had been given, and ran up the steps.

The sliding door opened to a spacious room with two desk clusters to the right and a few comfortable chairs on the left. Mirrors covered almost the entire back wall, enhancing the impression of roominess. The open plan office was decorated with plants, offsetting the beige and brown décor well.

David approached the first occupied desk and asked to speak to Ms Steyn.

The woman behind the desk appeared surprised at his request.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"Well, no. She gave me her card a while ago and now I need to get moving on buying some property. I have always used Henri's in the past." David handed over a card with his details.

She picked up a telephone and spoke into it quietly for a few moments.

"I'll take this through to Ms Steyn," she said. "Please take a seat."

David took a seat, intrigued by the attitude of the agent. In his experience estate agents, eager for a sale, thrust pictures of properties and lists of addresses into his hands.

Ms Steyn must be the branch manager here, although in the past, Henri's Properties managers had been freely accessible.

He idly paged through a magazine from the side table, barely absorbing any content. He realised he was nervous, which surprised him. Ms Steyn, had made an impression on him at the Jansen break-in. She had hardly opened her mouth the entire time, although he would not have called her shy. She seemed poised and assured on the surface, but underlying this, was something else he couldn't pin down. Something different.

He was frowning slightly, puzzling, when she came around the edge of the mirrored partition. He watched her walk towards him, her dark blue, calf length skirt swaying from side to side. She moved well.

"I'm sorry about the delay," she said as he stood. "I'm Henrietta, did you want to speak to me in particular?"

He realised she did not remember him from the Jansen robbery.

"You gave me your card when we met at Harry Jansen's house. I was there investigating the burglary; DaRo security. We have bought all our properties through Henri's in the past, and when you gave me your card the other day, I was reminded of our need to get moving on a project we have been planning for some time."

"Yes, now I remember," she nodded. "Any luck with Mr. Jansen's property?" she asked. He had the impression she offered the question out of politeness rather than from any genuine interest.

"No, no leads at all. The burglars deactivated the alarm system, didn't breach it. It's common clients are careless about their access codes, they also don't change them often enough. He insists he lives alone and no one has access to his codes," David hesitated shrugging his shoulders. "We have started full time surveillance on his property. Hopefully we can stop it happening again."

Henrietta moved slightly away from him and gestured towards the partition.

"Come into my office and we can discuss your requirements," she said.

Once inside, David noticed the partition, constructed of one-way glass, allowed her to view the office and roadway beyond. Her desk, bare except for a computer, and a speaker headphone stood slightly off centre. Her printer, fax and all of the other office paraphernalia were arrayed along a narrow cupboard against one wall.

Henrietta gestured to a chair, sat down in front of her computer and began tapping the keyboard.

"I see you buy properties rather than rent them," she said, looking at her screen.

Surprised she could access information on his previous purchases this quickly, David wondered if the Henri agents he had dealt with in the past had been as efficient.

"Yes," he replied, "for us to run a business from what used to be a home, we have to apply for permits to make any changes. This is difficult enough without having to run to the owner each time we need a new permit, so we prefer to buy, usually one property first, which we use as a command base. If our client base spreads in the area, we buy others as needed. About three to four houses per suburb. We offer home security and must get to our clients in a matter of minutes in the event of an alarm tripping."

Henrietta nodded. "Into which area do you intend to extend?" she asked.

"Florida first, then Ontdekkers area, Helderkruin later. We want to set up as soon as we can get the command centres going. Until then we have to either turn clients down or try to service them from nearby suburbs, which isn't satisfactory."

"Must you have a house, or will a commercial property be adequate?" Henrietta asked, whilst tapping her computer keys.

"We usually go for a house, but the initial command base could be commercial. It depends entirely on what it looks like, if there is parking, how big the storage is etcetera."

"I can show you hard copy, or on my screen," she said.

"Let me take a look at your screen," David answered, "perhaps you can send copies to my office. I'll look at them later in more detail. How many properties are we talking about here?"

"I searched for larger properties with plenty of available space, discounting flats and row houses, duplexes and the like. We will need to look closely at about twelve."

She tapped at her keyboard for a bit, before twisting the screen towards him. She had split the screen. On the left, a map with little dots marked the houses, on the right showed a scroll down list with small pictures and information relating to each property.

"We should be able to get around all of these today, a quick visual should enable you to narrow it down a little, until we can arrange to visit those you are most interested in. Why don't you park your car in our space at the back, and go in mine?" she suggested. "Drive slightly forward and you will see the gate to your left."

### * * *

ONCE in the parking area behind the offices, David saw Henrietta beeping open a maroon VW Touareg parked amongst several cars in covered spaces. She slipped a card into the SatNav, and the map they had been looking at in the office opened up on the screen.

"I don't think I need this SatNav, Florida is practically in my backyard. I bought property in the area when I first started out in real estate. Now, of course, it is built up, but back then I bought several large lots."

David felt his face warm. Embarrassed, he realised the 'Henri' part of 'Henri Properties' derived from Henrietta, not 'Henri' pronounced the French way, a man's name. Henri Properties, one of the largest agencies in South Africa, had offices all over the country. He had automatically assumed it belonged to a man.

"When did you start in the real estate business?" he asked, to cover his embarrassment.

"As soon as I left school," she said, "at first I worked for someone else, did all the exams, learnt the ropes. Only when I felt confident did I go out on my own."

She drove confidently but not aggressively, using her indicators as well as her rear-view mirrors. Light traffic flowed as they joined the N1. These same roads were in gridlock until after nine each morning, but at 11.30am driving proved easy.

"Is it safe doing this? Don't you do some sort of background check on potential clients before you go out with them?"

"I have a good security team whose job it is to do background checks for all my branches throughout the country. This morning in the office, I checked the URL on your business card and matched you with your photograph. I thought it would be OK. I also have a panic button and GPS tracking in my vehicles." Henrietta flashed him a quick look and continued, "My car, is followed at all times, unless I am chauffeured. My security manager is extremely protective."

David's eyebrows rose, surprised to hear her speak casually of such serious security precautions. Most Johannesburg residents remain quite blasé about security, apparently unaware of the dangers all around them.

"You're followed? This doesn't bug you?"

"No, I don't notice them. It beats being driven by a chauffeur."

David felt his cell phone vibrate and looking at the readout saw it was his daughter. "Sorry, let me take this call," he said.

"Hi, Baby."

David listened for a short while.

"I hate it when that happens."

He listened for longer.

"I'm sorry, Baby, there's no way I can get there in time. I am right the other end of town; it will have to be a driver."

David shut his eyes while his daughter's voice rose on the other end of the line.

"Please... I can't do anything else at short notice."

He spoke more sharply, "No, don't catch the bus, it's not safe."

David listened for a bit more adding a few OK's and mmm's and disconnected, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"My daughter," he said with a sigh. "Afternoon activities are cancelled and she wants me to collect her from school. She hates being chauffeured, she says everyone else is collected by their mothers, she is the only one collected by a driver."

"How old is she?" asked Henrietta.

"Fourteen. What's funny, is that she only began to mind recently, she always used to trot off happily with the driver to school each morning and never seemed to mind being collected either. Suddenly, she's noticed she's different to everyone else."

David glanced over at Henrietta. "Her mum was killed in a car crash when she was two."

"What's her name?" Henrietta asked with a smile.

"Kim... Kimberley," he paused, "I suppose I should stop calling her Baby?"

"At fourteen, she is hardly a baby," she said still smiling.

"She is my baby," David said, now smiling too.

"Is she your only child?"

He nodded, but said nothing further, concentrating on sending a message to his office to change the arrangement for Kim's collection.

"We could collect her," said Henrietta.

David glanced over at her in surprise, "Collect Kim? No, it's OK, she would have gone home with the driver anyway, only later, at three I think. He'll get there a little earlier now, that's all."

Henrietta nodded and turned into the slip lane to get off the highway.

"I first want to show you an office block in a small shopping centre, much like my office in Randburg," she said.

They drove a short distance from the highway through a residential area, until they reached a small shopping centre. It seemed fairly new, many of the buildings faced with red brick and large glass windows. Henrietta pulled up and parked in front of an office block.

"I bought this building recently," she said. "I have tenants in here at the moment, but many are on a short lease."

They toured the office block and the surrounding area.

Back in the car, Henrietta spoke, "You mention 'us' when you discuss your business. Who is us?"

She spoke sharply, almost aggressively.

"The 'Da' part of the title is for David and the 'Ro' part is for Robbie. We teamed up in 1991."

She nodded once, a sharp jerk rather, but kept her eyes on the road.

Encouraged he continued, "We have known each other all our lives, we are the same age and have always been friends. Robbie did a stint in the Zimbabwe Police and then came to work with me. I'd been a private investigator, mostly for insurance companies.

"Actually, I mostly played sport and the work was a side-line," he added with a smile. "Since we started, we branched out into all sorts of business. We still do investigations for the insurance companies, but also run home security, and security guards. Both of us had talents we didn't seem to be able to use on our own."

David grinned over at Henrietta, "Robbie is the brains of the outfit, he's a very smart guy! He can speak about six languages," he laughed, "including computer language, he always found academic work easy."

ROBBIE had spent most afternoons helping him with his homework, coaching him through the maths, spelling and reading.

They had sat together in the laundry next to the garage, at the little desk Martha set up for them.

He could still remember the smell of hot iron, and maths homework. Even today, that smell evoked the memory of the unbelievable jumble of numbers and he would silently thank goodness for Robbie, who had helped him with it all.

Robbie had tried to explain as he went along rather than simply doing the examples, probably only for Martha's benefit. David had never understood any of it, preferring to escape outside to play with some ball or other.

He had often dragged poor Robbie away from a novel to throw balls or play tennis or caddy for the Inspector.

Robbie had continued to help him at senior school, and David had always been grateful to him, for his patience and good humour. Robbie coached him through his 'O' Levels and David scraped a pass, good enough to allow him to carry on at school, which in essence meant he could continue with his sport.

HENRIETTA heard respect and warmth in David's voice, often absent when discussing business partners. An almost twenty-year partnership which has held strong must be a good one, she thought.

"I like to think I do the personnel management, but Robbie does deal with some sections of this area, especially the security guard side. I mostly deal with clients. Luckily we know each other well, I can generally decide in a meeting with a client if we can do the job or not. Or if we want to, of course."

"You say you have known each other all your lives?" asked Henrietta.

"Yes, we are both Zimbabweans, we still have relatives there and go home often, particularly Robbie."

THEY drove around and viewed several of the houses from the outside. Henrietta wanted David to get the feel of the area before he decided which houses to look at more carefully. The suburb consisted of smallish houses, tiny yards, less than ten years old. Working, to middle-class families.

"Well, we pretty much looked at all the houses in this area I want to show you," said Henrietta. "I'm going to move a little bit away from here later. Perhaps we can grab some lunch at a place I know down the road."

SHE did not normally invite clients for lunch, but had enjoyed the morning spent with David. He was non-threatening and fun, and he laughed often. She liked his open, relaxed view of the world. Different. Easy going rather than fun, he treated her differently than most men.

She didn't feel she would need to fend off any advances from him. Unusually for her, they talked almost as if they had known each other for a long time, traded questions and shared silences without the tenseness she normally felt with a stranger.

She drove to a modern shopping centre, which had a Woolworths Food, the usual clothing shops, a Fruit and Veg City, and a little restaurant she knew served a good lunch. She parked directly outside, beeped the car closed, and moved to the pavement.

David scanned the car park, "I haven't seen your security. I thought you said they followed you around?"

"Oh, I'm sure they are around somewhere. I usually forget all about them, get on with my business."

The maître d' rushed up and ushered them to a small table.

Henrietta liked this place, they knew what she liked to eat and also that the smallest change upset her. The little booths with wooden partitions ensured her privacy.

"You bring many clients here?" asked David.

"No. Mostly I eat here, if I'm this end of town."

DAVID wanted to ask if she was married. The only jewellery she wore were small studs in her ears and a square gold watch with a black face.

She excused herself and David, left alone, decided to take the opportunity to call his daughter. With a wry smile, he reminded himself to call her Kim. When the call didn't go through after three tries, he began to worry.

"Hi Baby," he burst out, forgetting to use her name in his anxiety. "Has the driver arrived?"

"No daddy, not yet."

"Please send me an SMS when you are on the way."

Kim sighed audibly and David imagined her rolling her eyes.

"Please Kim."

"Okay daddy," she sang.

David smiled, shaking his head slightly. Changing rapidly, not only in looks, but also in character, he didn't know what to do about her.

His message tone vibrated as Henrietta settled into her chair. It was from Kim to say she had been collected, with an added sarcastic comment about the driver.

David smiled, reading.

"From Kim. The driver has arrived," he said. "I worry about her, especially now she is beginning to develop her character. Do you have any children?"

"No. I'm not married, never have been. Never had children," she said abruptly.

Unprepared to follow up he said, "I was late getting married, and when my wife was killed after only four years of marriage...." he broke off.

HENRIETTA wondered why he had married late, surprised he had not remarried. He was a good looking man, if you liked large powerful types. He had aged well, with no suggestion of a paunch, had not yet acquired the ruddy, red veined look of light skinned people, his eyes still clear blue. He retained his full head of blond hair which he cut fairly short against his head.

She had enjoyed being in his company the last hour or two.

A large man, although not intimidating. She liked the way he treated her, politely but without stifling her. He didn't go to lengths to pull out her chair, or open the door. He allowed her to precede him into the restaurant, but she pulled out her own chair. He didn't fuss around her or act protectively towards her at all. He allowed her to choose the restaurant for lunch, drive her car instead of his and decide in which order to view the houses.

Most male clients she dealt with, would have wanted a say in each one of those.

She also like the way he spoke to her about business, as an equal.

But most of all, he didn't try to touch her as most men did, always looking for an excuse to paw her.

So far, David had not touched her.

### * * *

THEY stepped out of the restaurant and once again David searched for Henrietta's guard, but could see no one remotely guard-looking close.

She stood on the pavement beeping her car open, when a man in a bright orange, two-seater sports car, came screeching around the corner directly behind them. He changed down a gear and revved, and the little sports car produced a throaty roar, its back wheels smoking as the show-off accelerated away.

Although over in a second, David saw Henrietta flinch and noticed her face tighten up. The man was showing off to gain her attention and looking across at her, David was not surprised. She was a striking looking woman.

He noticed the same blank look settle on her face, he had seen when Jansen put his hand on her arm. Annoyed, perhaps upset, and yet, she should be used to it. Men looked at women who looked like she did; they postured and panted and tried to gain their attention.

Henrietta spoke over the roof of her car, "They frighten the life out of me. I hate them."

Puzzled, about to ask what she meant, she added, "Loud cars, and motorbikes. They are the worst. Sometimes I am driving down the road, minding my own business and one of them comes alongside me and revs. I nearly jump out of the car. And hooters. I don't hoot. Ever. And I hate it when other people do."

He wondered if the drivers of the sports cars and motorbikes realised they only annoyed her.

Smiling to himself he said, "We had one of those," pointing in the direction the orange car had taken.

"You had one of those little things?" she asked incredulously. "How on earth did you fit in?"

"OK, Jackie had one, I am not sure if I ever drove it."

Grinning he continued, "I don't know if she revved it and frightened people trying to catch their attention though. She loved that little car and it suited her you know; she drove it everywhere."

"I take it she fitted into it!" said Henrietta, as she negotiated the exit.

"Yes, she was a tiny little thing, small petite, and fragile looking."

A VIVID recollection of Jackie, came to him. Always moving, flashing from place to place, like quicksilver. Jackie, with her perfect little adult, child body. His pixie.

He believed she had initially been attracted to his size. It made her feel safe and protected. She had loved to curl up on his lap, or cuddle under his arm, but ultimately it had not been enough. He had never been sure what went wrong between them.

Sad suddenly, he shifted slightly in the seat and glanced across at Henrietta driving.

"I loved her very much," he said, "I tried to give her what I could, but by the time she died, I knew it wasn't enough. I wasn't giving her what she wanted. Our marriage wouldn't have lasted much longer. After only four years."

Puzzled, he shook his head.

"Yet, before we met, she was involved in an eight-year relationship with a guy called Anton, who I always thought was a jerk. I watched them once at a function, about six months before we started dating. He completely dominated her, standing close, touching her and yet I overheard him being quite cruel to her verbally. I couldn't understand why such a beautiful woman would stand being treated like that."

Apparently Anton told her what to wear, how to decorate the house. He would call her up in the middle of the day to ask what she was doing, or check she was doing what he had told her to do. David couldn't imagine involving himself in another's life as intrusively.

"He owns an art gallery in Braamfontein. Anton Visser. I think she reconnected with him before she died."

"And you didn't use your investigation team to check on that?"

"No, I didn't. I didn't want to know."

"Mentally hiding your head in the sand?"

"No, not really," he began slowly, as if trying to find the correct words. "Well, a little bit. I believe in the individual. Jackie was a person in her own right. I was married to her, I didn't own her. She should have been able to make her own choices and ultimately would have had to. I wanted her to make the choice, not me," he said, emphasising 'her.'

"I think I failed her. She wanted me to make decisions for her and I wouldn't. Perhaps she wanted me to follow her, check up on her to catch her out with Anton, force things to a head."

David gave a short laugh, "Robbie investigated her I am sure. He never misses a trick, that one, but I never asked him and he never said anything to me. Next thing, she was dead anyway, so it didn't matter."

IF THE Anton Visser David mentioned was the same one she knew, Henrietta was aware he not only owned an art gallery, but also Cages, a private, select, very discrete BDSM club in Braamfontein. Henrietta had met both Jackie and Anton, although she didn't know Jackie had married, or died in a car accident.

"You never remarried?"

"No, I sort of missed the boat. I was over thirty when Jackie died, and bringing up a child on your own is not easy to fit in with relationships. I run a business and I love to spend time with Kim. I let that part of my life pass."

"Don't you miss the sex?"

David, about to laugh at her outspoken statement, glanced across at her serious face and decided she had asked the question out of genuine interest, and it prompted him to be as honest as possible.

"Well, at first, I was so sad to lose Jackie I didn't notice, and there was Kim, who was two when her mum died. I couldn't wait to get home in the evenings, and she was always so pleased to see me. Every evening she would run towards me and jump up at me and laugh, hugging me tight. Unconditional love; nothing can compete with that. I couldn't let her down, so I went home every evening. I started leaving work at four, telling everyone it was to miss the traffic, but actually it was because of Kim. I could be there to bath her and feed her.

"Fitting in a child and a relationship is difficult you know. Think of the logistics. Also, sex is easy to find, good sex is not. Imagine, sneaking off in the afternoons to some sleazy hotel," David grimaced. "Not for me."

HENRIETTA, surprised at his openness, wondered how many men could admit they bathed their child, and didn't like casual sex. Strangely, she didn't feel uncomfortable, she didn't feel threatened or embarrassed as she normally did with confidences.

Chapter 29

AS David drove away from Henri Properties later that afternoon, he mulled over the day he had spent in Henrietta's company.

He liked talking to her; found it easy to talk to her. She didn't interrupt, or make encouraging noises as many women do. Her face didn't show many emotions but she did look at him directly and he found it encouraged him to say more.

She didn't seem shy, and she asked questions if she wanted to know the answers. She asked intelligent questions too, sometimes difficult ones like the one about sex, he recalled with a grin.

Yet she didn't seem to see him as someone she should flirt with or score points off. In fact, he could not recall an instance when she had flirted with him in any way at all. Almost as if she were not conscious she was a beautiful woman spending time with an unattached man.

Often women he met wanted to know intimate details about him which he was not always ready to impart. Yet he had found himself volunteering information to Henrietta he would normally have resented telling another more inquisitive woman.

Sitting in his car waiting for a robot to change, he almost cringed at what he had told her about the disintegration of his relationship with Jackie. What the hell had got into him? He had never told anyone that. He often spoke to Kim about her mother, but never that anything had gone wrong between them.

Shifting in his car seat, he admitted he knew why he had told Henrietta such personal details. In order to get another person to talk about themselves, you have to give something of yourself, and the more personal information you want, the more personal titbits you need to offer. He wanted to know more about her, more than the superficial things people usually tell each other in normal conversation. He wondered why. Why did he want to know more personal information about Henrietta?

He had noticed a few rather interesting quirks about her which made her different, intriguing. She sometimes came back to a subject after the conversation had moved on, almost as if she had continued to think about this topic in the background of her mind. On other occasions she made rather abrupt statements or asked abrupt questions, seemingly out of context.

She appeared extremely focused on some subjects and completely out of it on others. On some occasions she gave short answers to questions and on others spoke at length, with passion. Almost with a single-minded purpose, as if she had to get it all out, until sometime, usually towards the end, she sneaked a look at him to check his reaction.

He remembered with amusement when he had asked her if her vehicle was diesel or petrol. She had glanced across at him with a puzzled frown on her face, as if he were asking something far out, or speaking in a foreign language.

"I have no idea," she had answered. "How do you tell?"

David had laughed, "Well, usually when you get to the filling station. You would need to tell the pump attendant."

"Oh," she had said, sounding as if a mystery had been solved, "I don't go to filling stations."

David had raised his eyebrows.

"I am not sure who refuels my car. It isn't always the same car either, although I do ask they are all the same make and model. Change disturbs me. I get quite upset if all the buttons and levers are not in the same place."

David had been astonished at her statement. It appeared she didn't know how many cars she had, or what make of car it was!

She seemed to realise what she had said was odd, and by way of explanation added, "I employ a large, diverse team to look after me and my properties and I do not tell them how to do their jobs. I have learned over the years that most people have a unique way of doing things. I like to tell people what I want done, not how to do it. I try to have a few, easy to understand standards, which I expect my staff to attain. If they do not, I find someone else who can."

This had sounded rather cold and harsh to David, but Henrietta continued, "I cannot dictate how each manager, or in fact each agent sells houses or runs the renting side of the business. In a small dorpie in the Free State a different type of person will sell houses to one in Johannesburg."

She had flashed him a quick look, as if to check he was listening.

"I had bought out an estate agency in one of the top resorts in the Cape and happened to go down there. When I first met with the woman with the best sales figures, I was surprised. She was not your typical real estate agent, and I was intrigued as to how she sold any property at all. She did not appear outgoing, in fact she seemed snobby; with her slight English accent and her habit of staring down her nose at everyone. She always seemed to have a slight frown on her face, as if her clients were wasting her time. I found out later she wore contact lenses, and the permanent crease between her eyes came from years of wearing thick glasses," Henrietta had paused.

"You know how she sold houses? She was selling real estate to people who were upwardly mobile; people whose main purpose in life was to impress their friends. The house at the coast, the one they occupied only once a year at Christmas was for show. Her selling line was, "This is the price. If you can't afford it, I am sure I will find someone who can," and incredibly it worked. She looked down her nose at them, and they didn't want to be seen lacking. She assumed they had the money to buy the property, and they wanted to live up to her expectations.

"Later on, she would arrange for their property to be rented out in the off season, to help pay for a house they could not afford." Smiling, Henrietta had continued, "She also had a good thing going running gardening services, plumbing repairs and redecorations. Later, I heard she began stocking houses with groceries before the holidays, running a marina; and all the while bringing up a family... Amazing."

David found it more amazing that Henrietta allowed someone to get involved with side line activities in conflict with her own core business.

"I have a successful Afrikaans speaking salesman in the Free State," she had expanded, "he wears khakis, dirty velschoene, a grubby hat and drives a beat up old bakkie. He sells many farms, for an awful lot of money." Henrietta had shrugged her shoulders, "He wouldn't get anywhere in Johannesburg, and the woman from the Cape would look pretty stupid in the Free State."

Her entire speech had been delivered quietly, her voice well-modulated with short pauses and small gestures, as if to include him in the story.

Earlier, in the restaurant, she had been equally intense, but spoke almost as if he were not sitting in front of her. Fascinated, he had noticed she abruptly tailed off, as if she realised how she must appear to him.

He had been interested in her, and wanted to see more of her.

### * * *

"HI BABY," said David, walking through to the lounge.

Kim sat watching TV, idly stroking a huge ginger cat.

"Oops sorry. Kim. I keep forgetting."

Kim raised her eyebrows at him as he settled next to her on the couch.

"A woman told me today you are too old to call baby any longer."

Kim, a little annoyed asked, "Who was she? Why were you discussing me?"

"We weren't specifically," David replied. "She was driving when I spoke to you on the phone. She heard me call you baby."

"You were driving with a woman, daddy? Who?"

"Oh business. Actually, I thought she worked for a man. So much for your liberal, non-chauvinistic dad, huh! I have dealt with Henri's for ages. Whenever I buy property, I look for the local Henri's agency. Well, remember when I had to go out the other night, to a break in?"

Kim nodded.

"Well, this woman was there, and she gave me her card. I recognised she worked for a company I needed to see soon. What I didn't notice was the connection between her name, Henrietta Steyn and the company called Henri's! I felt an idiot when I worked it out."

"What is she like, daddy?" asked Kim.

"Well, she must be smart. Henri's is a large company with branches all over the country and they deal with every aspect of real estate. They buy and sell, they also administer properties they own and properties owned by others. It appears, she owns it outright, and built it from scratch. From her looks, I would guess she is only in her mid-thirties."

"No man," sighed Kim shaking her head. "What does she look like? She must be pretty, because you never have girlfriends," she said.

David, well aware of Kim's impossible dream for a mother, always shied away from explaining to her how difficult the practicalities would be. Most women his age would already have a family, children and would perhaps be divorced. Divorced for a reason. He appealed to younger women as a source of money, smart car, big house. How many would care about a teenage girl?

He had already fielded several of both types, although they had not progressed so far as to meet Kim.

"She is not pretty, not conventionally pretty," he said, "but she is attractive, striking rather. She makes use of her strong points, her height and her hair. She's blond, has lovely thick, long blond hair. You should have seen it, Kim. She had it done in an intricate weave, small strands gathered towards the centre where they joined into a French plait, each strand held with some sort of clip. Then the whole thick bundle was gathered here at her neck," David lifted Kim's pony tail, twisting it around his finger.

"The rest hung loose, almost to the small of her back." He paused, resting his head against the couch his eyes closed.

"She is tall and elegant and moves well. She was well dressed, well turned out. I liked her. I liked her when I met her at the break in, but I admit I was a little intimidated too."

Speaking quietly, almost to himself, David was a little surprised when Kim said, "You are always suspicious when it comes to women, daddy. That's why you never have any affairs. Will you see her again?"

"I have to look through the list of houses and decide which ones to buy, we will be buying two or three for the Florida area expansion alone. I will be seeing her again to sort it all out, but it is business. I didn't think I would push anything."

Kim looked her disgust.

"Well, I had lunch with her," he said with a laugh.

"You did?"

"Don't get excited Kim, it was business. Strictly business."
Chapter 30

THE following morning, David called his investigations department and asked for the report on the Jansen burglary. He wanted to see what his team had dug up on Henrietta Steyn. He wished he had read it before he went barging into her office, although David, honest with himself, would have tried to see her again anyway. If he had known she owned Henri's though, he might have saved himself personal embarrassment. He hoped she had not noticed his slip up.

When the file arrived, he flipped through it, until he found the page relating to Henrietta.

Name: Henrietta Steyn (HS) DOB: 31-03-1967

Home address: No.2 Hill Street, Hillcliffe, Randburg

Business: Owner, Henri Properties, a real estate agency

Business address: 2026 Harbour Street, off Republic Road

1967-1970 HS lived on parent's farm in Natal

1970 HS parents killed in a car crash

1970-1975 HS fostered out to several homes

1975-1988 HS resided with Howard family

1980-1985 HS boarded at Maritz Brothers College, Durban

1990 HS started Henri's Properties

No marriage on record

No children on record

HS unlikely connection with burglary - short association with Jansen.

HS out with Jansen during burglary

WITH surprise, David calculated he had underestimated Henrietta's age by nearly ten years. In his experience, blonds didn't wear well in Africa, unless they spent the whole day indoors out of the harsh sun. Henrietta's skin was fairly dark, smooth and supple, with only a few lines around her eyes and mouth. She moved like a much younger woman, fluid and assured...

His head investigator had signed off on the last section, 'NFA.' She didn't think there was any involvement between Henrietta Steyn and the Jansen burglary. He could ask for further investigation of Henrietta. David wondered if he should use the burglary as an excuse to find out more. After all, the Jansen investigation had stalled.

With a shrug, he signed his name on the file, closed it and pushed it away from him, across the desk.

### * * *

AFTER he finished with the investigation report on the Jansen break in, David opened his laptop to find an email from Henrietta with a map attached. On the map she had marked the properties they had visited to enable him to work out how best to design his new development.

Of the twelve houses they had viewed the previous day, he decided that four would be most suitable, and he would negotiate with Henrietta for the office building. Central with good parking, the complex was neat and modern, and there would be no need to evict any of the tenants immediately, as DaRo would, at first, need only one of the spacious offices. He liked the top floor, which could easily be adapted later into a flat-let.

He tapped out a quick reply and asked Henrietta if she would be able to set up appointments for him to visit each of the four houses.

He was surprised to receive a response immediately, asking if he was available the following day, Friday. He was more surprised at her suggestion that he drive directly to the parking at the back of her office. He had imagined she would simply set up meetings with the property owners or their tenants, and wondered if he should message her back to that effect.

Like hell, he thought. Who am I trying to fool? He would make any excuse to see her again.

THE following morning, upon his arrival at Henri Properties, he was shown directly through to Henrietta's office. She stood when he came in, greeting him formally.

"I had someone go down to the council and collect copies of the plans of the four houses," said Henrietta. "I thought you might like to work out how they could be adapted to your needs. It would be silly to buy a house, only to find later it cannot be changed as required."

This scenario cropped a few years previously, when DaRo purchased a house in Edenvale. The council refused to allow the property to be converted to a commercial one, and they had been forced to buy another house a short distance away. DaRo still owned them both, using one property as a safe house, and the other, as the control centre for their Edenvale satellite branch.

Henrietta had pinned the plans one on top of the other on a sloped pull out, attached to her work top.

"Have a quick look at them now. After you have taken a few notes on site, they will make much more sense," she said, gesturing towards the tilted board. She sat back down at her desk, leaving him to look at the plans nearby.

Not for the first time, David thought Ms Steyn was one smart cookie. She seemed to anticipate his needs and was unbelievably organised and efficient. Grinning, he thought she was the kind of woman the average white South African male didn't like. The men found intelligent women intimidating, and many women resorted to a pretence of being dilly or muddleheaded.

It appeared Henrietta didn't bother with such deceits, she appeared organised and efficient. She made none of the usual hand flutters and other feminine distractions, and did not pamper to, or did not notice, his alleged 'masculine superiority.'

ALL four of the houses should be suitable, but he needed further details before committing himself. He unclipped the plans and rolled them up, looking around to see Henrietta waiting by the door for him, ready to leave.

Once again, they took her car, but this time she did not set her SatNav. They arrived at the first house and she watched him as he walked around the entire property writing occasionally in a small notebook.

After a similar inspection of the second house, he said, "This property is shaping up well, I like the way the house is in one corner of the yard, leaving plenty of space for development. I will get someone onto council to see if this is possible, you know, sheds and such like. l like the little flat-let, we sometimes need a safe house for a client and it is always good to know we can provide."

"Safe house?"

"Yes, we offer a personal protection service and sometimes we need somewhere safe for people to stay: Nigerians, rich people," he shrugged, "all sorts, even battered wives. Many of our houses have available rooms, although I think Robbie gets the most use out of them."

"Robbie? Your partner?"

"Yes," said David grinning, "he is quite the layabout. He has a wife here and another in Zim, and often makes use of one or other of our flats in between."

"There is no need for you to approach the council," she said abruptly. "Send an email with your requirements and I will have it sorted out as part of my service. Outline exactly what it is you need by way of further use, and I will deal with the technicalities."

"Right, I will do that. I didn't know it was part of the service," he said.

"But you have dealt with Henri's before. Did no one offer?"

As they approached the car, David glanced across the roof and noticed all expression had fallen from her already deadpan face. He remembered she had adopted a similar stony look after Jansen had placed his hand on her forearm. Annoyed perhaps?

"Well, no..." he answered.

"Plans?" she asked, her voice neutral. "Did anyone copy plans for you?"

"Hey look, I have always used Henri's, so you guys must be doing a reasonable job."

"So you are a regular customer? Even more reason to check up on it. At least one of them should have offered to get hold of the council. Then, perhaps, you might not have had to buy two adjacent houses in Edenvale."

"Ah, no... but hey, I have been happy with the service, and you have agencies all over South Africa, it must be hard to keep up with it all."

David wondered how on earth she discovered the balls up in Edenvale and hoped she would not fire the cute little red-head over there.

Henrietta obviously had all the data on the properties he had bought in the past. Suddenly, she appeared formidable, intimidating. Scary. Someone who did not accept second best.

Exactly like Robbie, he thought.

They drove in silence for a while until Henrietta said, "I do not deal well with people... I say the wrong thing, or nothing at all, and can be very abrupt at times. I try to run my business with as little need for my personal involvement as possible. I am quite comfortable with written communication though. I don't sound the same person in a letter. I have always been comfortable with figures, all of my agents know this, that I work with figures only. Shape up, or ship out!" she added, in an attempt to lighten her formal language.

"I do not conceal my dislike of personal interaction. I compensate with copious written guidelines, and arrange seminars all over the country. You have reminded me that while I may be good at reading, perhaps other members of my team are not."

"You know," said David hesitantly, "and this is something I have often had to say to my partner Robbie. We have to remember the people working for us are simply doing that, working for us. They aren't owners, and they should not be expected to act like owners. Robbie has high standards and he gets annoyed if he discovers our staff were sloppy; although," he added with a grin, "not as annoyed as when he finds himself at fault. Boy, that guy has high personal standards, and he achieves them too. He's a great guy, a great partner, and he puts in a heck of a lot of time at the company. Right now, he's meant to be on leave visiting his family in Zimbabwe, but he will end up spending most of his time working."

HENRIETTA pulled into another property to allow David to look around, speak briefly with the occupants.

Once on the road again, Henrietta asked, "You speak Afrikaans fluently, did you learn it here?"

"We often spent our school holidays with my mother's parents in Kezi. Her grandparents, the Bezuidenhouts were devout. We had prayers every night in the kitchen, can you imagine? Everyone had to assemble and the old guy would get out the bible and read from it in Afrikaans, he spoke with the servants in Afrikaans too. We both picked it up quickly and I did Afrikaans at school for my O's. It sure beat French. I had plenty trouble passing enough subjects in one sitting as it was," David grinned.

"Robbie did French though, but never forgot his Afrikaans. Down here, with his accent, he can be mistaken for a South African. He used to go to the Alliance Francaise to speak to French people and become fluent."

With a slight shrug he continued, "He only moved to Milton Senior in form two and that meant he was two years behind with his French. It paid off though, during his time in the police he was sent to French West Africa, Congo, the DRC and Sierra Leone. He later went to France and was stationed in Rwanda as part of the SADC contingent, when I persuaded him to join me here in 1991."

### * * *

HENRIETTA, curious about David's partner Robbie, decided to look him up on the DaRo site. Much of what David said about him was contradictory. On the one hand he said his partner had high standards and on the other, that he slept around. According to David, Robbie was the brains of the outfit, but that didn't fit with his stint in the Zimbabwean police force.

BACK in her office she typed in the URL for DaRo Security.

She had browsed the website when David first came to her offices, but had gone no further after finding his photograph, a mirror image of the man sitting in her reception area. She clicked the Directors tab and frowned, confused when the only other photograph on the page was of a black man. 'Robbie Ndlovu,' she read under the photograph. She stared at the screen in surprise.

Robbie was black!

Well, that accounted for the two wives and the girlfriends, the accented Afrikaans and why he had only gone to Milton Senior after 1980. But not other things. How could he and David have been friends all their lives, for example?

David had spoken of his partner with warmth and respect, he did not describe him as someone he put up with, a necessary inconvenience, fulfilling a BEE quota.
Chapter 31

EARLY on Wednesday morning, David and Robbie managed to connect on Skype.

"I have a strange lead here. One of our guys ran a check on Lisa's driver's license with the vehicle registry in Harare. The guy whose signature is on her licence is Mr Sibanda."

"Hey," said David, "he did mine too."

"Yeah, and mine," said Robbie sourly, "old goat. Well, he worked for VID for years and recently retired to a plot." Robbie referred to land confiscated from white farmers and parcelled out mostly to retired black civil servants.

"Our guy went out and visited him, a real long shot. We thought the chances of him remembering Lisa were slight but, well... it paid off. He remembered her! Will you believe that, after all these years? Guess the reason... she was the first person he 'expedited,' that separated her from the millions of others he took for tests... the start of the rot."

'Expedited' is a Zimbabwean euphemism for bribe.

"He says a coloured bloke arranged it with him, paid him a hundred bucks to make sure she passed... guess who?... Eugene Leclerc.

"The guy I sent said Mr. Sibanda was absolutely certain, he described her without looking at a photo: white, fat, dumpy and shy. We tried to follow up on this but there were no further leads. There is no other evidence whatsoever linking Lisa and Eugene. I cannot see where their paths crossed. She was a rich white girl from Khumalo. At that time, we don't know where Eugene lived. Likely on the street. And get that, a hundred bucks... a heap of stash in those days."

"You know of this Eugene Leclerc?"

"Yeah, I came across him when I was in the police. A nasty piece of works, and if Lisa did somehow get mixed up with him she could easily be dead, rather than missing. I will write a longer report about him later, but I can tell you a few things about him now.

"Eugene is a criminal. He progressed from child sneak thief into adult criminal. Although none of this was ever proven, the general consensus is that he ran a ring of house breakers and car thieves. He also appears to have been into blackmail, mostly in aid of some criminal project or other. He was strongly suspected of masterminding the Bonanza gold heist... you remember anything about that?"

"No," replied David, "what year?"

"I think '82 or '83. Definitely before I joined the police. Around about the time your dad was at the Hillside Police station. By the time I joined up, we were told to watch out for suspicious behaviour from him, you know, splashing money about and such."

"What happened with the heist?"

"Well, the gold was never recovered, like about half a tonne of the stuff... ah," Robbie paused making a quick calculation in his head, "in today's terms that works out at about 25 million US dollars. To get it, seven people died, including three of the criminal accomplices. Killed in cold blood."

"Jeez," said David, "nice guy."

"For sure. He hated the police and delighted in screwing with them. We had him in for questioning a few times, but were never once able to nail him on anything, not the smallest thing. I never interviewed him myself; only read the files. In my opinion he is highly intelligent, manipulative and cold-blooded. What I don't understand is why he would be helping out Lisa Van der Linde with a driver's licence. His hatred of whites was well known on the street, although I think the police came a close second," Robbie added with a rueful laugh.

"According to the police files, his father was white. Maybe he had some issues with that, abandonment or something.

"His mother went to a music camp in Que Que nine months before he was born. No one at the camp had the surname Leclerc, and his mother's name wasn't Leclerc either. The police always thought there was some link there, but could never find out what it was, you know, something about the name. He passes as white but manages to look coloured if he wants, and he is fluent in Ndebele, Shona and English, maybe French too. He can play several musical instruments, maybe a legacy from his parents. He is good with a knife and can hold his own on the street.

"He is controlled and intelligent but underneath he is a vicious sociopath. You will never find him drunk or fishing. I don't know what he does for relaxation, but whatever it is, is done in private."

"You seem to remember him well. How come?" asked David.

"Well, I was big into that whole criminal psychology thing at the time, remember?"

"Oh yeah," said David, "you did that for your dissertation. Did you study him?"

"No, not specifically, but I studied his file along with several other criminal types, especially those whom the police couldn't get a handle on, you know, the ones we couldn't nail for anything. They fascinated me at the time. My notes on him were still in my stuff in the garage at your dad's place. I dug them out, I'll bring them back with me."

"He still around?" asked David.

"Yeah, apparently big into whatever scam pays the most in Zimbabwe at the moment. Of course now he is protected by big wig politicians and cannot be touched by the police. He was into currency dealing, but now he is into gold and diamond buying and gun running, I hear. Of course, none of it can ever be proven."

Robbie paused, "I want to carry on working the Eugene-Lisa angle, maybe go to the coloured community and see if I can jog a few memories. Problem is, although Eugene has relatives in Barham Green, he never lived there. He either lived in the black areas, or on the coloured plots out of town. Also, he is still around and mixed up with some pretty important people these days. Could cause complications. Eugene will not like to hear he is being investigated again and I would rather not tackle him directly unless I have to."

"OK, I will leave it with you. My dad is onto the Hillside parties, but is not having much luck. Most of Lisa's contemporaries left the country around the same time as her parents."

David and Robbie chatted for a short time, before logging off.

### * * *

DAVID pushed his laptop away from him, at the end of the Skype session and leaned back in his chair. Lisa Van der Linde and Eugene Leclerc, could there be a link? If so, what brought them together and what held them together?

According to Steve Lukas the man who beat him up, was about six foot tall, powerful, and possibly coloured. He was also vicious and carried a knife. The beating he gave Lukas was extreme.

Except whoever beat up Lukas, was protecting Lisa. Assuming Eugene and Lisa were somehow connected, what happened to her? Did Eugene kill her?

He was still around, yet Lisa disappeared without trace in her early twenties. Soon after she gained control of her money, it all disappeared, removed from her accounts without trace.

Could Eugene have gained control of it, perhaps with Lisa's consent? Or perhaps without her consent.

From what Robbie told him on the line, Eugene was capable of killing Lisa and disposing of her body. She had gained control of her money. Then she disappeared.

The tenuous connection between Eugene and Lisa was when she was sixteen years old. She was alive at twenty-three, seven years later.

If there was a connection between Eugene and Lisa, they would find it. Someone would have seen them together or known them both.
Chapter 32

LISA stumbled back through the inter-leading door to her flat in a daze. What she had witnessed in Eugene's play room terrified her. For the first time, she had seen a side of him she was aware existed but had been kept from her.

Earlier on, Eugene collected her from her mat and seated her behind the one-way mirror. She had never been there before, but knew he often sat and watched her through it. Hidden behind the one-way glass, Lisa watched the punishment of Marianne, the wife of a Swedish expatriate mining engineer contracted to work in Zimbabwe. The Swede had asked Eugene to conduct the punishment of his wife because he could not.

Dressed in a black, tight fitting, long-sleeved tee shirt and matching black pants, Eugene appeared to enjoy himself. He delighted in hurting Marianne, humiliating and debasing her and Lisa wondered why she had been forced to watch. Did he want her to witness this cruel side of his character?

"COME and have some tea, sweetie," said Rose, concerned by the dazed look on Lisa's face. Lisa sat down, only to rise again and move restlessly around the lounge with a hot mug of tea in her unsteady hands. The subdued tones of the classical music failed to calm her nerves and still pacing, she eventually abandoned the tea.

She had never chosen to evaluate Eugene's capacity for violence and cruelty, although she knew it existed. Today, that had changed. He had forced her to watch him in action.

Why?

Lisa liked things kept simple. She did not attempt to evaluate anything involving relationships, always shying away from defining her relationship with Eugene.

He was clear about some issues, categorical about what would happen if she told anyone she knew him. He threatened to stop seeing her, that it would constitute a broken silk thread. He threatened he would walk out on her, that she would never see him again. He could carry out his threat too. She neither knew his family nor where he lived.

Eugene, clear about their sex lives had, from the beginning, ruled supreme. He controlled her utterly, setting up each scene, engineering the direction it took. He set small tests for her, allowing her to pass or fail according to his wishes, then he would punish her or reward her as he desired. Lisa relinquished all control to him.

In her day to day life the boundaries were not as clear. He and Rose filled in for her in the areas in which she was weak: clothing, furnishings, food, her car. This freed Lisa to pursue her work; where she felt competent and comfortable. Eugene often encouraged her to talk about her work; particular investment opportunities or waning industries, but to date he had never interfered in her investment choices. It had not occurred to her before, but now, pacing about in her lounge, she realised he always deferred to her judgment in this field, as if he considered her more expert than he.

She had never fully explored how much control she had over her life, had never pushed him to find out. She had never attempted to wear a different outfit than the one laid out for her, or tried to refuel her car. Uninterested in the mundane everyday necessities of life she was happy to allow Eugene or Rose to deal with these aspects for her.

Eugene never, ever punished her for crossing a boundary he had not specifically defined beforehand and this gave her confidence. Now she came to think about it, he had only ever punished her inside his playroom.

When it came to her investments, she was often ruthless, always decisive. Her computer programs, easy to use were never simple; her code elegant, bug free and well structured.

When it came to relationships with people, Lisa was neither ruthless, nor decisive. She avoided contact with people if she possibly could. She struggled to understand their jokes or enter into their interests.

In many ways she still lived within herself, precisely as she had done before she met Eugene. Now, however, she was utterly confident she moved within the pull of his orbit, his universe, and never did anything to try to move out of it.

She had always trusted he had mastery, been fully aware of her needs, her fears and her strengths. So, if that were still true, what did this mean? What did he now want her to believe?

LISA heard Eugene walk through the inter-leading door and shut it behind him. He had showered and changed out of the long sleeved tee shirt into a button down, black shirt. His face appeared set and hard, his eyes dark and menacing. The muscles in his arms and shoulders looked hard and powerful. To Lisa, frightened, he looked dangerous, cruel and predatory.

He took a few steps into the room; his footsteps muffled by the carpet. He stopped, his eyes on her, hands loose by his side.

Lisa had not moved when he came into the room, but when he stopped, her eyes dropped to the floor and she sank down onto her knees on the carpet, her palms facing upward on her thighs, er butt on her feet. Stomach in free fall, her heart racing, she did not know what he wanted from her. She hoped that whatever he had in mind, she could cope with.

She heard his soft, slow tread across the carpet, until she could see his bare feet.

Her head down, the heavy bundle of hair lying on one side of her neck exposed the knot at the top of her spine to him. Eugene's knees appeared in her field of vision one between hers and the other one next to her right thigh.

Lisa could hardly breathe, although her chest rose and fell rapidly.

Eugene gently took her chin in his fingers forcing her head up until she met his eyes. Now his face appeared quite different, no longer forbidding; intense still, but softer and caring.

"Babe. This is your home; you call the shots here. Kick me out if you want. You never have to submit to me, or anyone in here, unless you want to," he said softly.

"I was scared," Lisa whispered.

"One day I may punish you like that, but you will deserve it. Whatever I hand out, you will be able to take. I won't ask more of you than that."

Eugene leaned into her, kissed her on the lips and pulled her to her feet. He picked her hands up to his chest and held them against him. She could feel his muscles under her splayed fingers, his heart beating steadily against her palms.

She moved her hands experimentally around his chest, to his shoulders, his face. She ran her hands past his chin to his eyebrows and onto his head, running her fingers along the plaited rows, to the beads tied at the ends. He did not often tie his hair into dreads, and it made him appear 'mixed race.' A look he must have intentionally adopted for the punishment of the foreign girl.

Lisa discovered it excited her. The corn rows, unfamiliar under her hands, made his features sharper, more aquiline.

She shifted a little closer to him and ran her hands down his back, ending on his hips. She paused there, before slowly moving them back to the front, over his belt buckle and up to the top button of his shirt.

Hesitating at his top button, she looked up at him.

Since he made no sign she should stop, she slowly undid the first button, then the next two.

She ran her fingertips across his chest, feeling the soft, almost hairless skin with its layer of hard muscle under. She explored the ridge of bone from his shoulders to his throat. Running her hands downwards, she opened the remaining buttons on his shirt.

Eugene had been slight but muscular when they first met, now he packed a layer of well-toned muscle all over his chest.

Lisa put her face there, breathing in the smell of him. She loved his smell, a mixture of warm skin, soap and something else... Fragrance of Eugene.

She ran her hands upwards, worked the shirt off him and let it fall on the floor behind him.

He was beautiful, she thought, his chest wide and strong, the muscles hard and toned, his shoulders and back muscles like ropes flexing under her hands.

Lisa looked up into his eyes silently asking him if she could continue. He smiled back at her, encouraging her further.

She took his hand and led him into her bedroom.

As much as Lisa loved the intense emotions and sensations aroused in Eugene's play room, she lived for the few occasions when Eugene made love to her in her bed. As a lover.

Magic in bed, strong and gentle, comforting and exciting, he permitted her to touch him, to explore his body, to take the initiative if the mood took her. And it always did. Greedily feeling his body and touching him, using his body in ways she normally could only imagine and dream about.
Chapter 33

ROBBIE had walked to school through Ilanda, passing close to the Barbara Burrell Home for the Blind. He remembered the shady avenue with big trees almost covering the road. Now a lawn had been planted right up to the road.

Barbara Burrell must have a borehole he thought cynically. No one could water their gardens with municipal water. The council couldn't ensure drinking water in the taps. Watering gardens had been out of their capabilities for years.

Buzzed through the gate, and informed Mrs. Simpson would speak to him in the garden, he was directed to a woman sitting in a garden chair under a tree. She was slim on top with large hips and swollen legs. Her fair skin was protected by an old fashioned bonnet out of which trailed a few wisps of grey hair. She had faded blue eyes and gnarled hands, folded in her lap.

Robbie shook the hand Mrs. Simpson stuck out at him. She apologised for not rising, and invited him to sit opposite her in a similar chair to the one she occupied. It was pleasant in the garden, which was well tended, lush and cool.

"You were asking about Lisa Van der Linde," said Mrs. Simpson.

"Yes ma'am," replied Robbie.

"Well, I employed her for several years in the late eighties, but before I tell you anything, I want to know why you are looking for her and who precisely you are," she said, with emphasis on you. She had a slow way of speaking with a soft, well-modulated voice and appeared to have all her faculties about her.

"I remember Lisa well, after all she worked for me for nearly four years and we were all squashed into a fairly small work space. I want to know you are not going to use anything I say to you to hurt her in any way."

Robbie gave her a brief run down about why they were looking for Lisa, and about his company's involvement.

"Judging by your accent, you are a Zimbabwean living in South Africa?" she asked, "your accent fooled me on the telephone for a while, but the name, Ndlovu..." She meant he sounded white but was too politically correct to say so.

"Since I have been blind, I have to rely on my other senses, especially my hearing, although I always had an ear for accents. I love trying to place them you see. Lisa's father had a strong Dutch accent, as did her mother; though English of course. Lisa had a strange mixture of several: Dutch, English and Zimbabwean. Alright, go ahead and ask me about Lisa."

"I am trying to fit a picture of a shy, quiet girl who, at about age eighteen, decides to go into sales, essentially how I see the estate agency business," he began.

"Well, I agree with you. I thought the same thing myself, but what else could I do? One could not snub her father with impunity. Mind you, I don't think I ever spoke to him about Lisa's employment. She approached me herself, if I correctly recall. She wrote me a letter, and came for an interview. Of course, I gave her the job."

She paused for a long time, and Robbie was about to prompt her, when she continued, "She wasn't the best with people, you know; but she learned as she went along. Her strengths were in organisation and administration. Computers were new on the market, and she persuaded me to buy an IBM personal computer in South Africa. We were one of the first companies to get one in Bulawayo. Lisa set about writing us a program which accounted for all of our properties right down to sending little reminders to tenants over due on their rent. She also re-organised the way we did our maintenance. By the time she finished, it was much more efficient. She wrote a data base of all properties for sale on our books which made an enormous difference when it came to tracking properties. You know, she could search for properties using any criterion she chose, this enabled Lisa to match the client's requirements precisely."

Robbie, concerned she would stop talking, didn't want to tell her most companies used that type of software these days and she didn't need to elaborate.

"She did learn to deal with people, in a prescribed sort of way, as if she learned each conversation off by heart, one for each circumstance. I quite honestly thought she was entirely wasted in an organisation like ours. She should have been in some big company working as an actuary or something like that. She was extremely intelligent, although she didn't look it. She had a wide eyed vacant sort of look about her, a little like a Down's kid. You might have thought it strange I was persuaded by an eighteen-year-old to spend a lot of money on a computer. They did cost an awful lot in those days, almost as much as a small car."

Mrs. Simpson paused as if to find the correct words. "I can't explain it to you, but she had a way about her when it came to such things, academic things. There, she was absolutely confident, and I was sucked in. Luckily she was right, and she could program a computer."

Mrs. Simpson shook her head in frustration. "I know I am not explaining it right. Lisa didn't volunteer anything. Not ever. She always waited for you, or the client, to say something first and I often found myself prompting her. She could get involved in any topic, but generally remained silent especially if her opinion was opposite to the person with whom she was conversing. When she did have something to say about a subject, what she said was usually to the point and often difficult to argue. On several occasions, I heard the other office ladies discussing something or other, until Lisa put in a short word, and that was that, the end of the matter. I don't think Lisa wished to end the conversation, only what she said was always targeted, there was not much left to say."

Mrs. Simpson paused. "She was a bright cookie all right. It is only an impression, but I later thought Lisa used her time with us to practice. I felt she was practicing for her future life. She would study people and the way they interacted with each other as if she were storing away each scenario; to be pulled up whenever needed at some point in her future. She may have written down her observations, I often saw her writing in a leather bound book and it couldn't all have been to do with selling houses.

"I know she disliked anything out of the ordinary. She disliked surprises."

Mrs. Simpson paused again for a long time. "Look, this is only an impression from a long, long time ago."

"I am interested in your recollections, Mrs. Simpson," said Robbie. "I need to build a picture of Lisa in order for me to work out what happened to her."

"Do you think she is dead?" asked Mrs. Simpson.

"We don't know yet. There is no record of her death, anywhere in the world. We are trying to start from the beginning and work along. We particularly would like to talk to people she knew here in Zimbabwe before she disappeared. Did she have many friends? Did she have a boyfriend?"

"She never had any friends come into the office, nor did she get any private telephone calls," replied Mrs. Simpson flatly. "I usually didn't employ young girls, because they too often spent most of their time either on the phone, or primping themselves. Lisa was always impeccably turned out, but once she arrived in the morning, she never adjusted her clothing, never glanced in the mirror.

"You know, she changed in looks considerably, in the time she worked for me. She was rather dumpy around the middle when she first arrived, but by the time she left, she had grown taller, and stood straighter. She shed the fat around her middle and toned down nicely. I think it was all the swimming she did. She apparently spent hours swimming up and down the swimming bath. She also began to look people in the eye. She must have practiced that too.

"I did not hear of a particular boyfriend, but I do know she went out to private parties with other young ladies of her age. I don't know how she managed at any of them in terms of social graces. She had an abrupt way of talking. She would sometimes bark out a question, or ask things quite out of context. I'm not sure how this sort of behaviour went down with her friends."

"Lisa drove a red VW beetle? Did you think this was a strange choice for a girl who could afford a much more expensive car?"

"Well, remember the times; people didn't simply rush out and buy any car in those days, not like nowadays. I am shocked at the cars people buy their young children, and they wonder why this ends in disaster."

"Lisa bought that car herself," Robbie said. "We discovered by looking at the accounts provided by the family, that Lisa had plenty of money when she worked for you and yet she chose to buy that car. She also bought her own flat."

"Well, it's a little odd, if you don't know her, but I suppose I am not surprised. Lisa always had plenty of money; it was nothing special for her."

Mrs. Simpson waved her hand vaguely, "Like we have air to breathe. If she had a reason to buy something she went out and did so, there seemed little point in buying something because she could. She was not at all snobbish.

"Also, from what I remember of her, she planned her life meticulously. She would not have bought the car on a whim, it would have been chosen for a reason," Mrs. Simpson paused and then grinned. "I just can't think of one.

"I knew about the flat, she bought it through the agency. She said she wanted to be able to walk to work if she felt like it, and I think she liked the proximity to the Borrow Street swimming pool...

"Lisa wore designer clothes, suit's, jackets, matching accessories. Her clothes were to die for; they must have cost an absolute fortune. Yet every morning I saw her shake off her jacket and hang it over the back of her chair as if she had bought it from the bazaar. She had several different handbags, all costly and all handmade, and yet she didn't fuss over them. Granted, she often carried two pairs of shoes, walking shoes for driving and high-heeled shoes to wear at work. I think for comfort, rather than any attempt to save them. After all, all her shoes were expensive. They were all matched, as if she always bought two pairs for every outfit, and she was rarely seen in the same outfit twice.

"Lisa worked for me for four years, and yet I did not get to know her well. I watched her develop and grow over that time, but I can't tell you much more, other than she was a very private person."

"Did you have much to do with her parents?" Robbie asked.

"No, I didn't move in their circles. I did not like what I had seen of either of them."

"How did Lisa get on with them?"

"I can't recall she ever spoke about them, but I think they were pretty distant with her. I didn't have the impression they knew she was in Bulawayo. I thought, perhaps, they were fairly neglectful."

Robbie raised his eyebrows, although Mrs. Simpson couldn't see him.

She shrugged her shoulders. "My impression was, Lisa leaving home left the Van der Lindes the freedom to get on with their lives unhindered."

She shrugged again, "Although from what I heard, they pretty much did that before she left home. Mutual acquaintances told me they never saw Lisa at dinners at the Van der Lindes', when she was living at home. It appears she was fed, clothed, housed and educated, but without any affection or interest."

"Why did she leave Bicknim?" asked Robbie.

"I'm not sure. I wasn't surprised. She spoke with me in person and also wrote me a letter for my files. Her behaviour didn't change at all; she acted in exactly the same manner until the day she left. She asked me not to have a farewell party, I do remember that; and I didn't. By that stage I knew her and she would have felt uncomfortable. She walked out of the door on her last day of work, as if it were a day like any other, and I never saw her again.

"I had been struggling for some time with diabetes around the time she left, and I sold the agency soon after. We were doing well, partly as a consequence of how she reorganised the debtors and the property database. We had a lot of new accounts on our books. It was a small but tidy little unit.

"I was lucky. I sold to a South African company who paid me well for the entire business. I was paid in part in the UK for the houses I personally owned, although this was technically illegal. It was a fairly common practice at the time and usually meant a discounted price. I didn't lose anything on the negotiated price however, they were more than fair. I managed to keep two of the houses here in Bulawayo.

"Strangely, I never met the new owners, although I still have a small stake in the business; it was all done through lawyers," she said, and sighed. "Thank goodness for that; I would not have managed to remain in this place at my age, especially after the economic meltdown."
Chapter 34

ROBBIE drove from DaRo in Belmont to Barham Green, through what would have been in the late 1980's, a vibrant industrial area. Now mostly, business was slow and many of the factories appeared run down and poorly maintained.

In the past, heavy industry drew many of their skilled workers from the coloured community. There had been other suburbs for the white tradesmen nearby, now of course mostly occupied by the black middle classes.

A fairly large coloured community still remained in Barham Green and as far as Robbie could gather, the suburb hadn't changed much. Grannies still baby-sat kids, and gossiped over fences and walls with their neighbours. Rumours spread fast here he remembered, the Barham Green grapevine extremely efficient.

Hillside, where he and David had been brought up, although geographically closer to Barham Green than Khumalo, was still worlds away in terms of sizes of houses and occupations. Many houses in Hillside were owned by businessmen as were ones in Khumalo, which had been a mostly Jewish suburb. Many Jews emigrated in the late 1970's well before independence, to South Africa mostly but also Australia, the US and Israel.

As Robbie cruised into Barham Green, he wondered what Lisa would have thought of it, a rich girl from Khumalo, slumming it in Barham Green. What would she have made of the small houses, yards squeezed together?

He discovered the church and the community hall well maintained with good security and a newly painted wall.

He was met outside by Father Duncan, who seemed willing to talk about Lisa.

"I do remember Lisa Van der Linde," he said in his soft Irish accent. "Sister Mary Margaret particularly mentioned her when I first broached the idea of inviting Convent girls of other races to attend our get-togethers. I tried to get her to join in and meet people, but I never succeeded. She would come, but leave as soon as the group activities were over. I watched her slip out the door most evenings after the group sessions but before the socials."

It never failed to amaze Robbie how people like Father Duncan and many teachers could remember the names and details of so many people. David too.

Both Father Duncan and Sister Mary Margaret had immediately remembered Lisa when he had asked about her with no 'I'll have to check up in the records' from either of them.

Sister Mary Margaret, now retired, had much more of an excuse to forget things, being about twenty years older than Father Duncan.

She had told Robbie that Father Duncan, fresh from Ireland, had been certain that bridging the gap between races would heal the wounds caused by the racial laws of the colonial governments. By the dry tone to her voice, Robbie gathered she did not agree with him.

She remembered Lisa as extremely shy and admitted she had always been surprised to hear of her continued attendance at the get-togethers at the Barham Green Hall. She had no idea what Lisa might have taken out of them.

Sister Mary Margaret described Lisa as an introverted but intelligent girl who appeared completely 'out of it.' At age seventeen, over her strong protests, Lisa had gone to work at an estate agency. A shocking waste of a brilliant mind, in Sister Mary Margaret's opinion. She felt Lisa would have made better use of her talents in the actuary line. At the very least, she should have gone to university.

"WHAT was she like?" Robbie asked Father Duncan.

"Lisa was quiet, and withdrawn. She would arrive in a chauffeured car which made her conspicuous. Although several people mentioned it a few times, I never heard anyone say anything directly to her about that. She didn't invite conversation or try to fit in. I suppose there was little opportunity for anyone to take a poke at her.

"If you asked her a direct question, she would answer it, but I noticed the questions had to be real ones. Lisa didn't manage small talk well at all. She appeared to be totally at a loss and it was then she appeared shy, awkward in company. She didn't seem to feel uncomfortable with silence. If she had nothing to say, she didn't say a thing, simply sat. Usually the other person would be the one who would begin to feel uncomfortable, try to cover up with small talk, which in turn caused Lisa to feel uncomfortable.

"I had a few conversations with her about serious matters, and I found her to be intelligent, articulate and broad minded, but I was never able to reach the situation with her where she would volunteer any idea or approach me first to converse."

"Did she have any friends who attended the meetings?"

"She was friendly with a girl called Sharleen Jenkins. I know they sat together in class in form one and continued to interact from then on. I would guess they worked out a set of boundaries and worked on them, although I am not sure what they offered each other."

Father Duncan smiled, "Sharleen was a beautiful butterfly, gregarious and fun loving. Lisa was introverted and serious, and yet they seemed to have an understanding. They often sat together in our meetings."

He paused, "You know kids of that age can be merciless at times. A girl will talk to another girl at school, but totally ignore her in a social setting, especially if they do not have the same background. It was one of the issues we were trying to address in our meetings, trying to bridge the gap between not only racial groups, but also socio-economic differences."

Robbie changed the subject, away from what he guessed was Fr. Duncan's hobby-horse.

"Did Eugene Leclerc attend your meetings?"

Father Duncan closed his eyes to search his memory.

"He was older than many of the kids, although he had a following of younger boys, who would have been there from time to time. Sorry, I can't remember. He may have."

"How well do you know Eugene?"

"Well, we met, but I can't say I know him. What I know of him I have heard from others." Father Duncan seemed reluctant to elaborate.

Robbie asked him if Lisa and Eugene were acquainted.

"Lisa and Eugene?" Father Duncan's eyebrows shot up, "I have never heard anything like that. I can't imagine where they would have met. Do you have information that they did?"

"No, not conclusively," said Robbie, "There is just one reference to a connection between them, and I'm trying to corroborate it. I was wondering perhaps if they met at your functions.

"I am trying to form a picture of Lisa. It is not easy, especially after such a long time. Her mother is dead and her father is ill. They appear to have lost track of her when she was about twenty-three years old. I am not able to find people who knew her well enough to help me build this picture and, therefore, help us find her."

"Sorry, I simply can't remember. It was a long time ago and we had lots of kids come to our meetings. They were completely open, any one could come. Eugene was not a feature, or I would have remembered. He was older, and I think if I had seen Lisa with him, I should have noticed. He did not have a good reputation, you know, still doesn't as far as I know. I think I would have been worried about her... so no, I would have to say he did not attend our meetings."

Robbie thought he had gleaned as much information as Father Duncan had to offer and, after he obtained Sharleen's address and telephone number, left the church and made his way back to the flat at the office.
Chapter 35

SHARLEEN Jenkins, married three times, had reverted to her maiden name.

Overweight, wearing a house dress and slops on her feet, she appeared every minute of her age. She had sunken eyes and dark uneven pigmentation on her cheeks and neck. Her hair, pulled tightly away from her round face and tied at the back of her head, had grey strands throughout.

Her house was small but well furnished, the garden green and well-tended.

She invited Robbie into the lounge and offered him something to drink. He accepted a cup of tea, and they sat down on comfortable chairs.

"You said you wanted to talk about Lisa Van der Linde. You know, I haven't thought of her for ages. She was a part of my life but we drifted apart when we left school. It's funny, since you called yesterday, I have been thinking about that time. If you had come round immediately after you called, I wouldn't have remembered much, you know. I could hardly remember who Lisa was, but in the afternoon when it was all quiet, with no grand-kids around and all, I lay here on the couch and remembered all sorts of silly things. Stupid isn't it, I can't remember what happened last week but after a good doze, things came popping back about life back then. What kind of things do you want to know?"

"Well," said Robbie. "Lisa was here in Zimbabwe in 1988, but there is no further record of her anywhere in the world."

"Wow. I don't think I saw her then anyway, I got preggers with my first one when I was seventeen and left school, although Lisa and I were not in the same class any more anyway. I failed my O levels and had to repeat, and she didn't. We still hung out sometimes at lunch though, but I made new friends, then got pregnant and had to leave school. By 1988 I had two children and you must know what a run around it is, no time for keeping up with school friends."

"Did you know much about her background? Her parents for example."

"Well, I never ever saw them. She didn't say much about them; I don't think they were close. They never came to the school; Lisa was always sent places with a chauffeur. Note, not a driver!" Sharleen grinned. "A chauffeur. And he wore the whole get up too. A peaked cap and those funny jackets with square pockets on the top. I got to ride in the car several times. Lisa could 'order,'" Sharleen made finger quotes in the air, "the car in advance if she wanted to go somewhere and if the chauffeur was available, he would come and pick her up. Lisa hated to be driven about, but I persuaded her a few times. It was SO cool!"

"Was she scared of her parents? Did they shout at her or hit her?"

"She never mentioned anything like that. I got the impression they didn't know she existed. She sort of got on with herself. I never heard her say anything like 'my parents won't like that' or 'I had better ask my mum.' I mean, I can remember my mum was always in my life, in my room, telling me who to see and who not to see. Pain in the arse. Do you think they did shout at her?"

"No, not specifically, I'm trying to get some picture, I don't know anything about her home life."

"Hey, hang on. One of the things I remembered when I was dozing yesterday afternoon, was how I came to be friendly with Lisa. You see, she sat next to me in class, and on about the second day of form one, this maths teacher who was as lazy as sin, stupid bitch, told us to swap books. You know, mark each other's homework cos she was too lazy to do it herself. Anyway, Lisa marked mine and sent it back with only three correct. I mean, it was hopeless anyway, I couldn't do maths.

"Next thing the teacher was standing in between our desks screaming at me. You know, Lisa used to zone out alot," Sharleen mimicked a zombie, and grinned at Robbie. "I swear, she woke up with this woman yelling. Next time my book came back, all the questions had been done and filled in.

"Anyway, don't think a big friendship started, not with Lisa. She kept her head down and wouldn't talk to me at all, of course all her stuff was correct. Months later, I asked her why she did my maths and you know what she said?"

Robbie shook his head at her rhetorical question.

"She said she did it to stop the maths teacher yelling! I couldn't believe it. Like I cared," Sharleen shrugged. "Maybe Lisa didn't like yelling, maybe her parents yelled at her. I can't say."

"Did you have any idea of what Lisa wanted to do in her future life?"

Sharleen shook her head.

"She went to work as an estate agent when she left school. Do you think it was her choice, or her parents?"

"Jeez, that's weird. I mean Lisa was seriously brainy, good with numbers, she liked maths and physics, but she was good at all the subjects. You know, she got eight A's at 'O' level? I guess it would have been the same for 'M's. I would have thought she would have done something else. She was private, like she didn't like to discuss things unless you asked her directly. Mostly, when we went together, she would listen to me talking. I can't say she ever spoke of doing anything particular like selling houses.

"I went with her because she had plenty of money. She didn't have much idea about money at all though. She never had to worry about it, but she didn't spend too much either. I mean if I had that much money, I would spend and spend," Sharleen said with an impish smile, giving Robbie a glimpse of the 'beautiful butterfly' Father Duncan described.

"What kind of things did you guys buy?"

"Well, we went to dress shops to try on clothes, and pharmacies to look at makeup, but as I said, she didn't buy much and although she offered to buy me stuff, I kind of didn't want to. I don't know why, cos I was such a bitch in those days."

Robbie pushed some of the photos he had of Lisa across the table.

"These are the only photos we have of Lisa. Is this her?"

"Yes, these were taken when she was quite young, like say, form one or two. She grew taller after that, but she stood badly, you know, kinda hunched over. She also lost weight, but slowly. She was still big when she was in M level, but not so fat. She was growing her hair also, I think it was shoulder length, or bra strap length when I last saw her. It was nice when she washed it, but it got greasy quickly and then it didn't look too good."

"Was she friends with many people?"

"No, she was not friendly with anyone else at school; she wasn't real friendly with me either, we sometimes went into town together. She was a funny chick. She hated talking, but if you got her onto something she was interested in, she was real intense; fierce like. Mostly it was a load of crap, you know, like 'environment' or shit like that. I didn't ever listen much. She never said anything to make conversation. If she asked about your weekend, she had a reason."

"We have it on record she went to a beauty parlour for the last two years of school."

"You kidding. I didn't know that, I would have loved to have gone with. Well, now I remember she had a good skin, never had chorbs."

"Lisa, definitely went to Barbara's in Grey Street."

"I know Barbara," chirped Sharleen, "she's a coloured lady, also sort of a relative of mine, she lives in the old age home up the road. One of my friends trained with her. I can ask her about Lisa if you want."

"That would be great, thank you. I am looking for any leads. Information about Lisa is scarce, she didn't have many friends and she disappeared off the face of the earth sometime after her twenty first birthday."

"She could have moved to Europe, you know. Her father was Dutch and her mum English, I think. I remember her saying once, her parents were also mixed race!" Sharleen rolled her eyes. "Like she knew anything, hah? She could speak Dutch and I don't think her French was half bad. She could have gone to live in Europe."

"We are looking into all the possibilities," said Robbie. "Do you know Eugene Leclerc?"

"Eugene," she asked warily. "What's he got to do with this?"

"We are not sure if he has anything at all to do with it, but his name came up once in connection with Lisa."

"You kidding. Lisa? Did he do something to Lisa? Did he hurt her?"

"We were not told he did anything to hurt her, he was supposed to have helped her."

"I can't believe that, Eugene hates white people, he wouldn't have anything to do with one, other than to hurt them. I tell you, he hates them. I am related to Eugene you know."

"No, I didn't know that. What's the relationship?"

"Well, it's rather distant. My mother and his mother were cousins of a sort. Eugene was the big bad wolf," she said, the impish grin back, her head wagging from side to side, "and us girls love to live dangerously. All the girls were after him. A real badass. You know how girls go for that?

"He was good looking too. The most beautiful eyes you will ever see. Eyelashes to die for. He looked white, if he wanted, although he wasn't one of those who schemed he wasn't goffal. And his clothes! Man that guy wore mean threads, silk threads ya know," they both laughed at Sharleen's goffal speak, "and he had a great bod. Although, don't get me wrong. He didn't have gym muscles or anything. Nothing bulged, but Eugene was strong. Really strong, everyone knew that.

"It's difficult to describe him back then, or what attracted us. He had a reputation, a bad reputation. I think it was like playing with fire. Eugene had this thing going..."

Sharleen broke off and flapped her hands in front of her face.

"I dunno, he was dangerous looking. As if he could rip your head off with his bare hands. Looked ready to do it. You know, like a coiled spring. He always seemed lazy, relaxed, yet ready to pounce. Like a big, beautiful cat."

Sharleen gave a short, embarrassed laugh.

"Look, it was a long time ago, and he was the biggest catch around, although I don't know of anyone who dated him. He didn't join in much. He used to stand around with that smile, more of a sneer really, on his face, his shoulder propped up against a wall."

Sharleen shrugged and pulled a face.

"You know, there are bad rumours about him even now. He is supposed to be into all sorts of bad things, bad business you know, stuff we all hear. But nothing to do with Lisa."

"I would appreciate it if you think of anything else and also if you kept the connection to Eugene quiet, I would rather not rock his boat."

"For sure," said Sharleen. "You won't catch me having any more to do with him than I need to. My thrill days are over."

"Is he here much? In Zimbabwe I mean. Does he have a house here?"

"I haven't seen him in ages... years. I suppose he must live somewhere here, but I have no idea where. He is supposed to be involved with all the bad things: currency trading, gold and diamond smuggling, you name it," she shrugged again.

Robbie left her with his details and hoped she would be able to dig up more information in Barham Green. Sharleen seemed to have enjoyed her 'blast from the past' as she gaily called their discussion. He hoped she would manage to steer clear of Eugene. Robbie had a bad feeling about him, and about his involvement with Lisa Van der Linde.
Chapter 36

LATER that evening, Robbie pulled up outside the block of flats where Lisa had lived.

The fence Lukas described ran right up against the pavement. He had good reason to be surprised about being jumped there, it was open, no cover at all. Whoever had ambushed him must have been good in the dark.

Robbie studied the flats. Recently painted, he noticed, the windows all in good repair, burglar screens covered all openings, the balconies glassed in. In the past, balconies in Bulawayo had been open and residents had grown pot plants, and hung washing out to dry. An increase in crime had put a stop to that, and good landlords made necessary adaptations.

The fence around the property stood over eight feet tall, a wall in front of it, right against the pavement. A thief would need to get over the wall before either scaling the fence or cutting through it.

The building, long and thin, had four flats per floor, with the entrance foyer at the north end. The glass doors were closed, lift doors visible inside.

The flats were ordinary, with large windows over-looking a playground. It was fairly noisy and the view was not great. It was surprising Lisa had lived there.

Robbie, sitting for about thirty minutes in a beat up Nissan Champ he favoured for surveillance, saw no one enter or exit the building until a dark car drove up and parked opposite. A man angled out of the door, ran up the steps to the flats and held something to the door. A fob... Robbie was surprised anyone in Bulawayo had a fob system in a block of flats. Intrigued, he slouched out of the Champ and wandered off down the road. Shortly, one of the top floor windows lit up, and he presumed the owner of the dark car lived there.

Robbie sauntered back, now on the same side of the road as the dark car, hoping to get a plate number. Surprised to hear the glass doors of the flats open, he fumbled for a pack of cigarettes in his top pocket, pretending to light one.

The same man paused at the top of the stairs, stared directly at Robbie before sweeping the street with his gaze. He seemed wary, alert. About six feet tall with a wiry, muscular build he wore dark trousers and a light buttoned shirt. His face remained shaded by the strong background light from the foyer. He stepped down onto the pavement, walked to his car, and drove away.

Robbie sat on the pavement replacing the cigarette packet in his top pocket, his head down. He knew he could be mistaken for a driver or delivery man, which is why the driver had not felt threatened. Robbie smiled to himself. It was a good show David hadn't tried this particular surveillance. David was large, white and hard to hide. Intimidating. Robbie didn't warrant a second glance.

He sat outside the flats for another thirty, uneventful minutes before leaving. Probably wasting his time, he concluded. Lisa had lived here long ago and it was unlikely any of the current occupants remembered her. After all, he had only come here to build a better picture of the missing girl.

### * * *

"HEY Robbie," sang Sharleen. On the telephone she sounded much younger, more like the girl he imagined Lisa knew, more than twenty years ago.

"I went to see Barbara like I said. She remembers Lisa, says Lisa went to the beauty parlour every week, always attended by Rose. After Lisa left school, Rose went to work for her. Amazing hey! Did you know about that?"

"No," replied Robbie, "we have never heard of Rose in connection with Lisa. Who is she?"

"Rosemary Hamilton. Well, that's the funny thing. Hey look, it's all hearsay, but rumour has it, when Eugene was about twelve he was inside a house, when the owner, Rose's boyfriend, up and came home. Apparently Rose had told him she was preggers, and he wanted to beat the hell out of her in peace. Anyway, Eugene dinged him on the nut with a frying pan and took Rose away, bleeding and all. Rumour has it, when Rose's boyfriend was killed, it was Eugene's doing. He caused a fight wanting the guy to get killed.

"I was little at the time, but I remember it, I think because my mum was preggers with my little brother by then, and you know how kids are. I would have hated my mum to be hit in her tummy. It may have been a story, Bulawayo is full of that, you know. They always say if you haven't heard a rumour by lunch time, make one up. Was that the connection with Eugene you were looking for?"

"The name Rose has not come up before. Is she still around? Did you know her back then?"

"No, I didn't and I don't think I would recognise her if I met her on the street. She was much older and moved in different circles; came from Rangemore. I didn't know she worked as a beautician, I only knew her boyfriend beat on her and she lost her baby."

Robbie thanked Sharleen for her help and asked her not to hesitate to call him again, even for the smallest detail.

"I will be around for a bit. If you hear of anything more, or if you remember anyone who might have known Lisa, please get in touch. Ah, and in the light of the connection between Rose and Eugene, you had better take care."

"Oh I will, never fear, I won't mess with him," said Sharleen gaily, and hung up.

Rose, Lisa and Eugene; could that be the connection? If Eugene helped Rose, could he have helped Lisa somehow? Was she also beaten, and Eugene found her? Eugene, a thief, a murderer and a saviour of women?

Sure, thought Robbie cynically. Perhaps Sharleen was right, it was all rumour. How could a twelve-year-old have helped save the life of a woman? How could a fourteen-year-old, have arranged the murder of the boyfriend?

Also, Rose was coloured and Lisa, white.
Chapter 37

HENRIETTA chose to drive down Beyers Naude, which had been spruced up somewhat since the last time David passed that way. Now, the centre island sported patterns and swirls of rocks instead of the traditional plants. He could see a variety of sizes too; perfect ammunition, he thought, shaking his head in disbelief. What idiots.

"For once South Africans have planned in advance for something," David commented with a cynical smile.

"Sorry?" she asked, puzzled.

"Well, look at the ammo they have provided for the next riot," he said, pointing at the rocks.

Henrietta still puzzled, frowned.

"The rocks... in the centre island. Next time these idiots have a riot, they will throw the rocks carefully provided by the council through those great big glass windows over there."

David didn't get the response he expected from Henrietta. She still seemed puzzled, her glance moving from the decorative rocks to the big glass windows of the car showrooms on both sides of the road.

"But surely the council wouldn't have deliberately provided rocks for that purpose?"

David smiled, "No, but that is what they will be used for, come the next riot."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Where were you during the last one... riot I mean? Have you ever been caught up in one?" David asked.

"No, I stayed at home the whole time, I wasn't allowed out of the house. But it's fine, all my computers are networked. It doesn't make much difference if I am working at my office or at home."

"Do you work long hours?" he asked. "Yours is a large business and spread out all over South Africa."

"I am not sure what to compare with, I have run my business since the early 90's and I work whenever necessary. I love to work, I'm not sure why, I always have."

"We have limited ourselves to Johannesburg, resisted spreading to Pretoria when offered the chance. I wouldn't like to travel all the time, it's bad enough going to the East Rand sometimes. I don't like driving and I hate traffic jams." David laughed, "Actually I think both of us are typical lazy Zimboes. We don't do more than we need to; keep well within our comfort zones. My dad runs our offices in Zimbabwe and Botswana."

"I used to travel regularly," said Henrietta, "but now with the internet, things have changed. I automated what I could, logged as much as possible. When a deed of sale is finalised, I get the information immediately. Weekly and monthly summaries from each branch automatically arrive on my desktop. I have never had any problems looking at figures and remembering them, I notice a failing agency unconsciously, I am not sure how, a knack I have always had. My brain seems to keep track all on its own and when a critical point is reached, I make any necessary changes."

"So, who does your computers?"

Henrietta didn't answer, her face blank. It was almost as if he were speaking a foreign language.

"Who wrote the software for your system and who maintains it?"

"Oh, I do," said Henrietta, flashing what he had begun to call her 'patented' glance at him, "You see, I love computers and programming. I find if I write all the software myself, I will get exactly what I want from it. If I ever used an outsider, I would never know exactly what to expect."

THEY crossed the N1 and climbed the hill on the other side. Although the Randburg side of the motorway is fairly civilised, the four lane road becomes congested with mini-buses across the highway.

They entered an area where normal road rules didn't necessarily apply. Mini buses, parked sloppily on the roadside, could pull out at any time without indicating, the drivers hardly bothering to glance in their rear view mirrors. Pedestrians crossed the road, in haphazard streams. If there had once been any zebra crossings, the paint had by now completely faded. The plastic sheets, protecting vendors from the weather, flapped in the wind and litter and rubbish piled up in the gutters and swirled across the roadways in gusts.

This was not a good area although, David realised, as the crow flies it could not be more than 5km from his home.

Henrietta appeared oblivious to the dangers of her surrounds, threading competently around the minibuses. She appeared caught up in her inner world.

She turned left off Beyers Naude and began travelling downhill, a view of rolling farmland and small plots ahead.

"I know this looks a little out of the way," she said, coming out of her reverie, "but there is a property here I thought you should look at. You could use it for this development and still be able to take on new accounts over there."

She pointed to the right of the road at green rolling hillsides; the occasional house perched on the ridge.

About half way down the hill, a tall fence began and at the bottom of the valley, a gate with an arch overhead. Two galloping horses facing each other, obviously the entrance to a race-horse training stables. Plush, well kept. It would be expensive to have a horse trained there. David peered up the driveway to the stables built on the rise parallel to the road.

"I love horses," she said. "I think they are beautiful creatures. I owned one for a short time. A racehorse. It didn't work out. I wanted to see more of the horse, the way it moves, it's lovely coat, huge eyes. Owning a race horse doesn't get you that, you only get to see it at the races. I was given the impression I could see it any time I wanted, but once I had bought it, I wasn't welcomed at the stables and was never able to see it moving or...." Henrietta hesitated, "living really. I can't explain what I wanted but I didn't get what I wanted from it. I sold the horse, although it won more races than it lost. It was placed in every race it ran in. I think everyone thought I knew how to make a profit, and I did. Make a profit that is."

David, surprised at her revelation about the horse, hadn't pegged her as a horsey person, and it was obvious she didn't ride. The whole scenario seemed unlikely, out of character. He couldn't imagine anyone buying a racehorse in order to see it living.

He didn't like or dislike horses, his grandparents in Kezi always had a few of them around, nasty brutes for the most part. He and Robbie rode them around as young children until he became too heavy.

They turned into a small complex, shortly after passing the Roodepoort Country Club. Henrietta came to a stop in front of the building she suggested he could use as a command centre.

### * * *

DAVID agreed with her about the property. It was perfect for the new development he had in mind for the Heldekruin and Roodekrans areas, and would cover the requirements of clientele in the new houses springing up to the west, until a separate control centre in that area became necessary.

They visited four other properties, all of which fitted his requirements. Once Henrietta knew what he wanted she had little difficulty finding exactly what he needed. She had made arrangements in advance, enabling him to walk around the properties and take notes.

If she continued in this way, they would be finished looking through the properties all too soon. He wanted to spend more time with her, had enjoyed his trips in her car with her and their time together at the restaurant.

HENRIETTA watched David as he visited the last property on her list for the day, saw him turn his back to the cold wind and pull his coat across his body. Talking to the current tenants he presented a non-threatening attitude although their lease would not be renewed. What would he look like in a threatening situation? An extremely large man, she thought he must look very scary when angry.

"All four of those houses will be perfect for this development, you know," he said, as he climbed into the passenger seat. "I don't think I need to look at any others around here. You were right about the admin one too, it is well positioned, although it looks out of the way now, especially if the developers move into that area," he said pointing towards the open farm lands.

Henrietta knew this to be true; new houses would be built all the way to the N14 where she already owned a large tract of land, ready for development.

"I am going to miss our talks when I have finished looking at properties. I have enjoyed myself the last few weeks," David said, smiling slightly and looking directly at her.

Although she looked away, Henrietta admitted to herself that she had also enjoyed their time together. David was good company and if not academically intelligent, he was socially very intelligent.

She liked him. She liked the way he often laughed, seeing the bright side of life. She thought he was gentle and kind and not afraid to show it. It took a confident man to be able to do that. She liked the way he could say things.

She never could. She always thought of something to say afterwards once the moment had passed. Like now. Her body language told him she didn't want to hear what he had said, and yet she too had enjoyed their time together.

He went on, "I think we can move onto the last area we discussed as soon as you finalise here, and then we are done."

"I liked talking to you too," Henrietta said, and immediately looked away again when she realised she had screwed up.

David waited her out.

"I spend too much time on administration and don't get out much. I will enjoy accompanying you to the other areas," she said, aware she sounded stilted and formal. She always reverted to stifling formality as protection.

"I think perhaps I do too. I find I have to remain superficial with clients and employees, especially the women, in order to avoid accusations of sexual harassment. I like women, and yet I don't get much opportunity to talk to them, about real things, matters of concern to them. They have such a different approach and outlook compared to men.

"To be honest, in general I prefer women to men. I have played in many sports teams over the years and was always rather uncomfortable with the whole 'male bonding' thing. I did it, but it was always an act, I always pretended to enjoy them and their silly power plays," he smiled, "I also got the feeling talking to you, that you don't bother with idle chatter!"

David had once again covered for her, the tension gone from the conversation.

"I am not good with people. I find I say the wrong thing, or nothing at all, when one is expected to fill in with a nothing word or platitude. I generally keep strictly to business, or keep quiet."

"I have enjoyed talking about business with you. You run yours very differently and yet it works for you. You do it all on your own, I at least have Robbie to help me."

"Yes," said Henrietta quietly, "I have never had a Robbie. I wouldn't know how to accommodate anyone else in my business, I couldn't operate with a board, even a partner. Are you an only child?"

"Yes. Ah... sorry. No. I had a sister, but she drowned when I was young. After that I was alone except for Robbie. He's a few months older than me, and we were always together anyway. I can't remember my sister though. I think her death was the straw that broke my mother."

"Would you like to have lunch again," she asked, and once again, David covered for her abrupt change of subject.

"Hey, I would love that. I like that restaurant, the food is good," he said, glancing at his watch, "but it is a little late isn't it?"

"Well, it's just after one, and they stay open until three I think. You were telling me about your sister. What happened to your mother?" She had not understood what he meant by the straw and hoped he would explain.

"And your dad?" she asked. "You say he is in Zimbabwe?"

"My dad still lives in the house in Hillside where I was brought up, although he has to drive to work in the morning. In the old days, he used to walk to the station. Everyone drives places now, the kids are taken to school in a car as well. I have always thought it must be restrictive; I mean, we used to have fun on our bikes and no one hassled us if we were hours late. If Kim is even ten minutes late, I have a heart attack. We had a gas in Bullies as kids."

"Would you think of moving back there?"

"I suppose I have never thought about it. There are plenty of plusses: good golf, slow life, no traffic. The schools are good too, if you can afford them. I am pretty sure Kim would be happier at a school there but I don't think the business here would be easy to run from a distance, security is a hands on, get there quick, thing."

"With internet now and especially Skype, things have changed, you know," said Henrietta. "I have changed my business considerably with good internet. I have video conferences, networking. Automated logging..."

"I haven't thought about it much at all. I suppose I should, I am not that happy with Kim's school anyway. Robbie goes back regularly, to visit his family there and we manage fine when he does. I wonder what would happen if both of us did that?"
Chapter 38

RETURN to Zimbabwe. Return 'home.' Always a far off dream, this desire of his, to return to Bulawayo one day, but not one he had spent much time considering. The pro's may outweigh the cons, except his business, which he doubted could run remotely. Of course, he could sell his share. He was at an age where he had to make decisions.

"Well, let me know if you want to buy property in Bulawayo," Henrietta said, breaking into David's thoughts.

"Don't tell me you own an estate agency there too!"

"Yes, I do. Two in Bulawayo and three in Harare."

David frowned, "I don't recall any Henri Properties advertisements in Bulawayo."

"I mostly don't change the name of the agencies I buy. People, especially in small towns, don't like change. They prefer to deal with the same place and faces for years. I try to arrange partnerships with the owners."

"Hang on, there are only two agencies in Bulawayo, do they know you own them both? I mean the rival companies."

"Oh, I don't know. I'm not sure, but I shouldn't think so, I hardly advertise it. No, I suppose they don't know. I keep the trading names the same, and the holding companies here in South Africa are different. It's how I work, but for tax purposes, not to hide the ownership or to stop inter-company rivalries."

"Our Bulawayo office is similar," David said. "We didn't change the name when we bought it out, and it has nothing to do with DaRo, although Robbie and I own it." He shrugged, "For much the same reasons. But yes, I am going to think hard about the logistics of moving back there. I am not that happy here, and Kim would easily fit in."

He would ask Henrietta to look for a house in Suburbs, one with a borehole. Something small. Even if he didn't use it, he was sure his father would. He rattled around his huge house in Hillside and had mentioned more than once that he would love to garden again.

"And you think Kim will be happy at school in Bulawayo? Although race is not an issue for you it may be more for her, since she was brought up down here, went to predominantly white schools..."

He shrugged, "The schools down here will soon be predominantly black and not always the kind of blacks she would be at school with in Bulawayo. Especially the government schools like hers. I can see it heading the same way as ours did up in Zim. No, the kids at private schools in Zim. are mostly black, but it's fine, they are from good backgrounds. Business owners and such, I mean chances are I would play golf with their... but hey, I am as racist as the next guy. Why do you think I am any different?"

Henrietta smiled at his interrupted train of thought. "Well, I am not sure I know any white person who thinks of a black guy like you do Robbie, or talks about him the way you do. When I first met you, it didn't occur to me he was black, you never once alluded to his race. Sort of how a foreigner would be. I have dealt with many Europeans over the years and they don't think it is necessary to inform you of the gender or race of an employee or friend, but here in South Africa, it is almost the first thing discussed, often race before gender."

"Look, you can't expect to judge me by Robbie. It's different, we were brought up together. He was always there. We became friends by mistake I suppose, or default rather. Unlike many black guys, he doesn't have a chip on his shoulder. He accepts what he can't change, say, the incompetence of African government. He says African men are all potential megalomaniacs. He is also very accepting, which I think is an African thing. He values his own worth highly, but he doesn't waste time with things he can't do anything about. He can't change the realities of the African man and African governments; the discomfort of Boer South Africans toward an intelligent black. He doesn't bother, he works with what he has."

Henrietta mentally shook her head. It was almost as if David didn't realise he viewed Robbie differently to any white African she had ever met. And David called Robbie accepting!

"He says most black people do feel a sense of inferiority, they believe that because of their black skin they are not as good as other races, particularly whites. Of course they run into all sorts of problems. Robbie, for some reason doesn't feel like that, he seems to value his own worth but isn't blind to his faults. I have always thought it's because he's intellectually right up there, I mean he always had to help me with school-work, not the other way around. How could he grow up thinking all white people were superior, when he knew he was way brainier than me?"

Henrietta was amazed David had not factored his own character and attitude into Robbie's development. She knew, if she had an expressive face, she would be staring at him, her jaw wide open. She was certain, David's accepting nature allowed Robbie to develop into the man he became and it appeared David wasn't aware of it.

"But as I said, I am as racist as the next guy, if Kim brought home a black boyfriend I would mind. I would not refuse to let her date him, but I would mind, believe me. I like to think it is natural, that I would want to see myself reflected in my children, or in that case, grandchild. If I had coloured children, they wouldn't look like me, so I am naturally against mixed marriage. I don't believe in legalised racism, you know, like Apartheid and Mugabe taking property away from white farmers in Zimbabwe. That's wrong, but not finding a black woman attractive is natural."

"Are you saying it is what we look like, not our DNA? You want children who look like you?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then you are not worried about the blood."

David laughed, "You mean like the old South African one sixteenth thing? No, it doesn't bother me. After all, my mum was Afrikaans, and I have no idea how much colour she had in her. She looked white. OK, she was blond, but she had quite a dark skin."

"What if you did have a little colour in you, and your child came out clearly coloured, would you mind?"

"Yup, I suppose so. Illogical hey, but that's the reality. Luckily she didn't." David paused and then continued, speaking quietly, almost to himself. "You know it's also how you are brought up, rather than the actual colour. Let's say a child is coloured, but brought up in a white home, in a white way, going to predominantly white schools; they will grow up like a white person. The colour is incidental, as long as it's not too much."

He broke off, thinking about Robbie who had been brought up at the house in Hillside, and before that, at the Police camp in Nkayi.

"Maybe that's why Robbie is different. You know, he was brought up with us, in Hillside. He never lived in the black areas, and he did what we did; went to the Matopos on the weekends, to Kezi for the holidays, played sport with me, went to school from the Hillside house. He occasionally spoke to his mother in Ndebele, otherwise he spoke English." A 'coconut.' White inside, brown on the outside.

"He's kind of white, you know... how he was brought up," David added.

Arriving at the shopping centre, Henrietta parked her car directly outside the restaurant and turned slightly towards him in the seat.

"Do I detect you are unhappy about that?" she asked.

"Guilty more like," he said quietly, watching a girl in tight trousers step up onto the pavement. Young, athletic, brown hair held in a ponytail, an ear plug stuck in one ear. He had seen her before, here at this restaurant. The first time they had lunch together, David had seen this girl step off the pavement to cross the road. He had lost track of her, distracted by the idiot in the little orange sports car. She must work close-by, he concluded.

Then it occurred to him she could be one of Henrietta's security team. He shrugged and reached out to open the door, but Henrietta didn't move.

"Guilty? Why on earth would you be guilty?"

"It's complicated, difficult to explain," he said, looking across at her dark brown eyes, unsure how to continue. She stared back at him steadily, obviously expecting him to elaborate and David wasn't sure he could explain intelligibly something he had never put into words, something he had never wanted to admit, even to himself.

"Well. Why should he need to be different, apart from his own culture, to succeed? Surely that negates Independence? Surely the epitome of an African should succeed in the new independent Africa, not one who was brought up in a white household?"

"And that's your problem?" she asked.

Once again, Henrietta had cut right through the logical inconsistency in his argument.

"That Robbie has been successful in a white world because he was brought up as a white person is your responsibility alone?"

Uncomfortable, David replied, "OK, not entirely, but I still feel bad, can't win really. While he succeeds because he is white on the inside, he is still black on the outside and needs me, as a face to present to clients. He shouldn't need me. He should be able to succeed on his own, because of his natural talents, ability and the hard work he always puts in. It's crazy, but true and I mind, although I know it is not my fault or something I have any control of."

"What does he think?" she asked.

"I have no idea," David laughed. "As I told you before, he is very accepting, very African. Gets on with things and deals with what he can deal with. There are some things even two people as close as we are can't talk about. Race issues are tricky you know, almost as bad as money."

"Tell me about it," she said, as she climbed out of the car.

"And of course, to compound the problem, the chances are, if I met a black man in a similar position as Robbie, I would think he wasn't competent, would prefer to deal with a white guy. Robbie knows that, and I might add, he is worse than me when it comes to dealing with his black brethren," said David flippantly, as he held open the heavy glass door of the restaurant for her. "He has little faith in their abilities and trusts them way less than I do."

THEY were met, as on the previous occasions by a man David now realised was the owner. They went to the same table they had occupied before, and although a menu was placed in front of them, David noticed Henrietta did not open hers.

"You know the menu that well?" he asked.

"Mario usually doesn't bother to give me one, I always order the same thing anyway, and he knows not to change it one little bit. But please, have a look while I go to the loo."

### * * *

"DO YOU go back to Bulawayo often?" she asked, once she had settled back in her chair.

"About once a year, maybe a couple of times. Robbie goes back more often, but mostly only for a weekend a week at the longest. When Kim and I go, we like to take longer over it. Christmas is a good time. The school holidays are long, and Robbie stays in Johannesburg, through the festive season. The holiday spirit doesn't seem to stop bandits."

"What do you do in Bulawayo?" Henrietta asked, and David smiled at her. It was a question people often asked. They meant 'what the hell is there to do in Bulawayo!'

"We don't do much, hang around with my dad, play golf, tennis, go to the Matopos. Kim would perhaps have been happier growing up in Bulawayo than she is in Johannesburg. She got a real kick out of the fact that my dad knows the names of the people in the Hillside Shopping centre, and they know his. She said she didn't know any shop, even the café close to our house where the till operators know who she is. I think she is a small town girl. Last year, we spent a month in Bulawayo, and she immediately went off to the SPCA to see if she could help out in any way. She had already found people of like interest from Bulawayo on the internet before we left, and almost as soon as we landed, rushed off meeting them and thinking up ways of fund raising." Henrietta heard a cynical edge to David's voice; noticed his face screw up in disgust.

"You don't agree?" she asked, intrigued by David's sullen look. Usually easy going and casual she wondered what caused this departure from his habitual good humour.

"I don't agree with the double standards of the SPCA. People in the TTLs, beat their donkeys, whip their dogs, don't feed their cats, but I don't see the SPCA doing anything. Yet in town, the SPCA is on your back, assuming you are wrong because some nosy neighbour reports you. If they find your dog outside the gate, they whisk it up and take it away to the kennels and it's a mission to get it back. It's no wonder people don't bother to collect strays. Kim of course says you have to start somewhere, and she did. She jumped in feet first almost the moment she landed in Bulawayo."

"Perhaps you think people in town should be able to beat their donkeys and starve their cats?" asked Henrietta, amused.

"No. I think the SPCA should make more of an effort to educate people all over the country about mistreating animals. I resent paying for vehicles and food for animals the SPCA doesn't make enough effort to relocate to new homes. They would rather kill an animal than look for a home for it. I hate killing animals, even old ones."

"You don't have to pay for anything," Henrietta said.

"Oh yes? Watch me try getting out of it with Kim. She is like a boulder falling down the mountain when she is in the middle of a cause," he said attempting a smile.

Raising his hands palm up he said, "Hey, we have been under fire from them many times. We have guard dogs in kennels at the back of our Belmont offices. The SPCA arrives as if they are in the middle of a SWAT raid. Swoop in and check up on us. Pain in the arse! And Kim told me it was only right that I should look into how our dogs are kept."

David scowled, "I had a heck of a bust up with that woman once. I went around to the SPCA and was treated to a lecture about how dogs need to be loved. That living in a cage was unnatural and she would do what she could to stop it. She grabbed a disgusting, slobbery Rottweiler by the jowls and kissed it to demonstrate to me what she meant. Gross," he said with a shudder, his large face screwed up in revulsion.

Henrietta threw her head back and laughed, a lovely infectious sound, her dark eyes flashing, her mouth wide and her throat, a slim shaft below. David, in the middle of his rant stared across at her in surprise. He had never heard her laugh like that before: spontaneous, alive and natural. He wanted to make her laugh more often.

"But because you pay a lot of money to the SPCA you expect to be exempt from SWAT raids?" she asked.

"Not true," David snapped, and Henrietta continued to smile wide.

"How did Kim get involved with the SPCA?" she asked, still smiling.

"Mostly to do with her strays, I think."

Henrietta's eyebrows rose. "Strays?"

"Yes, Kim brings home stray cats and dogs she is given or picks up somewhere or other; has done for years. They are always mangy and thin and usually sick. When she first started, I thought she would get bored and forget about them, but she never has. She has an arrangement with the vet clinic down the road. She also ropes in half my staff to help her with them all."

David finally grinned at Henrietta's expression.

"I make her find homes for all of them. She does. Eventually. But we do always have a houseful of scrawny animals in various states of disrepair. There is always hair all over the furniture on the bottom floor. Luckily it's tiled. We both used to be on the first floor, but Kim has recently moved downstairs to be closer to her animals. The house is huge. There's plenty of room for all of us."

"It must take an army of people to keep it clean."

"Yes, I have an army of people to keep it clean. I have about three gardeners and a stack of people inside the house. I also have to employ several security guards. Kim is often home alone in the afternoons. Luckily now they can live on the property, the servants I mean. They couldn't until 1994. We almost have a village going there. Next we will need a school for the kids."

Oops he reminded himself with an inward laugh, she would think he meant literally, he would build a school.

Henrietta remained quiet, her head down. "I never knew anything about animals, we didn't have pets when I was growing up and one day, I met a dog," she began speaking quietly, her mood changing.

"He was an aloof sort of guy, but I thought I could communicate with him. I thought he was telling me things."

"Was he your dog?" asked David puzzled.

"No, we didn't have pets, I only saw him once, one afternoon. It started me on something though, and I began to watch animals. I would go to the zoo, or sit outside and watch birds." With a short embarrassed laugh, she hesitated.

"I became hooked on it, went to the national parks and began watching elephants."

David stared at her bowed head in surprise. He couldn't imagine a life, or home without animals. They had not been a large part of his childhood, as they were for Kim, but he had grown up with pets in the house, had collected cattle and goats on the farm in Kezi. He couldn't imagine a home without any animals in it at all.

Henrietta looked up at him. "Anyway, when I was settled in my new house, I went out and bought a cat. I bought a Siamese, although I wanted a Savannah cat. Have you ever heard of them?"

David shook his head.

"I investigated them, and discovered they are very personal animals. They don't like you to go away suddenly and leave them alone for any length of time. I go on holiday every year and I used to travel weekly. I couldn't commit. Everyone thought the Siamese would learn to live in a cat kennel when I was away, but I never sent him there, I left his food with my gardener."

The waiter brought buns and placed them near David, and shortly after, two salad bowls. Henrietta remained silent during this activity and he thought perhaps she had finished with her story.

"Tom, that was his name, did fine without me. Problem was, I didn't do fine without him. When he died, I was devastated. I swore I would never have another pet. I would never open myself up to the hurt and emptiness that followed his death. He was the greatest friend I ever had, from the time I lifted him out of the box when he arrived as a kitten, until the day he died. Fell off the roof, would you believe. He entertained me, loved me, and annoyed me. I loved to watch him and you know," she blew out a harsh, self-mocking laugh, "I thought I could understand him, thought I was communicating with him. I could bore you endlessly with stories of his exploits."

David saw a flash of pain, loss on her face before she looked down at her place-mat, confirming his guess that Henrietta's blank face masked a woman of strong passions. A woman who needed tight control over her feelings and he realised, with a shock, he would like to break down that control, get to the passion underneath.

David was glad Henrietta was not looking at him. His reaction to her must be obvious and because he was honest with himself, admitted his response was sexual.

He wanted Henrietta Steyn. He wanted her to feel something for him, wanted to break down that control, force her to react to him.
Chapter 39

THEY left the restaurant close to closing time and driving home David, once again admitted he had thoroughly enjoyed the day in her company. Although it had been cold, and the wind had blown right through his clothing, he had hardly noticed.

Today, Henrietta had been much more open with him, although she still offered little, by way of information, about her upbringing, except to say it had been unhappy. She had been a disappointment to her parents. Was it true, or only her interpretation of the situation? He couldn't imagine why they would have been disappointed with her. Obviously intelligent she had developed her business from scratch, and ran a tight ship as far as he could see.

She was sharp too. During the few trips they had made together, she picked up on any logical inconsistency in his arguments immediately, and she didn't let him get away with it.

It was obvious she had a good memory. She kept him on his toes, didn't seem to mind challenging him, and he liked it.

It had never occurred to him that he expected special treatment from the Bulawayo SPCA, but upon reflection, he wondered if she was correct, that he had expected some slack from them. And, he thought with a grin, she had laughed in his face when he denied it.

Yes, he enjoyed her company. Couldn't wait to see her again.

### * * *

"HI, BABY," he said, walking into his lounge later that afternoon, to find Kim lying on the floor in front of a 2000-piece puzzle, her chin propped up with one hand. A huge three-legged ginger cat lay near her and behind her on the sofa, he could see three half grown kittens fast asleep, as only cats can sleep: all intertwined and spaced out.

David sat down, leaned over the puzzle, and idly pushed a piece over to her. She fitted it together with the one she held and laid them down on the board, absently stroking the ginger cat along his white bib.

He was reminded of Henrietta's admission about animals. It was as if she had handed him a puzzle piece that clearly didn't fit into the 'Henrietta Steyn' picture. And yet, he had been with her when she told him about her cat; had seen her pain. How she had met a dog and spoken to him, how she thought they could communicate.

It was real to her. That puzzle piece must fit in somewhere. David had to make it fit. That's what he did, solved puzzles.

He had never minded starting at an arbitrary place when he tried to solve a case. Unlike Kim and Robbie, who started with the outside edges, he would simply put pieces together until he had big chunks on the board in front of him, and suddenly it would be obvious how they fitted together. It always gave him a little thrill when the pieces fell into place. He would push the chunks about on the board a little, lean back and smile while he tidied up the few gaps.

When it came to Henrietta, he was not convinced he had even turned all the puzzle pieces the right way up!

Right now, he had a few patchy blobs of seemingly isolated collections of the overall picture.

He could clearly see her face, her long, lustrous hair, her clothes. She didn't hide her intelligence, her single-minded concentration. She spoke quite openly about her business, and how she ran it, and it was impressive. She was impressive.

But she kept her past to herself, handing him tiny snippets, like the story about how she liked to watch animals. Had she meant to tell him that, or had it slipped out?

Here was a woman who didn't like to change the model of her car, but flew to Australia, to attend a concert at the Sydney Opera house, to listen to a particular piece of music she enjoyed.

Actually, he thought leaning back in his chair, he was thoroughly enjoying himself, slowly putting the pieces together, completing the picture.

He had hoped the search for Lisa Van der Linde would help him shake off his growing unhappiness, boredom. Instead, his chance meeting with Henrietta gave him something to look forward to each day.

He was now absolutely certain he had been right the first time he saw her, at the Jansen break in. Beneath the cool, calm facade, lived an entirely different person.
Chapter 40

WHEN Robbie returned from Bulawayo on Friday, David had already left work. They met in the gym on Monday morning and used the time to talk, and catch up on the last few weeks.

The topic soon returned to the Lisa Van der Linde case and Eugene Leclerc. Robbie admitted that they had not progressed much; he had become too wrapped up with Eugene Leclerc.

Other than the obvious people, such as Mrs Simpson and the headmistress of the Convent, Robbie had been unable to find a single person who remembered Lisa. He had expected to find black people who had known her. The guy from the garage where she filled her car, or the grocer or a street cleaner, but he had failed utterly and it was unusual.

He had especially wanted to speak to the Van der Linde chauffeur, but instead discovered he had died of AIDS, in 1998. They spent days, and many man hours on that search and it had been a dead end.

Paul Brewster's advertisements in the local papers seeking anyone who might have known her, had met with limited success. A few people remembered her, but mostly described her as shy and retiring. It appeared she had been invited to parties only because she was the daughter of Johann and Hannah Van der Linde. It was a long time since she had lived in Bulawayo, but Robbie was surprised at the paucity of information.

"You know, something occurred to me," David interrupted Robbie's musing, "about Eugene. The French connection. He had a French surname, although no one at the music camp had that name or was French, and his mother's surname wasn't Leclerc either. I know many coloureds in Barham Green have French surnames due to the French Huguenot connection, but it seems there is no Leclerc. You tell me he could possibly speak French and that he inherited a business and a building from a French guy; a guy whom no one knows anything about. In the reports you sent me, the police could find no connection between them. Then the old guy up and gives his property to Eugene."

Robbie realised David had hit on something no one else ever had. The police investigated Eugene for years, but not the French connection.

"OK, but what's that got to do with Lisa? She was half Dutch, not half French."

"No, nothing, I was thinking more along the lines of the Bonanza gold. Could he have taken the money to France? Does he have a French passport, or maybe Francophone: Algerian or Congolese? If he could go to France, perhaps he could have property there and maybe something happened to Lisa there. Let's say he knew her somehow, although no one saw them together. She leaves Bulawayo, and takes all her money out of her accounts overseas and next thing, poof, it's all gone, and she's gone."

"Then why would Eugene come back here?

"Dunno, haven't got that far," David said with a laugh, "I was running it by you."

"No, it's cool. It's a good point. No one had ever thought of looking for Eugene anywhere else in the world. But I bet he wouldn't use his own name."

"Why not? Hey, what about the old guy's name? Who's to say Eugene didn't use his name?"

"Agreed, but what's this got to do with Lisa?"

"Something happened to all that money, Robbie. It was a fortune, and money doesn't disappear. It had to go somewhere."

"So, we are back to following the money? I have contacts in the French police, I can ask around and if I get any hints, I can send Coral over there to hunt through records."

Almost apologetic, David admitted he had gone to the internet to look up Eugene.

"OK, and what did you find? He has a website?" As usual, Robbie's sarcasm brought a smile to David's face.

"There's a Leclerc tank, an artist and a composer called Leclerc; well it's a common name. Anyway, where to now?"

"Well, I'll go think a bit," Robbie replied. "Wait to see if your dad digs up anything more. If he does, I'll go back home again."

"Hey, maybe I will go this time. Kim is on holiday soon. Dad would love to see her again." David looked across at his friend, "I could also go out to Kezi."

Robbie realized immediately where this conversation was headed: his mum, Martha. It usually did when he had been home to Zimbabwe.

"Maybe I can talk to her. Jeez, Robbie, can't you get her out of there?"

"She's happy, Dave. She has family, my wife, our kids. It's what she wants to do, where she wants to be."

"Yeah, you always say that, but I hate to think of her living like that. In a hut, for god's sake. You know we can do much better for her, Robbie. We could buy her a house in town, organise someone to help her out. She's too old to be doing what she does all day, she should be taking it easy at her age, and she hardly had it easy in her life."

Robbie smiled at his friend and shook his head. "She's happy Dave, I would be the last person to stand by and allow her to be unhappy, or over-do things."

David scrubbed his face with his hands. "You know how much she means to me, how much she did over the years. I feel I am not doing enough, not giving back, you know."

"You did what she wanted. That's enough, believe me, she's happy."

David and Robbie had been over this same ground many times over the years. David couldn't bear the idea of Martha living in a hut in Kezi.

Together, they had bought a farm in the area where Martha grew up, the title in Robbie's name. Left untouched by Mugabe's land acquisition program, the property had a cute little farmhouse with a red bougainvillea hanging along the surrounding fence and a borehole in the yard.

The first time he drove to Kezi, David went directly to the homestead, certain he would find Martha and Robbie's wife and kids installed there. When he discovered Martha had built her own village and now lived in what he thought a crude hut, he had complained vociferously to Robbie.

"What do you think my mother will do in a house like that?" Robbie had asked him, "It's not comfortable."

"What do you mean not comfortable," David raged, "you telling me a hut with a mud floor is comfortable?"

Robbie had smiled at his friend, infuriating him further.

"And what about your wife? How can you put up with her living in a mud hut?

"Well, she is an African woman," Robbie replied grinning, deliberately needling his friend.

David had stormed off, but been unable to shake anyone on the issue. The subject came up each time Robbie went home to Zimbabwe.

Robbie was surprised his friend, usually good at reading people, consistently made an error when it came to Martha. David accepted Robbie's two wives, two families, his girlfriends, acknowledging Robbie did not have to conform to European standards, yet wanted Martha to live in a place she wouldn't feel was home.

"Well, you can try buddy," he said now, as he wiped himself with his towel. "Martha would love to see you. Maybe you can talk her into it."

David scowled at his friend. He couldn't talk to Martha, couldn't thank her for what she had done for him as a child, couldn't shake the relationship that developed early: the black maid, white boss's son thing. He would simply sit there under the eaves of the hut, on a stupid rickety chair, which they brought out each time he visited, and they would talk in stilted sentences.

She would ask about Kim, about his golf, or how well the latest 'garden-boy' she had 'sent down' fared, while David sat uncomfortably, unable to thank her in words. Usually good with words, this always upset him.

He wanted to provide her with things he could easily afford now; a car, a house, servants to help her, but she consistently refused, said she didn't need those things.

Never demonstrative, she had never hugged or spanked either of them. She demanded respect, but never used force. David had never heard her raise her voice or heard her say anything disparaging about another person.

She had, quietly in the background, held his family together when it could easily have fallen apart and David was certain she had much to do with how both he and Robbie had turned out.

Robbie laughed at his friend's discomfort, and slapping him on the shoulder said, "Cheer up buddy. She's fine, sends her love," and moved off to the showers.

### * * *

HENRIETTA heard David's phone beep, and watched him dig it out of his pocket. Not an easy procedure. He had to force his leg as far under the dash as he could and twist his body around to take his phone out of his pants pocket. He read his message, and immediately scrubbed his face with his hands. She guessed the content worried him. He leaned his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Oh blast, I forgot," he muttered. "I told Kim I would watch her tennis match this afternoon. I don't know how I managed to forget, she is going to be upset."

"Can't you make it in time?"

He shook his head. "It starts in about fifteen minutes and will be over before I can get back to collect my car. No... Can't do; and I don't want to tell her I am not coming; it will upset her too much before the match. Just now, she is going to phone when I haven't answered her message. I don't know what I'm going to say."

"Do you watch all her sport?"

"I try to get to as much as I can, but this is the final for the area schools. She is very good at tennis. Maybe I should just turn off my phone!" he said, feigning lightness.

David seemed unhappy, worried, Henrietta thought. She wasn't sure, but it appeared he minded missing the match much more than he let on.

"I can take you there, if you wish. We only have one more house to see and we can do it another day. It's hardly out of my way, and I can get you there on time if we hurry. You will need to sort out someone to collect your car from the office."

David said nothing for a while, thinking through the logistics of the change in plan and eventually said, "Thank you. I would appreciate it. I can catch a lift home with Kim, and I will organise with Robbie to collect my car. I'm sorry to put you to this trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. It means returning on a different road but the traffic won't be bad until later."

HENRIETTA pulled into the busy school car park, managed to find a parking and watched David step up on to the pavement and walk rapidly away towards the sports fields. He moved well. A large man, yet well balanced, he walked on the balls of his feet and didn't appear physically out of proportion.

Henrietta looked around at the school, the red brick buildings, the sports fields, the parents, the life she was missing. She could easily be one of these mums, had she chosen a different path, a husband and children, a normal existence. Did she chose her path with enough care? Yes, she admitted to herself with a sigh, she had considered all angles with care and had decided she would make a lousy parent, probably a lousy wife.

David would be comfortable here though, especially with the sports. From things he told her, he made every effort to be both a mum and a dad. She had a sudden urge to meet Kim, and see for herself as a woman, how well he had done.

With a small shake of her head, Henrietta realised she was venturing into unknown territory. She and David had nearly concluded their business; they had perhaps two more trips to make. They would deal with the details of the sales and would never see each other again. There would be no excuse to sit in her car, or at the restaurant and listen to him talk, feel she could too, without judgment.

No one had ever spoken with her as he did, about everyday things, about his daughter, his partner, about Bulawayo. She heard his pain when he spoke of his wife, his pride when he spoke of his daughter.

Closing her eyes and resting her head back against the seat, Henrietta admitted she would miss him, but had absolutely no idea how to tell him. How to tell him she would like to continue to see him, would like to meet Kim, even Robbie.

### * * *

DROPPED at Henri Properties, Robbie beeped open the door of David's car using the spare car keys from the DaRo safe. Tired, he rubbed his eyes and rolled his head on his shoulders. He should have sent someone else to collect it, he thought. He was getting a little old to be working such late hours.

He racked David's car-seat forward, switched on the head-lights and drove out of the gate and along the street parking, parallel to Republic. About to pull into the road, he noticed a man move towards the glass doors of the office building lobby, his face shaded by the back lighting. Robbie leaned further forward and frowned in concentration. The man paused, stepped down onto the pavement, and walked away down the street. Robbie put the car into gear and pulled into a deserted Republic Road and headed towards Malibongwe Drive. He drove mechanically, pondering. Something wrong, or out of place rather, nagged at him. Something to do with the man leaving Henrietta's office block. He couldn't get his mind to focus. It had been a long day and he wanted to get home, shower and sleep.

ROBBIE came awake with a start in the early hours of the morning his mind alert. The man leaving the Henri Properties building and the block of flats in Borrow Street were one and the same. On both occasions the light had been from behind, shading his features. His build, the way he walked, the wary pause at the pavement, the quick glance both ways were identical. Who the hell was he?

Robbie, his hands behind his neck, lay thinking through the possibilities. He didn't have enough information; he needed the identity of the man.

David had glossed over his dealings with Henrietta, but the moment he spoke face to face with him Robbie realised David was attracted to Henrietta, had spent considerable time with her in the last few weeks.

This was the first serious attempt he had seen his friend make to see a woman since Jackie died, and Robbie didn't want to jeopardize that. He had to be careful when it came to Henrietta Steyn.

He didn't want to keep anything from his partner, but also didn't want to cause unnecessary conflict.

He decided to identify the man first, get photos from Bulawayo and Henri Properties, and work from there.

IT TOOK a week for the photographs taken outside Henri Properties to arrive. Robbie scrolled down through them on his laptop.

His undercover photographer, posing as a city street sweeper as usual for a couple of days, had taken a good number of colour shots. She had tried to order the photos to separate employees of Henri Properties and clients.

Robbie didn't think the man he had seen twice was pictured. Again, he couldn't be certain since it was dark on both occasions. It was more how the man walked, and particularly how he paused warily at the door before proceeding on to the street.

Robbie had few options, but decided it would be safer putting someone outside the flat in Bulawayo, than outside Henrietta's office in Randburg.

He tapped out a request to the Inspector and copied it to David.
Chapter 41

"HI... ARE you doing anything tomorrow morning, say about half eight? I'd like to show you something," David asked.

"I'm not sure. What do you want to show me?" Down the line, Henrietta sounded wary and sharp.

"How about a surprise?"

"I don't like surprises," she said abruptly, and David laughed.

"OK, I would like to show you a horse."

"A horse... Not a house?"

"No, definitely a horse. See why I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Yes, I see. OK, it's a surprise. Where are we going?"

"No, that part's a surprise. It's not far, near where I live in Honeydew. I was reminded about it when you told me about your racehorse. I thought you may like to see something quite different. We can go in my car."

### * * *

DAVID drove up to Henri Property headquarters the following morning, parked his car outside the office block and buzzed Henrietta on his cell phone. He climbed out of his car when he saw her walk down the steps.

He stood with his arm on the roof of his car and stared at her outfit in surprise. She wore a pair of light brown plaid trousers and short ankle boots, a cream silk top and a light weight brown jacket with masculine shoulder pads and epaulets. Her hair was pulled tightly back from her face and rolled into a bun against her neck.

"Now you know why I like to know what I am doing, where I am going," she said, as she settled in the car. "Imagine if you had come to collect me and found me wearing six inch heels and a mini skirt!"

"I would have loved that, but yes, you are right, the manure would have been hell on the shoes and the horses would have tried to look up the skirt. I'm sorry, I never thought about it at all. Men wear much the same clothes every day and most outfits are appropriate in quite different settings. I am glad you had something suitable. You look stunning, like a model right out of a Country Style catalogue."

"I think I have an outfit for any occasion."

David raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment as he negotiated the traffic on to Republic Road.

"I don't buy my clothes, and don't know what I have. I have an appointment book which is copied to my home. Mary looks at what is written there and decides on what I should wear. Today she sent me to work with two jackets. This one which is more masculine and in her opinion suited to horses and stables and another softer one in green, which I can wear to the meetings I have in the afternoon. Sometimes she sends me to work with two different pairs of shoes, one to start off with and the other to change into when needed. My problem is of course, remembering when to change, and what to change into. Sometimes Mary sends me a reminder a few minutes before my appointment is due, if she thinks my appearance will be important.

"Yes, I know it's a little unusual, but clothes are not a priority for me. I'm aware, though, they are important to others. I go along with it, and Mary makes sure I am dressed for the occasion."

"Who's Mary?"

Henrietta gave David the blank look he had become familiar with, the one she used when she did not have any idea what she should say. He had noticed it before. She often said nothing or would wait some time before answering.

"She is my housekeeper, oblique maid, oblique friend. Everything. She looks after me, buys all my clothes, my make-up and my food. She does my hair, my face and chooses my clothes. She knows what clothes are appropriate for each occasion."

David turned onto Malibongwe drive, thankful to be driving against the traffic. Before nine in the morning, the traffic into Johannesburg is terrible, but fairly light going in the other direction.

"My wife was killed over there," he pointed to a spot across the road. "I usually avoid Malibongwe Drive so I am not reminded of it."

A lorry coming downhill in the rain had lost control, ploughed over the centre curb and rammed into her stationary car. David always tried to convince himself she had felt nothing. Alive one minute, dead the next. It hurt him too much to think she had seen the lorry coming towards her, and been unable to get out of the way, or worse, died in agony, crushed under five tonnes of steel.

"The hardest thing to accept was not so much my loss or Kim's, but her own. She would much rather be alive. I couldn't imagine her dead. She was always moving. Restless, always dancing, or flitting from one activity to another."

"You still loved her. Even when she wasn't getting what she wanted?"

"No, I don't think so. Well, in a way, I suppose... It's hard to love someone when you don't measure up any more. I was no longer infatuated, but I still loved to indulge her, provide her with what I could. I loved to watch her, her green eyes flashing and her quick little body moving. Perhaps at the back of my mind, I hoped if I gave her what I could, it would eventually be enough."

He knew he could only give her what he could, and she had never told him what it was she needed, what it was he couldn't provide.

Malibongwe Drive could be seen stretching down towards the N1 and up the hill on the other side; packed with cars as usual. The traffic seemed to be flowing and David felt he didn't have to make any moves to look for a detour. Of course, no one can anticipate an accident and the police and emergency services close the entire road when they could leave one lane open, to allow traffic to continue to flow. It was almost as if they wanted to hold up the traffic for hours and hours.

Traffic jams were one of Johannesburg's frustrations that David had never learned to accept.

"WHAT happened when she died? How did you manage on your own? Did your mum help?"

"No, my mum was long dead. Robbie's mum, Martha came down and helped out." Martha found and trained nurses and nannies to look after Kim and reorganised the household. "The most difficult thing was fitting in my work around Kim, but there Robbie has been great. He does most of the afterhours call-outs meaning I don't have to leave Kim alone at night. I have tight security at home, although I still avoid leaving her alone even for a short time."

David hesitated while he kept an eye on a mini bus nudging into the traffic ahead.

"You know, I hardly knew Kim before Jackie died, and I perhaps never would have..." David shrugged, unable to complete his sentence.

"I don't regret the time I have spent with Kim over the years, but recently, I feel perhaps I am losing my way, I can't get through any more. We used to be able to talk about anything. Now she is secretive, and aloof from me. I wonder if she would have been the same with her mum."

David, about to ask Henrietta what her relationship had been with her mother, remembered her parents had also been killed in a car crash, Henrietta spending time in foster homes. He did not want to let on to her he knew, waiting for her to broach the subject.

They crossed over the N1 and began the climb up the other side of Malibongwe Drive in silence, each occupied with their own thoughts.

"DID you have a premonition of death? You know, when you were at work?"

David shook his head.

"How did you find out about your wife?"

"Robbie. Robbie told me. The police came to the office and spoke to him." Robbie knew many of them through business. They came to him first when they discovered the car was a DaRo vehicle.

"He identified her body, thank goodness. I don't think I could have held it together if I'd had to do that. As usual he was great," David hesitated for a moment, "but even he couldn't tell me about the emerald ring I gave Jackie. It was stolen off her finger sometime during the accident. Can you believe that?" he asked, hurt loud in his voice.

"A bystander, or one of the ambulance people or in the hospital, pulled my ring off her finger. I bought her an emerald, about the size of a knuckle. I would have loved Kim to have that ring. It would have suited her eyes perfectly."

Jackie had always worn it, and Robbie immediately noticed it was missing, when he stood over her body in the morgue.

With a nostalgic smile, David's memories returned to Jackie. She wore jewellery as if it were worthless, how, in his opinion, a woman should always wear jewellery. He had given her a necklace, for their first anniversary, a mixture of emeralds and other semi-precious stones. It had cost him a fortune, and yet she would restlessly twist it around her fingers as if she had picked it up at the flea market. There was nothing understated about Jackie. She wore bright clothes, high-heeled shoes, bunches of noisy bangles, long dangly earrings, bright lipsticks and make-up to match her bright eyes and quick smile.

He felt the familiar feeling of loss rush through him when he thought of her and wished he could simply let it go. Let her go. She had been dead a long time yet he still missed her terribly.

"Is Kim like her mum?"

"I'm not sure, I don't think so. She has beautiful eyes, darker green than Jackie's, but I think she has more of my mum in her. In looks that is. I think it is rather early to tell though, she is only fourteen, I mean, did you look like you do now when you were fourteen?

Henrietta smiled, "Well, not exactly."

"I don't think she is like her mum in character, she is more thoughtful and determined, stays on target more. I hope she is not too much like my mum in character," David paused and glancing over at her continued.

"She was an alcoholic. Luckily for me, she didn't look like a drunk, in fact quite the opposite. She was always perfectly made up and she was very beautiful, you know. Even I knew that back then. Her hair was pale blond, although her skin was fairly dark. She was tall and slim, much smaller build than yours, although about the same height as you, sort of wraith like.

"Poor old thing. I only knew the shell, there was nothing left of her by the time we moved to town. I have never known what my father thought, we never spoke about her. Of course, I didn't know any better. I didn't know other mothers didn't stay at home on the weekends while their husband went off to the Matopos with the kids or always had a glass of Vodka somewhere within reach. My mother existed; she wasn't a personality in our family, only a presence.

"In the end she got liver cancer and faded away; until she was like a skeleton with cling wrap loosely draped over it. Kim is fairly brainy, and she sure doesn't get that from me," David laughed.

"Jackie was a Yoga instructor and I never heard she was that brainy either, I think she was average in school. Maybe Kim applies herself more and gets better grades, maybe she takes after my dad. I don't know."

"How did you meet your wife? You said you saw her first, six months before you began dating her."

"I was body-guarding a woman at the opening of an art exhibition, at Anton Visser's gallery. Jackie only turned up half way through the evening. She was stunning. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Luckily the woman I was with wanted to talk to Anton and barged over to them, ditching Jackie with me.

"We didn't say much to each other, although she was fascinated I was a bodyguard. I think she was shocked anyone needed one. We didn't talk for long, but I overheard Anton threatening her once. I also noticed when he was around her, he stood close to her, always touching and acting possessively. I found him over protective, although he was her boyfriend."

David dismissed his discomfort with a characteristic shift of position in his seat.

"I didn't see her again for about six months, but I didn't forget her I can tell you. Her image popped up at silly times."

David laughed shortly, "I was infatuated, I suppose."

"You didn't make any effort to contact her?"

"Well," he replied, embarrassed, "I went to the gallery once or twice, but she wasn't there. Anyway she was involved with someone and I have no time for people who break up relationships. I gave up, got on with my life and not long after, out of the blue, she walked into my office. She came to me because she remembered I worked as a bodyguard and someone was stalking her. She told me she was living alone and someone had broken into her flat, stolen her keys and was returning, leaving messages, scaring her."

David, certain it was Anton stalking her, wanting her back, wasted a good deal of time trying to prove that. He disliked Anton, was prepared to believe the worst.

Luckily he had involved Robbie early on in the investigation. Robbie did the leg work, found the stalker, a horrid little weasel who thought Jackie had come on to him.

"Once we sorted out her stalker, I felt free to ask her for a date. We were married soon after."

At the stables they were met by a woman dressed in old blue jeans, a huge men's checked shirt and a bush hat stuffed onto her grey curls. She was tall, Henrietta noted, taller than herself. David introduced them and asked Reggie if Henrietta could sit and watch Omar Shaykh.

"Sure, go ahead," she said to him. "I am around this morning if you want me," and walked away.

David led Henrietta along a path to a bench which overlooked a pen about twenty meters long and fifteen wide. "I need to see the security detail. I'll come back just now."

### * * *

HENRIETTA sat alone on the bench, the sun on her face, absorbing the bird sounds and stable noises. She did not feel intimidated or scared, although alone in a strange place. It was fairly quiet, considering a teeming city sprawled out behind her. An occasional vehicle passed on the road, and she heard several aeroplanes and helicopters pass overhead on their way to the airport.

Eventually, a groom walked up to the stable, carrying a head collar and a rope coiled in one hand. He slipped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar.

A short time later, the door burst open and the groom came out quickly, followed by the most beautiful horse Henrietta had ever seen. He was the colour of a polished copper vase, with a long flowing tail and a mane which seemed to almost entirely cover his face. He had small ears and huge brown eyes and a white sock on one front foot.

He ran forward a few steps, stood flicking his head from side to side as if he were trying to see through the cascade of mane and reared up on his hind legs. His front legs pawed the air and as the muscles in his hind legs tensed, the sunlight formed patterns on his glossy coat.

The groom, unfazed by this display of energy, simply held the long thick rope at the end.

When the stallion put all four feet back on the ground, he quickly moved close and removed the halter. The horse immediately swung away from him, galloping around the pen, his head and tail high in the air as if this were a game he never tired of.

He was smaller and far more active than the thoroughbreds Henrietta had seen walking sedately around the ring at the racecourse, or the stable yard on the few occasions she had been allowed in there.

She was utterly unprepared for the unbridled mass of energy, showing off in the paddock. She couldn't take her eyes off him, certain he was aware of her. He was beautiful, graceful and vibrantly alive.

He calmed down after his initial gallop, but, continually moving, appeared to float along above the ground. He ran around the wooden railing of the paddock, sometimes running with his nose near the ground as if smelling for something, and at others with his head high and to one side.

The noises of the stable yard continued around them, the grooms mucking out stables, grooming and feeding other horses.

Henrietta heard a neigh and the stallion stopped dead in his tracks, his whole body tense. He held his head slightly to one side as if listening intently. She thought his eyes might pop out of his head, he seemed to be straining to see something, his body quivering, in anticipation perhaps.

Suddenly he neighed; his mouth opened wide, teeth bared and his whole body shaking with the effort.

Henrietta laughed out loud. She couldn't help it.

He did not hold the frozen pose for long and soon moved off again. She was not sure if he had answered the other horse to his satisfaction, or if he had faced off a monster she could not see, or simply become bored. Not knowing anything about horses she couldn't tell. He seemed to be enjoying himself, seemingly confident, powerful, and yet unabashed to be observed playing. Sometimes he shook his head so hard, Henrietta thought he might fall off his feet.

### * * *

DAVID slipped onto the bench beside Henrietta and she half turned towards him, her face animated, eyes sparkling.

"I have never seen anything like this. He is so alive, beautiful, so exciting. Thank you for bringing me."

David stared at her at her in surprise; at her poised body, excited face, sparkling brown eyes. He wanted to see her like this more often, wanted to make her look like this again.

"Yes, the first time I came here and sat where you are sitting I thought the same thing. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, hadn't expected it, after all, I was here to evaluate the security not look at horses. I didn't know anything could be that beautiful, and I don't even like horses much!"

David faced towards the pen again, his head bowed, his hands held between his knees and began speaking so softly, she could hardly hear him.

"I couldn't help but be reminded of Jackie. She was also small, beautiful and aware of it. She was also always on the move, loved showing off, loved being the centre of attention. Always alive and vibrant."

David took a deep breath.

"I sat here and cried. Cried for her, for the waste. For Kim. For what could have been."

Henrietta remained silent and David continued. "I also realised there is still beauty out there in the world, you have to find it and appreciate it, of course."

"Do you come here often?"

"I have been a few times, on one pretext or another and I never leave feeling depressed. His energy seems to be infectious." David laughed as they both watched the stallion cavort around the pen.

"He does this most of the day. I don't think I have been here when he is still. If he is not running, he paces backwards and forwards like a caged animal. He is the most dramatic when he comes out of the stable in the morning. He's at least clean and is full of energy after being locked up all night. He usually rolls in the sand at some time and his coat gets all dirty on one side."

"I should have bought a horse like this shouldn't I? This place is nothing like the racing stables. It's calm and friendly and workmanlike. The racing stables were artificial, and the horses dead compared to him."

"Yes, and Reggie the owner, is a special person. Usually I am terrified of committed 'animal' people," he said, "they are always intense and trying to sell their cause. I get enough of them with Kim and her cronies. Reggie is not like that all." David paused.

"I had been here a few times, met with her, discussed her requirements and concerns. I had pretty much finished the planning of the security and was about to start on the implementation when she brought me to this bench one day at about this time and left me here. I was spellbound. I couldn't take my eyes off him for ages. I don't know how long, maybe an hour! When I finally climbed up off this bench, I felt good, sort of refreshed," David shrugged as if unable to find the words to describe his emotions. "I thought perhaps you would feel the same."

"I have never lost anyone who meant anything to me," she said, "but again, there are only a few people who mean anything to me. I used to worry about that you know, that I didn't care enough. Sometimes I would hear of an acquaintance who had died and feel only a passing regret. I suppose I wished I could feel more, perhaps thought I should. There is a person who has been important in my life for a long time. At times, should that person have died, I would have wanted to die too."

Henrietta shook her head, her eyes sad. "I suppose that's the price you pay when you care strongly only for a couple of people. Losing them would be too much. I can't spread my affections. I have always thought I am strange, different."
Chapter 42

LISA's lack of interest in her appearance was not feigned. She looked at herself in the mirror almost as another person, often unable to drum up any interest in her appearance.

Eugene had, from the beginning taken an active interest in her outward appearance. He had sent her to the beauty parlour twice a week and directed her long, slow weight loss program.

Whenever they met at the Barham Green Hall and later at the Academy of Music, he told her she was beautiful, that she had lovely skin, thick lovely hair. He would never allow her to deny it, although it was obvious to her, she was fat. She remembered the rolls of fat around her stomach, hips and thighs, her greasy hair and crooked teeth. He would always shush her, either with his mouth or his hands if she tried, and he would not allow false modesty.

Lisa learned to walk about naked for him, from early on. Later in his playroom, Eugene taught her much, much more about displaying her body.

Rose, always meticulous with Lisa's body-care, her baths, massages, her exercise routines, also spent a long time on Lisa's make up, hair and clothing. Normally, Lisa used this time to think. She would drift away from herself, especially during a massage until she almost fell into a dream state.

Today for some reason, sitting in front of the mirror watching Rose dress her elaborately, Lisa remembered her appearance before she left school. Rose had, from the first, polished and buffed her nails, but added no varnish and had kept them clipped short.

She had waxed Lisa's underarms and bikini line and removed all the hair on her legs, right to her thighs and yet left her single eyebrow. She massaged Lisa's scalp, carefully trimmed her hair, but only washed it once a week on Thursdays. Although it looked outstanding for a few days, it soon hung lank and stuck to her head and Lisa tied it up in an unattractive pony tail at the back of her head.

When she walked down the stairs and out of her parent's house in Khumalo for the last time, her appearance was almost identical to when she had walked down those same steps on her way to the Barham Green social. Yet, within a day, she presented an entirely different face to the world.

Rose plucked Lisa's eyebrows into high arcs, applied make-up, nail polish and washed her hair when required, at least every other day.

Lisa's hair was an unusual blond, a rich straw colour on the outside and a darker honey shade closer to the roots. It was always thick and lush, from natural oils and the lemon juice Rose applied to intensify the natural iridescent mantle.

Eugene and Rose subscribed to magazines and recently began receiving catalogues from several exclusive European clothing houses. The clothes crowding her cupboards were hand-made, especially for her: shoes, underwear, suits, even sleepwear.

Lisa never stepped out of her flat unless she was appropriately dressed for the occasion. If she was to attend a braai with swimming, Rose would not apply make-up, and no body hair would be visible on her legs or, heaven forbid her panty line. Rose would dress her in shorts and halter tops with sandals to match. She had tailored light coloured shorts with matching tops, large hats and hundreds of swim suits in her cupboard and she never wore any outfit twice.

Rose always dressed Lisa for work in an understated style, matching jackets and skirts or pants and small feminine blouses, always matching, elegant and comfortable.

On some occasions Eugene would sit quietly and watch her dress, watch Rose apply make-up, style her hair. He would ask Lisa to model the outfit, especially if it was an elegant one. She noticed he preferred chic, classy outfits rather than the more comfortable clothes she wore to braais and afternoon functions.

On this particular day, Eugene was not present while Rose dressed her, and Lisa wondered what he had in mind. His instructions were explicit and elaborate and took more than two hours to complete.

AT the appointed time, she walked into his play room, dressed in high-heeled shoes, garter stockings and thong panties under a short black skirt. She had a matching push up bra under her silk blouse covered by a long black jacket. She wore a double rope set of pearls around her neck, a matching set of earrings, three rings on her fingers and bangles which reached almost all the way to her elbows. Her hair, dressed in a French braid tied off at the bottom was freshly washed, dried and treated with oils. Rose had prepared her face with base, darkened her eyes with mascara and eyeliner, and dusted eye-shadow heavily on her eyes. Her eyebrows were plucked and her fingernails carefully prepared.

His face expressionless, Eugene sat on the soft leather chair across the room, one long leg straightened in front of him, the other bent at the knee. Resting his chin on his hand, his fingers covering his mouth, he watched her enter the room and falter, immediately inside. To Lisa he appeared controlled, dangerous.

Feline.

As usual, when she joined Eugene in this room, her heart rate picked up and she felt a rush of expectation. She did not know what he intended to do to her, but it never failed to excite her.

He crooked his finger at her, and she walked towards him, stopping a short distance away when he held up his hand. He twirled his finger around and she walked back towards the door.

"I want to see you are dressed appropriately," he said, in his quiet voice. Lisa wondered what he meant, if they were going somewhere, or rather, if he intended her to do something, something that required her to be dressed with such elaborate care. She stopped when she reached the door and turning, her hand on her hip, pushed the jacket back, as if modelling the outfit. Eugene nodded his head slightly in approval and Lisa, getting into the mood, swung her hips and swirled round a few times.

"Take off the jacket," he said and Lisa slid it off her shoulders, looking for a place to put it down. She saw a bench she didn't recognise near the door. It was wooden, about a metre high a little like a trestle table stand. She laid the jacket down on it and continued to model.

"Lose the top," he said.

Surprised, Lisa presumed she would be leaving the flat. She began to slowly undo the buttons on her blouse, starting at the top. Her red nail polish matched her lipstick, and her fingers shook a little as she unbuttoned the shirt and removed it. Eugene nodded in approval and motioned with his finger for her to continue modelling. She began showing off her body to him. Hands on hip she pushed her breasts out at him as she paraded about the room. Her breasts were taut against the push up bra, her flat stomach tanned and smooth below.

"The skirt," said Eugene.

Lisa wriggled out of the skirt and remained wearing only her underwear and jewellery. The skirt slipped off the trestle as she put it down and, in keeping with the occasion, bent, exposing long legs and thong to Eugene as she retrieved it.

He instructed Lisa to remove each remaining item one by one, until she stood completely naked. All her clothes piled on the trestle, her jewellery on a small table to one side.

Eugene came over to her, "I enjoyed the show. You are beautiful. Thank you... now I want to dress you up a tiny bit, a few additions only."

He shook her handcuffs and nipple clamps out of their bag, and led her over to the trestle table. Taking first one nipple, then the other, he fastened a clamp on each. Lisa flinched slightly as the teeth bit into her flesh. The weights suspended from the clamps hung pendulously forcing the jaws tighter. Lisa knew she would need to be careful not to move too much.

"Fold your clothes," Eugene said. Lisa leaned forward, picking up her stockings from the top of the heap, before folding them carefully. She continued with her panties and the remainder of her clothes.

Unsure of Eugene's intentions, she proceeded deliberately. Sloppy handling of clothes could lead to humiliating punishment.

When she finished, Eugene pointed to the leather topped table at the other end of the room. Lisa padded over to it, the nipple clamps biting, a corresponding cramping in her groin. When she turned from the table, Eugene still stood by the new trestle. Lisa eased back across the length of the room, the weights swaying gently from side to side, and halted in front of him.

"This new piece of furniture, Lisa, is called a pony. I am going to add it to your cards as a place for you to wait for me, like your mat."

He took her handcuffs, pulled her hands behind her back and clasped them in place. The skin tightened across her breasts and the nipple clamps bit deeper. Lisa was entirely at his mercy, the cold immoveable metal restraining her.

Eugene guided her forward until she straddled the trestle. The top, constructed from two planks that angled away from each other, lying against her inner thighs, forced her to stand on her toes to avoid the sharp edges.

He moved around to her front, loosened the nipple clamps, playfully tapping them. He took Lisa's face in his hands and turned her head towards his. He gently kissed her red painted lips, careful not to disturb her make-up.

"I will leave you here to wait for me. I have lots of things in store for you tonight."

Eugene released her face and walked out of the room, leaving Lisa stranded on the pony... waiting.

She understood the importance of waiting. Eugene would make her stand in the corner, wearing only garter stockings and high-heeled shoes, in preparation for a scene, sometimes for what to Lisa seemed to be an eternity. She was required to keep absolutely still, although the temptation to move was sometimes overwhelming. At other times she knelt on the mat, or lay exposed, again waiting for whatever he had in store for her. It all added to the excitement.

Sometimes, Eugene would give her a detailed description of what he intended to do to her, in his soft voice, the sexy one that always quickened her heart rate, only to leave her waiting for an hour in anticipation. On other occasions, he would leave her to guess and either way, she would be a bundle of nerves when he came to collect her.

She considered this new addition to the room. Her legs were spread and she stood easily on her toes. Eugene had loosened the nipple clamps, easing the intense pain. She did not want to move along the pony as Eugene may be watching.

After about five minutes, Lisa felt her thighs begin to strain, her feet tiring. She slowly lowered herself on to the planks, to give her aching muscles the rest they craved. Both planks cut into her soft skin. She swiftly rose again. Within a minute, Lisa had to lower herself on to the beam. The pain was acute, her body weight, crushing. She tried to lean slightly forward, but that seemed to be worse. She managed to lift herself on her toes again, but her legs began burning and she knew she would have to endure the pain again.

Lisa found, if she clamped her thighs against the two planks she could hold herself slightly above the sharp edges. Within a short time, her thigh muscles quivered as much as her calf muscles.

She leaned back onto her hands, but they hurt where they strained against the metal of the handcuffs, and her nipple clamps dug in when her shoulders were back.

By the time Lisa had been on the pony for thirty minutes she was crying from the pain and sweating from the effort.

When she lowered herself onto the beam her face screwed up in pain. She tried to go in relays, first on her tip toes, then holding with her thighs until they gave in, then lowering herself down and then back on to her toes.

Each round became shorter as time went by.

Lisa's make up had smudged all over her face, tear tracks blackening her cheeks.

She had off-balanced once, and fallen forwards. She had screamed aloud, tears pouring down her cheeks.

She had sucked off her lipstick when she clamped her teeth on her bottom lip.

The clamps, which seemed bearable at the start, were now pulling heavily, especially when she writhed around trying to get comfortable. Nowhere was comfortable.

She rose up and had to let herself down in rapid succession to avoid the pain. Now she knew why the trestle was called 'the pony', she must look as if she were trotting on a pony.

Uncertain she could endure the pain any longer, she would not allow herself to stop it. She had considerable control, something about herself she was proud of.

She could shuffle off the pony, but she wouldn't.

Her whole body poured sweat, her hair was wet with it, and she gasped for breath.

Through the haze of pain, she heard the door open. She wanted to look there, to check it was Eugene. She wanted to call out to him to take her off the pony, but she managed to clamp her bottom lip and bite into it.

He took his time coming over to her. Lisa could hear him moving about in the room but couldn't see him.

She groaned out loud as she lowered herself once more, her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her head thrown back against the pain.

Eugene rubbed his thumbs across Lisa's nipples and she screamed. She opened her eyes to see him straddling the pony, facing her. He slipped his hands under her buttocks and helped lift her up, off the pain.

"Your make up is messed, Lisa," said Eugene, his mouth right up against her ear, his hands still supporting her. Lisa begged him with her eyes.

"But I will forgive you for that. You did what you were told, and stayed put."

He gently pulled his hands out from her buttocks. The short relief provided by Eugene's hands had allowed Lisa to find the strength to hold herself off the planks for a moment, but it wouldn't last. She had to get off the pony, or she would lose control entirely and she did not know what the outcome of that would be.

"Walk forwards Lisa," Eugene told her as he held her elbow with his hand. She shuffled down the length of the pony and almost collapsed when she reached the end. Her legs were rubbery from fatigue and the pain, excruciating.

Eugene removed the golden handcuffs and helped her hobble over to the shower. She put her cap on and stood under the steam of hot water. She ached all over with fatigue, her thighs and calves especially. She would have preferred to retire to a long, hot bath. A long, long, very hot bath.

When she finally emerged, Eugene waited for her with a fluffy towel. He dried her tenderly, brought a long piece of silk over to the side of the bed, and draped it over her, wrapped it round and round her body, over her face. He ran his hands over her body, along her fatigued thighs down to her ankles, always through the silk of the sari. She couldn't see him, couldn't tell where he would next touch her. Eugene picked her up and laid her on the bed, and Lisa was thankful. The combination of the effects of his caresses and her fatigued muscles caused her difficulty standing.

Wrapped in the silken cocoon, Lisa drifted off in a daze of sensation. Pain, fatigue and pleasure. Eugene continued to stroke her, her face, her breasts, around her stomach and along her hips. Lying on her back, her legs slightly apart she could feel herself swelling slowly, painfully without any physical stimulation.

"Keep still, Lisa," Eugene said, quietly in her ear. He ran his lips from her ear, along her jaw to her mouth and kissed her through the silk. He pushed his tongue against her mouth, ran his fingers along her lips. He sucked her nipples through the material, first one and then the other.

Lisa groaned.

The material slipped beneath his hands and she could feel the silk fabric whisper against her skin in several places, not only where his hands were. He pulled the material at her stomach, and it ran along the inside of her thighs and up between her legs, over her bruised flesh. She groaned again and shifted slightly.

"Keep still, Lisa."

Eugene continued to fondle and feel her body through the material, stroking from her breasts down her stomach and onto her thighs, avoiding the tender bruises. Over and over again, until she writhed uncontrollably on the bed, begging him to touch her.

"Here Lisa?" he asked.

"Yes," she begged. "Yes."
Chapter 43

"HENRIETTA," said David "I am glad I caught you."

He sounded young and excited and she smiled in response.

"Kim has a sleep over with a friend planned for tomorrow night, and I wondered if we could have dinner?"

David sensed her hesitate over the phone, and was concerned he had been too forward, calling her. Yet, she had told him she liked talking to him, intimated she would like to continue to do so.

"Wait a moment, let me look at my appointment book," she answered, putting him on hold. Who had an evening appointment book? He always knew where he would be in the evenings: at home.

Henrietta came back on the line. "OK, I have nothing on tomorrow evening. I would love to have dinner."

They discussed restaurants for a while trying to find something suitable.

"You know, I don't know any restaurants. I eat mostly at home and if I do have to eat out, it's pizza," said David.

"Me too... I mean eating at home. I prefer my cook's meals to most restaurant food. Look, why don't you come to my house for dinner rather than talk at a noisy restaurant," she suggested.

Now it was David who hesitated, concerned she had misunderstood his motives when he told her his daughter would be away all night. He liked spending time with her, but had not thought through where they were headed. Whether he wanted to continue to see her, date her perhaps. See her outside of business.

Well, this was outside business and he had called her. To refuse now would be rude.

"That would be great," he answered. "How do I get there?"

Henrietta said she would sms the gps coordinates to him and asked him to send her his licence plate number. Programmed into the system, the gate would open automatically.

The tight security around her obviously applied to her home too.

### * * *

DAVID followed the directions on the SatNav, turning left into Hill road. The road began at the bottom of a hill and he could see the sharp cliff high up to his left.

Earlier, in the office, he had found her address on the map. It appeared to be against a range of hills and he presumed she occupied one of the mansions up there. As a real estate owner, he guessed she would have to.

He drove over a narrow little bridge. Hill road climbed straight up towards the cliff above, with a few roads leading off it. Henrietta had No. 2, the last house against the cliffs.

They had arranged to meet at about 7.00pm and the light was fading fast. The gate opened for him into a narrow paved yard, hardly big enough to fit his car.

The entrance to the house was simple and unadorned. The front door was made of a dark wood, and set slightly back into the building and, to David's surprise, Henrietta herself opened it. Framed against the back lighting, she seemed tall, and a little intimidating. It reminded him of his first impression of her at the Jansen break-in.

He walked up the two shallow steps and smiling said, "Thank you for inviting me, I don't like restaurants."

"Nor me... I am not that comfortable among people and most often I don't like the food."

She stepped back inviting him in with her hand.

The entrance door led directly into her living space. David's first impression was of space, and light. The lounge was double height and walking forwards, he noticed a staircase leading to a mezzanine floor. This level, similar to the bottom floor, appeared to be open plan, but designed that he couldn't see into any of the rooms. On the right, tucked under the upper floor was the dining area, lights dimmed now.

Two sides of this roughly oblong room were glazed, most of the east side taken up by several sliding doors. The room was not large but it appeared spacious. Just like Henrietta's office, David thought. There, the glass partition increased the impression of spaciousness. Here it was the double height and the open plan design.

"Wow. What a view," he said, walking further into the room.

Henrietta pushed one of the sliding doors open and he followed her out onto a narrow patio. Nothing much could be seen of the garden as the light had almost entirely faded.

"Until someone comes and builds a huge mansion in front of you!" he added.

"No. No one can."

David glanced at Henrietta. "You own all the land," he said, and felt her nod.

"Right down to the last street there," she said, pointing into the distance. "I bought this property ages ago, when there were not nearly as many lights. There were plenty out that way," she said, pointing towards Sandton and Johannesburg, "but over this way, there were hardly any. The place has built up over the years but I bought long ago and was able to get the entire block. I like being right up against the cliffs. You know, I get to see eagles, and birds. They nest there."

They stood together companionably for a while, until Henrietta folded her arms across her chest against the chilly breeze that had been blowing strongly for several days.

"That's what I hate about Johannesburg weather," said David, as he ushered her back into the lounge. "The wind. People from Cape Town or Port Elizabeth laugh at me, but I'm not used to it; coming from Bulawayo where we are chuffed when a little wind comes up to stir the heat around. Here I always have to wear a jacket and I don't like to. It's never that cold there like it is here, and I struggle with the winters every year."

"This house has insulation throughout, wooden floors with under-floor heating in the bathrooms. All the windows are double glazed. I am not great with the cold either."

"Did you build this house?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "So it's exactly what I wanted, although I have to tell you, I am pretty rotten at imagining the finished product. I gave the architect an outline. I think he gave me three options, variations of the same theme. I mean, what would I know about laundry rooms and kitchens. I often go to houses where the owner has forced the builders to build something that doesn't work, or looks ugly. It reduces the resale value.

"Lower income houses are often templates, designed by architects. They are generally well designed and only slight adjustments are made to fit a particular property or orient in a particular way. Strangely, it's often the houses built for the well off, where the kitchen ends up miles from the dining room, and the lounge is cut in half by a suicidal split level."

David laughed. His fear that Henrietta would come on to him, once alone with him in her own home, had left him entirely. She was behaving exactly as she had when they had been together looking at properties and he was enjoying himself. They moved towards the lounge chairs, Henrietta motioning him to sit.

"Did you build?" she asked him.

"No. Jackie bought our house in Honeydew. Before we married, I had a flat, above the office, and she lived in a town house. I was never sure why she chose that house though. It's on a big property and there were open fields all around; our neighbours had horses. Jackie didn't like horses and I thought she would have picked a house in a suburban setting."

Henrietta seemed surprised.

"Well, did you find out why?"

"No, I never really asked. Buying the house was Jackie's business, not mine. Obviously if she had not been interested I would have done the choosing, but I would have used entirely different criteria. You know, commute time, car costs, security costs."

"And... is it in a good position for those things?"

"No. Terrible commute, costs a lot in car maintenance and the security was a nightmare. I had to build a new wall, and have to police it constantly. Luckily we try out all the latest technology we are given as demos. and I have a small army of security guards."

"Was she happy there? Was it the right house?"

"I'm not sure, but Jackie was not the type to grin and bear things. I suppose she must have liked something about the place. It has a huge entertainment area, a lovely view and quite a number of rooms. It has been Kim's only home, and she loves it, especially as we have room for her strays."

"I only have Mary in the house, and a mute gardener, who looks after the pool."

"No security guards?"

"No, it's all automated, channelled through to the control centre at the office."

"Is that safe, I mean, can someone get here fast enough from your office if there is a break in?"

"Oh no, there are patrols and things I think," Henrietta said, vaguely. David smiled, as it was obvious she didn't know any details.

"But I have never had a break in. I don't know if they come all the way from the office or if there is another place closer. Bound to be; my security manager is extremely good. Since he came on board, I have not had any problems with that side of my business. Everyone in South Africa is obsessed with security; I mean your business depends upon it. I know I couldn't work if I had to continually worry about security. Instead I pay people who are trained to worry about it for me. So far I have not regretted relinquishing my personal safety to professionals. To date, I have not had a handbag snatched, a car stolen or any security related problem at all."

Henrietta paused, a pink tinge staining her cheeks. "Ah, sorry," she said, her eyes down. "I didn't show you the loo or offer you something to drink. Do you need to wash up or anything?"

"No thanks," David replied smiling, "I showered at the office after work, I keep some clothes there too, and I don't drink much either."

He had changed into fairly casual clothes and wondered if Henrietta had showered and changed. Elegant in beige pants, wide at the bottom and held around her hips with a wide elasticated belt, her high-heeled shoes brought her height to more than six feet.

"Tea then, or coffee," Henrietta stood, "oh, there's fresh orange... would you prefer that?"

"That sounds great," David said, rising. "I would love some orange."

Receiving the glass from her, David realised she had only to tip her head back slightly to look him in the eyes. He had to look down at most women. Jackie had been tiny and the average woman stood almost a foot shorter than him. He stared at her, at her flawless skin, dark eyes and gorgeous hair left loose down her back.

"Thank you," he said, taking the glass from her hand. "I am not used to looking a woman in the eyes... most men too."

"Would you like to see downstairs?" Henrietta asked. "I have a pool and an entertainment area, although it is too dark to see the garden or the view."

She walked down a short flight of stairs and they came out upon a long narrow indoor swimming pool. David guessed it must extend under the lounge as it disappeared under the pylons of the house. A gym was set up on one side, with a modest entertainment area opposite. A few chairs were positioned there as well as a couple of loungers. Once again, David noticed a lack of ostentation.

"I take it you don't throw lavish parties here," he said.

"I don't throw parties at all. I wouldn't know where to start, I'm a rotten hostess."

HENRIETTA wondered where this was headed.

Right now, she needed to allow time for Mary to lay out dinner, but inviting a man to her home in this way... this was way out of character.

Perhaps, she had deviated from the norm because David made it easy for her; she was comfortable with him. He appeared to offer no threat, respected her space and although she was sure he noticed her gaucheries, accepted her as she was.

She liked him too, and she hardly ever liked anyone, especially right off. He didn't seem to mind talking about his emotions, something she found extremely difficult. He seemed open, friendly and polite.

He was attractive too, something she was certain he did not know.

His size helped him appear safe, perhaps he made a woman feel he could protect her.

"The pool is warmed; I use it most days... it's great exercise. I needed the length to get a good stroke going."

"I hate cold water," he said, "in fact I hate the cold. I am a Zimbo through and through. Johannesburg winters always make me miserable. I put in a solar system to warm our pool at home. Mostly Kim uses it, I don't swim much, and not for exercise."

"You don't look like you don't do any exercise," said Henrietta smiling.

"I do, we have a gym and a sparring mat in the basement of our office block. I make sure I use it at least twice a week, although I like to use the gym every day if I can. I'm too big to run. I have to watch my knees at my age. Since I prefer to use the gym than sit in traffic, I leave for work at about half five, get in before the rush. If Robbie is upstairs in the flat, I wake him up and kick his ass."

DAVID wandered over to the glass windows that stretched along the length of the room. He couldn't see out, but guessed it would be a view of the cliff face behind the house.

"Do you entertain lavishly?" she asked eventually, and David shook his head.

"No, not now... occasional braais on the weekends, and sometimes Kim has friends over. I suppose that will change as she gets older, she may want to have parties. I have never expected her to clean up her strays, and her life downstairs. It is her home as much as mine, and mostly we entertain people who know us both. Jackie used to entertain a lot. She loved people and noise and parties. Lived for it I think."

"I think dinner will be ready soon," said Henrietta with a typical lack of lead in and led the way back up the stairs.
Chapter 44

SUPPER was indeed ready, the first course already laid out on plates on a smallish teak table. Several stainless steel food trays stood in the centre, with large domed lids. Small lamps burned under them for heat.

David saw no evidence of a server or maid, and wondered who had laid the meal out.

They began with a starter of avocado guacamole. David refused wine, as he still had to drive home, and noticed Henrietta didn't pour any for herself.

They did not talk much over their main course, comments about the food mostly; complements from him about the tasty meal.

"Yes, Mary has a supplier who grows only organic produce. It costs much more of course, but I like the fresh food. Mary won't use plastic to preserve things, says it's dangerous. She has to go most days to get fresh vegetables. Old fashioned I suppose. We try to buy in-season produce, and it always seems to taste much better.

"That's why I suggested eating here, the food is guaranteed to be organic and chemical free," she added.

"It's also very well prepared. You're right, your cook is better than any restaurant I have been to."

Henrietta took both their plates to the sideboard and brought back two bowls with cut fresh fruit. Picking up the dumb waiters, David asked if he should take them to the kitchen.

"No," Henrietta replied. "Put them on the side board and bring those two jugs back with you. One is custard and the other is cream."

"Did you make this?" he asked.

"No, there is always custard and cream with fruit salad," Henrietta said, and laughed. David liked to see her laugh spontaneously, her lovely, dark eyes flashing, her smile wide. A contrast to her normal deadpan expression and careful control.

"I am a terrible creature of habit. I have to know what I will find in the custard jug. If it were suddenly chocolate sauce, I would probably keel over. Chocolate sauce is to be eaten with ice-cream and it comes in a see-through jug, not a solid one like this!"

Henrietta appeared to be mocking herself, but David guessed she was serious, that she managed to get through life by maintaining systems, with rules and with consistency.

Organised, efficient, very confident with technology: her computer, the SatNav.

"So what do you do about each version of Windows then, if you don't like changing car models, or chocolate sauce jugs?" he asked, pleased when Henrietta smiled at his gentle teasing. "They keep bringing out new versions and none are compatible with any of the others."

"For years, my personal computer here at home was an Apple Mac. They ensure their products are bug free when launched on the market and the changes are obvious and consistent. I agree with you about Windows. I take a few hours off to study each new version thoroughly. It is something I can do on my own, no one impatiently hooting behind me at the intersection, while I'm desperately searching for the indicator lever!"

David laughed at her joke, pleased at their progress.

"Robbie spoke about changing to Linux in our offices. He feels there are enough open source applications to suit."

"And will you? Change to Linux?" she asked.

David laughed again, "I have no idea. It's not my thing. I was just trying to be clever talking about Linux, I don't even know what it is. Give me a ball and something to hit it with, and I am your man."

"I agree with Robbie, and I will seriously think of changing over in the near future, especially with a network. Do you deal with computer fraud much?"

"Yes, Robbie deals with that, although we don't advertise. We have many clients who are vulnerable. We started a new division last year to handle it all. Staffed with a bunch of nerds, I may tell you, who don't look a day over fourteen, have pimples all over and work at all hours of the night. Give me that ball and bat any time."

"Would you like brandy or coffee?" asked Henrietta, standing.

"Better make it coffee," he replied, "I have to drive still."

They moved to the sitting room near the glass windows overlooking the lights of Johannesburg. Henrietta went to the side board and poured herself a balloon glass with brandy and David a cup of coffee. She walked over to him standing by the windows and handed him his coffee.

"Have a sip of mine then," she said holding out her glass, "if you don't want to drink a whole shot."

David stared at her standing in front of him, almost his height in her heels, skin glowing against her blond hair. He felt his gut tighten and forgot to breathe. Drinking from Henrietta's glass seemed intimate; almost sexual. He took a sip and handed the glass back without saying anything. He didn't trust himself to speak or move, thankful when she walked over to the stereo and leaned over her media consol.

HENRIETTA chose a Mendelssohn concerto, setting the volume low enough to allow conversation.

"This is one of my favourite pieces of music," she said, settling into a chair, "it was one of the first pieces I ever heard live. I often play it and remember that day."

"My mum played the piano," David said. "She seemed to be able to do that any time, even in the evenings, you know, when she was sloshed. Every so often, she would drift over to the piano and play, sometimes for hours, both classical music and popular tunes she picked up listening to the radio. Sometimes she would play until Martha brought in the coffee at ten at night, almost as if she hadn't noticed she had been playing for more than two hours. My father would sit there and watch her, or sit with his eyes closed and listen. I often wonder what he thought, if he minded what she became. He has never remarried and I don't think he ever had a girlfriend."

They sat companionably listening, David occasionally sipping his coffee. When the music ended, he slipped his coffee cup onto the edge of the table and stood.

"I have enjoyed this evening, talking to you again," he said, smiling at her. "I should go now, it's late and it's a reasonable drive over here."

Henrietta moved over to the media console, clicking to switch it off and stood for a moment with her back to him. Her long, flowing hair shimmered down her back, shining in the light.

She turned and lifting her chin slightly said, "I want you to stay."

DAVID stared at her, his pleasant face serious. He felt as if the air had been squeezed out of him. He wanted to stay, desperately.

She would be hurt if he left now, but if he stayed the night, it could be the end too. It was all too obvious, that like him, Henrietta would not want to change her organised life and he was not prepared to embark on a casual relationship.

This moment was a turning point in his life and he realised too late he was not prepared for it.

He should never have called her, never agreed to such an intimate venue.

HENRIETTA, had long ago learnt to shut off her reflective mind when it came to sensual gratification. From her position by the stereo, she saw David's dilemma clearly on his face, but she ignored it, moving closer to him.

He reached out and put the palm of his hand against the side of her neck, his fingers curling around onto her spine, his thumb stroking her jaw.

His hand was laid softly, but she noticed the power in his fingers. He was holding her, but not tightly.

She reacted as she always did to strength, dropping her eyes, her lips parting slightly, her upper body arching towards his.

DAVID groaned, pulling her roughly into him. He buried his face in her hair, something he had wanted to do almost from the first time he saw her. It smelled wonderful, she felt wonderful. He kissed her softly from her ear, along her jaw until he reached her lips. He kissed her lightly before pulling back slightly. Henrietta's eyes were closed, her hands at her sides.

David took her chin in his fingers and lifted it up until she opened her eyes. She looked at him, dazed and unfocused and when he reached down and took her hands, kissing her palms and pulling them against his chest, she reacted as always.

She reached up and lacing her fingers behind his head, pulled him back down to her lips. She kissed him hungrily, pushing her body against his, as if she wanted to feel him along her whole length.

David, his control slipping away, couldn't think, only feel. He could feel her body against his, her lips on his and her scent, everywhere. Henrietta began to feel heavy in his arms, as if she were relying on him to keep her up. They staggered backwards onto the sofa, mouths locked, hands exploring, breathing ragged. They soon slipped off the sofa and onto the floor, neither of them conscious of anything, but satisfying their need.
Chapter 45

LYING on his back, fighting for breath, David's first clear thought was that he couldn't believe he had made love to Henrietta on the floor of her lounge.

They had writhed like wild things, the two of them. Until a few minutes ago, his over-riding impression of her was she was poised, organised, always controlled. Allowing herself to be ravaged by him on the floor of her lounge seemed like none of those.

His second thought, was he was unfit; breathing heavily, sweating as if he had recently been a full round in the ring.

Henrietta didn't look in much better shape, lying next to him. Her blouse was ripped down the front, her linen pants crumpled up against one ankle, her bra pushed up over her breasts. He had not taken the time to remove the clip.

He wore both socks; no shoes and his trousers lay inside out nearby.

He blew out a short laugh.

Henrietta sat up, adjusted her bra over her breasts. She reached down and began to remove her shoes. They were a strappy buckle type with the strap passing through both loops. David watched her slim fingers pull the strap through the buckle. He watched her reach down and remove first her left shoe, then the right one. He couldn't take his eyes off her hands. He remembered what they felt like, massaging and stroking him... scratching his bare skin.

When she had removed her shoes, she removed her linen pants, and threaded what remained of her panties down her legs. Still sitting, Henrietta peeled off her shirt and removed her bra. She was naked, her hair mussed, her makeup smudged and David, hard again, thought she looked fantastic, sexy as hell.

He wanted her again.

She moved onto hands and knees and crawled towards his feet, pulling off his socks and stroking him along his legs, raking him gently with her fingernails, moving up his body. She slipped his shirt off his shoulders, until he too was naked.

This time she straddled him, rocking gently backwards and forwards for what seemed to him to be ages. Slim and strong, poised over his body, she leaned close to him, nuzzling his ear, her thick golden hair brushing his chest, over his face. She leaned back, her hands on his thighs, her hair tantalising his skin, all the while moving gently, enticingly... not too little, never enough.

HENRIETTA saw his eyes open, saw him accept the brazen challenge in her own. She knew the moment of his surrender, recognised the instant of his capitulation; exalted when he grabbed her by the hips and swung her under him, pounding into her body, emptying himself deeply in her.

### * * *

"I NEED a shower," she said, and pulling David up, led him up the stairs.

Henrietta's bedroom had glass on two sides, the curtains wide open on both. The city lights blinked magnificently into the far distance. David stopped momentarily, and Henrietta tugged on his hand.

If Henrietta's bedroom was modest and comfortable, her bathroom was the opposite: expensive and seductive. Shiny steel taps, a huge bath and shower, set amongst yards of lustrous marble. David glimpsed a complete massage room and dressing area off to one side.

"Wow," he said, with a laugh.

"Yes, it's a bit over the top, but no one ever gets to see it, so who cares." Henrietta laughed, as she fitted her hair under a shower cap. "Not very sexy I know, but my hair takes ages to dry and when I go to bed with it wet, I invariably end up with a headache."

David thought she was incredibly sexy, even with a shower cap on. Immobile in the doorway, he stared at her body, a natural brown all over, without an ounce of fat, her curves smooth; not the wiry look of many slim women her age. Soft and strong, fit and smooth... spectacular.

She stepped into the glass shower cubicle.

When David didn't follow she turned and invited him in with a wiggle of her finger.

"Just now... I am much taller than you and you will only get my runoff."

She soaped herself, tilting her head up into the flow of water. Foam formed rivers between her breasts and down her back, before running suggestively between her legs to the floor. She took a hand held spout off the wall and waved it at him.

The water pressure in the shower stung when David first entered the cubicle. "You see, when I stand under the spray, you don't get much," he said, putting his head under the stream. Only when she aimed the hand held nozzle, did he begin to understand her intention.

### * * *

"DO YOU have to go into work early in the morning tomorrow? Ah sorry, today," asked Henrietta.

David groaned, "I don't think I can do anything for weeks. I'm stuffed, absolutely finished. It's a long time since I did anything as energetic as this, you know."

Smiling, he turned his head on the pillow towards her. "No, I don't have to be anywhere until the evening. Kim will only be home sometime in the afternoon."

"What if there is an emergency, does anyone know you came here last night?"

"No, no one does, but Robbie will know how to find me if there is an emergency... I have a satellite tracker on my car. And you, do you have to be at work in the morning?"

"I have not checked my appointments today, but I don't think so... none before ten."

DAVID drifted off to sleep shortly after, and woke in the morning alone in the bed, stiff, tired and entirely at peace.

Raising himself on one elbow, he found a flask on a tray next to his bed. Coffee. His mouth dry, eyes grainy, David lay sipping his coffee, baffled by memories of the night he had spent with Henrietta. He was surprised by her passion and inventiveness. She was unexpectedly abandoned for someone who had always appeared cool, controlled.

Leaning back against the pillows, he let himself drift back into sleep.

### * * *

DAVID awoke slowly, rolled over onto his back and sat up. He scanned the room and noticed his clothes folded over a wooden clothes stand near the end of the bed, a towel on the low shelf below them.

He smiled at the sight of a disposable razor and toothbrush perched on the towel, amazed once again at Henrietta's organisational skills. This thought was immediately followed by a stab of jealousy so powerful his jaw clenched and his stomach knotted. Images of other men touching Henrietta and doing what they had done, then waking up to coffee and a disposable razor, raked his nerves.

It was irrational, they had only met a month ago, but he couldn't stand the thought of her with anyone else. He pushed the images out of his mind. He had no right to have any opinion about her relationships with other men.

HIS clothes were freshly pressed and he hoped Henrietta's servant was broad minded. The last place he had seen them was strewn about on the lounge floor.

Grinning, he climbed out of bed, wrapped the towel around his hips and went into the shower. The spray from the shower nozzle shot needles of water onto his skin. There were two sets of taps, one for the shower and one for the hand held nozzle which Henrietta had used so creatively the previous evening. Still grinning, he soaped himself and rinsed under the sheet of water, steam rising all around him.

The scent of Henrietta filled the shower cubicle, invading his senses. He felt his breath catch in his throat. He missed her already; wanted her there with him.

David stood under the spray, alternating hot and cold until he felt more awake. He stepped out, wrapping the towel around his hips and walked back into the bedroom.

Heavy curtains closed the light from the room; the reason he had managed to sleep, long after the sun rose. Pulling them to one side, he whistled silently at the view over Johannesburg. It was magnificent. What Henrietta's home lacked in ostentation, was fully compensated for by the view.

He dressed and went to look for her.

THE house was quiet. No traffic noise penetrated. He could hear no activity, although it had obviously been tidied earlier.

Standing at the top of the stairs, he looked down onto Henrietta's lounge. It was modern, but homey. Comfortable, yet classy. Difficult to describe, but not plush.

From his position at the top of the stairs, he noticed a colourful carpet on a matching pine floor. Splashes of orange and yellow and a few other light earth colours in huge geometric patterns were held together with a few dark highlights. The dark wood of the stairs and the entertainment centre on the opposite wall complemented them. A limited palette, he noticed. Few colours, repeated in the lounge furniture, the curtains and carpet.

This house had been decorated by an expert. Each and every feature carefully chosen and positioned according to a predetermined plan. Slowly walking down the stairs into the lounge below, he decided it was attractive. Cool and calm with no wasted space and no unnecessary objects.

He eventually found Henrietta in the pool swimming slowly, arm over arm. The pool did indeed stretch under the house, lighted by long fluorescent tubes suspended from the ceiling. Now, in the daylight, David saw the cliff towering above the house outside the glass windows.

He walked through one of the sliding glass doors onto the terrace. The garden, tastefully designed to appear natural, included cacti and succulents, blending with the cliff above. Scattered rocks lay about, as if they had been left where they fell. The walks, either crazy paving or stone chip, had low raised edges.

Low maintenance that's for sure, he thought, comparing this with his home with its huge lawns and flower beds, occupying the time of half a dozen gardeners. Besides the lawns he had an outside pool and several water features and gazebos. Probably stupid to have such a huge establishment for the two of them.

When Jackie was alive, they socialised most weekends, but now the garden was hardly ever used. Did Kim notice it? Did she sit in the gazebo? He didn't know what she did in the afternoons when he was not there. He assumed she did her homework and attended her strays.

Ambling slowly, he came upon an open area with a water feature on one side, a bench and a Zen garden complete with sand pit, smooth rocks, some old logs and a few pieces of pottery.

He walked up to the sand pit, picked up the rake and made new swirls in the white surface. He placed a few smooth rocks carefully into his patterns. He chuckled to himself and sat down on the bench.

It was an incredibly quiet, peaceful place. He could imagine himself relaxing completely, communing with nature.

Above him, the cliff towered up into the sky. Plants hung on for dear life along small cracks in some places; in others, plants were better established along wider ledges. He guessed if he remained long enough, he would see a dassie peek its head out or a bird leave its nest.

He stretched his tired legs out in front of him and closing his eyes, relaxed in the quiet atmosphere.
Chapter 46

Wednesday 13th March 1986

I have three weeks leave. I didn't ask for leave for the whole of last year. I thought it would be a bit of a cheek, but since I have been working at Bicknim for fifteen months, I applied, and Mrs. Simpson gave it to me.

Marrakech, Morocco. I can't wait.

Rose has ordered my clothes and they are being sent to our hotel there. She says I will look like I am on holiday, and those clothes are different to the ones I wear to work.

Thank goodness for Rose. I am glad she is coming with me. I wouldn't know how to do this on my own. If I were on my own, I would stay in my flat.

I went to look for books on Marrakech in the library and it looks beautiful. I don't know if I will get through all the attractions. It's ancient, and vast.

I hope Eugene doesn't choose one of the fancy hotels like my mum stays in. I hate them and there are some very fancy hotels there. Winston Churchill was said to have stayed in one of them, to paint! In the book it seemed awful, precisely the kind of place my parents would use. It looks scary, with staff all over the place. Awfully plush.

I suppose though, Eugene may want to stay there. I can see him lying by the pool with his lazy, lovely face and cat body.

Just lying, watching.

### * * *

THEY drove for what seemed to Lisa to be ages. Fairly normal, modern roads, soon became narrow winding, twisting streets.

At first the shops fronts seemed much like any large city, but they too changed as the streets became narrower. It appeared to Lisa that most of the shops were on the street; it appeared anything for sale was right outside her window.

When the car eventually turned and slowed to a stop, she looked around at the hotel Eugene and Rose had chosen.

An out of the way place, with a cute arch entrance made in some sort of mud, with swirls in the plaster that could have been done by children.

The centre of the courtyard had a fountain and the front door was a huge wooden affair, which opened when they drove up. All was curves; the walls, the tops of the doors, the courtyard.

A man opened Lisa's door and another removed their luggage. Simple clothing here, an off-white cotton. None of the exotic uniforms she had seen on the travel posters of hotels in Marrakech.

Through the door lay another courtyard with rooms leading directly off it, two stories high, built in the same light coloured stone, plastered with swirled patterns, all curves and rounded edges. The balconies and steps, made of a dark wood, contrasted well with the light stonework.

Lisa looked around and decided she loved it, it was simple and unpretentious. Perfect.

WHILE the hotel buildings may be unpretentious, the suite was not. She looked around at the bedroom, where all seemed to be wood, and cream cotton and bright, bright sun. She loved the bed with the mosquito net canopy and the little balcony, which overlooked nearby neighbourhood rooftops.

She had a sitting room all to herself and looking around at the size of it, guessed there could only be a few suites in this hotel. It was obviously more exclusive than it looked from the outside.

She had a cute little dressing room leading off her bedroom. A fretwork door, hinged with springs, snapped back when she walked into the shared bathroom. Rose on the other side in an identical room.

Well, that's how they registered. As usual, Eugene travelled separately and booked in separately.

As the day went by, Lisa realised this holiday would not be like Chelsea, and Eugene would not be seen with her in public. He employed a courier to take them around the city and Rose told her they would begin in the morning.

### * * *

03rd April 1986

I should stick a photo of myself into this diary. I do look different. Rose bought hats, shoes, belts and they all make me look like a tourist. This morning I have a cream dress with large brown buttons down the front and a wide belt with matching almost flat shoes and the most enormous hat I have ever seen. I have brown rimmed sunglasses which almost completely cover my face and Rose put on a lot of make-up, especially red lipstick. They match my nails and toenails. I look good, I know that and now I am ready to face the world.

Later in the afternoon...

I loved my day, and the courier is excellent. He knows all the good places to visit. He knows when to stop and let me have tea, who I can talk to at the café, and who he should chase away. Although he is a skinny little thing, he looks quite fierce. I am sure he is if Eugene employed him.

A Frenchman tried to talk to me, but my French is not good enough. I never learned to speak it fluently like I did Dutch. He eventually went away but before he did, I gave him my phone number at the hotel.

I am much better at this, I am amazed in fact. No more hunching my shoulders and turning my face away. All the practising in the mirror in flat 402 helped. I can imagine how I appeared to the Frenchman. Now I pretend I am a beautiful girl who makes men scramble.

OK, I hid behind these huge sunglasses today, but I am much better now since Eugene sent me to parties and made me work at Bicknim.

### * * *

LISA had been on holiday many times. Her mother loved to travel, spend money and stay in the most expensive, plush hotels. Lisa had always felt in the way, an unnecessary piece of luggage to be toted about. They had visited her mother's friends all over the world, stayed with her father's relatives in Europe, done the rounds of historic sites in England and Ireland and Lisa had tagged along.

For the first time, a holiday had been organised for her enjoyment alone. A novel experience. Her courier and Rose, planned excursions designed only for her pleasure. They discussed options with her, although she generally bowed to their judgment.

The three weeks of the holiday raced past, and Lisa loved every minute. She quickly became used to her courier. He seemed to instinctively pick up what she wanted, where she wanted to go, yet was never intrusive. She went about looking at the sights, driving around the city and he organised the details for her.

Rose sometimes accompanied her, never Eugene. He visited her a few times, but only during the afternoon or the nights. She caught glimpses of him, mostly arriving or leaving in an open topped car.

Her courier organised a trip to Casablanca, but Lisa wasn't sure the long car journey was worthwhile. She travelled to the breath-taking mountains, and wandered about the city, taking in the amazing architecture.

Lisa marvelled that this was Africa; certainly a different Africa to the one she knew.

Rose bought a carpet, a few mats, wall hangings for her flat, and more hated jewellery.

Lisa couldn't stand anything rough on her skin, especially jewellery, but there were times when Eugene insisted on it and not always in his playroom.

Since all her clothes were made for her, she didn't have to worry about the clothes labels which had always irritated her skin. Rose had soon learned Lisa could not wear anything rough, even lace. Her clothing had to be soft: silk, pure cotton or cashmere. Pearls. Never synthetic materials.

The Frenchman phoned the hotel and invited her to dinner.

Rose dressed her carefully in one of her new suits. Dressed her to look fresh, young and innocent and Lisa was thankful. The place he chose was plush and expensive.

The dinner went off well, and he accompanied her several times around Marrakech. She practiced her French and discovered he could speak a little Dutch.

They toured mosques, rode camels and bought perfume in the spice souks, until it was time for him to return to France.

### * * *

TWO days before their departure from Morocco, Lisa found herself walking slowly and carefully down the wooden stairs to the restaurant at her hotel, worried she may trip on her high, white heels.

Rose had spent hours dressing her, preparing her hair and applying makeup. Lisa was certain Eugene had something special in store for her tonight, almost their last night in Morocco.

She smoothed her hands down her hips, feeling the material of her dress under her damp palms.

The shear white fabric reached her mid-thigh, tightening in from the butt with a cute little slit up the back. The front, square across, almost a sailor cut, silk lined and tight, hugged her body.

She appeared chic and elegant, youthful; the white dress contrasting well with her dark skin and eyes. Rose had set her hair in a complicated chignon folding down the back of her head.

She had taken out Lisa's jewellery box and selected a chunky necklace, matching earrings and bracelet.

Blank faced, Lisa allowed her to put them on her.

Lisa detested jewellery, hated the feel of it against her skin, rubbing and rough. Eugene must have a reason to force her to wear it.

Lisa, shown to a table set against the wall, settled into a chair facing the door with a view of the entire restaurant. It soon became apparent Eugene had not only organised her seating, but also ordered her food. Excited, she wondered what he had in mind for her.

She did not have long to wait. Within minutes he came through the door with an older woman clinging to his arm, her body curving towards his.

About forty years of age with a slim, well preserved figure and face to match, the woman wore a shimmery blue dress that hugged her body and swayed against her thighs as she walked. The dress plunged deeply at the front and her modelled breasts thrust against the material.

Lisa's eyes shifted to Eugene, guiding the woman to a table. Dressed in a dark suit and a deep green shirt, he appeared confident, at home, utterly comfortable in his role. He appeared successful and rich, dangerous and... barbaric.

Yes. One step up from a savage, as if he had been recently tamed and would be more comfortable in robes or even skins. Or naked.

Feral.

Lisa heard a sharp intake of breath from a woman sitting at the next table; almost a hiss and had a flashback to her first night at the Barham Green Hall. Helen had made a similar noise and looking around at other women near her, Lisa saw they all had their eyes on him. On his smooth cat walk and his shiny hair, his dark, dark skin and his deep, green eyes.

LISA dropped her eyes to her meal and tried to ignore the couple across the room.

With a stab of pain, she realised she had been brought here tonight to watch him with this woman. Eugene had instructed Rose to dress her in this dress with these hated jewels; had put her at this table with only one chair, forcing her to watch him with that woman, and wish it could be her.

Lisa never saw Eugene in any situation other than on the top floor of the block of flats in Borrow Street. She never saw how he appeared to others. She had no idea of how he lived, with whom he consorted. She had watched herself dancing with him in the mirrors in 402, but she mostly had her eyes on him, his lithe movements and dramatic colouring.

Lisa couldn't help it; her eyes were once again drawn to the couple across the room.

She watched Eugene direct all his attention at the woman dressed in blue, as if she were the only person in the room. Lisa watched him pull out her chair and settle her in it. He didn't once look up or scan the restaurant. She saw him bend his body possessively, watched him reach out and push a stray tendril of hair behind the woman's ear, take her hand.

Even when the waiter came to their table, Eugene spoke to him, but with his eyes fixed on his companion.

LISA ate with a closed, blank look on her face, one that displayed no emotion. She had always been able to hide behind a blank face, but recently perfected it by watching herself in the mirror in flat 402.

A man, also sitting alone, about four tables away, raised his glass to her. Lisa stared through him, disconcerting him utterly. In her white dress, she appeared young, cold and closed off. Unapproachable.

About half way through her main course, the maître d' placed an envelope on a silver, engraved plate on her table. An off-white, square envelope.

Lisa slid out the card and found her instructions. Eugene had drawn a 'standing wait' position on the card and under this his instructions: she was to stand in this position behind the fret work door leading from his bedroom.

Lisa knew it would be a long wait, but also that it was not a punishment. If that had been the case, he would have drawn her kneeling. Once he had forced her to kneel for nearly an hour. She had hardly been able to straighten her legs when he finally let her up.

Lisa felt anticipation swirl and catch her. Eugene was coming back to his room, and she would be there for him, waiting behind the fret-work door.

### * * *

06th June 1986

As always, I did what he said, stood naked, behind the fretwork of the dressing room door.

I could clearly see most of Eugene's room, the bed, the chairs, the plain calico curtains, the strange grey wood of the floor with matching lighter trims.

I examined the wooden door in front of me. A beautiful piece of art-work, carved patterns, intricate grooves cut into the dark wood. It must have taken a craftsman ages to make. For the first time, I noticed the tall ceilings and the interlocking patterns around the base of the pillars near the windows.

I remember shutting my eyes, in an attempt to blank out the images of Eugene with that woman. I remember soothing myself, by thinking he would come to this room and be with me because he had told me to stand here. That he would leave that woman, with her stunning dress and her diamonds and her blue, blue eyes and come to me.

I knew I couldn't compete with my ugly nose and crooked teeth; but as I waited there, I knew he would come, and he did.

I heard the door open and heard her stupid giggle. I watched Eugene walk backwards into the room with the woman stuck on his front, kissing him and trying to spread herself on him. She touched him all over, pulling at his shirt and rubbing her face across his chest. She didn't ask his permission, he allowed her do it and I wanted to cry.

I wanted to scream and bite her and pull her off him and have him touch me and allow me to touch him.

I did none of those things. I stood there behind the fretwork door and watched, like he told me to. I stood there and watched him while he fucked her.

I knew he slept with other women, he had told me many times; had never hidden it. Almost the first time I saw him, he told me he often had sex with another woman before he came to the Barham Green Hall to meet me, but I had never seen him with another woman and I was jealous.

Eugene has a beautiful body. He could be a model for a carving or a charcoal drawing, with packs of toned muscles, moving under his skin. He is a deep brown, all over his body and his hair, his lovely glossy hair with her fingers twined in, tugging, falling across his forehead, is silky soft.

I watched his smooth back and butt as he plunged into that woman, over and over. I watched his thigh muscles clench and flex as he rode her and I watched him when he grabbed her hips and pulled her into him, slamming deeply, emptying himself into her. Over and over.

He made me watch for ages, made me watch as she rode him, as she scratched her long nails down his back, as she screamed and writhed until she was done, used up and finally dozed off.

He came and took me back to my room, and put me to bed. Like a baby. And in the morning, I woke to him holding me. I woke to find myself in his arms, warm chest against my cheek and my leg over his hips.

To wake up in the morning like this was worth anything he asked of me. I had no idea how long he had been there, how long he had held me, but when he finally left me to sleep in the hot afternoon, I couldn't have kept my eyes open if I tried.

Eugene went back to France with her and I came home with Rose and today, more than a month later, I have a card in my invitation holder.

While he was away, I existed. I shut my mind off and got on with work.

Work. My escape. The one place I am happy, secure and confident. I don't mean working for Bicknim, that is another me, the one everyone sees; the one I use to put them off the track.

My work is inside my head, with numbers and graphs.

Bach is another escape when Eugene is not here. I lose myself in his perfection, in his order, in the knowledge that what he starts, he will come back to sometime, over and over, around and around, always recurring.

### * * *

EUGENE always said anticipation was paramount, and he's right, Lisa thought. She felt it growing inside throughout her massage, felt it chaff when Rose fussed over her hair, her makeup. When Lisa finally walked into her sitting room, she thought she would explode with it.

She found Eugene lounging on her couch, watching her with that look he did so well, the look that told her she was the only thing in his sights. Lisa's heart tumbled and her breath caught.

He stood when she came into the room, a long lazy stretch to reach his full height, and smiled at her.

"Lizaa," two lovely, lazy, slurred syllables. "You look great," he drawled.

Eugene looked great too, she decided. Healthy, rested and strangely contented. Unusual for him.

Walking over to her, he picked up her hand and Lisa's heart jumped in anticipation. He brushed a kiss over her lips and led her into his playroom.

As always, being in the room with him excited her: the sights, smells, memories. His body close around hers, he led her over to one wall, to a new cabinet, glass fronted with velvet back. Her handcuffs, soft woven restraints and the lovely piece of matching silk Eugene used so creatively, hung in it.

Attached to the wall, near the new cabinet, several objects tastefully arranged, caught her attention. Leaning closer, she identified a collection of erotica, painted on vellum, probably. Although uninterested in art, Lisa pegged them as antique and valuable, the calligraphy French. She assumed Eugene acquired them during the time he spent in France.

"Productive trip," he said, his eyes sparkling green. He seemed energised, excited and something else..., she couldn't pin down exactly what. Happy? Perhaps.

"Let's go dance," he said, and they did, for hours in 402, with only the mirrors to watch them.
Chapter 47

HENRIETTA watched David walk through the glass doors and into the pool area, appreciating the easy, fluid way he walked and his slow greeting smile.

He was huge. He had thick thighs and calves and last night, she noticed his back and shoulders, packed solid with muscle, layer upon layer. She had felt small and petite against him, and yet she wasn't. He picked her up easily and held her effortlessly off the ground, and she was no lightweight.

Pleasantly tired from her swimming, her head back against the rest, she watched David lower himself gingerly onto a lounger nearby.

"Jeez, I'm stiff and sore," he said with a groan, "I'm not at all used to this. A lot less fit than you are, that's for sure."

She watched curiously as a flush came into his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Henrietta, I didn't mean it that way," he said, embarrassed. "That was insensitive... I'm sorry."

Puzzled at first, until she worked out what he was apologising about, she smiled at him. Not many men could apologise, especially for something that could have been easily glossed over. Most men she knew would not have noticed the implied insult.

"It's no problem, and anyway I didn't strain myself; nothing compared with your athletic performance. I am not surprised your thighs are sore. Has it really been that long?"

"You mean, since Jackie died? No, I had a few casual affairs. Ghastly," he grimaced, "before I realised that was not for me... the one night, or rather one afternoon stands," he said, while massaging his thighs with his large hands.

"I had a week long affair with a woman in Zimbabwe, when I went home on holiday a year or so ago. I left Kim with my dad and went up to stay on a houseboat on Kariba. She was a businesswoman from Harare who had no intention of leaving Zimbabwe, may have been married, I never asked. The sex was pretty good at the time, no strings attached, but afterwards I felt it was kind of sloppy."

The only affairs she ever had were casual sexual encounters, with suitable candidates. She never initiated any approach and as a consequence, the men were usually brutish, insensitive types. She took what she wanted from these affairs, enjoyed the physical sensations, the release.

"You find Mary's garden? It's lovely isn't it? I bet you raked the sand," she said.

"Yeah, guilty as charged, but I am more worried about who found my clothes this morning. I am really embarrassed about that. They were all clean, pressed, new buttons sewn on, hanging over the clothes stand. All ready for me to wear."

Henrietta laughed, "Yes, that was Mary, she had them in the washing machine when I was having my massage. She was worried you would wake up before she had them all sorted. I have absolutely nothing here that would get anywhere near you, not even a stretchy tracksuit."

### * * *

DAVID, sprawled on the pool lounger, turned his head towards Henrietta, "Ah, I was in a little bit of a hurry last night and didn't have any protection. I don't carry condoms any more. Are you OK?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I had a sterilisation long ago."

"You knew early on you didn't want to have kids?" he asked, amazed.

"I knew early on I would be absolutely hopeless with children. I didn't have a good experience myself to pass on, and what is the point of having other people bring up your kids?"

David understood her point of view, especially in the light of his experience with Kim.

"I don't think I thought about it either way. I am a man, and men aren't expected to bring up kids. I married, Jackie fell pregnant and that was that. I carried on my life until she died. Nothing prepared me for the feelings I would have when I picked my daughter out of the bath and smelled her baby hair, or felt her little fingers close over mine. No one ever warned me how I would feel when I looked down on her fast asleep in her bed."

And recently, he had begun to lose it, Kim's absolute trust in him slipping away. And he minded. Until now, he had been her hero, her guide. She would soon have boyfriends and he would no longer be her number one and he didn't know how the hell he was going to manage it. David shifted his shoulders on the lounger. He was jealous already; wasn't ready to relinquish Kim's hold on him.

He had made a conscious decision he would not marry simply to provide her with a mother. There were many complications of half siblings in a family and he had never met a woman with whom he felt he could chance it.

The day Jackie died, he had stood over Kim, asleep in her little cot off their bedroom. Looking down at her tiny sleeping form, he promised her he would never put his happiness before hers. When making big decisions in his life, he always tried to remember that promise. He changed his life to accommodate his motherless daughter and he hoped he had succeeded. It had not been easy, adjusting to being a mother and father rolled into one and until recently, he presumed he was doing OK. Although, at times he had been plain terrified at what he had embarked upon.

He remembered an occasion, when Kim was about three or four, playing in the lounge, him lying on the couch, Kim on the carpet. She had staggered backwards and plopped down abruptly as small children do. When he reached out and she put her tiny little hand into his, he had experienced fear, terror so powerful it paralysed him.

He was holding so much in the palm of his hand; her future, for one thing and she had gladly, willingly and ignorantly given it to him. She didn't know what he was like as a dad. He could be a great dad, or a drunk and beat her around, but she had laid her hand in his anyway, put herself in his power completely, and it had overwhelmed him.

He never forgot that day, accepted he had a huge responsibility to live up to, expectations with no parameters and very few guidelines.

It was her acceptance of him that forged that responsibility.

David wouldn't have it any other way though, was glad he had Kim. She reminded him he was alive, was human. With a sigh, he hoped he could get through the next few years without stuffing it all up.

"YOU know I am embarrassed to say I am glad Kim is a girl not a boy. I like girls. I love all the girlie things, the frills and the make-up, the hair dos and the giggles. I don't know if I would have been as happy with rugby practice, smelly socks and sports cars. I miss Jackie in my room, I loved the smells and the clothes strewn about, you know the indecision about what to wear."

They lapsed back into a companionable silence and soon after David heard a splash. Henrietta had dived back into the pool again.

### * * *

DAVID lay stretched out on the pool lounger feeling warmth on his skin, the rhythmic sounds of Henrietta's swimming almost hypnotic. Jeez, he thought, that woman sure had energy, swimming up and down when all he could do was lie still and recuperate.

Well, he had hardly taken a real break from work for ages. Perhaps he should take advantage of his exhausted state to chill out. He had slacked a bit from his normal pace, but had enjoyed Henrietta's company in the last month, and had not paid as much attention to things as normal.

Especially the search for Lisa Van der Linde. Shutting his eyes, he wondered why. Did he perhaps think it futile? Nonsense. If Lisa were dead, proof of it would still net them three percent of her worth. A useful sum of money.

On the edge of sleep, thoughts of Lisa flickered through his mind. The way she had changed from a fat, ugly duckling to a stunning long-legged blond, albeit hooked nosed woman. She was private, didn't like to socialise, and if she did, was careful to keep it to a limit and never allow anyone to find out about her.

She was said to be extremely brainy, yet she went to work at an estate agency. Hardly challenging.

Even stranger, she was rich, and went to work at all.

She was rich, drove a second-hand VW beetle, and lived in a top floor flat in Borrow Street, Bulawayo.

David allowed his thoughts to drift in and out of his awareness as he lay relaxing, at sleep's edge, looking for some pattern, any reason why a few years later, she would disappear without a trace.

No death certificate, but no other records either.

All her money bled out of her accounts by the time she was twenty-three years of age. She was definitely around when the money left her accounts, the VLC accountants confirmed. She signed the documents herself, no powers of attorney, proving she was not killed and her money stolen later. Carefully, over about two years, she hid it. Hid it without trace.

Then she hid herself. He was sure of it; the question was, why?

His mind rolled back to his own description: 'find out about her.' Why had he used those words? Were they the correct ones? Was she hiding something? Something bad; or something about herself? Why did she hold back? Mrs Simpson worked with her for four years yet hardly knew her. Sharleen too, said she never became close to her.

Maybe that was his problem; maybe he didn't want to find her. Maybe he thought she deserved to make her own choices.

HIS mind drifted to something Mrs Simpson told Robbie: whatever Lisa did, she did for a reason. He decided to consider each decision of hers one by one.

Why the flat in Borrow Street? Why would a wealthy seventeen-year-old girl, move into a flat in town? Why not a house in a flashy area?

He'd lived in a flat in town until his marriage to Jackie. It was convenient, he didn't have to pay a gardener, he could clean it himself, and it was easy for him to get to work. He couldn't, of course, entertain there, which is why they moved to Honeydew.

Perhaps Lisa didn't want to entertain. She didn't join in at social events when she lived at home. He had heard repeatedly in interviews that she didn't like to socialise.

On the top floor of the block of flats, she was guaranteed privacy too.

He'd had privacy when he lived above the office. Many things are sorted out for you when you live in a block of flats: car parking, security, lights and water.

So what were the cons. to Lisa living in that block of flats?

None, except perhaps the noise, the street sounds, the flats situated on a reasonably busy street.

Security? In the late 1980's it was safer than today.

Why the VW? Why not a more expensive model which she could easily afford? Perhaps she didn't want to be conspicuous. Until she left home, she was driven everywhere in a black BMW, and according to Father Duncan, she probably minded.

Why the estate agency? If she intended to disappear, why would she work there? To learn about buying property?

A wealthy woman could move all her money into property easily if she owned a business that regularly bought and sold real estate.

According to Henrietta, owning an estate agency was like running downhill. She said she aimed to end each tax year owing money, but in doing so, accumulated more and more property.

Lisa could have bought property anyway; she didn't need to work. Why did she work at all?

Perhaps Lisa had not always intended to disappear. Perhaps she started off with one intention and been forced to hide. Something bad happened. Also Lisa worked from the age of seventeen when most girls of her class would have been travelling, or simply lying around at home waiting to get married. Lisa didn't get married, nor did she date boys according to reports, although she went out to house parties at her contemporaries' homes. Was her work linked to her plan to disappear?

Did she devise the plan to disappear on her own, or did someone else help her? Or was Robbie correct, and she was dead, killed at twenty-three years of age, her body hidden, never to be found, her money stolen.

His gut feel was Robbie was wrong. Lisa was alive.

David heard Henrietta pull herself up to the edge of the pool and opened his eyes as she climbed up the short steps to get out. He watched her slip her thumb under her swim-suit edge and pull it down, water streaming down her long legs.

She stepped onto the pool flag-way, picked up a towel and David watched her pull the latex swimming cap off her head; saw her glorious hair tumble down over her wet shoulders and down her back. 'She was a stunner' was how Lukas described the long lost Lisa, and Henrietta was too. David was reminded of Lukas, who had watched Lisa swim up and down the pool and understood why, when Henrietta walked towards him in her swimming costume. A lovely long, strong, body topped off by the most beautiful thick, blond hair he had ever seen.

ALL THOUGHTS of Lisa left David's mind when Henrietta smiled at him.

"Awake again! You are a sleepy head."

He nodded smiling up at her, and his stomach grumbled, clearly audible over the sounds of the sloshing water.

"Oh, blast. I forgot," she said, mortified. "I was supposed to tell you breakfast is laid out on the side-board. Sorry, Mary told me ages ago. Come, let's go up. You must be starved."

David was hungry, but he was also a little embarrassed still to meet Mary. He wished he had collected his clothes last night and wondered what she thought of him. Wondered about her opinion of him and Henrietta.

He did not have to worry about Mary yet. The food had been laid out on the sideboard, heated by dumb waiters again. He found mealie-meal porridge, kippers and custard, a cold ham plate with cheese and several breakfast cereals in clear glass containers. Mary had also laid out fresh orange juice in a tall fluted jug, coffee and tea in flasks.

Henrietta sat and watched him begin, a flirtatious smile on her face.

"Aren't you eating?" he asked.

"I ate ages ago, although a little less than you. Keeping your strength up?"

David looked around self-consciously.

"Mary has gone out to the market. She'll be back in time for lunch."

HENRIETTA, amused at David's obvious embarrassment, decided she liked it; found it flattering. She also appreciated that he did not immediately wake up and think the sex act gave him the right to maul her. He had not touched her once this morning, and she liked that. It was also flattering.

Sitting watching him eat, it suddenly occurred to her that she wanted to touch him, wanted to feel him again. She wanted to take all his clothes off and feel his skin, the muscles under his skin and enjoy how he made her feel. Except, she didn't know how to go about it with someone unprepared to make the first move.

Usually, she did not have to worry about that. Most men she had sex with, had been unable to keep their hands off her.

This whole experience was ground breaking for her.

She had never brought a man back to her house before, never cared enough about one to be concerned she was doing the right thing. If any man had been frightened off by a bold approach, she wouldn't have minded in the slightest; would have walked away without a backward glance. Yet here she was, concerned about how to get David upstairs and undressed.

She watched him finish his large breakfast and wipe his lips with the napkin Mary had folded on his side-plate and thought it was a very sexy action, that his lips looked great.

She had her eyes fixed on his mouth when he said, "That was good. I hope I can thank Mary later. I was jolly hungry."

David put his napkin down and stood up from the table, moving around slightly to get out from behind it. Because of his size he brushed against Henrietta's knees on his way out.

"Oh, sorry," he said, turning back towards her.

He looked down into her eyes, and Henrietta saw his face still, as it had the previous evening, when she had moved towards him from the stereo.

He reacted now as he had then, pulling her into his arms, burying his face in her hair.

"I love your hair. The shower smelled like you this morning and I wanted you there, in there with me." He spoke quietly in her ear, and the longing in his voice tripped a strong reaction in her.

She took his hand tugging him towards the stairs, leading to her bedroom.

Stopping when she reached the first stair, she turned and kissed him on the mouth, her hands on his shoulders, their faces level. She pulled him up three more steps and repeated the tease, kissing him hard on the lips and digging her fingers into the packed muscles on his shoulders.

Eventually reaching the first landing, David picked her up and carrying her, ran into the bedroom.

### * * *

"JEEZ, Henrietta, you turn me into an animal. I'm sorry, I can't help it, you're so beautiful, so sexy I can't keep my hands off you," he said, after catching his breath.

He reached out, picking up Henrietta's hand and twining his fingers with hers between them on the bed.

She opened her eyes, alerted by the rustling noise of his head turning on his pillow. She looked across at him; at his large, open face, his blue eyes and wide mouth, surprised she could look at him intimately.

Usually she couldn't see the details of faces. They always blurred rather. She was often hard-pressed to remember any features, usually only recognising people from how they moved, their body language, and only if they were not staring at her.

"I find it a little difficult to read you, unless you look at me like you did last night or just now, downstairs," he said, quietly. "I don't want to hurt you, or force myself on you. I couldn't stand to do that. Please tell me if I do, please let me know."

"OK," she said.

OK, thought David. What the hell did OK mean? Did it mean she liked what they were getting into, or did it mean one day she would up and say 'stop forcing yourself on me,' or 'you are hurting me.'

It was a long time since he had come anywhere near a relationship with a woman. Jackie had been the last and they had both known pretty much where they were going with each other. He didn't know where he was heading with Henrietta. Events had moved faster than he anticipated. He had not intended to move the relationship to this level this soon, and now he was lost.

Perhaps he complicated things too much, but he could not be like Robbie. Quick gratification, without some sort of connection. Without a relationship with a woman, he couldn't enjoy the sex and a relationship implied some connection, some possibility of a future relationship.

David was not sure Henrietta wanted any future with him, yet for once he was prepared to continue, without any assurances of any kind from her. He was prepared to meet her terms, whatever they were.

Why? What was different with her?

She was attractive. But attractive women had come on to him before, and he had found it easy to move on.

She was intelligent. Again, he knew plenty of intelligent women, although maybe not as attractive as Henrietta.

He didn't want to stop touching her or having sex with her. The possibility he may never touch her again, frightened him. He didn't know what she wanted and he was too scared to ask, in case she said she wanted to stop.

"Dave," Henrietta's voice interrupted his thoughts.

She hardly ever called him by his name and she had never called him Dave before.

"I..." she began and when she hesitated, his heart dropped. "I'm not good discussing subjects such as this, but I really liked what we did together last night and just now."

David turned his head on the pillow and looked across at her lying naked, her eyes on the ceiling.

"I would like to do it again. I also find it difficult to read your expressions and I also don't want to hurt you. I struggle to initiate an advance, so I wait for you to do so."

David recognised the formal language she used when she felt awkward and smiled slightly. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the pillow.

Meaningful relationships always hurt more.

He loved his daughter fiercely and as a consequence, he worried about her all the time. Worried she could be involved in a car crash. Worried she could start taking drugs, or get pregnant. Mostly he worried he would be a failure as a mother. He had never had any idea how he featured in that department. Until now they had bought her dresses and dolls together, talked about periods and sex. He hadn't yet had to deal with make-up, but guessed it was not too far on the horizon.

Not long ago she asked him if she should wax or shave. Clueless, he suggested she look it up on the internet.

A slight smile creased his mouth.

"What is it?" Henrietta asked.

"Should Kim wax or shave?"

She smiled. "Wax. Definitely."

"OK, I'll tell her. She asked me a while ago and I told her to look it up on the internet. I had absolutely no idea."

David rolled over on his stomach and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 48

THE first thing David noticed when he walked into Henrietta's office was the cliff face, close to the double glazed window that covered almost the entire wall opposite the door.

This room was also sparsely furnished, and again each object chosen for a purpose. No clutter, or overly decorative objects. Functional, but tasteful.

Henrietta's desk, a glowing oak antique stood at an angle that allowed her to look out at the cliff when she wanted a break from her computer.

A small cluster of soft chairs filled one corner. A kettle and a lovely little tea set on a silver tray, sat on a long, low cabinet against the right hand wall. Two paintings hung on the wall above.

"Wow," he said, walking into the room, "that's an amazing window. An unusual view."

"Yes," Henrietta replied smiling, "one of my only inputs into this house. The architect thought it was a stupid idea. That no one would want to look onto a blank cliff face. He only conceded because it would be easy to move it over there," she said, pointing to the wall overlooking the driveway, "and brick that up if I needed to sell the house."

"I like it, I especially like the colour scheme, orange walls and those dark blue blinds match perfectly with the cliff face, and I also like the way you have darkened the colour on that one wall," David said, pointing to the wall above the tea tray.

"Oh, well that part," said Henrietta, embarrassed, "was not me, that was the interior decorator and Mary I suppose. I am no good at that kind of thing at all. It's not a blank cliff face you know," she added defensively. "Lots goes on there. I see animals. And plants trying to grow and I get to see birds nesting and eagles flying. Living. Existing you know. Once, an eagle killed a dove, right in front of me, right outside that window; three metres away. And sometimes birds come onto the window sill and attack what they think is another bird in its own reflection."

David watched Henrietta, fascinated. Animated, intense, her whole body moving, she gesticulated with her hands, moved her body to explain. And then, all at once controlled herself, climbed back into herself, as if it was important to maintain the persona she had created. Had he been given a glimpse of the person who lived inside the cool, controlled Henrietta Steyn of Henri Properties?

Of course, he had glimpsed a very different person, a very passionate person who lived inside there, last night. On the lounge floor, in the shower and in her bed until about 3.00am. Again today.

He wanted to do it all over again. David, still unsure of their relationship did not approach her as he wanted. He wanted to hold her again, feel her. He wanted to touch her, to feel her body against his. He admitted it, he wanted to have sex with her again.

He abhorred that side of himself, the selfish brute, the typical arrogant male who stood beating his chest, holding a woman at his side, as if some sort of a trophy.

It was something he had always tried to control, and succeeded for the most part. Only Jackie, had broken down that control in him. He had wanted to pick her up and carry her away under his arm, the first time he saw her. Like a caveman. Until Henrietta, she was the only woman he had sought out and she had encouraged him to simply feel, to let go and he had loved it. She teased him about what she termed 'using his brain instead of his other brain,' and always pushed him to be a caveman.

He wanted to be a caveman. Right now.

Instead, he walked over to the two paintings on the wall. Signed originals. One, a street scene of a woman, probably African judging by the 'dook' on her head. Dark purples, reds, indistinct features. A vague background, of dark, towering buildings. The other was a landscape, with lovely colours, a small ploughed field and a few huts in the far distance, finely detailed.

Although the two paintings were of different subject material, they were clearly painted as a pair. 'Rural gone urban,' perhaps? Or, 'Which life is better?' They were beautiful and looking at them, he felt a little sad, reminded somewhat of Martha, and of his own life. Was he happy in a big city? No. Was she happy in rural Kezi, living in her hut?

"Choices," said Henrietta. "They are called 'choices.' I bought them on the roadside in Natal." Henrietta paused. "They were painted by a woman who now lives on a farm with her husband. She lived in Johannesburg for twenty years."

She stopped speaking and David saw the characteristic lift of her chin when she had something difficult to say.

"Earlier, when we first came into the office, you were standing watching me. I didn't know what you were thinking. I saw several different expressions cross your face, but I didn't know what they meant. They are new to me, not ones I am familiar with from the time I have spent with you. I know some people can read others easily, but I have always been bad at that and it has been the cause of the end of several relationships I have had." Henrietta looked down, "I simply miss the important things."

Thank goodness for that, David thought, certain Henrietta would not have wanted to know his thoughts. He didn't want to know the answer to his next question, but was compelled to ask anyway.

"Have you had many relationships?" he asked, his gut churning, attempting to keep his voice light.

"Not a live-in one... none came anywhere near. In fact, I have hardly ever spent the night with any man. I get up and leave, come back home."

"Not that easy to kick a man out though, hey," he said, forcing a grin. "They are generally bigger than you."

"I have never brought a man to this house before," she said, quietly.

David stared at her in surprise and Henrietta lifted her eyes until they met his across the room. The silence stretched out between them, the images of the room, the window, the noises of the house blurred for him, disappeared into the moment.

He didn't know what to say, their former ease of conversation gone, with the import of her words. He had no right to be jealous of her former lovers. But he was, he couldn't help it. It was irrational; she was over forty years of age and must have had any number of lovers over the years. He liked to think it was not a casual affair that bothered him, rather the possibility she had given herself, opened herself up to another man, as she had to him. He was aware, his jealousy arose from a feeling of insecurity on his part; that he didn't measure up somehow and she would pass him over.

"So you see, I am swimming in uncharted waters here and that's why I asked what you were thinking. It's the only way I have of finding out. I don't read body language well, and unless I have some clue as to what someone is thinking, I never seem to learn."

She kept her large, brown eyes on his.

"And now you're embarrassed," she said.

"Yes," he said, ruefully. "You got that one right."

"Well, it's not new to me. I have seen you embarrassed before, I have an image already stored in my data bank," she said, not letting him off the hook.

She stood watching him across the room, until he eventually shrugged.

"I started off watching you and thinking how different you are underneath and ended up wanting to have sex with you again. And that pissed me off. I hate the way I can't have a conversation with you, without wanting to rip your pants off," he said, roughly. "I suppose the expressions were appreciation, lust, disgust. In that order. I tried to hide what I thought. It's not at all flattering," he added.

"Until last night, I mostly could, have a conversation that is, but now..." he shrugged. "I'm sorry."

Across the room, Henrietta realised she didn't want a conversation with him right now either. Right now, she wanted to rip his pants off, certain she would prefer to see the expression she had seen on his face earlier, once again. She wanted to put it back on his face.

She moved slowly towards him and stopping in front of him, put her hand on his chest. When he didn't move away, she slowly and deliberately opened the buttons on his shirt. She explored the muscles under his skin with her fingertips, gently traced the direction of the hair on his chest. From the centre, across and around his nipples. She followed the line of hair down, down to his solid stomach muscles and below.

David remained mute and still, until she dropped to her knees and opened the button and zipper on his trousers. Then he groaned and she felt his huge hands cup her head. Yes, she thought, this was far better than conversation.
Chapter 49

BY 8.30am the following morning and unable to concentrate, Henrietta was content to be disturbed by a delivery man, carrying a box. It was for her. He placed it on her desk, lifting the larger part up to reveal a dry arrangement.

A piece of driftwood, low in the front with two upright stalks, against which the florist had twisted a spray of wild grasses and small, dried wild flowers. The grasses, a mixture of soft pink fluffy love grass, some with blue leaves, a single thatching grass, sticking proudly up at the back, complimented the arrangement.

There was no card, but she knew who it came from. He must have gone out and chosen it himself, probably on his way to work. It was so David too, not a dozen red roses for him! It was genuine, tasteful and she was flattered he thought of it at all.

She sent him a text, 'Thank you' worried if she called him, she would beg him to come over. And she wanted him to, wanted to see him again.

When she told him yesterday, she was in uncharted waters, she had not been exaggerating. She had never come anywhere near a normal or 'classic' relationship with any man. The kind of relationship she assumed most women had with men. She had never met a man and gone through the classic steps: liked him, dated him, slept with him, broken up and moved on. None had ever been able to get past her first few gaucheries.

She didn't communicate like an ordinary person; both her spoken and body language poor. Countless times, she had been progressing well, only to blow it with a single body movement, or sentence that didn't come out right. The man she needed, had to know instinctively what she was inside.

David allowed her to see what he thought, tried to be open. He told her things about himself, and it helped her reciprocate. Pressing her fingertips against her temples, she cringed to think of some of the things she had told him.

He didn't constantly play the 'one up-man' game, didn't try to win every conversation, didn't try to be ultra-clever all the time. He also didn't mind apologising, often admitted to normal human emotions, and that was unusual.

He had faced Mary yesterday with humility, yet been prepared to stand his ground, had she been judgmental. He instinctively knew Mary was important to her and Mary's opinion of him important too.

David was one smart guy. He had worked out who he was, and was happy with it. Looking out through the partition into her reception area, Henrietta remembered him sitting out there, huge and safe, leafing through a magazine.

Instead of assigning an agent to deal with him, she'd invited him into her office. She'd continued to see him, continued to take him in her car, have lunch with him, talk to him. She had become very attached to him. Did she love him? Had she begun to feel what other people spoke about, what is written in books, discussed on talk shows? She didn't know, didn't know if she loved him. She had nothing to judge the situation against.

Instead she asked herself what she would feel if he died, if he had a car crash. Could she get over him? Without much reflection, Henrietta admitted she would be sad, but not devastated. She would still be able to function, could still get over him. It would be hard and if she continued to see him, it would become increasingly harder.

She had no idea where they were going, but she was enjoying the journey. David was a good lover, and she gloried in her ability to push him into losing himself.

She could tell the moment when the gentle, considerate lover reached a tipping point and became a demanding man who took what he wanted, used her to get where he wanted, and it never failed to excite her.

Was David as open and as friendly as he looked?

She sensed an underlying strength in him, guessed he wasn't an easy touch. She had felt the strength in his fingers yesterday, but also that he had intended to control himself; could control himself. At any time, he could have pulled back, stepped away, if she decided to back out.

With a sigh, Henrietta closed her eyes and decided she was trying to analyse something she was not good at analysing. Relationships and people were not constant, unlike her beloved numbers. People were full of contradictions.

She missed David already, she wanted him there with her, holding her against his big, strong body. Her soul searching, only an attempt to distract herself from texting him.

When she opened her eyes, he stood near the edge of the partition, looking down at her.

"I couldn't keep away," he said. "I was working fairly close by, here in Randburg. I started to answer your text and then..." he flapped his arms against his hips, "it wasn't good enough. I had to see you."

His eyes shifted to the little dried arrangement.

"I wanted to write a card and the only thing I wanted to put on there was, 'Thank you' and then I realised it was inadequate, that even that," he said, gesturing at the arrangement, "was inadequate, a token only, of what I feel."

He watched Henrietta's face closely, waiting for an expression he recognised, but she gave him no clues, only stared at him across the room.

"I'm sorry I disturbed you, I couldn't help it."

SHE stood up and David watched her remove her watch and slip it into a drawer in her desk. She leaned over and tapped a few keys into her computer.

Her hair, elaborately arranged with ribbon, spilled over her shoulder. Mary had wrapped small bundles of hair with fine ribbons, collected at the back. The remaining bundle was coiled into ringlets intertwined with more ribbon. David, who had recently attempted to curl Kim's hair into ringlets, had discovered first-hand how difficult it was to achieve perfect curls, and Henrietta's hair was as usual, impeccable.

She straightened up from her computer and David noticed she appeared tall. When she moved around the edge of her desk, he saw why. She wore purple plastic see through platforms, with spike heels that had to be at least six inches long. Kim had recently brought home a pair she borrowed from a friend, and when she attempted to walk around in them, they had both laughed until they cried.

High platforms, very fashionable at the moment, coupled with the rest of her clothing, made Henrietta appear younger, girlish, frivolous. The round necked top with matching ribbon threaded through the collar and tiny puffed sleeves accentuated this look.

HER brown eyes met his and this time, David recognised an expression he had seen there yesterday, several times. She walked towards the two doors at the back of her office.

In the high shoes she appeared to sway slightly, seductively, the short mini skirt enhancing her already long, strong legs.

Hesitating in the doorway, she waited, until he followed her into a rather stark corridor with a couple of lift doors, against the far wall. She fobbed open the left door and invited him in with her hand. The lift rose and opened to a small hallway, with double doors leading into the sitting room of a tastefully furnished appartment.

David noticed a kitchenette on one side, a small dining area and a door which must go through to a bedroom.

Following her into the room, he was a little puzzled. She had not spoken to him this morning, not touched him at all, but that look had not left her face.

She closed the double doors behind her, turned towards him and lifted her chin slightly, a movement he had learned meant she was about to say something she found difficult.

He wanted to help her, stop her feeling awkward, but didn't know how. He needed to ask her how he could help her, make her life easier; he didn't want to complicate things for her.

"I was sitting at my desk, thinking about us, thinking about you. Wanting you there, but not knowing how to go about it, and then you were there. Thank you."

She walked forward, placing her hand on his chest. With the huge heels, Henrietta was almost David's height and the novelty excited him. She stared directly into his eyes, magnificent, yet almost girlish, frivolous with her ribbons, a string of pearls and high, fashionable shoes. Balancing herself on his chest, she lifted one leg and twisted off her panties.

Leaving the wisp of purple lace lying around one shoe, she began to undo his shirt buttons, exactly as she had yesterday. But today it was David who went down on his knees.

Today it was Henrietta who capitulated, she the one who could no longer wait to satisfy herself. Stepping back slightly, she placed one spiked heel on David's chest, pushing him to the floor, and then the huge platforms were on either side of his hips and this time, he watched as she rode him to her oblivion.

"SO, YOU see. It seems as if both of us want to rip each other's pants off whenever we are near," she said, grinning down at David lying flat out on the floor.

"Come on, get up big boy," she said, putting out her hand to him.

She hauled him up and playfully backed him through the bedroom door, stripping his clothes off, discarding them on the way, taking it slow, scratching him with her coral lacquered nails, nipping with her teeth, almost unrecognisable in this mood. Henrietta was playful, flirtatious, utterly uninhibited, wearing only her pearls, the purple, plastic shoes and the ribbons in her hair. When she pushed him down onto the bed, he noticed she removed none of them.

### * * *

"WHY did you take off your watch?" he asked.

"It has a GPS tracker in it and a panic button. I don't know why, I usually never go anywhere without it, but I wanted to be alone with you, without everyone knowing," she said, lying on her side, against his large body.

"Stupid I suppose. Pointless probably. Everything is logged here. When I fobbed the lift open, it will be logged and when I fob it closed again. Of course that's only logged; it's not the same as everyone in my security detail knowing I am up here."

She shrugged. "Look, I wrote the programs. It's my own fault."

"The lift is only for this flat?" he asked.

Henrietta nodded, "No one can come up here if I have fobbed open the lift and it stays on this floor until I use it to go down. I like my privacy and I arranged for it to be like that. I don't like the idea I could be disturbed if I am up here. I sometimes come to work early or leave late and I like to be able to have somewhere secure and private. There are three single flats on this floor, but the other two use the communal lifts."

"Did someone hurt you?" David asked her. "Is that why you have all this security, the guards, the watch, panic button?"

"No, no one hurt me, but when I came to Johannesburg, I didn't want to be a victim. I also didn't want to have to constantly worry about my safety like I see other people do. I am often a little out of things," she said, and David smiled, "especially if I am working hard at something. I can't work if I have any of those kinds of worries hanging over me. I set things up so I don't have to worry about it. I employed an ex policeman to look after me and the whole thing sort of snowballed. Remember, I don't tell people how to do their jobs, but I want to be safe, protected. Except today, I wanted to be off the grid."

She stroked his chest and moving closer, threw her leg over his hip, her head in the crook of his arm. "I want to keep you a secret, for a little longer."

David's breath jammed in his throat. It was the first time Henrietta had ever spoken of a future with him.

"You can go off the grid any time with me. You will be perfectly safe, I promise," he said, pulling her over on top of him. He put his arms around her and held her close, put his head next to hers and breathed in her scent.

He was in love with her, he realised, but was too scared to say anything yet, scared he would frighten her off. He had been attracted to her from the first, had found her sexy. Her appeal had been his desire to break through the control he was certain masked a very different person.

He had instinctively known, under her often expressionless face and carefully prepared speech a completely different person hid. He had been certain the cool, calm Henrietta Steyn was a façade, a fabrication that allowed her to function. At first, he wanted to find out how she ticked, what drove her and most of all, why she built that intricate and impregnable mask. He had wanted to break that down, dig out her secrets. But the longer he spent in her company, the less he wanted to do that.

Why?

Because he wanted her to want to tell him her secrets, he didn't want to pry them out of her. He wanted to protect her and part of that protection was helping her remain herself. Her secrets were no longer a challenge to him, they were part of her and, he had realised over time, he found other things he liked as much, found as sexy or intriguing.

### * * *

"IS THE shower anywhere as good as yours at home?" he asked, with a grin.

"Shall we try it out?" she replied. Flirtatious again, thought David, pleased with their progress.

He followed her into the bathroom and stood watching her as she tried to fit all her hair under the shower cap.

It was pretty plush he decided, looking around, although smaller than the one at her home.

Not for the first time, he marvelled at the way Henrietta moved about naked, naturally, without shame or coquetry, and once again, he marvelled at the way she had kept her body in shape. She had no cellulite, no stretch marks, she was an even colour all over her body and she was forty-three years old.

Still playful in the shower, she lathered him with her soap, washing it off with the hand nozzle. The soap was the same as she had at home and in the confines of the shower the smell seemed all around him. She was all around him and he felt himself slipping, losing control, gaining focus.

He reached down, slipped his arm around her lower back and picked her up onto his hips. He ripped her shower cap off, directing the stream of water over her breasts and face. Henrietta made a small noise in protest, but he rolled a thick chunk of her hair around his wrist, pulled her head back and silenced her protests with his mouth.

TEN minutes later, she stood in front of the mirror, her wet hair lying down her back, her face expressionless.

"I'd better call Mary. I can't do anything with this," she said, distressed, "I have to get back to work and I can't do it."

"Mary. What for?"

"I can't get my hair dry and..." she said, her hands flapping ineffectually.

David pushed her down onto the stool in front of the mirror, carefully removed the ribbons, and rubbed her hair vigorously with a towel.

He dug about in the cupboards for a hair dryer, and they watched their back to front faces in the mirror as he dried her hair, brushed it out, untangled the knots. He handled her hair expertly, never pulling or tangling it, until it lay against her back exactly as Mary did it, every day.

"I've been washing and drying Kim's hair for years," he told her. "I love doing it, and I love your hair. I could brush it all day. I can do a French plait, but I am not sure I am capable of some of the more complicated things Mary does to yours. I love your hair," he said, again, "each time I see you it is done a different way and it is beautiful."

He helped her dress, dressed himself and they rode back down the lift.

Energised and happy David glanced at his watch. He would collect Kim from school. He didn't think he would get much useful work done today anyway.

### * * *

THE following morning David received an email from Henrietta. The subject was Proposal, and in the body of the email a formal letter:

Dear Sir

Our recent communication with regard the property in which you have a current interest refers:

I was considering attaching a map with the particulars of the property, however, I realised you have already availed yourself of most of the relevant details.

I will be available at my office at 10.00am tomorrow morning to go over any specific features of interest that we might have inadvertently missed.

As always, please be assured of my continued attention.

I am sorry if upon the occasion of our last engagement, I was a little rushed. I shall, at this opportunity make up for my dereliction, and will put my watch aside.

I look forward to your earliest response.

Yours sincerely, Henrietta Steyn.

HE THREW back his head and laughed. What a find. What a woman... he wasn't sure how he was going to hold off until tomorrow, half way through the morning too.

How on earth did Robbie manage this?

### * * *

FROM his office next door, Robbie heard David laugh, long and hard and he grinned in response, he couldn't help it. David sounded happy and carefree. Robbie hadn't heard his friend laugh like that for a long, long time.

Man, that woman must be special, he thought with a smirk. David hadn't turned up in the gym for the last few days, but had been looking a little stiff all the same. Robbie decided to lay off with the comments for a while, though. David was much bigger, and could flatten him if he wasn't careful.

Still smiling, he opened an email from the Zimbabwe office with photographs taken outside the block of flats in Borrow Street. A short note informed him that the first twelve photos were of the occupants of the block of flats. The others, further down, had been seen entering the flats and could be visitors rather than residents.

The first photo, of a middle aged black couple, obviously married, probably going to church was followed by a series of a stunningly pretty mixed-race girl, with a naughty face and a cute little body. The photographer had obviously liked her. There were several, and full length ones too.

Robbie scrolled down to an image of a black girl, probably about twenty-five years of age, with the looks many black models strive for nowadays: long thin body, chiselled features, shaved hair. She was maybe a model, probably a prostitute, he thought.

The next shot of a white couple, who judging by their ruddy, red veined cheeks and the plastic bags they clutched were drunks and below them, a picture of a man standing next to a dark, low slung vehicle. He had one hand on the roof, the other on the open door, the shot taken slightly side on.

He had a long thin nose, full mouth and green eyes. His hair, worn longish and speckled with grey, receded slightly above the temples.

Robbie stopped scrolling; certain this was the same man he had seen twice. Same tilt to the head, same wide shoulders. Robbie studied the sharp-featured, exotic face; the cruel mouth and strange eyes, set deep against a dark skin. What race he wondered, Mediterranean? No, not with green eyes. Irish? No, too dark-skinned.

Robbie scrolled down to the label at the bottom of the photograph.

Eugene Leclerc.

Stunned, he stared at the name and back at the photograph again.

Eugene was living in the block of flats that Lisa had occupied all those years ago, and Eugene had been in Randburg at the Henri Properties building.

What on earth did it mean?

Robbie had not recognised Eugene in this photograph, although it was common knowledge he could appear white if he wished. He had seen mug shots of him in the police files, but no inkling the man he had seen twice was Eugene Leclerc.

Sharleen had called him good looking; a badass. Now, studying the image on his screen, Robbie accepted he had not fully considered the significance of her words. He was forced to concede that even at his age, Eugene Leclerc had a look that appealed to women: dark, mysterious, dangerous.

He could have posed for this photo; he looked that good, standing against the shiny car, his shirt open to reveal a gold chain, a distant look in his eye. Or perhaps he was photogenic?

Robbie forwarded the email to David, but decided to keep the connection with Henri Properties to himself for the moment.
Chapter 50

EUGENE understood reward and punishment, and he understood control. He insisted Lisa maintain a strict diet regimen of healthy foods, with the occasional 'treat.' Once a week, he allowed her a soft serve ice-cream from Eskimo Hut. Free to choose the occasion she often made quite a ritual of the event, savouring each sensation: the cold on her tongue, the unaccustomed sweetness, the sticky residue on her lips.

The previous day, Eugene had told her he would be gone for some time. Lisa merely existed without him, performing daily tasks as rituals, her life monotone. Often away for months at a time, he didn't always tell her before he left.

The small lift from the Eskimo Hut ice cream dissipating, Lisa walked into her flat to find a square off white envelope in her invitation holder.

She opened the envelope with shaking hands, and slid the card out. Oh boy. She flew into the bedroom, to find Rose waiting for her.

"I went to Eskis" stammered Lisa. "I thought he was out of town."

Lisa struggled out of her clothes and lay on the table for Rose to attend to her. Luckily she had been waxed recently, and Rose need only look for any stray hair she had missed. Lying on the massage table, she found herself relaxing.

Rose cut the massage short, sending her through to the bath. The heavy scent, which soaked deep into her skin, enveloped the room. Rose used the spray to pummel Lisa's skin until it took on a reddish glow, careful to avoid her thick hair. It took a long time to dry, even with the blow dryer.

IMMEDIATELY before the appointed time, Rose stepped back to survey her charge. According to instructions, Lisa wore black spike heeled shoes, a black velvet collar studded with shiny stones, and a matching velvet hair clip. Her hair, a long, thick rope reaching half way down her back, lay smooth, every hair in place. Her dark brown eyebrows, plucked in high arches accentuated her wide eyed, innocent look.

Stunning, tall and lithe, her dark eyes sparkling with anticipation, Lisa couldn't wait to get on with her evening. She did not like surprises, but always made an exception for Eugene, and impatiently moved away from Rose, wanting to get away, get on with her evening.

SHE walked through the inter-leading door, her high heels clicking on the parquet floor. Nervous, her fear lent an edge to her anticipation. Simple instructions tonight: kneel on the mat. She went over to her mat and knelt down, positioning her feet carefully to minimise cramping.

Lisa knew the rules. Once on the mat, she was not to move, even if her ankles were killing her. She carefully positioned herself, with her feet facing slightly inwards, her hands, palm face up on her widely spread thighs. She tried to wriggle to make sure she wouldn't hurt her feet, but couldn't tell if the buckles on her shoes would rub, or if they would make marks on her butt. Her hair hung on one side of her neck, lying over one breast leaving the other exposed. Lisa had waited in this position many times and it never failed to arouse her.

The door into the room opened and her heart rate increased in anticipation, as she heard the footsteps coming across towards her. Her eyes down she noticed her one exposed nipple tighten. The footsteps halted behind her.

He did not move, and did not say anything, but Lisa, well trained, kept her eyes on the mat.

She heard him move again, around to her front, his black boots coming into sight. Scuffed black, leather boots. Huge black boots, slightly worn, the laces loose up the front. Too big for Eugene, as were the parts of the legs she could see.

Lisa's head jerked up, and she screamed at the sight of the man standing before her.

A huge black man, with muscles that seemed to bulge out everywhere and a head shaved so closely it shone. Dressed entirely in black, he had several gold chains around his neck and a string bracelet knotted around his wrist.

She slithered backwards, her hands supporting herself on the floor, her legs gaping open. He stared down at her, his expression unchanging, hers wide-eyed with surprise and horror. Their eyes met, and in that brief second of contact, Lisa realised he must have been invited into the room by Eugene.

And she had moved position.

Eugene would be furious. She had not only moved, but screamed and shrunk from someone to whom she had been given as a play toy. The black man did not move, simply stood staring down at her, his hands by his side.

Lisa scurried back into position, her hands on her thighs, eyes down, inviting the man to continue; overlook that she had rejected him in fear..., revulsion. His boots remained in her vision for a minute, finally moving around her mat. She tracked the sound of his footsteps, through the room, until they faded away.

Lisa began to shake. A sheen of sweat covered her body and her stomach churned. She didn't know what she should do. Should she remain on the floor in the hope he would come back, or should she get up and run away? Hide.

Kneeling on the mat, Lisa realised she had made a huge mistake and would pay for it dearly. When it came to making decisions in their sex lives, Eugene had always ruled supreme, always providing her direction. She could only touch him, or herself, with his express permission.

Terrified of the consequences of her infraction, she remembered the beating he had given Marianne, the girl sent to him for punishment.

Smothering a sob, Lisa knew it would be as bad, or worse, and she wanted to curl up in her bed and will the problem away.

She eventually concluded, the black man would not be coming back and rose from the mat, before returning to her own flat. There, Rose handed her a cup of tea, the usual impassive expression on her flat, round face.

Lisa fought off hysteria, as Rose helped her into the shower and later to bed.

She tossed and turned all night, her stomach in knots. Fear and anticipation, rolling through her stomach.

### * * *

SITTING at her desk the following day, her face blank and controlled, Lisa relived the events of the previous evening. She wondered what Eugene would do as punishment. He would punish her, of that she had no doubt, and he expected her to take whatever he dished out.

He had introduced her to most of the contents of his playroom, but always carefully, within the boundaries of what she could cope with. She had always been confident he was in control, that he knew how far she could go.

He began training her from the beginning. At Barham Green Hall, he induced her to lie still, learn to control her body. Later at the academy he moved on to bondage, restraining her body until she felt completely helpless, under his control. Tied up and blind folded, her senses heightened, the lightest feather touch magnified, the pleasure amplified. That pain too, made pleasure greater. He set up little tests of compliance, and if she failed, he punished her accordingly.

He had always demonstrated to her, that sexually he was her master, in every way. Sexually he called all the shots, and he never let her forget it.

He introduced her slowly to many of the toys he later kept in his play room. The wrist restraints, the knee spreaders and in Chelsea, rope bondage.

He taught her control. He taught her that given more control, her release would be that much better.

He forced her to yield to her senses, demonstrated that physical gratification wasn't the ultimate.

He taught her the various positions of supplication, sometimes prone, sometimes painful. Once she moved into her flat, and he had a playroom at his disposal, Eugene pushed her limit's further and further.

INVOLUNTARILY, Lisa's mind skittered back to Marianne, the woman who enjoyed going to nightclubs, picking on younger men and teasing them until they raped her. She drove them to rough sex with her and afterwards, flaunted her infidelities, taunting and goading her husband. She boasted to Eugene about how and why she did this, how she enjoyed driving her lovers to distraction.

Her husband asked Eugene to punish Marianne, to teach her respect, because he couldn't.

And Eugene complied.

LISA remembered the sounds of that night. Eugene's soft, cold voice; Marianne's accented one, sneering and arrogant at first, scared and pleading later.

How Marianne had flounced off to the door intending to leave; her frightened face when she realised she couldn't get out, could find no door handle.

Lisa remembered the screams as the cane impacted, the begging. Marianne's offers of her body to Eugene, if he would only stop. If he would stop the cane lashing down on the exposed flesh of her body.

Lisa also remembered the sights; Marianne pulled tightly against the bench, her legs apart, the wide strap pulled tight around the small of her back, her hands pulled forward, as if in supplication, her buttocks slightly raised, exposing her. Her inability to move, to get away. She remembered the way Marianne's body squirmed, the muscles in her back and thighs taut and glistening with sweat, her attempts to break free from her restraints, and her despair at her inability to do so.

LISA squirmed in her chair, her hands moving involuntarily to her backside, her stomach churning.

That night, Eugene seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself, his body displayed in a tight long sleeved jersey, skin tight pants.

She remembered how he set Marianne up, allowing her to talk herself into the punishment she later received. He made her strip off her own clothes, and then, aware she was about to be beaten, walk over to the bench, prostrate herself upon it. He made her do that herself, did not touch her until she submitted.

Then he touched her.

He stroked her arm as he pulled the restraints tight, he smoothed her back and buttocks when he placed the wide strap around the small of her back. Fondled her legs as he tied her ankles apart.

It had not been a caress, Lisa remembered, it had been a rape.

He adopted the persona of a Bulawayo 'goffal,' speaking with an accent Lisa remembered from her days at the Convent. He had corn-rowed his hair, a diamond studded his one ear, and his clothes were skin tight, displaying his body.

Sexy. Savage.

He had swaggered about, showing off his body, speaking non-stop in his soft voice. He placed the first stroke across Marianne's slightly upraised buttocks, marking the next assault, bringing the cane down hard, viciously.

Now Lisa knew why he had made her watch that day. A demonstration. A preview of something he knew he would do to her one day. She realised the day had arrived and she was scared.

Terrified.

She wondered if she would be able to talk to Eugene, apologise. Try to make him understand she had got a fright. Palms sweating, Lisa knew he would not understand and she did not know when she would have an opportunity to talk to him, to explain. She recalled Marianne's attempts, and that she, Lisa, had almost laughed at the idea of Eugene accepting an offer of sex instead of carrying out her punishment.

Lisa felt ill, her stomach churning and she had diarrhoea. She couldn't concentrate and Mrs. Simpson had given her a few strange looks.
Chapter 51

MRS Simpson eventually sent Lisa home at lunch, assuming she was coming down with something.

Concerned her flat would only remind her of what was in store for her, she resisted, but eventually capitulated. Once in the safety of her room, she lay on her bed and almost immediately fell asleep. When she awoke at 5.00pm, she found a prepared plate of cold meats in the kitchen nook.

Eugene had given Rose explicit instructions of exactly how he wanted Lisa prepared and she would have soon been woken anyway. Rose required adequate time to get through all his instructions, starting with a long bath, followed by a massage, manicure, pedicure. In fact the works. He wanted no body hair and Lisa to be dressed exactly as she had been the previous day. Present in his playroom at 7.00pm sharp.

When Rose told Lisa she needed to get started, Lisa's eyes opened in shock.

"Has Eugene come back?"

Rose nodded.

"Did you see him?"

Rose nodded again.

Lisa leaped up from the stool and ran over to the entrance door. The card was exactly the same as the one yesterday. Nothing unusual about that though. Eugene didn't have many different cards for her, unlike Rose whom he always provided with detailed instructions.

As Lisa stood looking down at the card in her hand, she began to shake. Her mouth went dry and her stomach felt weak.

Rose came over and taking Lisa's arm led her into the bathroom, and laid her on the massage table.

Later, Lisa lay in the hot, perfumed water of the full tub, dipping her head under the water, allowing Rose to massage shampoo into her scalp. By 6.50pm, she had been pampered in every possible way, her hair washed, dried and brushed into a rope held at her neck. She had been massaged: her face, her feet, her body.

Even after all this, Lisa wasn't relaxed. She was scared, excited, terrified. She bit her lips and pushed her stomach with her fists. Her eyes darted about and it seemed to Rose that Lisa's pupils were dilated. At precisely 7.00pm Lisa went through to Eugene's play room and knelt, dressed exactly as she had been the previous evening.

This time she had to wait longer until she heard foot-falls on the carpet. She didn't know what to expect. Would Eugene send the black man again? Would he be there if the black man was? Lisa could only hear one person in the room, but knew the carpet dulled sounds, as did the soundproofing in the room.

Exactly as the previous evening, the foot falls stopped behind her. Then moved slowly around her.

Lisa thought she recognised Eugene's soft sided canvas boots, but she was not about to look up to check. This time, she kept her eyes down.

Eugene stepped to the side and moved around to her back again. After a beat, Lisa felt something touch her hair, and run down her spine. It was smooth, but stiff. She didn't know what it was, but it traced a hot line down her spine. Starting at the top of her neck, down her shoulder and along the back of her arm. Then the other shoulder. A moment, and she felt it at her lower back, tracing its way down into her crack, up again, and across first one buttock and then another. Eugene moved to her left side, and traced along her thigh and she could see what he held.

A cane.

The sight of the thin white cane gave Lisa such a rush, she thought she would faint. She felt light headed, her mouth dry.

Eugene traced lines all over her front. Along her collar bones, around her breasts, pushing her hair out of the way to give him access to her nipple. Down to her stomach. He traced lines on her face and in her hair, playing with her lips with the tip of the cane. He moved his attention to her thighs, starting right at the top on the inside, pressing harder than before. Lisa saw a small red mark appear on her skin as the cane moved down her thighs.

She remembered what marks the cane made, even when tapped lightly on bare skin.

Finally, he put the end of the cane under her chin and used it to force her head up, until she could see him. Lisa's eyes widened, her breath locked in her throat. Eugene had corn-rowed his hair, ending in beads at the back of his neck, and he wore a black, long sleeved cashmere T-shirt. A diamond studded his ear.

"LISA," Eugene said softly, "are you tied?"

Puzzled at his question, she shook her head.

"Can you move? Can you get up?"

She nodded her head this time.

"You are free to go," he said, "any time. You can get up, walk through that door and out of my life."

Numb, Lisa stared up at him. He wanted her to leave! She was certain she could not live without him. Her whole life revolved around him. Happy to relinquish control to him, she loved what he made her feel in his play room. Needed him to control and direct her life.

Her eyes filled with tears and emotion drained from her face.

Eugene continued, "I don't hold you here by force. You come into this room always of your own free will?"

Lisa nodded.

"So, you accept my conditions? Unconditionally?"

Lisa nodded again.

"Crap," he said, in a soft menacing voice, "you fucking, racist bitch."

Lisa's eyes dropped and Eugene hit her sharply under her chin with the point of the cane.

"You are a racist. Is that what you see when I come here? A half caste? Someone not good enough for your white body?"

Lisa shook her head. "No," she whispered, "I got a fright. I thought it was you, and when I looked up...."

"You saw a black guy," he interrupted. "If he had been white, would you have slithered away?"

Eugene paused, before resuming with his soft, silky voice. "No, I don't think you would have."

Lisa dropped her eyes again. He was probably right; she would not have been as frightened.

Eugene tapped her sharply under her chin again, hard enough to make her eyes water.

"I'm sorry, Eugene," she whispered, "it won't happen again. I am sorry, please don't send me away. I'll do anything, but please don't send me away. I'll..."

"Don't call me by my name in here," he interrupted. "In here, I call all the shots. Understand? You don't open your mouth unless I ask you something."

Lisa nodded.

"I decide what happens in here. I send in a black guy to fuck you, you fuck him. Understand? Now, you can walk out of here Lisa, but be sure, you will never see me again. Ever. You can always leave, any time you want, I won't stop you, but you choose to stay, you stay on my terms. You understand?"

Lisa nodded again, hope once more in her eyes.

"You will take your punishment."

Lisa felt as if a bucket of water had been thrown over her. Intense sensation swept through her body ending at her crotch, blood pooling, pushing against her skin.

Eugene put pressure on the cane, and Lisa rose slowly to her feet, unsure her body would react. She felt heavy and lethargic, as if she were drugged. Terrified and excited at the same time.

Eugene pointed with the cane towards the bench, and Lisa moved slowly towards it, teetering on her high heels. She did not once think of bailing out, of leaving the room, although she could have.

She paused before the bench, her hands on the smooth leather and slowly, lowered herself down. She had laid here before, many times, but had never felt this exposed before.

Eugene leaned over and tied a wide strap across her lower back. He tethered first her left wrist before he went around and tied her right wrist down onto the table with thick leather straps. His hands brushed her skin as he buckled the straps, reminding her of his dominance, reminding her of the night he punished Marianne.

Lisa tracked the cane, dragging a path of fire down her spine. Eugene tapped the cane against her inner thigh, and when she didn't comprehend he wanted her to widen her stance, he tapped harder, lower on her legs.

Lisa, now fully exposed on the table, tied tightly around the middle and both wrists, moved her legs wide apart.

She heard Eugene moving about in the room, clicks and other noises amplified by her fear, but she couldn't see him, couldn't see what he touched, what he prepared. Her bottom wriggled involuntarily.

She was a pretty picture, her buttocks tilted, her long strong legs enhanced by her spike heels, the impression of supplication accentuated by her arms stretched tightly forwards.

Eugene came back to the table and said, "Keep your legs wide, Lisa. Don't move them from that position, or I will punish you harder."

She felt the cane tap on her buttocks, at the top of her thighs, and a second later a 'whish' noise. The lash felt as if she had been burnt with a hot poker. She screamed and her leg bent at the knee against the pain.

Eugene lashed at her calf, "Keep your feet apart and on the ground," he said.

She put her foot down, and wriggled her butt, to try to ease the pain, now dulled to a deep ache.

He lashed her again, about one inch above the red stripe at the top of her thighs.

Lisa howled in pain, but managed to keep her feet on the ground.

Eugene moved slightly, and Lisa squeezed her buttocks together in anticipation. He waited her out and when she relaxed her cheeks, put another red stripe an inch above the other two.

Lisa, rolling from side to side, managed to keep her feet wide apart and on the ground. Panting, trying to take the pain, her body had a sheen of sweat on it.

Eugene moved to the other side, and with a back hand, put another stripe on Lisa's butt, this time following it up immediately with another well placed cut, before she had a chance to recover from the pain. Her legs were now both wildly thrashing as she bucked against the strap around her middle.

Her backside had five well-spaced, red welts beginning at the crease of her thigh and ending about half way up her cheeks. Sweating and screaming she begged him to stop. Her fisted hands wrenched against the leather, the fine muscles in her back and thighs strained.

"Legs apart, Lisa" said Eugene, "I'm not finished, not by a long shot."

Lisa eventually managed to assume the position he wanted, although she still jerked and writhed, her muscles tensing involuntarily. The sixth stripe landed an inch above the others. Lisa, in a fog of pain, her buttocks on fire, lifted her head back and screamed, begging Eugene to stop. Tears poured down her face, pooling on the leather cover.

Eugene knelt between her legs and put his mouth over her clitoris, without touching her anywhere else and Lisa screamed and writhed, mistaking the intense feeling for the cane. He moved his hands up onto her butt cheeks and ran his fingers over the welts, squeezing gently and massaging until he felt her respond. She arched her buttocks up and pushed herself more onto his mouth.

When he pulled away, Lisa groaned and tried to follow.

Eugene picked up the cane, and ran it over the welts on Lisa's backside. He brought it down hard in between the first two red stripes. He put his knuckles on her clitoris and thumb into her, arresting her scream and wild movements.

She immediately stilled and pushed herself back against his hand. He moved his thumb inside her, occasionally removing it to rub around the massively swollen labia, his rhythmically moving fingers holding all her attention.

She could feel her climax building, the delicious feeling tensing her muscles. He slowly removed his hand, rubbed and gently pinched the red welt, now continuous, low down on her buttocks. The pain made her more swollen and sensitive.

Lisa groaned when he moved his fingers back into her. He continued to alternate in this fashion, returning to her welts when he thought she may climax, using the pain as a distraction.

He put his hands high on her backside, stroking and kneading, his fingers rubbing on her hips.

"Lisa, I will not put my fingers back in you, unless you ask me to beat you," said Eugene.

Lisa wailed. "Please..."

"Please beat me. I want to hear you say it," whispered Eugene, mercilessly.

Lisa moved her hips and tried to rub her legs together.

"OK. I will remove the straps now, let you go. But I won't let you come tonight, I will tease you for two, three days. Ask me, Lisa. Beg me to help you out."

Lisa had to have his hand back.

Eventually she whispered, "Please... please beat me."

And he did, hard and fast closing the mark between the next two stripes.

She pushed herself up against his hand, rubbing and lifting as best she could, pushing against the strap tight against her lower back. She gave a low moan when he removed his thumb, but he only spread the wetness all around her swollen lips and inner thighs.

A mass of feeling, hot burning on her buttocks and hot tightness in her sex, Lisa couldn't tell where pain ended and pleasure began.

Fullness pushed into her, filling her. Wonderful, tight, sensitive. Eugene put his hands on the welts on her cheeks. Massaging and squeezing, he rhythmically pushed into her body, slamming her rational, leaving only sensation.

Her body exploded in an orgasm such as she had never before experienced. She screamed as loudly as she had when Eugene had beaten her. Her body shuddered and writhed under his hands, her hips pulled up as high as she could get them.

Eugene continued to stroke into her, building her climax again, rubbing and pinching her swollen backside until she came again, sweat glistening on her skin, her head thrown up towards her straining back, the waves of pleasure coursing through her body over and over and over.

### * * *

EUGENE removed the straps from her body, helped her to straighten and led her tenderly to the shower leading directly off the playroom.

He washed the sweat off her body, smoothing and soothing her. Washing from the top to the bottom at her front, over her breasts, down her thighs and back. Along her shoulders and gently over her raw and swollen cheeks, to her feet and back up again.

Standing in the shower, Lisa felt her swollen skin, sharp and hot against the muscles under them and to her amazement, found herself aroused once again. When she moved around in the shower, her bruised muscles moved against the skin, unbroken, but tight, swollen.

Eugene gently led her out of the shower and dried her body with a fluffy soft towel, lovingly, gently, his hands a caress on her body. He took her to the bed, told her to lie face downwards. He spread a cool liquid on her bruises, gently, gently touching her skin.

Lisa, thankful it was a Friday night had no idea how she could have gone to work in the morning, walking, sitting, driving, with her bruises, and as the weekend stretched on she became more thankful.

Eugene kept her in his playroom, and tenderly administered to her. He washed her when she needed it, soothed her bruised skin, brought her food, tea. Made tender love to her. Allowed her to make love to him.

For two whole days and three whole nights, Eugene stayed with her and Lisa would do anything to have that, to feel as she did. She loved feeling utterly under his control, loved giving herself to him, completely, absolutely, knowing what she did had a reason.

His reason.
Chapter 52

SITTING at his desk, the Lisa Van der Linde file spread out in front of him, Robbie decided to sift through the information they had. Try to separate fact from fiction. He acknowledged he had allowed personalities to cloud his judgement.

He took two separate sheets from his pad and wrote 'facts' at the top of the first one, and 'supposition' on the other.

He wrote 'Lisa missing,' under facts. And then added that Eugene now occupied the flat where she had lived until 1988.

He placed his sighting of Eugene at Henri Properties, as a supposition. He had not seen him clearly, and Eugene did not appear in the photographs taken outside Henri Properties.

Should he put the story of Lisa's driver's licence under the facts column? A story told by an old man, of an event that occurred almost thirty years ago. Could he trust it was reliable information? With a shrug, he eventually added it to his 'facts.' After all, it was what had alerted him to the Lisa/Eugene connection in the first place.

And Rose? Both Lisa and Eugene knew her.

Yes, Robbie thought, I can put that under the facts column, although not that she worked for Lisa.

The Bonanza gold had been stolen, and disappeared without trace. That was a fact. Supposition only, that Eugene was involved.

If Eugene had stolen the gold, what would he have done with it? Would he have sold it, or hidden it? Or diluted it with someone else's legitimate money? Lisa's? If that were the case, why would she disappear? Surely Eugene would need her around to explain all the money? And anyway, Eugene did not appear to have large amounts of money.

Leaning back on his chair, he scanned the two pages, considering the best way to proceed.

Most of the items listed on his facts page were dead ends. The Hamilton family had lost track of Rose in the late 1980's.

The drivers licence could yield no further information and reluctant to tackle Eugene head on, Robbie decided the only way forward, was to investigate Henri Properties.

He had no reason he could take to his friend, but his gut told him there was a connection between Henri Properties and Eugene Leclerc and a possibility of a connection between Eugene and Lisa Van der Linde.

SWINGING back in his chair he asked himself what he would do if Henrietta and David were not an item.

He didn't know. He couldn't separate his friend's involvement with Henrietta, from his suspicions. He had seen Eugene leaving her office block one evening, and at Lisa's flat in Borrow Street.

His background checks on Henrietta, provided no anomalies.

Like Lisa, Henrietta was tall and blond, and an estate agent. Could that be the connection with Eugene?

Both women were white, and Eugene was reported to hate whites. Perhaps he murdered Lisa and was now lining up Henrietta for the same.

Had he killed a string of other blonds in the intervening years; stolen their money?

Eugene had been seen with neither woman. Was that to cover his involvement in their disappearance?

Or did he perhaps work for Henrietta in some capacity? If so, was it a coincidence he worked for Henrietta but organised a driver's license for Lisa?

He sighed. He was going round and round in circles. He needed more information.

DARO employed Coral, someone capable of the type of search required to look into Henri Properties. She was however, David's protégé.

David had discovered her, working at a lawyer's office and characteristically, didn't appear to notice the strange mannerisms that hampered her promotion.

He saw her strengths, her knack of cutting through red tape, of sticking doggedly to the paper trail and offered her a job at DaRo.

Once given a target, she would track down and cross reference properties, companies and individuals with the tenacity of a bull dog. And she sure looked like one, thought Robbie sourly. He had never gelled with Coral, never developed any rapport with her, avoiding her at all costs. If he had to deal with her, he sent her emails.

David already had her tracking down references to Lisa Van der Linde in South Africa; birth, marriage or death certificates. To date, she had found nothing.

Robbie wanted to enlarge the search to include Eugene and Henrietta Steyn, certain Coral could find a link. But how could he ask Coral to investigate Henrietta Steyn, her boss's lover? He would need to hit on the right tone, first time, when dealing with her.

He had investigated David's late wife, but did not involve anyone else in the investigation. He did all the leg work himself.

He had followed Jackie to Cages, watched her allow Anton to tie her up, beat her, dominate her.

He documented everything, should David ever need the information.

Jackie made it easy for him. She had not attempted to hide where she went, enabling him to conduct the entire investigation alone.

He would need help from within DaRo for this one though, help from Coral.

Was it worth it? Should he jeopardise his lifelong relationship with David over a hunch he had seen Eugene Leclerc leaving Henrietta's office?

He was looking for Lisa, not Eugene or Henrietta.

Robbie closed the file in front of him and pushing it away decided to leave the whole thing alone.
Chapter 53

RABSON Dube worked at the wildlife orphanage. He fed the animals, cleaned the cages and helped out around the place. A simple soul, he liked his job. He drank too much, but he swore this helped with his migraines.

Tall, with rounded, barrel chest and powerful arms, the task of carrying meat to the lions and bags of food to the elephant were easy for him. The smell of rotting meat and dung from the animal cages permeated his being, but Rabson didn't appear to notice.

At night, in a dark alley, this spectre would be scary. His appearance was alarming, mostly on account of his bright red eyes. Inside, Rabson was a gentle soul with cataracts. Son of a scout and brought up on a private game ranch, he was good with animals, understood them, liked to talk to them.

In his workman clothes, old overalls, usually open to the waist at the front, and a cheap pair of plastic gumboots he blended into the background, invisible to most visitors to the orphanage.

MIDWEEK, when cleaning cages, Rabson noticed a man. Noticed the man didn't look at the animals. He watched people only. Rabson thought he was like a leopard. He walked like one. Rabson knew this man was not there to look at the animals, he was there to look for something else. Prey? Fanciful? he thought, shaking his head slightly. However, he watched the man. Watched him look at each and every person who worked at the wildlife orphanage: the tea girls, the cleaners, even the boss.

TODAY, Saturday, Rabson cleaning the monkey's cages saw a woman arrive from the car park. He saw she was alone; not only alone in the car, alone in her head. He saw her gaze track around, not pausing as it swept past his face, not pausing as it passed anyone's face. Rabson knew she had seen him, had noticed him; not like most white people, who didn't notice black people. She had seen him, but she didn't want to see him; didn't want to see anyone.

She was tall, and powerful, with strong shoulders and a flat stomach. She was different. She talked to the animals, like he did. She stopped and spoke to the suricats, their cages close to the entrance. Her face, like still water. Impenetrable on the surface, visible if you look under.

Rabson saw her delight when the mongoose popped up over the fake ant heap and her fascination at the bundle of scales which was the pangolin, curled up against the fence.

Most people who visited the orphanage only looked at the animals, crossing each off some sort of a mental list, before moving on to the next. This woman was different, she dragged herself reluctantly away from each cage, slowly making her way down the path, saying good-bye to each animal.

He lost track of her for a while, perhaps thirty minutes. She reappeared, climbing up a path across from the one where he was busy sweeping. He could see her face again now, saw her linger near a cage for a time, before continuing on her way.

Then, he saw her stride falter, one foot stranded in mid-air. It was as if she had stopped breathing, as if she wanted to be invisible. Half way through a step, she stopped. Then she backed away one step. And then another.

With a grin, he guessed she had come face to face with the leopard, lying on his log staring at her, utterly still, completely cold. Although she was more than ten meters away, she instinctively sensed she was in danger, and she would have been, but for the double layers of diamond mesh wire between them.

Rabson knew the feeling, the leopard did it to him on occasion, and he always found its icy stare scary. Perhaps he was playing? Rabson, grateful he always had the mesh between him and the leopard, didn't wish to find out.

Those eyes. That watchful, predatory stare. The implausible beauty of this dangerous creature, mesmeric. Hypnotic.

He was right, this woman was different. He hardly ever saw anyone react to the leopard like this. Sometimes children did. Recently he watched a boy pass that way. Unlike the woman, when the child saw the leopard, he backed away, first one step, then he kept on going, right to the bottom of the path, back to his mother.

And then she did. She backed away another step and then another. Rabson glanced back at the leopard. He had hissed at her, his lips pulled back from his teeth, exposing the inside of his throat, his pink tongue. Then, as only big cats do, he put his head back onto his paws, and closed his eyes.

The woman remained on the concrete path and watched, for a long, long time. He noticed, like the little boy, she didn't pass the leopard cage, she returned the way she came and turned right, once more out of sight.

He was sure she didn't know it, but she was moving towards the elephant pen. Rabson couldn't wait to see her reaction to the elephant. He loved the elephant, loved to talk to it. Such a clever animal, playful, but never like the leopard. The elephant was gentle, had kind eyes. Rabson wouldn't see her face from where he was working, so he wheeled his barrow around behind the lion pen.

He managed to see her talk to the elephant, and it was worth his manoeuvre. She watched it eat, watched it drink, move.

Rabson, his shoulder propped against a tree, watched her climb up the steps and sit down in the viewing platform.

He had a well-developed instinct for danger, being brought up in the bush, in a park teeming with wild animals. Suddenly fear spiked his nerves. Alert, he jerked around, directly into the gaze of the man he had seen in the midweek, and Rabson knew he was not safe.

This leopard was not behind two layers of wire mesh. He was over there, less than thirty meters away, and Rabson knew instinctively he was dangerous and that he was watching him, Rabson.

Why, he wondered?

And, like the woman and the little boy, he backed away warily, back to the heap of leaves he had abandoned on the path and continued his sweeping.

The woman sat in the upstairs viewing platform for about an hour and she watched that elephant. She watched it throw sand over its back, drink, eat the fresh hay. Rabson had work to do, but he noticed when many people began to arrive, she left.

They bothered her.
Chapter 54

LISA parked her VW in the same space she always used in the packed parking lot of the Academy of Music. She recalled the first time she attended a concert here. How the chauffeur stopped the shiny BMW in the middle of the road, directly outside the front doors, how terrified she had been, terrified enough to face the embarrassment of asking him to drive her back home.

She glanced up at the third floor at the upstairs practice room.

Another world. Another girl.

She climbed the three shallow steps eagerly, expecting to enjoy this evening's entertainment. A Mendelssohn concerto she was particularly fond of; the soloist an Eastern European violinist of some repute. The Academy managed to squeeze him in for a single Tuesday night appearance between performances in South Africa and Argentina. This precluded rehearsal with the resident orchestra, and he could only manage a quick trip to the Victoria Falls, the carrot used to get him to Bulawayo before he went on to Johannesburg and Cape Town.

When offered a ticket as a 'Friend of the Academy,' Lisa had jumped at the chance. She owned an LP recording of the concerto and often listened to it.

Over the years, Eugene had played most parts of the violin solo to her. She loved to watch him play, his body moving, his slim fingers shifting along the strings, amazed as always at the response music evoked in her.

She collected a program, found her seat and sat down. She could hear the musicians warming up, and was once again reminded of the first time she attended a concert here. Also, Mendelssohn, but a different concerto.

The musician performing this evening, looked young in the black and white photograph printed on the program. Good-looking, with a fine-boned, sharp appearance. Eastern European? What would an Eastern European look like? Twenty-three years old, she read, with an unpronounceable name. From Czechoslovakia; a rising star in the music world.

Lisa zoned out, as she so often did, re-emerging when the orchestra moved into place and the Director of the Academy stumbled over the Czechoslovakian's name, in his introduction.

She studied the soloist as he walked on to the stage, violin in hand. He appeared wonderfully confident. Lisa wondered what it must feel like to be that confident, to walk across the stage knowing everyone in the auditorium was looking at you, and still be able to play an entire solo.

He did, though. He walked across the shined wooden floor, very smooth in his black suit and white shirt. He walked well, like a cat she thought, just how Eugene walks. Slow, lazy, but controlled. She could see he was dark-haired, and fairly slim; but from her seat half way along the auditorium, she couldn't make out his features.

He nodded at the conductor, tucked the violin under his chin, ran the bow down the strings and began to play. He played beautifully, fluently, with wonderful feeling.

At times, Lisa had goose bumps all over her arms, at others, her breath blocked in her throat. She knew the piece well but had never heard it played this way before, and it was intoxicating.

The music filled the auditorium and the soloist dominated the audience. He didn't just stand in one place and play as many musicians did, he moved his shoulders and cradled the violin, as a lover would, his head bent over the instrument, eyes hooded. And then, almost at the finale, he looked up. His green eyes held her gaze for a moment before the last stroke of the bow. Her heart thudding in her chest Lisa sat numbed, in her seat.

Applause raging around her, Lisa could only sit and stare; at the man bowing, his violin in hand, his dark hair shining under the overhead lights. She began to shake as he made his way off the stage, with his controlled cat walk, down the steps and away to the backstage.

Lisa remained in her seat until she felt her heart slow and the buzz in her head recede.

Rising, in an almost deserted auditorium, she intended to leave as soon as she could get past the squeeze in the foyer.

She moved through the double doors but paused at the sight of the performer greeting fans, signing programs and talking to the Director. She had met the Director, spoken to him a few times, usually when he thanked her for contributions to the Academy. She wished he would simply send her a formal thank-you note. It made her uncomfortable when he spoke to her in public, effusively thanking her.

She watched the soloist move about the room, accepting the praise of his fans. She watched him bend towards people politely, smile and laugh when appropriate. He looked at ease, confident. When he moved within earshot, she noticed he spoke English with a deep, very strongly accented, voice.

"Ah, Miss Van der Linde," the Director said, with his over-loud, jovial voice. "One of our regular benefactors."

He turned to the Czech, "We must thank Miss Van der Linde for her generous contribution for this evening," he hesitated, "Ah, and ah, and the trip arranged for you tomorrow to the Victoria Falls."

Lisa raised her eyes from the tiled floor and looked directly into the violinist's deep, brown eyes. He had a pleasant smile on his face and spoke to her in Dutch.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Van der Linde, and also a pleasure to speak a language I am much more comfortable with than English."

Lisa stared at him in silence. She took in his dark hair, his sharp featured face above the white shirt and black jacket.

"I trained in The Netherlands, for more than eight years," he continued. "So my Dutch is much better than my English. I hope you enjoyed the concerto."

"Yes, thank you," she replied. "I liked it very much."

"Can I offer you some refreshment?" asked the Director, taking Lisa by the arm.

She looked down at his hand, and back up at the violinist.

"No, thank you," she replied in English. "I must be going."

"Goodbye," she said, to the violinist in Dutch, "and thank you for making it possible for me to hear such wonderful music."

The Czech violinist bowed slightly and equally formally replied, "I have a talent for such musical arrangements, mejuffrouw."

### * * *

Friday 22nd August 1986

I thank god for Rose and Eugene. But do they know? How should I tell them? I should try to practice telling them I thank goodness they help me, every day. Maybe they don't know I thank god and one day they will go away and never come back, and I will be left on my own.

I know they do things for me, without involving me. Eugene has a guard on my flat, he has a man to reserve my parking at the Academy. Oh all sorts of little things like that. Things that make my life easier, that I couldn't possibly do for myself.

Rose and Eugene buy all my clothes and my makeup and Rose checks my appointments and makes sure I have the right clothes for the right function. Rose buys all my food. Every day she goes to the market. How does she get there?

I often don't know where I am going. Perhaps because I was always driven places, I never learnt to go anywhere on my own. I never watched how to look at things, landmarks they are called. I have some routes I know. I know three well, but if I have to go somewhere new, I struggle. I make stupid maps, which only I can understand. I don't know what is left and right.

Last week, I was meant to go to a party in Matshemhlope and I got lost. I drove around and around hoping I would bump into something familiar. When I couldn't find one of my normal routes I wanted to cry, but kept on driving around.

So I never went to the party at all, and I had to go back to the flat and hide.

Eugene didn't ask me about that house thank goodness. I would have to tell him I got lost and couldn't find my way. I don't have to worry he will laugh or tease me, he never does.

When I think of life without Rose and Eugene I feel cold, scared. Like I would have to kill myself.

I don't know how to do many things other people seem to be able to do easily. Like the shopping, and reading maps and dealing with people.

I like to be able to make a system of everything and I can't function when that system is messed up, I feel like crying, or screaming or killing someone who messes up my system.

Thank god for numbers. They are always the same, always correct, no matter how differently you lay them out, they always form patterns I can follow, decipher if you will. I do that when I am upset, but nothing helped when I was lost in Matshemhlope, there was no pattern to follow.

Money. Usually that is the answer to everything, and luckily I have money. Do I pay Rose enough money? We have never discussed it. Maybe I should ask Eugene, but it is something I am scared about. People can be extremely sensitive about money, and I have no idea how to deal with sensitive things. But this is important, and I will have to ask. I know nothing about the value of things. I know about money, but not if I should spend it on this, or on that.

Take my sheets. I have Egyptian cotton sheets on my bed, always white and they are changed every day. They are replaced every six months. I know that, and I know what they cost. I can recall anything I have ever seen, and I see the household accounts.

I overheard the women talking at work and they said there was a sale at Meikles, of sheets and bed linen. I can't buy my pillow cases for the price of their whole set of sheets.

### * * *

"BABE, you told Rose you wanted to see me. So talk to me."

Lisa nodded, and peeked at Eugene through the curtain of her hair. About to blurt out what she had practiced, she remembered to offer him a seat and something to drink. With his cynical smile Eugene took the drink she handed him, the seat she offered and asked again what bothered her.

"I wanted to tell you and Rose that I know what you do for me and I want to thank you for it. I am worried you think I don't know. But I do. And I thank you every day. But to myself."

Eugene smiled at her, "You wanted to thank me, for looking after you."

Lisa nodded her head up and down in sharp jerks.

"But you do thank me, Baby Doll," he said, in his soft voice, "every day. Every day you let me do anything for you, you thank me. I need you to need me, Lisa. And you need me every day, so every day you thank me."

Her face blank, Lisa kept her eyes on his. His words didn't make much sense to her, but she decided to go away and consider them with care, on her own. "So you won't go away and leave me on my own?"

Eugene stood and crossed over to her, "I will stay with you for as long as you need me. When you no longer need me, you will no longer be thanking me, and I won't want to stay. You won't want me to."

Since Lisa couldn't imagine a life without Eugene, or not needing him, she decided she could safely forget the problem.

Screwing up her courage she blurted out, "And Rose. I am worried I don't pay her enough. What if she goes away?"

"Did she ever say anything to you, about what happened to her?"

"No, she only said you saved her life."

Eugene tugged Lisa off the couch on to the floor in front of him, positioned between his knees. He soothed her with his hands, massaging her head with his fingertips, pulling his fingers through the long strands of her hair, over and over.

"Rose is a sweet, gentle soul," he began, his voice soft as usual. "She had a tough life on her parent's plot in Rangemore, the fourth of seven. At sixteen she left home and trained as a hairdresser. She was good at it. She had plenty of practice coming from a large family. She found a boyfriend and then she fell pregnant."

Lisa leaned her head back against his knees, and closed her eyes. She could hear all the nuances of his voice as he told Rose's story. The anger, bitterness and sadness clear at each point, and when he reached the end, she had a tight throat, tears pooling in her eyes. Eugene could always make her feel, either with his voice or with his hands. Not much else, could.

"So you see why I say Rose lives for you?" Eugene asked, his hands massaging her shoulders. "She can never have children of her own and she is such a home maker. Let her be that for you."

Lisa wiped the back of her hand across her nose, staring around her flat, at her possessions, tastefully arranged. The dinner table laid, ready for them. She thought of her clothes, the daily massages, the little kindnesses she had never known before Rose. The warmth and care.

Her Dutch nanny had come closest to that sort of affection, but she had been sent away once Lisa could speak Dutch fluently.

"Not everything is counted in money, you know," he added, and Lisa nodded, aware of that, but also that money was necessary to live.

"You give something much more to Rose than money. You need her, like you need me and she will always be there while you need her. Don't worry about the money, leave that for me to deal with."

Thankful she had brought this up with Eugene, Lisa relaxed. Talking always bothered her. Talking was irrevocable. Once said, words couldn't be taken back, but she needed to bring up this awkward matter. She would hate to lose Rose over something as stupid as money.

Eugene was aware of how hard she found it to vocalise. It was one of the games he played in his playroom. Forcing her to tell him what she wanted him to do to her, or talk about what he had done to her. She would clam up, horrified, unable to say anything, but he won in the end, Eugene always did.
Chapter 55

A FEW days after receiving the photographs from the Bulawayo office, Coral walked into Robbie's office. Her presence there surprised him, but not her customary greeting.

"Sir."

Robbie could not recall an occasion when she had come anywhere near him voluntarily. She walked up to his desk and sat down in her brisk way.

He studied her short, solidly built body with distaste, repelled by her very fair skin, sandblasted with red freckles. Her small up turned nose in an otherwise flat, round face and frizzy red hair, further offended him. She did not talk much, and if she did, it was in short sentences.

She put her fingertips on the edge of his desk, apparently considering her choices. Robbie noticed her hands had short stubby fingers and he presumed her feet had short stubby toes.

Coral had to be the worst choice of name for her. To Robbie, coral was something exotic, something to do with the beach and the sea. A person named Coral, should be someone with the sound of the sea in them, dark from the sun, with dark windblown hair, tangled half way down her back. She should wear a sarong and go barefoot.

As usual, thought Robbie, David did not allow such distractions. He didn't seem to notice she spoke in short, sharp sentences or that she was about as broad as she was tall, or her pale blue eyes appeared to look at nothing, giving nothing away.

David noticed she was persistent and thorough. He offered her a job and when she settled at DaRo, paid for her law studies at UNISA.

Coral hero worshipped David.

"I came across something to do with the Jansen break-in. I am not sure where to go with it."

Robbie couldn't read anything in her pale blue eyes as usual, but allowed her to continue.

"I was working on the Jansen break-in. I typed 'Henrietta Steyn' and the search brought up her name in connection with another burglary."

Coral paused. "I found another reference; from an insurance company. But a pdf file." She did not need to explain to him that a much deeper search, and different programs are required to search pdf documents.

"Like the Jansen burglary. She had been near the scene within a week. She was cleared of involvement, for much the same reasons. Three times."

Coral didn't mention David's relationship with Henrietta, and Robbie assumed either jealousy or curiosity, motivated her investigation of Henrietta Steyn.

"I want your opinion on where I must go with this," she said.

Robbie hoped he could use Coral's attachment to David to his advantage. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his face and forced himself to look at her, his intention to leave as much unsaid as possible. He didn't know how much he could trust her, but decided he should proceed with caution.

"Soon after I came home from Zim, I saw a man at Henri Properties whom I believe is Eugene Leclerc. If you read the file, you will see he has been linked with the missing girl, Lisa Van der Linde. I saw the same man in Bulawayo, at the building where Lisa lived, from age seventeen until her disappearance.

"I wanted to investigate Henri Properties when I saw him, but I didn't have a reason, other than curiosity. Now you have provided a link, I would like to know what companies Henri Properties owns and particularly if it owns any companies or property in Zimbabwe, and if there is any association with Eugene Leclerc.

"What are you thinking? What's in your mind about Eugene Leclerc?"

Robbie took a breath, "I think Eugene Leclerc somehow seized control of Lisa Van der Linde's money and then he disposed of her. I don't know the connection between Eugene and Henrietta, except she is also an estate agent, also wealthy."

Robbie gave Coral some background on Eugene Leclerc and his theory about the stolen gold and told her to look him up in the Lisa Van der Linde file.

"Leclerc is not a nice guy and he knows how to stay out of trouble. We have not been able to dig up anything here in South Africa, and as far as I know, it's the same in Zimbabwe. I am certain he's a criminal, but one way or another he has managed to stay below the radar. He has never been convicted of any crime that I know of, not even GBH, and yet people in the know, tell he is vicious and ruthless. The police think he has committed murder."

Ill at ease, Robbie asked Coral to keep any investigations into Henri's Properties between them. "At least until we know if there is any involvement between Henrietta, Lisa and Eugene, or perhaps only Henri Properties. It is possible we are wrong about everything and Henrietta coming up in our books three times, is simply a coincidence. Although I have to tell you I don't believe in coincidence."

Coral nodded once, her face expressionless.

"I can report to you directly. You will need to ask specifically for me, in order to keep this quiet. Perhaps we should meet elsewhere. Let me know where."

The implications of meeting Coral at the local Steers, or any association with her which may engender the impression he was involved in a relationship with her, appalled him. Likewise, the possibility of office gossip, should they work closely together at DaRo, horrified him no less.

He had to meet her in private and hold the only copies of anything to do with Henrietta Steyn. They could not communicate in the normal office format: emails, office memo's or reports. The risks of a colleague chancing upon them too great, for such a sensitive matter.

Robbie still had the file he had compiled of David's first wife Jackie, back in 1998. He had tracked her to Cages and using the membership of a Nigerian acquaintance, visited the club. First hand, he observed the BDSM world, the clothing, the strange rituals.

"Let me work on that, and I will get back to you," he said.

"Where do I start?"

"I think you should start by trying to find out who owns the block of flats in Bulawayo, and if possible, try to trace companies owned by Henri Properties. We are looking for any connection between Eugene and Henri Properties and with Lisa Van der Linde. I am guessing the Zimbabwe angle will be the easiest, but I can't tell you your job. We have vehicles and a flat in Bulawayo where you can stay and David's father is the manager there. He will help you with getting around. I will pass this by David in the morning, we needed to do some property checks there anyway. Just for a laugh, check out the house the Van der Linde's owned in Khumalo too."

"Give me a full list of property you want checked out and send it to me email as normal. I will organise everything else I need," she said, with her customary lack of social skills. It was obvious not many personal skills were required to look through musty old documents and government file rooms, Robbie thought, annoyed.

Coral rose and left his office, closing the door with a click behind her.
Chapter 56

LATER that afternoon, Kim walked up the steps of Henri Properties and, as her father had done almost two months before, went up to one of the occupied desks.

"I would like to see Miss Steyn please; my name is Kimberley Brewster."

Henrietta looked up to see a slim young girl dressed in a school tracksuit and trainers, standing near the edge of the partition. David had not mentioned Kim's looks except to say she favoured his mother. He described his mother as beautiful and admitted that as a boy 'even he' had been aware of her appearance.

Jackie had been pretty, Henrietta recalled, with green eyes, auburn hair and the milky skin often found with this combination, but she could never compete with her daughter.

In a year or two, Kim could grace the glossy covers of magazines.

Stunned, Henrietta took in Kim's heart shaped face and honey coloured skin that offset her extraordinary eyes. Emerald green. A very unusual, clear green.

"I'm Henrietta," she said, rising. "Please take a seat."

She had no experience with children and no idea how to deal with them. David told her Kimberley had become difficult recently, from being a most biddable little girl.

"Do you mind if I call you Kim? Or would you prefer me to call you Kimberley?" Henrietta asked. She felt awkward and reverted as she often did, to stifling formality.

"I prefer Kim, but at school I am called Kimberley, so I answer to both."

"Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee, juice?"

Kim shook her head. "No thanks, I'm good."

Henrietta, wished she could ease the awkwardness as David often did; but did not know how. She remained silent, waiting for Kim to begin, studying the girl in front of her.

Her focus moved from Kim's eyes to her shoulder length hair which shifted with each movement of her head. Henrietta couldn't decide exactly what colour it was. The underlay appeared to be of all colours, only the surface shimmered, silvery blond.

"I think my father has fallen in love with you," Kim began. "I wanted to meet you, but he won't bring you home. What I do know, is he is very happy, wildly happy. He has never been like this before and I am worried about him. I am worried about him getting hurt, worried you will hurt him." Kim paused and took a deep breath. "I couldn't bear that. I know he won't bring you home because of me, and I also know he can't spend time with you because of me."

Kim leaned forward her hands spread on the desk. "Look, in a few years' time, I'm out of here, out of the house. I'm worried he'll pass up on a chance of future happiness for the sake of a few years.

"I need to know if you are serious about him, so I can plan how to give you guys more time together. I know quite a lot of women who like him a lot, and others who like him because he has a big house and more money than they do. If I am right, and he has fallen in love with you, and you with him, why is he still trying to keep us apart? Why doesn't he bring you home?"

Kim's voice rose at the end. She blinked back tears, her face puckered up.

Henrietta said nothing, her face closed and expressionless.

"Your father doesn't know you are here?" she asked, and Kim shook her head.

"No, no one knows where I am. My school is playing hockey up the road. I climbed on the bus to cheer, and no one thought anything about it. I walked here."

"I don't know if I am in love with your father,' Henrietta began, abruptly. "I don't have much experience in that area. But I do know I like him, and I don't want to hurt him. I don't know how to proceed from here."

Where most people may move their hands or shrug their shoulders, Henrietta sat still behind her desk.

"I also would like to get to know you, but I am not prepared to meet you behind his back. I have never lied to him, and I don't propose to begin now. If he asks me if I have met you, I will tell him I have. If you wish, I will not volunteer information about this meeting.

"I understand the problems you speak of, and can provide you with facts which may help you to understand me better.

"I own this business; I have branches in most towns in South Africa. I own property in other African countries: houses, hotels in Mozambique, resorts in Kariba. I own property in Europe and Australia, well, all over the world. I am not after your father's money. I have built up this business myself. Read what you will, into that.

"I have never been married and cannot have children. I have a small acquaintance and only been close to two people in my entire life. I had no intention of getting into any relationship with your father, certainly did not throw out any lures, but over the course of the time I spent with him, I have found him regularly in my thoughts."

Kim's eyes widened, intimidated by Henrietta's formal language.

"I love my work, have a settled home-life which I do not wish to change. I dislike change intensely; it upsets me greatly."

Henrietta paused for a bit, and glanced through the one-way glass into her office.

"I was unsure of how to proceed with your father and decided not to make any hasty decisions, for the time being I am going with the flow."

She smiled rather cynically at her colloquialism, out of place in the context of her formal language and stiff presentation.

"I did not wish to back off and have been riding the wave, something I am uncomfortable with, I might add." Henrietta smiled again looking back at Kim.

"I am a poor communicator, awkward in social situations, quite the opposite of your father."

She paused, as if thinking.

"I have a suggestion. We can communicate via email and text, media I am far better equipped to use to effect, until such time as your father decides we should meet. You would thus be better able to get to know me and evaluate any future plans you have with respect my relationship with your father. We should, of course, make use of pseudonyms."

"Wow," whispered Kim, "do you always talk like that?"

Henrietta smiled, "Only when I am nervous. Usually I don't talk at all unless it is something I am passionate about. On those occasions I am quite difficult to stop."

"Oh," said Kim, "like what?"

Henrietta smiled again, "No, not today. Now you must get back to the school before someone discovers you are missing."

She reached for her telephone and spoke into it briefly, asking a driver to bring a vehicle to the front door.

"I know you dislike drivers, but please, go with mine. He will take you back to school. He is a body guard too. I would worry the whole time if you were to walk back."

Henrietta slid her card across the table to Kim. My personal email address is on this card, please send me an email, and perhaps you can text me tonight?"

ONCE Kim had left, Henrietta tried to imagine herself at fourteen years old, walking into a strange place and demanding to see her father's lover.

She almost laughed at the idea.

Well, Henrietta smiled, Kim resembled her father in one way. She reminded Henrietta of David, more in manner than appearance, her non-confrontational body language and honesty in her face. Henrietta appreciated Kim's concern for her father. Rare for a teenager, Kim had not mentioned herself; only concern she may jeopardise her father's chances of happiness.

Henrietta accepted she must evaluate her relationship with David. Their continued association had the potential for hurt, on all sides.

Did she love him? Still, she did not know the answer to the question she first asked herself a month ago. If David died, would she mind, could she get over him? Now the answer proved even more elusive. She had no guidelines, no basis for making any evaluations about love. She believed she had never been 'in love' before.

Henrietta dropped her head down into her hands, her elbows on her desk.

Deep down, she knew what she should do. She should break it off with him. Now, while she still could. At the same time, she wanted to continue seeing him, holding him, talking to him.

No man had ever behaved towards her as he did, and she wanted to experience it for as long as possible.

### * * *

"I WENT to see Henrietta today," said Kim.

Surprise and shock on his face, his fork suspended half way to his mouth David asked, "How? Did the driver take you?"

"No," Kim replied, "I went on the school bus and walked to her office. She sent me back with one of her cars."

David was not sure what to think, or why he had continued to keep them apart, but the time had never seemed right.

"Why?" he asked, after swallowing the mouthful off his fork.

"I wanted to meet her, daddy. You've been seeing her a lot and I think you like her a lot and yet you didn't bring her home. I wanted to meet her. You're right, she's beautiful, but she's also sort of scary. She seemed so closed and...posh."

"Posh?"

"Yes, she talked posh and also her clothes and her hair and everything. You know, her fingernails and eyebrows and her hair!"

David smiled. "Yes, she does appear like that. Remember I told you she was intimidating, but she is not like that underneath. I didn't ever notice the fingernails and the eyebrows. Only her hair! I love her hair."

"Oh, come off it daddy, she has an amazing manicure and her face, her make-up was perfect. Don't tell me you never noticed."

"Well, I always noticed she looks good, but not the details," he grinned, leaning back in his chair, "Hey look, I am a man, I know nothing about manicures."

Kim rolled her eyes.

"So what did you talk about? Clothes, hair?"

Kim pulled a face at him. "We spoke about you and I told her I wanted to get to know her. We could have a lot to do with each other."

"Weren't you perhaps jumping the gun a bit? I have only known her for a short time and most of that was during work."

"Well, yes, but I'm thinking of the out-of-work time."

David felt his face redden and unable to meet his daughter's eyes, wondered how much she knew.

"I want you to be happy."

"I know, Baby. I was taking it slow, you know, not pushing things, sort of seeing how things developed. I didn't want to bring her here, and we stop seeing each other and our lives have been disrupted for nothing. Also, I am not sure what she wants, you know. She has a settled, organised life and I don't know if she wants to change that, and we do too and I don't want to mess up our home either. It wouldn't be fair to you."

"Well that's why I went to see her. I wanted to know what she wanted to do."

"And? What did she say?

"Well, she gave this long speech with really long words."

David laughed, "Yes, she does that when she's uncomfortable, or sometimes if she's annoyed."

"Yes, she said she was nervous, but she said she wouldn't lie to you, you know, hide that I came in to see her, but would tell you only if you asked. On the bus on the way home I thought it wasn't fair to expect her to keep quiet about it so I thought, you know, rather I tell you myself. We agreed to start talking on text and email. Sort of get to know each other long distance."

"Is that OK? I mean, are you happy with that?"

"Oh daddy. Everyone texts each other, of course it's OK. It will be fun. I am going to text her today, we organised it already."

David watched Kim run up the stairs and wondered at her generation. Texting. He could imagine Henrietta too, entirely happy in that medium.

He shrugged, glad in some ways that Kim had taken the decision away from him.
Chapter 57

ROBBIE decided upon the flat on the top floor of the DaRo building as an appropriate meeting place. He often made use of it when he worked late, it was convenient and comfortable.

The place had been professionally decorated soon after David moved out, and although it appeared rather like a hotel suite, Robbie had come to like the quiet, and the tasteful décor.

He could use the small office that doubled as a meeting room to speak to Coral. She had not seemed surprised, intimidated or wary at his suggestion they meet here alone.

She knocked on the door and entered with her normal short stride. She didn't look around, followed close behind Robbie as he passed through into the office and took a seat at the table. She declined his offer of tea or coffee and opened one of the folders in her hand.

She began abruptly as usual.

"Henrietta Steyn owns the block of flats in Bulawayo that Lisa Van der Linde used to live in," Coral paused. "And the estate agency where Lisa worked. She owns that too. She owns hundreds of other buildings all over Zimbabwe through the same companies. She also owns the other estate agency in Bulawayo; between the two she must own half of the available buildings in Bulawayo. I won't bore you with the intricacies of the company distribution, but whoever set this up knew what they were doing. Nothing illegal, but someone went to great lengths to ensure it would be difficult to trace ownership."

As usual, Coral's sharp delivery and expressionless voice grated on his nerves, but he allowed her to continue uninterrupted.

"I was lucky, the company registration office in Bulawayo is a shambles. I could look at lots of companies and cross search. It is usually difficult to do that. Mrs Simpson told you she sold her agency to a South African company. I started there. I searched for South African companies affiliated both with Henri Properties and the one that bought Bicknim Agencies. I hit oil only after a lot of cross searches. Anyway, Henrietta Steyn owns the block of flats you asked me to check on. You also asked about the Van der Linde house in Khumalo. That is still owned by the VLC and is now occupied by their manager."

Robbie grinned at Coral, "That was a leap of deduction; to link the ownership of a company linked to Henri Properties and Bicknim. I don't think I would have thought of that," he said.

"So what does this mean? Nothing is illegal. I checked everything on the Zimbabwe side and it is all above board, only the personal ownership is well hidden. I could find no connection with Lisa. You said you thought Eugene killed Lisa and took her money. The only connection to Henrietta Steyn is that you thought you saw Eugene Leclerc leave Henri Properties.

"The only building owned by Eugene Leclerc is in Lobengula Street. He inherited it from a Frenchman, a small shop with a flat above. The Zimbabwe police and ZIMRA have investigated it so often they may as well move a desk there permanently."

Coral made her joke with a straight face and Robbie wondered if in fact it was a joke.

"It's clean," Coral continued. "Nothing illegal. No gold buying or gun running from that shop. On the strength of the properties in Bulawayo alone, Henrietta Steyn is an extremely wealthy woman. She owns many more here in South Africa. Why would she be involved in anything illegal? I don't get it."

Robbie agreed with her, it was weird. "So where to now?" he asked.

"I am going to carry on trying to dig up any financial link between Henrietta Steyn and Eugene Leclerc." Coral said, pushing a folder over to Robbie. "The whole story is in there, how I made the connections etcetera," she said collecting her copy and preparing to leave.

"Um," Robbie said, reluctant as always to use her name, and Coral sat back down in her chair. "You know what I think about what happened to Lisa?

Coral nodded.

"Well, let's assume I'm right, and Eugene killed Lisa for her money, and is now somehow involved with Henrietta Steyn, maybe setting her up too."

Coral nodded again.

"He has kept his name out of everything, I presume for a good reason. He would be rather anxious to keep it that way. You are now party to information he may prefer to keep hidden."

Coral nodded again.

"So I think we need to keep the file here, in this safe."

"Fine. What happens if David comes in here? I thought we agreed we would keep it quiet for now."

Robbie knew David hardly ever came into the flat, but he should plan for all contingencies.

"I'll put a strong box inside the safe, David won't open a locked strong box.

"I'm not sure if you read the whole file on Eugene Leclerc, he could be a dangerous man. Perhaps I am over reacting, but I am worried about your personal safety," Robbie said and for the first time thought he saw an expression cross her face. Surprise perhaps?

"I am guessing, if Eugene thinks you have anything on him, he would be most likely to steal the files, but one never knows. How do you feel about a panic button?"

Coral fixed her pale eyes on him. Robbie couldn't help noticing the light pink, almost blue ring around her eyelids, reminding him of a lizard.

After a long pause she said, "I have done some karate. Although I am not currently active, I can handle most eventualities. I shouldn't think I could handle a full out attack by a man without warning. A panic button with added tracker might be good. I will also go back to sparring classes again. I have been a bit slack lately."

"Ok," said Robbie. "I'll put you on the office list, I'm sure you'll find someone your level, here at DaRo."

Coral nodded and Robbie once again felt a flash of annoyance at her attitude. He didn't know why, but she irritated him intensely.

He added dismissively, "I'll organise your tracker and panic button, and justify it to David on the grounds that I am worried about Eugene."

Coral nodded and left the flat, closing the door with a click behind her.
Chapter 58

Friday 27th February 1987

Ronald finally died.

AIDS.

The scourge of gay people. What do I feel? Not much. A slight sadness, I can find no tears for him. I am sorry Ronald; sorry I have no tears for you.

Rose went to the funeral, but she said I wasn't to go, it would be a huge coloured affair and no one knew he taught me to dance.

I will miss him, miss his sarcastic comments, his bright clothes. He was like a bright wasp, darting about swooping around, always moving. He could sting like one too. His comments sharp and often painful.

I loved to watch him dance on his own, when he felt well enough to. He seemed to hardly touch the ground sometimes, turning circles, leaping and jumping.

I'm sorry Ronald.

### * * *

LISA's father arrived at her flat one evening in early March, shortly after she had completed her daily bath and massage routine. Lisa seldom had visitors, especially after dark and when the door-bell rang, wondered who it could possibly be.

Rose ushered him through to the sitting room, her flat face blank, eyes downcast.

Accustomed to servants opening doors, Johann Van der Linde hardly glanced at Rose, only asked for his daughter. Rose told him Lisa would be ready shortly, asked him if he required refreshment and offered him a seat.

LESS than ten minutes later, Lisa walked into her lounge to find her father browsing through her record collection.

"Papa," she said. "Nice to see you."

Johann Van der Linde swung round, about to greet Lisa in his usual overpowering way, but stopped short at the sight of her.

She did not look anything like the girl who moved out several years ago.

Rose had dressed Lisa's hair simply, pulling it back from her face with a series of small clips, leaving the rest to lie loose down her back.

Tall, although not as tall as her father and wearing a casual pants suit and matching short jacket, Lisa appeared cool and distant.

"Lisa," he said, disconcerted.

He would normally have hugged her to him in his expansive way, but something about her made him hesitate and he stood instead, staring at her from across the room.

"Are you sure you don't want something to drink?" she asked, "I have an excellent brandy."

"Fine, fine," he answered, still watching her.

"Would you like a seat?" Lisa asked, and her father seemed a little confused.

"I came by to tell you we will be leaving the country within the next three months," he began, awkwardly.

He moved to the couch and sat.

"I have to look after the Rotterdam end now my father is no longer able to, and we will employ a manager here. Your mother... ah, she is choosing to stay in London most of the time, I think."

Lisa handed her father a glass of brandy and sat down opposite him.

Disconcerted by her silence and apparent lack of interest in their movements, he finally said, "I came by to see if you are well...and to ask what your intentions are for the future."

He sounded hesitant and unsure of his ground, his customary brash and loud manner absent.

"I am fine Papa, thank you. I have not decided what I am going to do in the future. For now, I am learning to become an estate agent and when I have passed all the exams, I will open my own agency, I suppose," she shrugged. "Well, that's in the future."

"Do you aim to stay here?" he asked.

"In Zimbabwe? I'm not sure. There is not much business here... I don't know."

"You look different, girl," he said frowning, puzzled.

Lisa smiled, "Well, it's been more than two years since last you saw me, and people change, you know, I have grown up."

Johann sat sipping his drink, watching her across the room and switched to Dutch.

"We need to talk business sometime. You will gain possession of your shares in the VLC when you turn twenty-one and you must make decisions."

"Fine, Papa. Would you like me to come by and visit you at your office?" she asked.

"Ah... No that won't be necessary," he said, awkwardly. "I mean, when you are closer to twenty-one, you will need to decide things. For now, I will manage the Rotterdam end and, well; I am not sure if you are aware of how the company was left? My father left all of the shares to me and they will pass directly to you. Your cousins were excluded although they work for the VLC."

"Yes, Papa," Lisa replied. "I am aware of that."

"Oh," he said. "And do you know when we went public..." he petered out when Lisa nodded.

"Yes," she said again, "although I only remember the shareholdings from when your lawyer last spoke to me. Things may have changed since then."

"No," he replied. "They have not."

Lisa said nothing further, and Johann sat twirling his glass in his hand.

"Are you happy here Lisa?" he asked, gesturing around her small flat.

"Yes, thank you Papa. It suits me fine; it is small and quiet. I can walk to work and I have my own office here," she said, pointing at the wall behind her.

"Oh, come on Lisa. You can't possibly think you can stay here when you are a part owner of the VLC. You can't carry on working at that little agency down the road. Why don't you get out of here; see the world? Why do you stay here in this place...?" he faded out, his hands sweeping her lounge.

"I am happy here," Lisa said again. "It's a while before I turn twenty-one when I will decide what to do with my life. Until then, I will stay here and work at Bicknim. It's good practice."

Johann shook his large head as if he didn't understand her at all, eventually heaving himself off her couch.

"We will be having a farewell party. You will come?" he asked her in English.

Lisa nodded and followed him to the front door.

Johann hesitated outside in the hall as if he wished to say more, but eventually walked out without another word.

LISA took a deep breath, wandered back into the lounge, and finally to her office.

She stood for a while in the middle of the room.

Eventually rousing herself, she moved to her little tea set, ran her hands over the pot and flicked the button on the kettle.

Her little world was coming to an end. She didn't want to acknowledge it, wanted to push it out of her consciousness. Her father's visit had reminded her of it, the memories crowding back. The demands of the dreaded VLC, hanging over her. She could not escape them, but had pushed the problem to the back of her mind for years.

Years ago, her father described the share structure of the VLC. His father, who built the company, had not had much time for his brothers. He resented their attempts to piggyback on his successes. He kept the ownership of the company, retaining his family as salaried employees. He said he didn't believe in diluting property, that wealth is best controlled by one man.

But I am not a man, Lisa reasoned, the flaw in her grandfather's logic.

She would not be able to do what her father and grandfather before him had done. Johann senior had been as an oversized portrait on a huge canvass, large and intimidating. He battled his way through life, forcing everyone and everything to conform to his way of thinking.

Lisa, uncertain she would ever be as happy as she had been in this flat, knew she had done good work here, with everything set up to assist her.

A few fortunate investments and a whole lot of hard work had paid off. With the help of her Gramps, she had more than tripled her worth, fortunate her money was not here in Zimbabwe, where international trades were restricted by currency controls.
Chapter 59

STANDING near the glass viewing window overlooking the parade ring and member's car park, Brian Franklin watched Lisa Van der Linde arrive in a black chauffeured car. He saw her driver climb out, open the back door and speak with her briefly.

He hoped his son could keep up an association with this Van der Linde girl for long enough for him to close the deal he was working on. If his new partners could be persuaded Van der Linde money waited on the horizon, he could possibly stave off broken knees for a little longer.

Of course, Dion was an idiot and Brian knew better than to tell him what he required. He worried about Lisa's invitation to the Ascot Race Course today. In some ways his son was completely naive. If he had told Dion exactly what he wanted, the little jerk would likely have pulled out of the arrangement. His son could be stubborn. He was too nice, thought Brian with a sneer.

He watched his son walk rapidly over towards the tall, well dressed girl standing near the waiting Mercedes. He watched Dion find her a seat on the benches lining the parade ring and then shook his head in disgust when Dion left her there, dashing off to the stables to oversee the saddling of the runners in the next race. Typical Dion, attending to unimportant details.

LISA allowed Dion to guide her to the second level of a tiered wooden seat. A short, prickly hedge grew directly in front of her with a rail beyond it.

Dion talked non-stop. All the way from the car, he chattered, almost skipping sideways in his enthusiasm. He said something to her and dashed away.

She watched his wiry body as he ducked under the rail and away behind a wall. A little taller than her, in her flat shoes, he had a wiry boyish frame, and slightly frizzy hair. His brown puppy eyes seemed kind and the freckles crossing his nose accentuated the notion.

She felt nothing for him, although she was not repulsed.

And this was the man she had to touch. Have sex with. Eugene had made a deal with her. A deal she could not refuse. He told her that whatever she did with Dion, she could do with him, and Lisa craved touching Eugene.

But how could she begin to touch Dion? She had no idea how to go about it. Eugene always touched her first and she usually shrank away from strangers when they tried. Obvious she did not want their attention, they usually gave up and moved away.

Men don't like to be rejected and the word soon spread; Lisa Van der Linde was not available for sex. A few boys had tried to fondle her, usually when they were drunk. Eugene told her to allow them to, but she had felt nothing, except disgust. None of them excited her as Eugene did, none of them made her feel anything other than revulsion.

She resolved to simply close her eyes and pretend. Pretend she was touching Eugene and perhaps she could go through with the whole thing. Eugene never made empty threats. If he said he wouldn't touch her until she touched Dion, he wouldn't. She could count on it.

People began to fill up the benches around her, but no one greeted the stiffly seated, expensively dressed girl sitting alone on the extreme end of the bench. Nobody sat close to her. Something about her made people keep their distance.

Lisa could not see Eugene, although he told her he would be watching her. The awful black car was parked beyond her sight in the member's car park.

Although she normally took no interest in her clothing, Lisa was aware this outfit was costly, not understated. The pale lemon yellow dress offset her brown skin; the short skirt, her long, tanned legs.

Rose had dressed her hair elaborately, topped by a delicate hat and made up her face with care.

Dion appeared not to have noticed her looks, despite Rose's careful preparation and he had not touched her at all. Why did Eugene have to pick a boy with manners?

Lisa drifted off into her 'zone,' her intense concentration committed to thinking through her dilemma, until she noticed a horse walking sedately around the wide paved section of the parade ring. She had not seen where it came from, but it walked beautifully. Its hooves made a rhythmical clopping noise on the paving. Its brown coat glistened and shimmered as it moved. More horses joined the procession, coming from behind a wall, all moving around the ring in the same direction.

Several of the horses did not, however, move with the same rhythm and grace as the first one. They had sweat already dampening their coats, and needed two handlers, one on either side.

Lisa noticed one in particular. It foamed at the mouth, white flecks spraying about, splashing onto its chest and onto the handlers running alongside. Even a few spectators were lathered.

Some of the horses had patterns brushed into their rumps, and either had their manes clipped short, or plaited into rows of clumps. A few wore what appeared to be face masks and all had tiny little saddles.

Lisa heard a bell ring, and watched with interest as a procession of slight little men filed out of a room wearing bright coloured clothing. The handlers threw them up into the saddles, and led them from the parade ring one by one.

Dion came and fetched her soon after the horses left and took her upstairs to the plush member's section. The front had a wonderful view of the whole course, all the way over to the Central Hospital. The glass windows at the back, near the stairs, enabled owners to watch the parade ring without having to step off the thick pile carpet. Several suited waiters served drinks, from a bar against the far wall.

Dion spoke enthusiastically to her almost non-stop and didn't appear to notice she didn't answer him.

Lisa wanted to get back down to the parade ring. She wanted to see the horses again, close up. She wanted to see the way the light shone on their coats, their huge big eyes and springy step. She wanted to touch one, but was uncertain how to ask Dion if she could.

And then she remembered she had to touch him too, and she had no idea how she would do that either.

Lisa spent the afternoon alternating between watching the race from the member's pavilion, and walking down the stairs to watch the runners walk around the ring.

By 3.30pm she still had no idea how to approach the problem she had about touching Dion. Eventually, immediately before the second last race, she decided she should take his arm when he helped her climb on to the viewing benches. She had seen other people do it, had seen her father touch people before.

It worked. Better than she hoped. She used Dion's arm to climb up on the bench and he grabbed both of her wrists and hunkered down in front of her, an earnest look in his brown eyes.

"You OK? You enjoying yourself?" he asked, and she took a guess the look on his face was concern.

Lisa nodded. Then smiled. She presumed it was what Dion expected.

A Franklin trained horse won the next race, and Dion touched her in his excitement. She thought he behaved even more like a puppy. He had a happy dance going, and if he had a tail, it would be wagging enough to knock him off his feet. First he grabbed Lisa around her shoulders then put both arms around her almost picking her up off the floor.

If Dion had talked non-stop before, he now appeared to hardly pause for a breath. At least he touched her now. He had his arm around her waist and she hoped she had given him enough encouragement for him invite her again.

When a horse wins a race, it is taken to a special little pen off to one side for the presentation of prizes. Lisa had watched them with avid interest the entire afternoon. It seemed as if they knew they had won. Hyped up, red flared inside their nostrils and millions of tiny veins laced their sweat-stained skin. They moved restlessly, either their feet, or their tails or shook their heads backwards and forwards.

The Franklin horse proved no different, and close up, Lisa found it excited her.

Dion jabbered while holding her gently around the waist. She didn't follow what he said, but when he paused briefly, blurted out, "I want to touch one."

Dion stopped talking, staring at her in surprise and Lisa realised her statement must be inappropriate.

"I want to touch a horse," she repeated. Dion looked back at the sweaty animal and then over at Lisa in her tailored yellow dress.

"Sure," he said hesitantly. "But not now. Not this horse. Would you like to visit the stables some time during the week? I can find something suitable for you to ah... touch."

THE following Wednesday evening Lisa found herself at the gate of the Franklin yard, in the back seat of the black Mercedes, waiting for Dion.

Eugene kept his word, and allowed her to touch his arm, where she had touched Dion. She had put her hand on Eugene's arm, felt him right through the palm of her hand. When she moved her hand slightly against his skin, to feel the muscles like cords on his forearm, he brushed his finger along her lips, "Uh, uh, uh," he said, his eyes laughing down at her. "That's cheating. I didn't see you rubbing. I saw you holding only."

LISA ran her hand down the horse's neck and the feeling on her palm was almost as sensuous as when she ran her hand along Eugene's skin. She had never touched a horse, hardly touched any animal, never experienced the smooth and silky... warm feeling. Warmer than a person. Stroking the horse's neck, she could feel its bulk, its power.

Dion stood close to her at the horse's head. In any other circumstance, Lisa would have moved away, uncomfortable with his proximity. Now, the realisation that he controlled an animal almost the size of her car, made her feel safe.

She stroked the horse again and flashed a glance at him. Quite different in the stable, he spoke quietly, barely moved. He appeared in control, neither dominant nor over-bearing. Watchful. And the horse responded to his competent hands.

Standing less than a foot away from her, he stroked the horse down its long nose, his head bent slightly inwards, calming it while she stroked its neck.

Lisa reached out and stroked Dion, along his forearm; then down his arm, from his shoulder to his hand. She reached out to his chest and moved her fingers slightly on his shirt. With a slight frown on her face, Lisa stroked the horse and then Dion, firstly with long strokes and then with smaller, circular movements.

He stood, immobile, almost as if he expected her to run off if he moved or spoke.

Lisa, slipping her hand onto the smooth, soft skin on his chest, felt his heart hammering under her hand. She angled her body away from the horse towards Dion, flicking open his shirt buttons one by one. She traced her thumb down the middle of his chest and down towards his belly button, surprised at the amount of muscle on him. His stomach muscles bunched and tightened as she ran her fingernails gently downward.

Lisa heard someone at the door of the stable and looking past Dion, saw his father peering into the darkness at them.

"Thank you, for showing me," Lisa said to Dion, before moving around him towards the stable door.

"Dion kindly allowed me to stroke one of your horses," she said to his father. "I have never been anywhere near one."

Brian took in the girl standing in the stable in front of him.

She was dressed differently from race day, spectacular in white hot pants, shirt tied under her breasts exposing much of her tanned stomach. She had a tennis cap perched on her head, and her long blond ponytail cascaded down from beneath it.

Brian wondered if his son noticed the clothes, or the girl. He still seemed to be more interested in the horse.

Thursday 17th September 1987

I left the stable and went with Dion's father around the other horses. Dion stood in the open door watching me. I guessed I had been too obvious, but I didn't know what to do about that. I simply didn't know how to go about touching other people. It is hard and I could see Eugene behind the windscreen of that horrible car watching me, and I guessed he was smiling inside.

When I could delay no longer, I decided I had better leave, maybe try something else another time. Eugene climbed out and opened my door and when I was close to the car, I heard Dion walking next to me.

We walked up to the car and I thanked him again. And I did want to thank him. It felt amazing touching the horse, and him. I looked down at my hand, the one I used to touch them both and remembered what it felt like. Soft and warm. Amazing.

Then Dion asked me to come again. Perhaps he didn't mind that much when I touched him, after all. He said something else, but I can't remember what it was, something about showing me other horses and the tack room.

He said it was late, and that we would need to do it another day. I looked around. All the stable doors were closed and someone was waiting for my car to leave so he could close the gate.

I felt bad, so I offered to give Dion a lift and he said, "How about Eski's?"

I love ice cream, I love the double size ones, which I am only allowed to eat once a week.

Eugene took us there.

I asked through the intercom, exactly as I used to instruct the driver when I drove in my parents BMW.

I wondered what Eugene was up to with this car, and with me and with Dion, and the Franklin stables. He wanted access to the stables, I could tell; but I would never ask him. He tells me what he wants me to do, and I do it.

Dion had hardly said a word since I touched him. He appeared to be concentrating on eating his cone. I was too, until the bottom started leaking. I had it all under control, licking around the sides of the round blob, but I was trying to chat at the same time, and I fell behind on eating. When I tried to stop the leak messing all over my leg, the whole thing fell over onto Dion.

I didn't know what to do; it was lying there, a huge wet, melting blob, sliding down his leg and onto the seat. I apologised, picked it up and tried to stuff it in my mouth. I offered it to him and he also tried to eat it and now I had ice cream all down my fingers, dripping off my elbow. It dripped onto his shirt and then it wasn't that hard to touch him. It wasn't hard to push his shirt open, and lick his neck clean. Except we got stickier.

I opened his shirt right down the front and ran my fingers around a little, the sticky ice cream drying. I licked it off, and saw Dion had closed his eyes. I liked licking his chest. I knew I was going to lick Eugene's chest soon.

Dion didn't have a lot of hair on his chest and was not as muscular as Eugene, but I didn't care; they are both silky, soft.

Eugene watched us in the rear view mirror and when I flicked a look over at him, I saw his eyes. People walked past the car, but they couldn't see into the dark tinted windows. It excited me.

Dion slumped down on the seat and I was able to open his shirt completely and work at the snap and zipper on his trousers. I ran my fingernails over and over on his abs, scratching slightly until his hips started to jerk. I didn't want to miss anything. So I opened his trousers and slipped them down slowly, careful not to move too fast.

I glanced over at Eugene again and rubbed my nipples in the middle of the soft hair around Dion's erection, grinding and rubbing, my hands firmly on his hips.

Whenever I thought he may need it, I licked the end and teased Dion's nipples between my thumb and finger. When he began to thrash around, I knew what I wanted. I wanted to lick it all up, not waste one little drop and I didn't think he would stop me, or clean it up. I was going to get this. Twice. Eugene had promised, and he would deliver. He always did what he promised.

Dion sounded nice, he was panting and groaning and saying my name, over and over. I wanted that, so I pressed the intercom button on the console. Licking his chest, I could feel Dion was hard again. He had his hands on my little white shorts, and the part sticking out of the bottom of them. I rubbed my nipples on his chest, and he moved his hands onto my breasts.

I wanted to smell his horse smell, his workman smell. I grabbed his hand and pulled it above his head. He moved his other hand above his head and I locked them both together by the wrists. I was about to bury my face in his armpit when I realised what I had done. I had pushed Dion's hands above his head, and held them there. Like Eugene does to me. My mouth went dry and my eyes jerked involuntarily to the rear view mirror, directly into Eugene's eyes.

I realised what I must look like to him, my little tie shirt undone, my breasts in Dion's face forcing his hands above his head. Could I do that to Eugene? The thought made me wet and hot and I forgot about the armpit and smelling there. I took off my little hot pants and rode him. I rode him, with my hands on his knees and my body flexed backwards, thankful for all the time I spent in the pool keeping fit, the times spent in the playroom, the flexibility gained from yoga with Rose. All the time, my eyes remained locked with Eugene's in the mirror.

That was my first experience of sex in the back seat. I've read all about it, and I couldn't imagine the attraction. I always thought, well why not use a bed? Why have sex in the back seat of a car?

I felt the car moving, but that didn't stop me, I wanted to make sure I made the most of Eugene's promise.

Dion asked me if I would come again to the stables, and I nodded. He couldn't know how much I wanted to do that.

I stayed in the car while Dion clambered out. We drove a little way down an unfamiliar street. Eugene stopped the car, and climbed into the back with me. He took off that awful cap and jacket and he made a joke with me. He told me I couldn't spread ice cream on him, but I knew it was a joke. I did it all over again, opened his shirt, scratched his abs, licked up his semen.

Then, when Eugene was lying back on the seat, that look came into his eyes, the look I know very well. He put one hand behind his head and stared at me and suddenly I had something in my throat I couldn't swallow and my mouth felt dry and I had tingles at the end of my fingers and my lips. I eventually held his hands above his head but I nearly fainted with excitement.

I touched him where I had touched Dion and I couldn't wait to see Dion again.

When Eugene climbed out of the car, I followed him and climbed into the front seat with him. He gave me, his 'what are you up to now, girl' stare, and I reminded him of what I had been doing when he was driving from Eskimo Hut to Dion's house, and Eugene threw his head back and laughed, and I realised I had never heard him laugh like that before.

Eugene does laugh sometimes, but it is usually quiet, controlled, sarcastic. He smiles, but usually it is more a sneer than a smile, although mostly his eyes are soft when he looks at me, so I don't mind the cynicism.

This was different, his green eyes sparkled and his white teeth shone against his dark skin. He grabbed me on each side of my head and kissed me hard on the mouth.

" _You're learning, Babe." But he let me stay in the front of the car._
Chapter 60

"SIR," Coral said as usual, when she arrived in the flat on the top floor or DaRo Security.

Robbie nodded.

She pushed a folder across the table.

"I did some more checking into Henri Properties. Dates... Henrietta Steyn started in 1990, here in Johannesburg. She bought her first properties with a small inheritance from the sale of her parent's farm. She borrowed heavily to buy much more. In Zimbabwe and Mozambique... well, all over. Everything was borrowed money. The properties are owned by an array of small companies, each owning a few buildings, a few empty stands. All over South Africa, same in Zimbabwe. Nothing illegal. I guess there is no way of finding out who lent her the money. Nothing to connect her to Eugene Leclerc at all. David may be a little pissed if he sees this." Coral paused. "Where do we go from here?"

"Leave David to me," Robbie said, with a sigh. "I have a few leads I am working on. Give it a break for a bit and when I need you, I'll get back to you. OK?"

Coral nodded, and left.

ROBBIE leant back in the chair, his hands behind his head and wished he could talk to David about everything. He wanted to do what they always did, sit discussing and chewing over the problem. How could he present the facts to David and avoid the main issue.

What was the main issue? Why was he keeping this information from David?

Did he think Henrietta was involved with something illegal? Was Henrietta involved with Eugene and Lisa?

No, Robbie thought, he was worried she was not. That she was not involved with Eugene or the disappearance of Lisa Van der Linde, and had nothing to do with the three burglaries. If he showed David the few snippets of information they had dug up, would David continue his relationship with Henrietta, his first serious affair since the death of his wife? No, Robbie thought, he wouldn't. He would constantly worry about her involvement.

In what exactly? ... In Lisa's death?

Robbie's gut feel was that Lisa was dead. She removed her money from accounts in Europe, after which she was killed, the money laundered somehow. Perhaps through Henri Properties.

Or perhaps he had been right at first, and Eugene stole Lisa's money, and now intended to kill Henrietta and steal hers too. He couldn't take that information to David either. He simply didn't have enough evidence.

He could be completely off base, and there was no connection between Eugene and Lisa, or between Henrietta and Eugene.
Chapter 61

"DADDY, I have arranged with Mary, you know Henrietta's maid, to go shopping. She is going to help me choose some outfits. Can I have some money?"

David, caught a little by surprise, felt things had moved along without his knowledge. Aware Kim and Henrietta had texted each other several times, he had not involved himself.

"Is Mary happy with that? Yes, of course you can have some money. Do you know how much? How about I give you my debit card? Then you can't beggar us in one day," he said with a smile. He thought Kim was happy, excited.

She pulled a little face at him, "You don't have to worry to take me, Mary has a driver and she knows all the shops and what to buy. She is sending the car to fetch me after school. She buys all Henrietta's clothes and make up and everything."

"And this is all happening when?"

"Oh, tomorrow, after school. You see, I have no sport in the afternoon. We are going to go to lunch first at a restaurant to look at magazines and stuff. You know, to see what I like and after, we're going to go to the shops. I needed to ask you now. I never see you in the mornings."

"How much money, Baby?"

Kim frowned at him.

"Kim."

"I don't know. How about I text Mary and ask, then I will send you a text too," she said, grinning at him.

"Chicken ha."

"Nah, I mean, a girls gotta dress!"

"Brat"

### * * *

"HEY Baby, how was the shopping?"

"It was awesome, daddy. And you know, having a driver is maybe not such a bad thing. We went to Sandton...and some other place and it was cool. When we wanted to go somewhere, the driver stopped in the road and we climbed out and when we had too many bags, Mary beeped something and a guy came running up and took them all away to the car and when we wanted to go somewhere else, he waited for us."

David smiled down at his daughter. Unusually animated she reminded him of Jackie. Kim, usually much quieter, more thoughtful was not often like her mother.

"It was great; we didn't have to walk to the car-parks or anything. The car was just there, at the entrance. A huge big Mercedes too. You know, like a movie star's car. Black and shiny and it smelled nice inside, you know like new leather. It was cool. But Jeez, daddy, the shops she went to were nice, but expensive."

Digging in the bag, she pulled out a sash belt and a matching pair of shoes.

"Like this. It will match lots of different clothes and it's classy too. Mary says it's better to have a few good clothes than a whole load of cheap stuff. She tells me I will still be able to wear the clothes we bought today when I am eighteen. But we also bought some fashionable ones, and some shoes. We're going to do make up next week. I still don't know which day.

"Did you know Mary gives Henrietta a massage twice a day? A quick one in the morning, and long one in the evening. She told me she sometimes spends more than an hour, washing her hair, doing her nails, make up and all. Imagine, daddy. Imagine keeping still for that long! I don't know if I would like it anyway. But it is no wonder Henrietta looks like she does. You know, perfect. Mary has been on massage courses, she can do Bowen massages, and she is into Reiki and also foot reflexology. She says when I go stay there, she will do everything for me, you know massage and make up, my hair and everything."

"Oh, when are you intending to stay there?"

Kim dropped her eyes, uncomfortable, "Well you see we have been talking and we think it's best if I stay with Mary and you and Henrietta go somewhere."

"Go somewhere. What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know, somewhere for the weekend and Mary and I can go shopping and if I stay with her, you don't have to worry about my safety. She says their house is well guarded, better than here, and..." Kim took a breath and David interrupted.

"Hang on, Kim. You can't impose on them like that. A few shopping trips is fine, but you can't think they want to have you stay there..." he stopped, suddenly aware of her meaning. "Have you planned this all already? Does Henrietta know about it?"

"No, not really. Mary and I were trying to find a way for you guys to get together, you know, without me around, and we hit on this plan. You see it's the best way and I would like to go shopping with Mary again and get her to show me things, you know, how to do my nails and my hair and everything."

Shocked, David stared down at his daughter.

"I have always wanted you around, Baby. How could you think I wouldn't want you with me? Wouldn't want you around?" He could hear his voice rising.

"Hey, I know that. I didn't mean it like that. What I meant was that you should get to know Henrietta better and you will do that better on your own, and I would like to stay with Mary and learn about makeup and massage..."

"I am quite happy to get to know Henrietta with you around," he snapped. "I'm not going to..."

Kim, her hands up as if in surrender interrupted, "Stop. Please, can we start over. Please stop being over-sensitive about this, try to be adult." David's mouth took on a mulish, tight look.

"We thought it would be best if you and Henrietta went away say for a weekend while I stay with Mary. Henrietta has a place near Port Elizabeth, Mary says is rented out by the week. If you do go to PE and maybe a few other places, and you decide you don't suit, you won't have disrupted anyone's lives here. Later, we can try a weekend when she stays with us, or us with them. You were the one who didn't want to bring her back here, disrupt our life. This is a way to solve that problem."

Aware he had been 'managed,' David accepted he had been outmanoeuvred. Kim was right, but he was not happy about it. Not happy with the idea she thought she was in the way.

Chapter 62

LISA's parents had left the country by the winter following her father's visit, Johann assuming sole control of the VLC in Rotterdam.

Now, in early 1988, what began late the previous year as a few company circulars and invitations to functions, became a flood of correspondence. Each day, Lisa would come home to find her little post box contained something connected to the VLC.

WITH a sigh, she slit open the envelope, and instead of the formal letters she had received for the last few months, she found a hand written one from her father. She recognised his large oversize print. Larger than life, that was her Papa, and his before him.

How could they possibly have produced her?

Once again, a phase of her life was drawing to a close and Lisa wished these phases would stop. She wanted to settle into a pattern, one she could be sure would remain the same forever. She wished the VLC would go away, leave her in peace, leave her alone.

Lisa dropped her head in her hands, considering how she could get rid of them. She could sell her shares, but once her father died, she would be back in the same situation. If a king can abdicate, she thought, why can't I? Why did life go on like this, why did these phases have to come to an end?

Change did not suit her and the idea something out there remained unfinished, scared her. The VLC is like a cancer, Lisa thought hysterically. It grew like a cancer too, invasive, parasitic, all-pervading. It had messed up her life and would eventually kill her.

Lisa wondered when to tell Eugene about this new pressure. When and how to tell him her father wanted her in Rotterdam, wanted to see how she fitted in.

Her father wanted her there to cement his power with the board. With her seat, and her shares, he could do what he wanted, go in whichever direction he wished to take, and no one could stop him.

Lisa anticipated a long, lonely struggle ahead of her, one she didn't want to think about, much less embark upon. The VLC was not something she had chosen; she had been born to it and she didn't want any of it, didn't need it.

Recently, she could only escape her worries in Eugene's playroom.

For once, she was unable to compartmentalise. The problem popped up at all times of day, but in particular when she was alone in her office.

Lisa resented this invasion of her own work, the work she had chosen back when she was fifteen years old, the only thing she was confident about. And Lisa was good at working the stock market. She didn't have to conform to any conventions, yet the rules of the game remained constant. She always had adequate time to make decisions and her decisions were carefully reasoned. She didn't have to answer to anyone except herself, she only had to live up to her own high standards.

She was single-minded, ruthless, determined, intuitive. While these may sound contradictory, her grandfather saw precisely this mix of special qualities back in 1982, when she first displayed an interest in his lifelong passion.

They still corresponded weekly and she sometimes called him, although she usually avoided the telephone. They spoke only of business. Her Gramps never imposed upon her private life, and she reciprocated, although she guessed he was failing in health. His voice now had a reedy note, more noticeable recently, although his brain remained as sharp as always.

### * * *

A FEW days after the letter arrived from Johann Van der Linde, Lisa and Eugene sat for dinner at her little round table. Rose removed the starters and half way through the main course, Eugene's voice cut through Lisa's distracted thoughts.

"Lisa."

She had become increasingly worried as the barrage of correspondence from the VLC redoubled, and of late it was always at the back of her mind. They wanted her to read this or sign that, kindly peruse new investment opportunities or agree to formulate a new policy. She now had individuals writing to her, lobbying to get her on their side, get her to vote this way or that, and she hated it. Resented it. It was not her desire to have any shareholding in the company, but nine percent of any large company is power. Power she would rather not wield. Her father's note had to be answered. Soon.

"Lizaa."

Even with worries intruding, that one word, usually only heard in the playroom, had all her attention. Eugene smiled at her across the table. A measuring smile, and it made her heart jump and tumble. Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second before they dropped back to her plate.

He reached across the table, picked up one of her hands and stroking her long, slim fingers said, "I get the feeling I am second best, Lisa."

His voice soft, he continued, "You're distracted all the time, like you have something more important on your mind than me, even in my playroom."

Lisa flashed a glance over at him in an attempt to fathom his meaning, but he did not make it easy for her. Familiar with the soft voice he used to lull her into a false sense of security, Lisa waited for him to continue.

"You have something on your mind, something to tell me, but you're not thinking well. I think I'll distract you for a few days, keep your mind off things," he shrugged, "then we can discuss your problem and what to do with it."

Could he distract her? For the past few days she had been unable to shut out her problems. During the day, at work, when speaking to clients, when she swam. Even she, with her remarkable powers of concentration had been unable to do that recently.
Chapter 63

Thursday 24th March 1988

You know, I can't think properly.

For two days now, Eugene takes me to his room and plays. I don't think I have done any work at all. I am super sensitive, all over my skin.

It is a strange feeling this; I feel sort of heavy and dull, and I get embarrassing images at times.

Teasing me for two or three days is not unusual, Eugene has done that from the start. What is unusual, is that he has made my whole body super-sensitive. I can't move without feeling, either a whisper of pain, or a twinge of arousal. Each movement of my long silk skirt, creates a thrill of exhilaration. When I move, even slightly, my nipples rub on the material of my bra, a lacy one. I can't stop my breasts moving, they move when I walk and when I lean down. Usually I hate lace against my skin. My nipples are over-sensitive from the clamps last night. Eugene put heavy weights on them and the clamps have little teeth which cut into the sensitive skin. He put clothes pegs in lines around my breasts, and down from my buttocks to my knees, lines and lines of them. It made my skin tight and ultra-sensitive. Each time he removed one, I could feel the blood surging back into the skin. Each one left a small memory, a tiny point of pain, of attention.

He started the day before yesterday, with a flogger, the one I love. He started slow until he had me red all over my body, down both sides and from my feet to my neck, the soles of my feet. I like the flogger, it is soft at first and at the end it is stingy, but it never leaves a mark. I can swim the next day. I love the way Eugene stands there, swinging it from left to right in a rhythm, left right, left right. I know exactly when the next lash will land and sometimes he hits hard and sometimes so soft I can hardly feel a thing. But he keeps going, in an order and a rhythm I can predict, until I am all sensation.

Last night he put a mirror up in front of me and made me watch myself. It was hard at first, but after a while, it was almost as if I was watching someone else. She is tall and blond and begging for release, and she looks like a slut. She looks at Eugene like a slut would. I know it can't be me. I would never beg like that.

I know it is me, though. I can't help but beg, I can't help myself. I begged so hard my ribs are sore and my thighs, pushing against the restraints are chaffed. He talked to me, on and on in his soft voice.

Eugene is like a chameleon; I have noticed before. He slipped from one persona to the next and it was erotic. It was as if he had brought a parade of different men through the mirror. And I reacted to them all.

This morning, around ten, a man came into the office. He asked for me particularly. By name. Middle aged, hair slightly grey, receding at the temples, tall with a toned body. Heavier than Eugene, but muscle rather than fat. I looked up and saw him as a potential solution to my current situation. I am so caught up in my erotic haze, I looked at a client and wanted him to touch me, on my bare skin. I swung my hair to cover my face as I stood and groped about for my jacket, I hope he did not see the red flush in my face.

The journey, intimate in his cosy, masculine car, only enhanced the possibilities. We walked around the property, I showed him the house, garden.

I have been sent to work many times without underwear, but today it is different somehow, and more than once, I watched that man. I watched the way he walked. Although he is much older than me, he is fit, muscular. I noticed his long, slim fingers on the gear stick, on the steering wheel. The scent in the car, all male. I felt his brown eyes on me and I wanted his mouth on me.

Eugene told me he was coming tonight. He says he will take me to Macdonald's Club, where I must find two men, satisfy myself. Can I do that?

Since dinner three nights ago, I haven't thought of the VLC once.

### * * *

"ARE you horny now, Lisa?" Eugene asked, whispering in her ear.

She nodded, her eyes unfocused, her lips slightly parted.

"You want to come tonight, don't you Lisa?"

"Yes please.... please," she begged.

"You can come tonight, Lisa. I'll take you to a bar, and you must find someone to help you out. Find two guys, so you know you will come for sure, and use them to satisfy yourself."

Horrified, but excited too, Lisa groaned.

She stumbled out of the playroom wearing only a short skirt, striped top and the high-heeled black shoes Eugene had laid out for her. Her nipples strained against the rough fabric of the little knitted top and her buttocks felt huge. She could feel her sex, large and moist and tender. Three days of preparation does that to a girl. She made it down the stairs, each step an erotic adventure.

Eugene waited in a dark car outside the door. He leaned across and pushed open the passenger side, and she slid onto the seat. Sitting in the car, her legs open, made the whole idea of finding a man... men, she thought, far more appealing.

Eugene drove to Macdonald's Club, quite a sleazy joint. Not one she frequented. Would the men there be amenable? Eugene parked the car outside the gate and indicated she should get out.

She decided she must make the first move quickly, or she would lose her nerve. She should pick two men together, offer herself.

Excited, her heart beating fast Lisa stumbled through the gate looking for the entrance to the bar. Clearly visible through the open windows facing the packed car park, the pub appeared cosy, with wooden fittings, a long bar to the right of the door and tables placed around the rest of the room. She wondered if it would always appear cosy, or was it perhaps only her present mood.

Several lights, strung up under the outside eaves of the roof illuminated the path and the steps leading up into the car park. The narrow paved path ran underneath a short avenue of trees forming a cosy archway.

Lisa stopped at the first tree and leaned against it, in an attempt to drum up the courage to continue. The rough tree trunk abraded her skin, once again reminding her of her sensitive nerve endings. She bit her lip and rubbed her hands down her hips and onto her thighs.

Two figures paused at the corner of the pub directly under the light. Young men. Two of them. Two average guys of about her age, perhaps slightly older. Not particularly good looking, but passable.

Instead of ducking back into the dark of the tree line, Lisa remained still, watching them walk up the three small steps and through the archway.

She pushed off the tree, and moved slowly down the path towards them.

They stopped and watched the long-legged, tall woman approaching them, as if mesmerised. In the dim light, she was magnificent. She stopped, directly in front of them.

"You guys leaving already? Don't you want some fun?"

Both men stared at her open-mouthed. She turned to one of them, and placed her hand on his crotch.

"What's your name then big boy?" she asked.

"Marcus," he answered, staring at her front.

It was a little dark to see his face, but she felt his penis jump in her hand and heard him suck in a breath.

Turning to the other youngster she asked, "And you? What's your name?"

"Steve," he whispered. "My name is Steve."

"Let's go and have a good time," she said, nodding toward the darkened car park, and taking their hands in hers.

Lisa didn't know what had taken possession of her. She felt sexy, seductive, irresistible. And she knew she was going to enjoy herself.

"Where's your car?" she asked them.

Marcus pointed out a Datsun 120Y on one side of the car park. She walked towards it and opening the back door shoved Steve down into the back seat, leaning after him, her backside exposed beneath the short skirt. She reached for the zipper of his trousers and slid it down. He leaned back on his hands, his head thrown back and when Lisa's mouth closed over his cock, he groaned. She began to suck up and down, swirling her tongue around the head.

Marcus, in the meantime could no longer resist Lisa's backside, right in front of him, her legs open and pushed out towards him. He reached out and touched her and she arched her back towards him. He pushed up her skirt, placing his hands on her buttocks, feeling for her panties.

Her butt felt smooth and tight and as he moved his hands downwards felt along her crack and into her lips. No panties. She was dripping wet, and it gave him such a rush he groaned as loud as his mate, in the back seat.

He released his penis and holding Lisa by the hips, pushed into her body.

She pushed back into him arching her back, sucking harder with her mouth. The rhythmic ramming by Marcus at the back, turned the blow-job into a deep throat.

It felt great, tight and wet. She was excited by the novelty of fucking two men.

Marcus began to lose control, she could feel him grabbing her hips and pounding into her. She needed more stimulation, she could feel her climax, but knew if he came quickly, she would not be satisfied.

She tried to lift herself more, wriggle against his penis, when she felt him flex and slam into her. He held her tight against him, groaning loudly, when his friend ejaculated into her mouth. Streams and streams of semen filled her mouth, and she swallowed it down greedily as if it would help satisfy her.

Neither of the two guys were moving, the one in the car lying back on the seat, the other, holding her hips as his flaccid penis slipped out of her body. Lisa, bent over in the car, afraid her climax had once more been denied, swung around to Marcus, standing behind her. She moved close to him and began rubbing herself against him, opening his shirt a little and stroking his chest. Lisa licked him on the neck and down on to his chest, excited by the raw male smell.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly and his penis began to react.

Lisa pulled Steve out of the back seat, and pushed Marcus down, working on his chest, opening his shirt entirely. She licked up and down his front. She wiggled her butt in the air as she worked on Marcus, prone in the car. She felt two hands on her cheeks rubbing and kneading. She sucked and ran her tongue around Marcus' foreskin. It tasted salty and he smelt like aroused man. She worked his penis in both hands, until it sprung hard again.

Both men had already climaxed and had much more staying power. Lisa let Steve ram her onto the penis in her mouth, clean down her throat, leaving her free to concentrate on her own orgasm. She could feel it building as the hands squeezing on her hips held her in place, the strokes becoming more and more insistent. She felt herself spiral off into sensation.

She climaxed with huge shuddering contractions which bucked her whole body. She pulled her head back and screamed and Marcus sprayed all over her face and into her open mouth.

Lisa's thighs shook with effort, her body slick and pouring sweat.

She stood up and adjusted her clothes, pulling her skirt down. She pulled her top straight and Marcus and Steven watched in amazement as she turned and walked across the uneven roadway and out of the gate.

SHE collapsed into the front seat of Eugene's car and fell asleep before he completed the short journey back to her flat.

He broke one of his own rules by carrying her upstairs in his arms and in the morning, when she awoke to find him in her bed she told him everything. She told him her worries about the VLC, the shareholding, her father, the directors and Eugene took the decision out of her hands. He ordered her to go to Rotterdam to attend the scheduled meetings. How could she possibly make a realistic decision if she did not first see everything first hand, he asked?

At the back of her mind, Lisa knew she should be doing that. But she hadn't wanted to, had hoped the whole problem would miraculously resolve itself.

Chapter 64

LISA arrived back at the Bulawayo terminus carrying only her large shoulder bag.

Rose, travelling in a different section of the plane, came through customs later with Lisa's luggage. As usual, their arrival had been anticipated, and their way through customs 'expedited'.

Lisa knew nothing of this; neither did she know her VW had been collected from the airport and returned this morning, nor that Rose had spoken to Eugene before they left Heathrow and again at Jan Smuts in Johannesburg.

She climbed the wooden stairs to the restaurant, her non-crease beige slacks swinging slightly at the bottoms at each step, sat at a table next to the window and ordered tea, while she waited for Rose.

OUTWARDLY, Lisa appeared to have her usual composure; cool and distant, her clothing matching, her long blond hair braided, her makeup impeccable.

Inwardly she was in turmoil.

She had to speak to Eugene but didn't know how to go about it. She never contacted him. He always came to her, either leaving a card for her, or a message with Rose. Lisa didn't know if she could explain her fears of the Van der Linde Corporation directors to him. She tried to clear her mind, but her thoughts spiralled into hysteria.

Usually she feared the unknown; this time, her fear was of the known. She knew she could not deal with the VLC directors, although upon her father's death she would become the majority owner. Lisa's father, who chaired the meetings, had been his usual overpowering self. She sat at his side and said nothing throughout the entire week.

She read the company prospectus and scrutinised the financials as if she were intending to invest. The VLC was a company worth investing in.

When board members directed questions at her, she often did not answer. Lisa could not function in the boardroom. With more than three people present, even if they only spoke one at a time, she could not process what they said. She heard their words, but the meaning did not register in her brain. She appeared stupid, blank.

During the week she spent in Rotterdam, it became clear Lisa was the antithesis of her father and should she come to hold the reins of the company, prospects would take a different direction.

Lisa did not want to pick up any reins or run any company in the way of her father. The VLC, an international concern, based in Rotterdam had interests in mining, manufacturing and pharmaceuticals.

Lisa understood the money; after all, she thought, numbers were her strength. That's all money is: numbers.

Would Eugene let her walk away from all that money? Could she lie to him, should she down-play how much money was involved? He had always allowed her full control of her investments, did not discuss them with her at all, ever. He trusted her absolutely with any money he gave her to invest and as usual he knew instinctively she was competent and confident.

She had not wanted to travel to Rotterdam for the meetings, but Eugene insisted she was now twenty-one years old, and had a right to be on the board. He sent Rose with to help her get through the ordeal for which Lisa was grateful, certain she could not have managed without her.

Rose used her time to buy clothes, accessories and make up for Lisa. She spoke to Eugene every evening, reporting on how Lisa handled the day. Lisa was stressed. Stressed enough to throw up each morning before the meetings and each afternoon after. Rose was aware Eugene was not concerned with Lisa's ability to understand the complexities of business, but rather her ability to handle the personalities involved, particularly her parents.

### * * *

LISA closed in on herself, unable to articulate her feelings. She made several attempts, but the words did not come out right. She sat staring down at her hands squeezed between her knees, Eugene next to her on the couch.

She didn't think she should lie to him, wasn't sure she could. She couldn't breathe, her chest tight, her throat closing, the buzzing sound in her ears became a roar. Hysteria flickered ever closer.

"I can't do it Eugene. Please don't make me do it."

Eugene pulled her hands into his.

"It was awful; they were awful. Horrible old men and they hated me. They don't want me there. Please," she whispered. "Please don't make me do it."

Eugene remained silent, and when Lisa was unable to make sense, pulled her up with him and led the way into his play room.

He sat her on the high backed chair with the leather seat and soft leather armrests and bound her hands and feet loosely. He placed a soft blindfold over her eyes and secured her head against the headrest, encouraging her to relax into the chair.

The room smelled of leather and polish, genuine wood and of Eugene. To Lisa, it was a special place, one where she could relinquish control, where she did not have to conform to the standards of the world.

The room was quiet, although she was confident Eugene remained with her. She trusted him in his playroom, trusted he had her best interests at heart.

The sound of a flute cut through the silence, filling her senses and emptying her thoughts. The music filled the room, enveloped her in the experience, clearing her mind. She recognised the piece as 'Syrinx' by Debussy, and by the end of three minutes, her tears flowed freely. As usual Eugene understood her. She would tell him the truth and she would do what he wanted.

WITH the restraints removed, she took a deep breath and, hiding behind her blindfold began, "I went to Rotterdam and I attended all the meetings. VLC is in good hands, my father is still managing fine and the rest of the team are good. The VLC is a good investment. But they don't want me. I could tell. They were polite, but dismissive. They can't start to think of how they would deal with me, if I were to step into my father's shoes, although they know I am his only child."

Lisa became agitated again, although Eugene said nothing.

"The job is hands on. I watched my father; he goes to meetings every day. High powered meetings, politics, money; a man's world, all dependant on his personality."

Lisa's voice rose and she attempted to control it with a deep breath.

"The whole company is a man's world. It is not a thing you can do on your own, it needs a team that works together, not a one-man show. I didn't realise until this week how much of a people-person my father is; gentle and persuasive in some ways and in others autocratic, a bully. He has to get his own way, to the point of obsession, and he usually does. He manipulates his board and sweet talks potential investors."

Mostly, Lisa saw through her father's machinations, readily accepting it would make little difference. If she decided upon a different policy, he would only have to bully her and she would fold. She would be his puppet and a hindrance to the board.

"I stopped off in London and saw Gramps. I am much more like him, I think I take after him. Like him, I prefer to calculate things, make reasoned decisions away from the influence of momentary emotional pressures. I don't need the VLC, Eugene," she wailed. "I have more than enough money from my grandfather and I am making more on my own every day. I can do it on my own, in my head, in my office. Alone. I only have to talk to the broker and most the time I telex him, anyway."

Lisa agitated again, ripped off the blindfold. She searched around for Eugene, her hair flying about her head, her eyes wide and anxious. She found him, his shoulder propped against the wall a few metres away, a characteristic pose of his and Lisa, comforted, relinquished herself to his care.

"What do you want, Baby Doll?" he asked gently.

"I want to walk away. I want to run away, hide."

Eugene smiled down at her.

"I don't need the VLC, Eugene. I have enough money. Please," she whispered. "Don't make me."

"Lisa. I will do what you want. What do you want to do, other than to run and hide?" he asked, gently mocking her.

"I want to run and hide. I want to find a place where they will never ever find me. They won't look that hard for me, they don't want me anyway. If we can go somewhere they can't find me, I won't have to worry they will come for me. I will never be able to work with this hanging over me."

"They will always be able to find you; on passports, drivers licences, property deeds. To disappear, you will need to stop being Lisa. I will have to find you another identity."

"Can you do that?" asked Lisa surprised. "How do you find a new identity?"

"Leave it with me, I will see what I can do; but it could take some time. Understand, when you stop being Lisa Van der Linde, you walk away from the money from the VLC. You walk away from your parents and your Grandfather. You will have to move away from Bulawayo and find a new home. Where, depends upon where I find your new identity, but it has to be somewhere no one knows you. Don't you worry, Baby Doll. I'll hide you good, hide you forever; but we will have to hide your money first, while you have control of it all. Before you stop being Lisa."

As ever, Eugene understood her completely and immediately, she thought. He did not question her resolve to run and hide. He did not tell her to suck it in and face up to what, to her, seemed impossible.

Lisa needed sleep, would sleep well that night and for the first time in months, she felt light, happy. Free. Drained.
Chapter 65

"WHAT's wrong, Henrietta," David asked gently. "Don't you want to do this? You don't have to, you know. We could head straight back when the 'plane lands."

Henrietta, in the seat next to him didn't say a word; or turn her head. It was as if she hadn't heard him.

He had met her at Oliver Tambo airport thirty minutes before their flight, taken her suitcase from one of her security detail and guided her through the check in desk. After navigating the long corridors of the terminus, and surviving the ridiculous tilting bus, he settled her in her seat on the 'plane. Henrietta said little throughout the entire procedure; mostly mechanical answers to his few questions.

"I am not good with change," she said abruptly, after another lengthy pause. "I don't function well with surprises, they upset me. I dislike my routine upset."

Staring out of the window, she avoided looking at him. "I'm sorry, this is new to me and I don't know what to do. I have never been anywhere without Mary," she said.

"I don't know if I can function without her. I don't know why they agreed to this plan. They know I don't know how to do anything. I should never have agreed to this." Henrietta closed her eyes, her face settling back to the closed blank look, David had come to recognise screened emotion.

He intended to find seats on a flight back as soon as they landed, horrified he had caused her any stress or unhappiness.

They had both been bulldozed into this weekend, by Kim, perhaps with an assist from Mary. Both he and Henrietta, busy this last week, had little time together to discuss this trip. Thinking back, David realised Henrietta had in fact, avoided the subject and he had not noticed.

He was surprised that Mary, who knew Henrietta well, could have made such an error of judgement. Henrietta had told him several times she didn't like surprises. He realised now, for her, this was not a figure of speech.

She sat, unresponsive for the rest of the flight.

### * * *

HENRIETTA turned from the ticket counter, her face deadpan. There were no seats available back to Johannesburg until ten on Sunday morning.

"I'm sorry, Baby," David said gently, slipping without thinking into his pet name for Kim. Henrietta's eyes flew up in confusion, and for a brief moment she seemed bewildered, disconnected.

"Well, I guess we have to brave it out then," she said, her voice flat and mechanical. "The house is about 80km outside PE. Let's go shall we."

"Ah, we need our baggage," David said.

"What?" she asked with a frown.

"We need to collect our luggage first."

"Oh, yes." David noticed she seemed completely out of her element and taking her by the hand, pulled her over to the carousel.

"Now, we need a car... We need to hire a car," he repeated, when she remained utterly blank.

"Surely the security detail will have a car, they normally do. I mean, I don't normally hire one," she said. She sounded lost and confused.

"Your security guys are here? Will they be out at the house too?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so. They usually are."

"Will they be staying at the house? Where will they stay?"

"I think so, I don't know. Somewhere around, maybe in the outbuildings, I don't know. They are always there," she replied.

"Who is in charge? Do you have their number?"

"Yes, on speed dial."

"OK, give it to me," he said, certain he would not tolerate anyone disturbing them.

David walked a few paces away from Henrietta and spoke rapidly on the phone.

"Right, sorted," he said, handing her phone back. "I am quite capable of looking after you on my own, and yes, they do have a car waiting outside. Let's go."

David picked up his suitcase and carrying it, pulled Henrietta's behind him.

"Next time we do something like this, we'll plan it together, not allow anyone else to get involved. This is a joke."

They found their car, identical to the model Henrietta drove in Johannesburg waiting outside the glass door leading to the covered parking. A large man handed the keys to David and helped him load their suitcases.

"Don't fuck with me," David said quietly, as he slammed the rear door. "Stay away from the house. I mean it. I find you there, anywhere near, and you'll be sorry."

Although the man was big, he was nowhere near David's size. Height or otherwise. David appeared large and fearsome as he stared down at Henrietta's local security chief. There was no trace of the easy going, pleasant man she knew.

"Fine boss. We'll be in the village, use the panic buttons in the house if you need us."

"How many of you are there?"

"Six," replied the man.

Without another word, David walked to the driver's door and climbed in. The SatNav automatically activated, marking the route.

"Let's hope this stupid thing doesn't take us via Rio," he said. "I have heard some horror stories about how inaccurate they can be, especially at the coast. Haven't you heard about the guy who was directed over a cliff in the UK?"

"No," said Henrietta. "But it looks like this car was used to take provisions to the beach house; look at the blue line."

"Oh yeah. OK then, we should get there," he said, concerned his attempt at lightness had failed.

"Have you been there before... to this house?" he asked.

"No. It was going for a song, I bought it on spec. It's on a large property, private and with a good bay; apparently it has a surfing wave and a wonderful beach."

They drove in silence for most of the journey.

THE beach house was a fairly spacious two story affair, with bedrooms above; the kitchen and entertainment area on the bottom floor. A spectacular view, the sea on one side and the fynbos covered dunes descending to the house on the other.

David spirits lifted. "I want to go for a walk," he said to Henrietta. "Do you want to come with, or would you rather stay here and relax?"

"Well, I am not much of a walker; maybe I will join you for a swim later. I'm a much better swimmer."

"OK, but you had better find the panic buttons. I won't be forgiven if something happens to you when I am away. There is no cell phone signal here."

"What about the one in my watch? I can use it can't I?"

"Sure, I forgot about that."

### * * *

AN hour later, David arrived back to find Henrietta standing in the middle of the kitchen, her face blank and expressionless.

"Hey," he said. "This is a great place. I like it, I am glad you own it."

His blue eyes shone and a smile lit his flushed face. He picked Henrietta up by the elbows and sat her down on the black marble counter.

"You sit there and talk to me while I look for something to eat. I'm starving."

He went to the fridge and began unloading goodies onto the counter.

"I ended up running. I know I shouldn't, but I couldn't help it. It's low tide and the sand is hard and I had running shoes on," he laughed. "Well that's as good an excuse as any, I suppose."

He had run, but only after he had been up to the top of the dunes where Henrietta's security team intended to dig in. Three places along the dunes, all with a view of both the house and the surrounds.

"You hungry? Want anything?"

Henrietta stared at him for a short time, as if processing his words.

"I'm not sure if I'm hungry. Can't I pick off your plate?"

"Sure you can. Anyway I don't want too much in my stomach when we go for a swim. It would do my macho image no good if you have to rescue me from a cramp."

Henrietta knew he wanted her to smile at his joke, but she couldn't get the tight feeling out of her cheeks. She sat on the black granite kitchen table and watched him search through the food options, hunt down a large plate to put it all on and dig around for a knife and cutting board.

She could never do anything like this, arrive at a strange place and dig around. She wouldn't know where to start to look for anything. She had never been anywhere without Mary, who always organised her life in advance. She had to have that, she needed the order.

It didn't take him long to find enough to lay out on the plate: cheeses, cold meat, pickles. David opened a packet of bacon kips and several dips in little glass cups, left for them in the fridge.

"Looks like we have all the makings of a braai," he said. "There's boerewors and steak in the fridge and I hope that means there is wood and charcoal somewhere. I'll hunt around when we get back from our swim."

Henrietta had no idea how to do a braai. At all of the braais she had attended someone else always did the cooking; she hoped David knew what he was about.

He helped her off the kitchen top and they went to the sitting room. Glass sided, the room had a view of the beach and sand dunes, the sea stretching away towards the rocks at the northern end of a small bay. The chairs, low and wide, were suitable for lazing the day away while on holiday.

SITTING there, Henrietta felt panic rising again, hysteria close to the surface. She had no idea what to do next. She didn't know where to find her clothes and no idea what clothes she should wear if she found them. She didn't know what to say, what David expected her to say. She was hiding behind her blank face; certain David would not allow her to keep it for much longer. He would try to talk to her, force her to explain how she felt. She didn't know what she felt. She couldn't think.

She watched him put a small blob of dip on a bacon kip, squash a square of cheese into it and lean over to her, offering it to her. She wasn't sure she could keep anything down, but opened her mouth anyway. It tasted surprisingly good. Still silent, he made another and ate it himself. He offered her a pickled onion. He didn't force eye contact, and she was grateful to him, certain she could not deal with anything too intimate. He continued to feed her small morsels until the plate was empty.

When he took her by the hand and led her upstairs, she immediately went into the bathroom and closed the door.

David opened her suitcase hoping to find her swimwear, and smiled when he found them packed in a separate, clear plastic bag. Her swimming costume, sarong, swimming cap, a pair of flat sandals and a beach towel.

He put them on the edge of the bed and pulled on his own swimming trunks.

Her suitcase had been meticulously packed, each set of clothing between a thin film of tissue; her toiletries, in their own bag, were on one side and her underwear in a separate bag. Sure beats scrabbling around looking for the other sock in a pair, he thought, with a smile.

"Let's go for that swim," he said, when she came back into the room.

HE STOOD near the end of the bed, his towel over his shoulder, her swimming costume in his outstretched hand.

Grateful to him, Henrietta felt herself relaxing, hysteria gone. David had known what to do, and it helped her trust him. Isn't it stupid she thought, most women would connect the word trust with fidelity. She didn't care if he had sex with someone else, she wanted him to look after her, understand what she needed. So far, he had.

"I'm sorry," she began, but David interrupted her, shaking his head sharply.

"No. I'm sorry, and it won't happen again."

Henrietta opened her mouth to speak and he interrupted her again.

"No," David said. "It's not you. You told me you didn't like surprises, and I didn't listen to you. It won't happen again."

She noticed a different tone to his voice, one she had not heard before. He seemed concerned, genuine and honest but in charge she thought, as she changed into her swimming costume.

"IF WE are going to do this again," he began hesitantly, as they walked towards the beach, "I would like to do it a little differently. I'm happy to go away, like this, say for a weekend or a few days.

"But I would like Kim with me," he added apologetically. "You see, she's been part of my life for so long and I still want her to be part of it..." he broke off, uncertain.

He wanted to tell Henrietta he needed to get to know her with Kim around, that they too had to get to know each other, but was concerned it would sound too much like an ultimatum. She had no experience with children, had not wanted to have her own.

"I miss her. I worry about her all the time. I keep looking around to see where she is, and then, when I remember she's far away in Johannesburg, I sort of panic; want to take out my phone and get hold of the security guys..." He shrugged his shoulders. "I've already climbed the dunes for signal, and spoken to Robbie," he admitted.

Insisting on Kim's presence might drive Henrietta away, but it had become clear that Kim was more important to him than his own and Henrietta's happiness.

"And you're clearly not happy either. So we don't do this again, hey?" said David.

HENRIETTA swam for more than an hour. Powerful, she stroked rhythmically, way out beyond the breakers, from one side of the bay to the other. David hoped there were no sharks out there today. He had swum about half way across the bay and given up. She had not tried to keep abreast of him, simply powered away, soon lost to sight at sea level.

### * * *

HENRIETTA woke the following morning, slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom.

A little lost without her early morning massage she decided she should at least do some exercise, but didn't want to wake David. She wasn't comfortable about leaving the house for a swim without him.

Yoga and a little meditation she decided, although she had calmed considerably since the flight down to PE, especially after her swim last evening.

She had raced across the bay several times, swimming flat out, clearing her mind, fatigue numbing her body.

She smiled at the clothes David had picked out for her the previous evening. Ski pants and a long tee-shirt. He obviously assumed she wanted to be comfortable.

She completed her warm up routine and quickly moved through several positions, much faster than Mary would normally allow and ended sitting on her feet, her hands palm outwards on her thighs. It was not a classic yoga position, but one which she had sometimes held for an hour or more. She found she could meditate best in that position, allow herself to drift away, switch her mind off.

SHE did not know how long she had been meditating, her mind empty, her body still, when something penetrated her consciousness.

Facing the window to the left of the bed her eyes immediately went to David, awake and sitting up against the headboard. His eyes were closed and he had an expression on his face she didn't recognise. He seemed in pain, sad, lonely. She didn't know which, but it was an expression she had never seen before.

She didn't know what to do, how to react. Should she go over to him, ask him what was wrong? She wanted to ask if she could help. But she didn't. She closed her eyes instead and didn't open them until she heard him moving about the room, walking into the bathroom.

When he returned and greeted her, he seemed his normal, pleasant, easy-going self. She had obviously misread him entirely; now thankful she had not approached him.

### * * *

DAVID heard the vehicle as the driver slowed down to negotiate the patch of deep sand before the old farm gate onto the property.

They don't listen do they, he thought, his anger rising. He was not in the mood for anyone's shit today, and hoped this did not end badly.

This morning, he had opened his eyes to find Henrietta sitting in a pose he had woken to almost every day of his married life and felt pain stab through him so powerfully he felt ill. Serene, calm, and peaceful. The peace he had loved in Jackie. Most of his memories of Jackie were of her moving: dancing, laughing, fiddling with her jewellery. Except when she did yoga.

Every morning, often before he woke, she would begin her routine. She would hold positions, some of which should be anatomically impossible, utterly still, for ages. He had always marvelled at her control, and she had looked beautiful, even when she was pregnant with Kim. Especially when she was pregnant.

This morning, when he saw Henrietta sitting in Jackie's pose, the pain of loss left him weak and shaken. Sad.

He was not prepared to do this again. Even if Kim was happy in Johannesburg with Mary, he was not. He wanted Kim with him.

DAVID stalked out onto the patio and watched the security detail vehicle slow as it reached the paving of the driveway, and stop. He squinted at the driver through the dark tinted windows, but was distracted when the back door swung open and Kim leapt out, ran over to him and jumped up into his arms. Holding her slim body up off the ground, he buried his face in her hair and squeezed his arms tight around her.

"Oh daddy. You know you are feeble, you really are," she said into his ear. He put her down on the ground, his hand on her shoulder and looked over at the car to see one of the security details helping Mary from the vehicle.

"It was Robbie, daddy," said Kim. "He called me last night and spoke to Mary and then he hired a 'plane. Can you believe that? It was cool, but Mary didn't like it that much, especially when it bumped up and down. She said the one Henrietta used to own didn't do that. And it was much faster."

Mary walked from the car and up the stairs to the patio, leaving the security detail to bring in their bags. She looked past David and Kim to Henrietta, standing near the open glass door but, David noticed, said nothing. She took Henrietta by the elbow and led her away into the house.

Kim stared around at the house, the sea, the dunes.

"Wow," she said. "This place is something isn't it?"

David reached over and hugged her to him again, but Kim wriggled away grinning.

"You messed up my shopping you know. Mary and I were going to go places today."

"Well you did. Go places that is!" he said, and Kim rolled her eyes.

The security leader came on to the patio, his eyes down.

"We're off now, sir. We will be in the village again."

"Fine. Stay there," David replied.

"Jeez. What's up with him?" Kim asked. "He didn't want to come out here; Mary had to get someone else to call him before he would."

David grinned and shook his head. "It's a guy thing, Baby. You wouldn't understand," and Kim rolled her eyes again and ran off to look for her luggage.

Robbie, David thought, with a huge sigh of relief. Thank god for Robbie.

### * * *

DAVID watched his daughter as she stepped through the sliding glass doors onto the patio.

The wind blowing steadily from the sea swirled her hair around her head and he noticed she had cut it. He liked it. It made her look slimmer, taller, less girlish.

Her neck, slim and elegant above her brown tanned shoulders, would showcase some of her mother's jewellery. He made a mental note to ask Kim to choose some appropriate pieces from out of the heaps of boxes in his safe.

"I like your hair, Kim."

"Do you?" she asked.

"Yes, although now I won't have an excuse to brush it for you. I loved brushing your hair."

"Mary cut it for me. Yesterday. I now have to practice blow drying it, you know, puffing it out, like this," she said, running her fingers through it.

The style made Kim's hair appear full, thick, fluff out more than it had when it was longer. It was cut shorter at the back than the front. Two longer strands curving forwards along her jaw, accentuated her heart shaped face. Her hair shifted with every movement of her head and it shone and shimmered in the light.

"Did you colour it?" David asked.

"No," Kim frowned, "why would I colour it?"

"It seems darker now." David studied her hair again, certain it was darker. Her hair was now predominantly a mop of a soft honey brown, a mixture of colours, some dark. The sun shone through a few light copper strands reminding him of Jackie's. A few light streaks, he presumed she inherited from his mother, gave her hair a silvery shimmer in the strong African sun.

Kim now looked more like her mum than his. For most of her childhood, it appeared she favoured his side of the family with her silvery hair and heart shaped face. More and more now, when David looked at her, he remembered his wife, and it hurt. Smiling, he realised he could deal with the pain, now he had Kim with him.

With the wind eddying in her newly cut hair, she walked to the edge of the patio and looked out over the sea.

"Oh, this is going to be fun. I want some breakfast and then I am going to swim," she said, swinging round.

"The water's freezing, Kim," David said, his tone sour. "I would hate to get in there now. It's only August and for sure, the wind will pick up as soon as we go down to the beach. Surely the afternoon would be better?"

"Isn't the weather the wrong way around here, in the Cape, daddy?"

"I don't care if it's backwards, that water is cold. I went swimming yesterday."

"You did?" teased Kim, with a sly smile. "That must be a first..., you swimming in the sea!"

"It was not for long, Baby," he said, intentionally annoying her by using his pet name. He smiled at her indignant look. "It was not for long. Henrietta swam backwards and forwards across that bay," he said, pointing with his hand.

Looking at the distance now, from the beach house, it seemed an awful long way. No wonder he had given up.

"Wouldn't you prefer a run? We can run first and then swim when we're both hot. Then breakfast," and Kim nodded, smiling.

### * * *

At 4.30 on Sunday afternoon, Henrietta's security detail arrived, collected Mary and Kim together with the luggage and whisked them off to the airport. Henrietta and David followed about thirty minutes later.

Henrietta chose to drive, and David noticed how closely she watched the blue line on the SatNav. She arrived at the airport, handed her car over to the female body guard, waiting in the covered parking area. They were taken by another member of her team, to the waiting jet.

David smiled, when he compared the style of their arrival on Friday evening with that of their departure. No one to take her through the building in a little golf cart, no one available to open the doors and show her the way. No wonder Henrietta had been lost, not known where to collect her luggage. She had obviously never collected it in her life.

She was all together again, and had been from the moment Mary had arrived at the beach house. They disappeared together and only re-joined him and Kim at the poolside much later. That set the tenor of the rest of the weekend. Mary took over the cooking assisted several times by Kim, and he and Henrietta swam, played in the sea, made love in the afternoon. It had been good, a real break for him and Kim.

It demonstrated they could do it, the four of them.

He had spent time with Kim too. They attempted to surf on boards they found hanging in the garage. Neither managed to stay up for long, and eventually decided the struggle to get out past the breakers, not worth the effort, for the short time they managed to stay on the board.

David caught Mary alone and thanked her. He told her his ego could handle the jolt of Henrietta travelling on a chartered jet, rather than a commercial flight. That he would rather suck in his pride than have her upset for a single minute.
Chapter 66

THE moment Robbie stepped through the door into the quiet room; he was hit by the smell of polished wood, leather and something else he couldn't place. Sweat, or maybe fear. He closed his eyes and shook his head, his shoulders sagging slightly.

A dungeon, a BDSM playroom. During his surveillance of Henrietta's home, Robbie had been intrigued by a door entering the cliff. Each day he saw the maid enter the room with cleaning materials and wondered at the contents of a room which, although cut directly into the cliff, required regular cleaning.

Robbie moved forward, his hand sliding over the polished wood of a whipping horse, down the length of a table covered in leather. He took in the assortment of whips and canes, paddles and straps and the St Andrews Cross on the wall.

David sure managed to pick them didn't he? What did they want from him, these women who needed to be dominated? Why were they drawn to him, a man who would never dominate another? First Jackie and now Henrietta.

Robbie moved over to the huge bedstead, and sat down, barely depressing the scarlet bedspread.

Robbie didn't understand any of it, he didn't understand the rituals, but he knew the strength of the pull. Strong enough for Jackie to risk everything she had with David, for a few hours of pain and sheer terror. She must have needed the excitement.

And what of Henrietta? Everything he knew about her suggested she was strong, organised and highly intelligent. What would motivate a woman like that to subjugate herself to another? Or was Henrietta the dominant partner? Did she intend to introduce this room to David?

Robbie couldn't see it, but one never knew another's private fantasies, even someone as close to him as David.

In a glass cabinet, he saw a set of handcuffs, set against a purple velvet background. Finally, with a look of resignation, he stood, almost tripping over a wooden bench and moved over to the cabinet.

Robbie peered at them. They were shiny, unlike normal handcuffs. When he picked them up, he realised they were made of gold. Gold handcuffs. A present? A symbol? Did someone use these? Robbie shook his head again as he flicked them open and shut, using a release lever on the side.

About to return them to the cabinet, he felt an engraving against his thumb, and turning the handcuffs towards the light, squinted at the letters.

"Lisa," in large, swirled calligraphy.

Lisa van der Linde? Could it be her? Lisa's gold handcuffs, in Henrietta's home? So..., a connection between Henrietta and Lisa. But what? Robbie sank into a high backed chair, his head in his hands.

Lisa must be Henrietta Steyn, he realised. There could be no doubt. He should have seen it before. David would have, given access to all the details.

Lisa was tall and blond and last heard of in Bulawayo in 1988, Henrietta opened Henri Properties a couple of years later. Henrietta started out with enough money to buy property and Lisa Van der Linde inherited a small fortune from her grandfather.

Lisa found a new identity, and moved to South Africa. But why? What happened in Bulawayo all those years ago?

It must be something bad, something to do with Eugene; but Eugene didn't disappear. Why? Henrietta keeps a low profile and with the money she had, she didn't need to work. Why the high security? Who was paranoid about Henrietta's safety and why? He only managed to get the security codes when Kim visited Mary. Robbie decided he would have to think the whole thing through later.

He went through to Henrietta's house and prowled around. Like David, Robbie marvelled at the simplicity and lack of ostentation. Sure, everything was top quality, but minimalistic, with no clutter. No family photos, no mementoes, nothing personal of any kind; nothing shouting 'Henrietta Steyn'. It could have been a holiday home, one only occasionally occupied.

Robbie eventually made his way to Henrietta's office, his glance tracking from the computer on her desk, to the lovely paintings on the walls, to the magnificent cliff face.

Walking over to her desk, he ran his hand over the old wooden surface, bumping the mouse slightly by mistake. The computer came to life, with a password request. Without hesitation, Robbie typed in 'LISA' and almost without surprise, he found he had access. He sat down at her desk, slipped the portable hard drive from his pocket into the USB port and worked feverishly for fifteen minutes, before rising. It was time to get out of the house, Mary would be back soon.

### * * *

LATER that afternoon, in the flat on the top floor of DaRo Security, Coral stood crouched over Robbie's shoulder, gaze intent upon the screen as he scrolled down the list of files he had copied.

"Do you think she will notice you meddled with her computer?" Coral asked, "She is supposed to be good with computers."

"I hope not," Robbie answered, "Even if she does, she won't know who it was. She hadn't logged out of her network session and I gained access to everything, not only what was on her home computer. She was a bit slack there, but I suppose she is sure her security is good, she doesn't bother too much."

The screen displayed what appeared to be a worldwide listing of properties and Henrietta's share portfolio.

Robbie whistled at what he had copied. Money, money and more money. Henrietta's portfolio was incredible.

Of course, Lisa's grandfather released a large sum of money to her at only fifteen years of age, when she first began learning to play the stock market, Robbie thought, and he knew what he was about. She made further investments with her inheritance two years later, and had done equally well. And these amounts were a fraction of what she later inherited at twenty one. And on top of that, she owned properties all over the world, with an impressive number around Southern Africa; millions and millions of Rands worth.
Chapter 67

ALTHOUGH Henrietta eagerly anticipated Eugene's visit, she didn't hear him when he walked from the patio into her lounge. She turned to see him standing against the curtain immediately inside the door.

He no longer sent her a card in her antique invitation holder, he sent her an electronic memo in her appointment book. She still found it exciting: the anticipation, the unknown.

She had not seen him for months, although he had been in Johannesburg several times recently. When she received the memo from him, the usual leap of excitement caught her.

Eugene accepted a drink and they began their dinner together, as they had done hundreds of times over the past twenty-five years.

As usual, Eugene maintained a small flow of conversation until he asked, "So Babe. David Brewster, is he the one?"

Henrietta put down her knife and fork and considered his question.

"I like him. I like him very much. He is polite and kind, I think. He covers up my botches well, so I don't feel as awkward with him as I usually do with people. In fact, I hardly ever feel awkward with him any more at all. We talk a lot. I never feel he looks at me strangely when I blurt things out, you know how I do, and I don't have to worry he will think something I have said is odd. If he asks something I don't know how to answer, he either leaves it alone, or rephrases."

"Everything I have heard about him is good, and mind you he is not an idiot either, as much as people say he is only a sportsman who got lucky. Of course I investigated him, ages ago."

Henrietta raised her eyebrows but didn't comment, acquainted with Eugene's protective tendencies. He investigated anyone who had anything at all to do with her.

"You are different with this man. According to the logs, you have spent a lot of time in his company, even when your watch sat in your desk drawer," he teased.

"You spent more than a month meeting him before you slept with him, unlike your normal in out, wham bam. You slept with him here, in this house. That's a first, isn't it? I have never known you to do that before, although I always thought you would like David Brewster," he added with his customary arrogance.

Henrietta's eyes opened wide, "Did you set this up?" She shook her head and frowned, slightly. "No, you couldn't have, you had no way of knowing he would follow up the association."

"Come, Babe. No man in his right senses would pass you by. The moment you gave him your card; you were going to see him again."

Henrietta continued with her meal, thinking back to her meeting with David. She had watched him through the one-way glass, sitting in her waiting area and considered asking another consultant to assist him. Instead, she invited him into her office.

No, she concluded, Eugene couldn't have set her up to meet him.

"Enjoy the sex?" Eugene asked.

"Yes, very much," she replied. "David unfortunately confuses sex and love. He is one of those who cannot separate the two. He wouldn't understand," she said sadly, "he is not like me, who rigorously compartmentalise my life.

"The problem is I don't know. I don't know how I feel about him." Henrietta remained silent for a long time, her eyes down, eating slowly.

"Immediately after I slept with him the first time," she began, her voice quiet, "I asked myself what I would feel if he were killed in a car crash. Could I get over him; would I be annihilated?"

Henrietta smiled at her own exaggeration.

"I remember a time, if you had died or simply walked out on me, I would have killed myself, I would have had no wish to continue to live. Do I feel like that about him? No. Would I feel sad? Yes, very."

As usual, Henrietta and Eugene sat talking companionably, trading ideas back and forth with no constraint, small silences occurring naturally.

"He is aware I have secrets, but he doesn't insist on prying them out of me. Intellectually perhaps, he feels I should be able to have secrets, or private thoughts.

"He must know I own Henri Properties, but never tries to discover the extent of my assets. I like that in him. I think every man I've ever slept with wanted to find out how much I'm worth, and yet with David, it's almost as if he's not interested."

She paused, musing.

"No, not that. I would say he is polite, he hesitates to intrude, rather waits for me to say something. He isn't worried I may be worth more than him; it isn't a competition with him. I also like the way he is attached to his daughter and his business partner.

"He's not scared to love," she said, her wide, brown eyes, sad.

"So where to, from here?" Eugene asked her.

"Well that I don't know," she replied. "He lives over in Honeydew and because he has a young daughter and no wife, he isn't a free agent. He has to be at home at night. He's reluctant to introduce any woman to his home, for several good reasons. He will allow nothing to come between him and what he considers he owes his daughter. If he has to remain single for the rest of his life for her, he will. He is that kind of a guy, a guy who would sacrifice his own happiness for his daughter. So I will await events. I feel a little guilty I rushed him into it the first time, pushed him into using his other brain against his better judgement."

"You did?"

"Yeah, I did. I wasn't subtle and it nearly frightened the life out of him. He wanted to run, I tell you. Even I could see that, written large all over his face!"

Eugene laughed. "Yes, I know what you are like, Babe. Irresistible."

He became serious again. "You won't pursue your happiness? Is that fair to you?"

"I do fine. I am happy here, happy in my choices. I'm not sure I'm ready for the big adventure of life yet," she added, sarcastic and self-mocking.

"Let's say, safe, secure. I don't know if I would like to change anything. I have you, I have Mary, I have my work. An occasional night or weekend away with David would be an added bonus, but probably not a necessity."

"Have you considered telling him? Explaining." Eugene asked.

"Often. Sometimes I open my mouth and take a breath, and then break off. I don't think he can handle it, and I don't want to stop; I don't want our relationship to end. Once I tell him about Lisa and the VLC, I'll have to tell him everything. You know, about you and me and... everything. He is straight you know. Vanilla. I wish I never started the whole thing, wish I never spoke to him. It's a mess now."

"THE search for Lisa is on again, you know," Eugene said, changing the subject when they began their main course. "Your father is dying. The VLC has a problem if they can't find you."

Watching Eugene across the table, Henrietta wondered if he had come to see her tonight to warn her. She sensed something different and it unsettled her.

"You told me they were looking for me more than three years ago," she said.

"Yes, true. But now they're looking here, and in Zim. It's taken them three years to decide you weren't in Europe."

Eugene had a contact in the VLC. Another of the numerous women he collected all over the world. She presumed this information came directly from source.

"What do they want?" she asked.

"I guess they want proof you are dead. The VLC cannot afford to wait the requisite number of years to declare you legally dead."

"Can you make me dead? Is it possible?"

"No, I don't think so, not with DNA testing..., do you mind so much now, Babe? I mean, if you were to be found."

Henrietta hesitated, a slight frown between her eyes. "I'm not sure... yes, I'm older now, and no, I'm not scared like I used to be. I'm not any better able to handle the corporation and the directors than all those years ago. It's not the amount of money that's involved, that doesn't scare me, it's the personal relationships and internal politics I'm concerned about. That will never change, and my defects will have an effect on the company, a detrimental effect. Of course, the big difference now is I can get out, sell up or reorganise and I couldn't do that last time, when my father was still alive."

"YOU have a new slave in Bulawayo, don't you?" asked Henrietta, changing the subject this time.

"Yeah," said Eugene. "A full time one too. She's demanding and time consuming."

Henrietta raised her eyebrows. "And?"

Eugene laughed, "She is a difficult little bitch, full of shit, which of course keeps my playroom occupied."

Smiling, Henrietta asked, "Does she have a job? Or does she stay and pretty herself up all day like the last one?"

"Job? You joking. This one is very stupid Babe, there is no plan for her! I make her clean house. Very, very well. No speck of dust must be found or paddy whacks!"

"Ah, that's why you have been away so long," she said. "I haven't seen you for ages. I missed you."

"I'm on top of everything, Baby. I get updates from Chris daily and he is competent, as you know. Bulawayo is only a flight away."

"I miss you that's all, I've never worried you don't have everything under control. You're playing for me tonight? On the violin?" she asked him, glancing over at the closed case nearby.

"Yes. It's something I've been working on for a long, long time. It's nearly finished now."

Henrietta smiled at him, watching her. She hoped his playing would cheer her up, shake this feeling she had. Foreboding. She mentally shook herself. She felt nostalgic, that was all.

Henrietta looked across the table at Eugene. Still beautiful, his eyes focused on her, his long legs thrown out to one side, a brandy in his hand.

Still powerful, still trim, dangerous looking. Sexy.

Showing his age, with long, deep grooves from his sharp pointed nose to the edge of his mouth. A permanent frown had developed between his eyebrows. His dark hair, shot with grey, receded slightly at the temples. His green eyes, however, were still as deep and clear as the day she met him.

Eugene reached out and stroked her hair. He picked up a small bundle from the thick hank, ran it through his fingers, let it drop and picked up another, gently repeating the action.

"My ugly duckling," he said softly, stroking his knuckles along her cheek, gently and tenderly.

"My masterpiece."

EUGENE played for her. A haunting piece, in three parts. It started off slow, she could describe it as mysterious, the middle, fast paced and exciting, the end, mournful.

Sad, but exquisite.

Comfortable in her chair, watching him cradling his violin, his body swaying slightly, his eyes on hers, Henrietta recalled the many times he had played for her over the years. At significant times: planning her new life with him in her flat, on her return from Rotterdam. In Bulawayo, here in her home.

With a smile, she also remembered the fun times: the saxophone, the violin at the Academy.

### * * *

UNSETTLED still, after Eugene left, Henrietta made her way upstairs.

Eugene's playing had not helped shake her feeling of disquiet. She wandered around aimlessly, eventually finding herself in her office, unlocking the cabinet containing her diaries. She took out the current one, and began to write.

12th August 2010

I can't shake this feeling of impending doom.

Probably the VLC again. How I hate them, wish I could finally be free of them, free of it all.

Eugene told me three years ago they were looking for me in Europe. Now, here in Africa, it seems to be too close to home.

I feel out of control, pulled along by forces I know nothing about, caught in a maelstrom and my only hope of survival is to allow myself to go along with it.

It was good to see Eugene again. He hasn't visited me for months but I know what he is like when he has a new slave. He has never told me much about his slaves, the ground rules, what he does with them when he un-collars them.

I don't know much about his life at all, other than what he lets me know.

I wanted to ask him to stay, stay with me tonight. I went over to him, knelt down at his feet hoping he would pick up my hand, put it on his body. But he didn't and as usual, I accepted what he gave me. I have always accepted what he gives me. I don't know what it is I give him in return. I have never known what it is that weaves the silk threads, that provide the strength in our relationship. But this is the pattern that emerged early in our relationship and I wouldn't change anything.

Our relationship has not evolved; the ground rules were laid down early - that no one should know of our association. He always threatened if anyone found out about us, he would walk away, leave me.

He can too, still. I know no more about him - his life - than I did when I lived in Bulawayo. I don't know where he lives, except he keeps the flat in Borrow Street. He gives me money to invest for him from time to time, but doesn't tell me the source of that money or what he spends it on. If I need to speak to him, I either pass on a request through Chris, or wait until Eugene next comes to Johannesburg.

And the music he played tonight was exquisite, haunting. Eugene's lovely old violin resonating, the tone and registers spoke directly to me. Serious tonight. Unlike when he played me parts from Carmen Fantasia, with plenty of artistic licence. Mocking the orchestra who played it abysmally, his eyes laughing at me over the flute.

A SMILE curving her lips, Henrietta paused and leaning down, ran her finger along her diaries, searching for a particular one.

She often did this, often went back to a memory, written down in her handwriting, in her leather bound diaries.

Her diaries were one of the threads that held her to Eugene, weaving her life with him into something tangible, something she could hold on to, pull up and bring back whenever required.

Reading her diaries brought back memories of each occasion vividly - her feelings at the time.

Paging through the leather covered book, she found the entry:

15th September 1995

I have a few minutes while I wait for the car to collect me. Eugene has left instructions with Mary of how he wants me dressed, and I have no clue from them of what he has in mind. After all these years, I admit I am still excited. Whenever I get a card from Eugene, I still feel the same rush I did all those years ago, the same feeling of anticipation curls my stomach. Eugene still manages to make each experience different, meaningful. He plans our encounters with the same care he always did, although not as often now, as back then.

As per Eugene's instructions, I am wearing a pair of black jeans, with rhinestones or something like that sewn into the back pocket. My shoes are closed boots, but not too high, with a sharp pointy heel and hidden under the jeans. I have a shiny tank top and a little soft leather jacket. My hair is down my back. No clues from this outfit. Yes, Eugene knows me!

... (As usual I will leave an ellipsis ... and later, write what happened. I know it will be nothing like I expect.)

...16th September 1995

I was right. Last night was nothing like I expected. The car came, with Chris driving as usual. No Eugene. I sat alone in the back and I admit to missing out on most of the drive. I had a lot to think about at work.

When I once again became aware of my surroundings, we were in town.

Either Braamfontien or Hillbrow.

Hobos asleep on the streets, groups of people sauntering along, some staggering along. Shops with huge burglar bars over the windows, the whole place seedy and derelict.

The car pulled to a stop, and Chris opened my door. I saw an entrance under a tatty awning, a green light glowing softly above.

A man peeled off the wall and sauntered over to us. Chris gestured that I go with him, into what could only be described as a dive. A bar along one side with a slightly raised platform next to it, took up one wall. Obviously the important area of this establishment.

I was led to a table against the wall, fairly far from the bar. I tried to shift the stool closer to the table, but found it bolted to the floor. The table too, was bolted to the floor! I slipped onto the stool and looked around, my blank face firmly on.

I had no idea what Eugene wanted with me, here in this place. I had never been to a place like this before. I could smell stale beer, and fresh beer, cigarette smoke. I could hear snippets of talk: a woman complaining about her boss, two men talking about rugby.

The woman was dressed well, perhaps how a bank manager or a manager at one of my branches would dress. I wondered if my managers go to a place like this? What do they get out of it?

The bar began to fill up shortly and two men who came and sat down at my table made me uncomfortable. One of them ignored me, but the other one gave me a nod of sorts. I couldn't see Chris, but I knew he would be around somewhere.

I watched curiously how people collected their drinks, watched the dynamics as the three-layer thick mass of bodies moved backwards and forwards towards the bar.

Then I saw Eugene.

He came out of a side door I hadn't noticed before, to the left of the small raised platform, holding a musical instrument in his hand. I watched him walk his cat walk, step up, put the instrument to his lips and play. A long, long note which meandered along, piercing everyone's consciousness. He played a few more notes as people moved to find tables and places to sit. He rested a beat, his mouth curling into a smile, his eyes on me. He bowed slightly in my direction and then he played.

He played for hours, his body moving, his fingers flashing and the gold chain on his chest glinting.

Once, I looked around and noticed the crowd were knowledgeable about music. These were not raucous ignoramuses; these were blues lovers.

Eugene playe, until I felt his eyes on me, glinting emerald above his deep red shirt.

He did another one of those long, windy, pathway notes, bowed and dropped the saxophone from his lips. He walked off the platform his eyes on me, as if there were no one else in the room.

I didn't know Eugene played the saxophone.

Apparently he didn't, until one night he heard one played in a bar.

HENRIETTA smiled after reading her diary entry; remembering how awkward she felt, sitting in that sleazy bar. Exposed, worried.

She recalled asking Eugene if he often came to the bar, or ones like it; his flashing smile when he answered her. And the grinding fear which hit her when she realised places like that were dangerous, and he could get hurt. Killed.

She always had guards nearby, could walk most places and be safe. Eugene made sure she understood she was always safe, could go anywhere she wished without any fear.

But Eugene, could he say the same? Terror had grasped her; fear he could be hurt, twisted her gut.

"You will be careful, won't you? I can't live without you," she had whispered. Henrietta remembered his tender look as he leaned over her, accepting her concern.

"I am always careful, Babe," he had assured her, his body close to hers, head near hers. "Very, very careful. Without you to look after, I would have gotten distracted one day and collected a knife in the back, or a bullet to the head. Until you, I never cared enough, about anything. Once you came along, I had to stay focused. You kept me alive."

She closed the diary, replaced it in order in the cupboard and returned to her earlier entry. Pen in hand, she re read what she had written and added:

I am sure Eugene has the measure of the VLC, so this feeling I have is not to do with them.

Is it to do with David?

Eugene asked me if Dave Brewster is the one for me.

Several times in the early years Eugene told me he would find me a mate, someone he considered worthy of me. A few times since then, he asked me if some man or other was suitable. A few times, I thought perhaps they were, and then I said something or did something...And now, David comes along. Someone not chosen by Eugene.

For once, for the first time ever, I saw a man I liked the look of. I invited him into my office, into my car...into my life.
Chapter 68

ROBBIE heard the door open, tracked footsteps into the flat and watched Coral walk through the lounge.

He regarded her differently now. He noticed her pale eyes and the light skin around them less, and appreciated the controlled movements for what they were: fit muscles on the ready. She should not have been a girl. If she were a man, her thick body and strong arms would not warrant a second glance.

She walked into the office with her customary greeting, sat down and began without preamble.

"The information you have on Henrietta Steyn is correct on every count. She was, however, slightly shorter and had hazel eyes rather than dark brown. She was strawberry blond and had lighter skin than Lisa. She was quiet but not as introverted as Lisa." She pushed a folder over to Robbie.

He flicked through photos of Henrietta from birth to early twenties, photos of her foster parents, copies of school reports, photocopies of her parent's will, a disc with recordings of interviews.

The Steyn family had owned a farm in Natal. It was rented out until Henrietta attained her majority, then sold by the state and the proceeds passed on to her.

Robbie had often wondered how on earth Coral managed to collect all this information. I mean, he thought, school reports?

Coral continued.

"She worked for an agency in a small town. She went to work there at seventeen, did all the exams. Became familiar with all areas of the business. I spoke to her ex-boss."

As usual, Coral spoke with little inflexion or body movement and her eyes stared blankly into his.

"How did you find this all out?" asked Robbie, flicking through the details of Henrietta's work experience, her exam results, her home life, which Coral had collated.

Coral paused for some time before she answered him. "I posed as an investigative journalist researcher. Working for an industry journal. You know, one dealing with estate agencies and property in general. For investment purposes. I told her I wished to ensure the magazine didn't get sued for inaccuracies. I didn't think she would believe I'm a journalist." She delivered this sentence in a flat, quiet voice, devoid of humour.

Robbie smiled, "Well as long as she told you what you needed. What else did you find?"

"I found the boyfriend Justin, and I found out how Henrietta died. Justin killed her."

"You found out...you what? How Henrietta died. How did you do that? You shouldn't have done that; it could have been dangerous. You should have called me, I would have come down there," Robbie stuttered.

"And what? Beaten him up? I decided we may need two goes at him. I left you as backup in case I didn't succeed."

"What do you mean two goes?" asked Robbie.

"I decided I would try to fuck him, before you came down to fuck him up."

Robbie, speechless, could feel his mouth hanging open but couldn't close it, his eyes blinking open and shut.

"What!" He stared at Coral in amazement and horror; and she stared back at him calmly out of her pale, blue eyes.

"You didn't have to do that," he could hear his voice rising. "This was a job!"

He was staggered she had slept with someone to get information. He was mostly shocked anyone would want to sleep with her at all. He found Coral repulsive and the thought of sex with her, akin to bestiality. She reminded him of a pig, with her pink eyelids and snub nose, her thick short body and pale, pale skin.

"I had to have a bit of help," and Robbie found his mouth agape again as images of the form of assistance she alluded to, flashed through his brain.

Coral shrugged, "A chemically enhanced omelette. Works every time. It's all on tape, it's probably best you listen to it," she said, pushing a flash stick towards him.

"But take it from me, he killed Henrietta by mistake and Eugene came and cleaned up the mess. I'm amazed Eugene left Justin alive to tell the story. Although it was Justin who killed Henrietta, Eugene set it all up. It fits with what we know of him. It appealed to him to get Justin to kill Henrietta rather than do it himself. Twisted."

She pushed the file over to him at the table, stood up and left the room.

ROBBIE leaned back in his chair his hands behind his neck and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to listen to Coral seduce Justin.

What kind of woman would have sex with a man and calmly hand the audio over to her boss?

He shook his head in disbelief, but picked up the flash stick and put it in the USB drive of his laptop, plugged in the earphones and began listening.

The device she used was voice activated, and jumped fairly quickly through their evening together; coffee, an omelette made by Coral, and her seduction routine. Pretty direct too, concluded Robbie with a shudder, surprised it worked. On the floor of the kitchenette off the bookshop at 5.47pm according to the time-clock at the bottom of his screen.

She moved the action upstairs to Justin's bed, with coffee. Robbie considered the possibility it had also been chemically enhanced. If so, what chemicals were used? Whatever they were, they appeared to have worked and Justin seemed delighted.

"Oh God." Robbie heard him breathing loudly, "I haven't been able to do that since...."

"Henrietta died. Yes, I know."

"You know about her? You know about that? That she died," It sounded to Robbie that Justin moved around on the bed.

"Did that guy send you? Do you know him?" he sounded scared, his voice thin and high.

Coral said nothing and Robbie could imagine her staring at Justin with her pale, blue eyes.

"Oh God. What do you want?"

Still silence from Coral. It was an effective silence, and Justin began jabbering.

"It wasn't my fault. I didn't mean to do it."

"Yes, I know that. Just tell me."

"Oh god. It was awful. Terrible. I have felt so bad, for so long." There was a long silence on the audio, and although Robbie heard some rustling noises he couldn't identify them.

"Why don't you tell me from the beginning?"

"Ah... We had been dating for about six months, you know sleeping together, and everything was normal, you know. Only sex. About two months before Henrietta died she started getting funny. You know kinky and stuff." Justin hesitated for a bit before continuing.

"She kept coming up with things, you know, like to tie her up and blind folds and things, and pot. She started smoking pot, for sex you see. I didn't like any of it at all, but I was in love. I went along with it, thought she would grow out of it."

He stopped again, but Coral didn't say anything encouraging. No murmurs or mmm's or any of the normal sounds women make. Robbie wondered if her pale stare was as disconcerting to Justin as it was to him.

"I don't know why she started but she wasn't like that at first. Anyway that night, the first night of our weekend in the Drakensburg, she brought out a thing like a belt with two pads on the sides, like this."

Robbie presumed Justin was describing the belt to Coral with his hands.

"These little pad things pushed on both sides of her windpipe and the end strap went through a ring. You put the pads on in the right place and get hold of the end and pull it and it tightens against your neck."

Justin broke off, and Robbie heard a thud. Possibly Justin's head against the headboard. Then a huge shuddering breath.

"It was awful," he whispered. "Awful. I got carried away. She was excited when I tightened it on her neck, she was going wild and I didn't notice she was.... you know, throttling. And then...."

Robbie heard Justin sobbing, but nothing from Coral and wondered what she was doing. Sitting watching him like a sample on a Petri dish perhaps? She should have a sympathetic look on her face, or be patting him on the back, but Robbie couldn't imagine Coral with any expression on her face. She didn't seem to have many expressions, or perhaps he had never been allowed to see any.

"She was dead you know, and I was still pounding into her. I rolled off her and lay on the bed recovering and suddenly I noticed she wasn't breathing. I mean, there I was going like a steam train. It was terrible."

Justin broke off again for some time sobbing, and Robbie wondered if Coral included something to loosen Justin's tongue in her chemical cocktail. He was much more forthcoming than would be expected. Maybe there is something in this seduction routine, Robbie thought and wondered how often Coral used it. He shook his head to get the unpleasant image out of his mind.

"I didn't know what to do. I tried to wake her up. I tried to do mouth to mouth. I jumped on her chest. It was terrible, terrible." Justin sounded anguished, in pain.

"Eventually, when I couldn't get her to wake up, I went outside to try to think, you know, in the cold. I was standing on the small sort of veranda thing and I was crying and trying to think and this guy came up and asked me what the problem was. I blurted it out. You know, everything, and he went inside and came out and said he would sort it all out if I wanted. He said he would get rid of her body and everything if I would go along with it. And I agreed. I agreed. I suppose I wasn't thinking straight. But I did. I was messed. Totally messed. He had everything sorted out."

Babbling, Justin's words tumbled out of his mouth uncontrolled, his voice high and shrill. Robbie heard him take a deep noisy breath, then continue more calmly, "He gave me a story to cover everything, told me to tell everyone she had left me and decided to go to Johannesburg, that she inherited money and I was now no longer what she wanted. He said that would cover me if I suddenly went to pieces, which I did I tell you. I would be sitting drinking coffee and suddenly I would get the shakes and start crying. Everyone was good to me; if only they knew. He told me he could use Henrietta's documents for a client, and I gave him everything I could find. Henrietta's birth certificate, driver's license everything. Next thing I heard about her in Johannesburg."

"Did she look like the new Henrietta?"

"No, not really. She was blond, sure. But a different kind of blond. I always wondered who she was and why she needed my Henrietta's details. But I didn't try to find out. That guy was scary. Really scary. He had a creepy, soft voice. Gave you the shivers. Ugh. Creepy. He told me if I ever said anything, anything at all about what happened, or go anywhere near the new Henrietta, he wouldn't bother with the police, he would deal with me straight. So please..."

"What did he look like?"

"I don't know. I don't know," Justin squealed, agitated again. "I never saw him. It was dark and I stayed outside when he went into to see...to see." He broke off.

"Then he phoned me. Only phoned me. I left the envelope at the reception of the hotel. I never asked."

"What did he sound like? You know, Afrikaans?"

"Hey, who are you?" Justin demanded, "Why you asking me all this."

A long, long silence ensued, and once again, Robbie imagined Coral with her expressionless face, staring at Justin. Perhaps she appeared threatening. Confident certainly.

Robbie had never seen Coral awkward, embarrassed or worried. Whenever she had been alone with him in the flat, she had been confident, in charge. It had never occurred to him before; usually he was distracted by her unattractive looks and abrupt mannerisms.

He imagined her sitting in Justin's bed, naked, or at least semi naked. Outwardly confident, as if she could defend herself. And she could. Robbie had checked, Coral could defend herself in most circumstances.

"OK, he was normal, not Afrikaans, you know like... from here. You know from Natal. He wasn't Afrikaans, for sure."

Robbie understood the significance of her question. People from Natal, and those from Bulawayo have a similar accent, different to around Johannesburg where the Afrikaans language has had more impact than English. Eugene could easily have been mistaken for a local Natalian.

"Do you know what he did with her body?"

"I often wondered, although not so as I could go there and sit or anything." Justin sounded sulky, resentful and peevish.

"I don't know why, but I hated her by then. She messed up my life with her kinky stuff. I wasn't into that, it was Henrietta who started with her toys and handcuffs and shit. She totally messed me up. She ruined my sex life. I haven't been able to, you know...I never.... until today. I dunno what happened... Oh shit."

Shocked, Robbie guessed Coral had begun her seduction routine once more. He sat listening, embarrassed, uncertain how he could ever face her again. This time, he had to endure about ten minutes of muffled noises and other more obvious ones until Justin began saying anything further, meaningful to the investigation.

"Hey, you know, I feel much better. You know it's been hard. The guilt. I suppose I know I was wrong, I should have refused, and I was wrong not to face the music. But then again, it wasn't my fault, I didn't want to do it, I didn't know how to do that kinky stuff. Why should I take the rap? I don't know, but I feel better." He stopped and Robbie could hear him moving around on the bed.

"So, where do we go from here? Do I go to the police?"

"It's up to you. Do what you think best," Robbie heard Coral say in her flat inexpressive voice, "but if I were you I would forget about it. It all happened a long time ago, I shouldn't think the police would believe you. After all, Henrietta is living in Johannesburg and she would say you're lying, that you have finally gone off your rocker. Plenty people around here to substantiate that, hey?"

"True, I didn't think of that. But I feel a little better you know, getting it off my chest. I've kept everything bottled up for so long. I kind of think I can breathe now."

Robbie heard a sharp intake of air from Justin he assumed, and he heard Coral say, "Yeah, and other things too."

Someone giggled and Robbie pulled the ear bud out of his ear. He didn't know who had giggled, but he couldn't sit through another sex scene between them.

### * * *

ROBBIE read through his file on Lisa Van der Linde. The facts.

The two names, Henrietta and Lisa were used interchangeably. When he first began investigating Henrietta, he hadn't known she was Lisa, and he had been simultaneously looking for Lisa Van der Linde. It made reading the file difficult.

He examined the photo of the real Henrietta Steyn. A pretty, gentle blond with fairly light, wispy, pale blond hair. Robbie wondered how Eugene managed to involve her in a BDSM relationship, how he managed to introduce her to that twisted world.

Did Lisa know how she died?

In contrast, Lisa had quantities of thick, blond hair and a fairly dark skin. She was striking looking. She could never be described as pretty or gentle. Robbie presumed after she had her nose job, she looked completely different. Lukas had said her huge hooked nose dominated her face. Now, her nose was hardly a feature. Her hair was, and possibly her dark brown eyes and curved eyebrows.

And the money. All that money and Lisa chose to hide in Randburg, Johannesburg. Why? Why did she do that?

She lived in a relatively small house and worked her butt off in an estate agency, when she could be living it up, and that did not include the money from the VLC.

He still didn't understand why she hid, why she changed her identity. She had apparently not done anything illegal.

And Eugene? All along, he assumed Eugene's interest in Lisa/Henrietta was her money. Had she in fact given any money to him at all? Did he steal the Bonanza gold?

Back in Zimbabwe, Eugene drove a black, five-year-old Mercedes SLK. He dressed well, wore gold jewellery, occasionally a shiny diamond in his ear. He owned only the small shop in Lobengula Street. They did not have any evidence he was monetarily involved with any politicians as rumoured. They had no concrete evidence Eugene killed anyone, or stole anything. Everything was rumour.

Eugene had flown to Johannesburg twice since Robbie began watching him, but did not appear to meet with Lisa or use her dungeon. He spent the afternoon and early evening at Henri Properties, visited a dive in down-town Johannesburg, Hillbrow or Braamfontien, and slept back at Henri Properties. Robbie assumed in a flat upstairs.

And David.

Robbie wondered if Lisa knew about the DaRo contract to find her. Had she gone out of her way to snare him? Robbie did not believe in coincidence, and it seemed too much of a coincidence Lisa Van der Linde 'bumped' into David, the man contracted by the VLC to find her. If she did know, though, surely she would have hidden again? She had hidden herself once; she could easily do it again. Did she want to be found? Or was she in 'la la land, and away with the fairies' as someone suggested?

He would never have cottoned onto Henrietta-Lisa if he hadn't seen Eugene in Bulawayo and again in Randburg. Luck? Robbie didn't believe in luck. Not in an investigation. If it was not luck, who was behind all this? He had heard everything Eugene did was planned. What was the plan here?

He also heard Eugene was a twisted, devious man. Would he have allowed DaRo, and Coral in particular, to investigate him and Lisa without harm, or at least interference? Could Eugene possibly be unaware of the search for Lisa? Unlikely. Eugene would have heard soon enough, and yet he made no effort to remove Henrietta from David's company.

Eugene raised tremendous enmity in him. Did a person either hate or love Eugene?

In the time he had investigated Henrietta, Robbie found he liked her. Although he had still to discover why she changed her identity, he liked the way she handled herself. Especially the money. She didn't flash her wealth around and she worked hard. She drove a VW Touareg, not a Porsche Cayenne. She had owned a 'plane, but sold it when she no longer needed it. She took a three-week holiday, once a year and ran a multimillion rand business from an unpretentious office block in Randburg.

She had also lived in a block of flats in Borrow Street, all those years ago. Driven a VW beetle, or walked to work.

Yes, she was a classy lady. He wished she were not Lisa Van der Linde. She and David were great together. How would his friend cope with the information collated? How would David deal with the knowledge his lover was the majority shareholder of a multimillion dollar corporation, based in Rotterdam? And involved in a sub-dom. relationship with Eugene Leclerc, a coloured man, for more than twenty years? A woman who, for some reason, took the identity of Henrietta Steyn and hid out in Randburg, Johannesburg.

Robbie was pretty sure Henrietta Steyn was Lisa Van der Linde and although he was only required to pass on the information he had discovered to the VLC, he wanted to confront her himself. Maybe she would provide answers to his questions.
Chapter 69

CHRIS Nyakhumbi walked into the flat on the top floor of Henri Properties to find Eugene sprawled on the couch. He collected a beer from the kitchen, opened it and took a good, long pull.

He had known Eugene all his life. They grew up together on the streets of Bulawayo; fighting, stealing, feeding off each other's strengths. They went their separate ways, he to the war and later Russia; Eugene remaining behind, but in contact. He wouldn't say he was friends with Eugene, no one could say that, but he'd had a lot to do with him over the years and could mostly predict his behaviour in any situation.

Except when it came to Henrietta. When anything concerned her, Chris knew he should always check first with Eugene. When it came to Henrietta, Chris found Eugene contradictory and unpredictable, entirely beyond his understanding.

With his other women, Eugene's actions were predictable; he was protective, generous but utterly dominant. He would take up a new woman, spend hours with her each day, shower her with gifts, clothes, jewellery, money. Eventually he would tire of her, and either hand her on to someone he knew, or if she wanted, release her. The girls were always pretty, usually young and often stupid. Never white. The only time Eugene consorted with white women was when he aimed to steal from them, hurt them.

Yet, to Chris's knowledge, Eugene never hurt Henrietta or took her money. She ran her own business and, although Eugene had been involved with her for years, he hardly ever went anywhere with her in public. He never seemed to tire of her and she, in Chris' opinion, was not in Eugene's normal style. She was tall and blond and arrogant; unlike most of Eugene's pretty girls. She was not snarky and she didn't tease or push him in any way. She was cool, calm and controlled. She was smart; very, very smart. And, she was white.

Eugene was fanatical about Henrietta's safety and kept her under constant surveillance, although she had never done anything Eugene did not knowingly approve of. Eugene manipulated events to ensure Henrietta's life ran without a glitch, all without her knowledge. He organised her holidays, even short trips, to the last detail yet often didn't participate himself.

Whilst Chris fully understood Eugene would want his woman monitored and protected, he couldn't understand how Eugene could stand back and watch another man anywhere near her. Yet Eugene did exactly that. He found suitable men, investigated them thoroughly and then, monitored the affairs carefully.

"So, chom, how are they doing?" asked Eugene.

"I think Ndlovu has connected Lisa and Henrietta, but he is working on his own on this one, him and that ugly white woman. I don't think David knows anything." Chris took another pull of his beer. "What do you want me to do, wipe them out?"

Eugene appeared to consider this option for a while. "No. Not for the moment. I am not that worried as long as Henrietta is not in any physical danger. My guess is Robbie will try to gain access to her house, he has already been watching my flat in Bulawayo. No, don't hassle him."

"He's been watching your flat in Bulawayo? And you let him?" Chris asked in surprise.

Eugene sneered, "Yeah, he was watching, but I was watching him. From right when he got off the plane in Bulawayo, watched the cheapskate get on a minibus to town, acting the povo. Sitting outside my flat in a clapped out old car, pretending to be a delivery boy. He thinks he's the only one who can watch people. So let him in, but watch carefully Henrietta doesn't get physically hurt. If he goes closer than two metres from her, nail him."

"What are you thinking here? You gonna let him find out and expose her? Look chum, we can take care of it, wipe out Robbie and the woman, leave David alone. He will never know anything about it and we can carry on as before."

"No, David will put it together, he is not stupid and neither is Robbie. I bet you he will have all of this written down somewhere, with his little collection of photographs and all," Eugene jeered. "No, we wipe him out and we will be worse off. For now, I'll keep an eye on things, especially at Henrietta's house. I want progress updates," Eugene added.

"It was the Jansen job. If it hadn't been for that we would be OK," said Chris. "I don't understand why you went for those accounts when you knew DaRo was handling the security, I mean you know they are good. Robbie must have made the connection to Henrietta because of one of those jobs. Then they go get the contract to find Lisa Van der Linde. What bad luck!"

Eugene stood and moved over to the window overlooking the car park, his body hidden behind the curtain. Sneak thief to the core.

Chris wondered if he was watching out for someone, and it reminded him of the day Eugene had watched for Robbie from out of the same window.

Eugene turned slightly towards Chris, his eyes still on the window. "Actually, if David hadn't been distracted by Henrietta, they would have made the connection quicker. Of the two of them, he is far better at finding missing persons. Robbie too often loses the thread thinking he has to have evidence. Too much the policeman," he smirked. "David has found some real way-out people, like that kid at the coast, killed by his parents." He paused, "Any idea how they connected me and Lisa?"

"Nah, or how they connected you and Henrietta. But I don't think it was through David. Good show you been here more recently. You best keep coming. Can you?"

Eugene grunted but did not answer, before rising and leaving.

CHRIS remained in the lounge after Eugene left, wondering what the game was. Certain he had done his job properly, he felt he had somehow missed something, or rather there were too many threads to put together. As usual with Eugene, Chris sensed crucial information had been deliberately withheld. He was aware Eugene attended to number one, liked to play his own dark games and didn't like to get anyone else involved if he could possibly help it.

Eugene didn't shrink from physical violence, but wanted Robbie left alone. Eugene was not someone to cross and yet he had allowed Robbie to watch his flat, his women, and Chris knew how protective Eugene was when it came to them. Especially Henrietta. Yet, it was almost as if he had thrown her together with David.

Chris had investigated DaRo thoroughly several years ago. In depth studies of both partners, their families, the business, and passed all the information on to Eugene as instructed. At the time, he warned Eugene it was not safe to tackle DaRo accounts and, for some time, Eugene held off.

Then, it seemed, after going after one premises successfully, he felt confident enough to take on two more. Henrietta did not take an active role in the burglary, as usual seemed completely out of it.

Over the years, Chris often wondered if she knew what Eugene was about, but had been reluctant to ask.

At the Jansen burglary, Eugene had delayed collecting her until after the police and DaRo people arrived. What the hell had he been doing, playing with fire? Eugene usually planned every last detail, and yet he appeared to have slipped up.

Eugene loved nothing more than the chase. He loved pitting himself against another person. He lived to compete with another person, and win. He didn't believe in fairness, his prey unaware of the game. Only finding out when it was too late, when the game had ended.

A few months ago, Chris witnessed the predatory look on Eugene's face as he stared down at Robbie climbing into David's car in the car-park below the flat window. He remained baffled when Eugene swung out of the flat and down the stairs to follow him. He wondered why Eugene wanted to keep tabs on Robbie if he already knew what he was up to.

And, was the investigation of Lisa linked with the David and Henrietta romance, or was that a coincidence? Would Eugene ever leave Henrietta exposed? He never had in the past, and Chris couldn't see him starting now.

He shook his head, resigned to simply do what he was told, as was typical with Eugene. He was paid a ridiculous amount of money to do his job and he enjoyed it. Much more than the police, where you couldn't clout people around and had to keep within the law. Working for Henri Properties fulfilled all his needs and he still had time for excitement on the side.

Him and Eugene, up to their old games, made more exciting by the fact they didn't need to. Nothing beat it.
Chapter 70

HENRIETTA'S forefinger gently flicked the touch screen as she browsed down the list of composers.

Leaning slightly forwards her long, blond ponytail fell over one shoulder and brushed across the console built into her media centre. She flicked her head and the thick rope snaked over her shoulder to lie once again down her back.

Something happy, something exciting, she thought.

Yes. Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. That's happy for a change. Today she was happy, excited rather. Alive, expectant; had something to live for, to look forward to.

For the first time, she felt herself leaning towards normal. A normal relationship with a man; a nice man who for some reason seemed to love her. Well, he said he loved her, anyway. Wanted to spend more time with her, had offered solutions to how it could be achieved. He said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Could she build some sort of future with David? She clicked on Mozart then flicked the screen again to find something else suitable.

"Lizaa."

Henrietta heard that name, that inflexion and swung round, her long blond hair swinging with her, settling on one side of her neck, her face alive. Radiant.

Robbie, standing immediately inside the patio door, watched the eager, excited animation drain from Henrietta's face, until no expression remained. Still and magnificent, she stared down at him from wide brown eyes, under arched eyebrows. She lifted her chin sharply.

"Lisa Van der Linde," he said quietly, stepping into the room.

She said nothing. Mute, her face frozen, tight and blank, she displayed no expression of shock, of outrage or surprise. She gazed steadily into his eyes.

"It's taken a long time," he said to the silent figure. He waited a beat, and when she said nothing, continued. "I know everything, Lisa. I know about Eugene, the dungeons. I know about the burglaries, the new identity. Everything."

She remained silent, and although Robbie paused giving her a chance to speak, she simply stood staring at him across the room.

"I am only paid to pass on the information of your whereabouts to the Van der Linde Corporation, but I need some answers. Need to check. Why did you hide? I can't see you did anything illegal."

Henrietta's face did not change. Perhaps her cheek bones became more prominent, perhaps she appeared more like a statue, than when he first slipped in through the door.

"Why, Lisa?" he demanded softly. "Why did you hide? Why do you live like this? You see, I know about the money."

Robbie laughed a little harshly. "I always tell Dave, when we're looking for someone, to follow the money, that's where you'll find the person. In your case, looking for the money didn't work. Didn't help. You hid the money you inherited and walked away from the VLC. You hide what you make in a maze of companies, none of which have your name on them anywhere.

"You live like this!" he said, sweeping his hand. "Oh, I know about the houses in France, Germany... well, all over Europe and elsewhere. I know about your stock portfolio. Most people with as much money as you, would be living it up. Yet you go into work every day to a dingy little office in Randburg... and live in this house. You don't have a life," Robbie's voice rose slightly. Regaining control, he stared at her, willing her to explain. Say something. Anything.

A long silence ensued. Robbie and Henrietta stared at each other across the room.

"Please tell me you didn't pick David because we were looking for you. Please tell me it was a coincidence."

Softly, he repeated, "Please... tell me."

Robbie could not read her expression, she had not moved and her face remained blank. She appeared oblivious to his plea. Her dark brown eyes stared into his, but he had the impression they were not seeing him.

Suddenly furiously angry, angry with her, angry with Jackie, furious David had been sucked into their depravities, Robbie demanded, "What do you want? What do you people want from him?"

He took another step towards Henrietta, but she didn't back away. It was as if she didn't see him although he appeared threatening.

"Why do you think you will be any better for him than Jackie? You are both exactly the same."

Robbie watched her carefully, trying to read her. Finally, he thought he saw an expression flicker across her face. He didn't know what to make of it, wished he knew her, wished he could read her. Henrietta turned away and, as if in a dream, moved away from him and on up the stairs.

She had said absolutely nothing during the entire time he was in the room.

### * * *

DAVID opened Henrietta's email with a smile on his face. Things were going well, and he loved her emails. They were always entertaining and she was right, she didn't sound like the same woman when she wrote.

His smile faded quickly. Her email was not what he expected. Not at all.

David went cold, his fingers numbed and a pain settled around his heart. Henrietta had thought deeply about his proposal, and decided it would be best to break off their association.

The email was in formal language, the kind of language she used when she didn't know how to tackle a problem.

The last time he saw her, two days ago now, he had been almost sure of her, that she was coming around to his way of thinking. How on earth had he managed to misread her?

David leaned back in his chair then snapping forward, picked up the telephone. Henrietta was away from the office, and no one knew when she would be back. David persisted and eventually got through to a Chris Nyakhumbi, who told him Henrietta had been called away to Europe. Europe, what on earth was she doing there?

DAVID climbed into his car and drove. He had no idea where he was going, but needed to move. He considered going home, but decided there were too many people there, too many distractions.

He found himself outside the new DaRo property in Florida. He stopped the car, but didn't shut down the engine, remembered visiting here with Henrietta, remembered how excited, eager he had been.

He pulled out into the road and meandered around the other properties they had visited together. Eventually, sitting in the car park outside 'their' restaurant he realised he was trying to find something to hold on to, or perhaps some clue of what went wrong. Had he said something wrong? Had he not said enough? In her email, Henrietta said she had too many secrets. She had secrets, sure. It didn't matter to him, he didn't mind. Perhaps he should have told her that.

BOTH Jackie and Henrietta had found him lacking. That was fact. What was it, he wondered? What was wrong with him? Neither of them told him what it was he couldn't give them, but he had loved them both.

Can you love someone, and they can't love you back? Yet he was certain Henrietta had begun to love him.

He sat on the bench watching Omar Shaykh cavorting around his pen. He slid his hand along the seat to where Henrietta had sat, trying to make some connection with her. There was no connection, nothing but a dry wooden bench.

He put his head in his hands and tried to control his panic. He didn't think he could live without her, and yet she had been unambiguous. She didn't want to see him again.

He could ask Robbie to find her. Hell, he could find her himself, he was better than most at that job. But should he? What good would it do? She said she had considered his proposal and decided she couldn't take it up. It would be better to break off their association cleanly, now. Henrietta would not have made the decision she did lightly. She must have good reasons, only he couldn't guess what they were. Should he email her, try to get her to explain to him what he had done wrong, what was lacking?

For the first time, watching the horse didn't help.

He slipped off the bench and drove slowly home. His and Jackie's home. Jackie's home. He realised he had always thought of it as that. Never his. He had no sentimental attachment to the place, it could burn down tomorrow and he wouldn't mind. Yes, he and Jackie had lived there, but it was hers, her creation.

Now, here he was wandering around the house much as he had, after her death.

He had also ended up here then, running his hands over the furniture, touching her clothes, missing her. He felt as lonely this time, as bereft. In Jackie's case, he used her possessions to soothe himself, but had nothing to connect him to Henrietta. He had nothing of hers, except his memories. He had nothing of hers he could touch, hold. He wanted to hold her, stroke her hair, comfort himself. Talk to her about how he felt.

COLLAPSED in his lounge, David realised he wanted out, wanted to go home. Back to Zimbabwe. Back to Bulawayo, where one played golf on a Wednesday, and if possible Thursday; left work at lunch on Friday and went fishing all weekend. Where there was only one stop street, no traffic and people knew how to give way right. Where the women were what he understood. Sure, there was the normal percentage of gold diggers, of Barbie dolls, but also a lot of plain nice ones. People exactly like him, who didn't feed off the excitement and noise of a large city. Women who liked the outdoors, had pets and didn't mind driving a standard model car. People who liked to greet by name the shop assistants and shop in a place where one would meet at least five people whom one knew.

Perhaps that was his problem; he had never been comfortable with South African women. Robbie suggested that to him, when they first formed DaRo and repeated it again over the years until Jackie came along. She had seemed different, not a normal 'Vaalie' woman. He realised he still did not know exactly what had been different. Perhaps her age. She had been older. In his experience, young South African girls were often shallow, frivolous and pleasure seeking. Henrietta was even older and she was certainly not an average South African woman. That had been one of her attractions.

KIM found him sitting there when she came home two hours later and immediately guessed something terrible had happened. He appeared in pain. She came to a stop in the middle of the carpet and dropped her satchel on the floor.

"What is it? What happened?" she asked.

"She broke it off. Henrietta did. She's gone to Europe, says she doesn't want to see me anymore," he said, his voice sad, lost.

Kim took in his words, his appearance.

"Why? Did she say why?"

"No," he shrugged. "Well, she said she had secrets. You see, I asked her if we could try some sort of cohabiting. I suggested how we could do it, we could see if... I suppose I asked her to marry me. I mean in the future, once we had ironed out all the details. I didn't have to marry her, but I wanted to be, you know the only one. I suppose I was too much, too much the male chauvinist," he said, putting his head in his hands. "Pushing her into something she didn't want."

"No, I don't believe that. I don't believe she was seeing anyone else. Mary said she'd never had an affair with anyone before. Mostly saw a man for a couple of weeks on and off, a few dinners and a few nightclubs. Henrietta never saw anyone like she did you, for as long as she did. Mary thought you guys were good."

"You discussed us with Mary?"

"Yes, I asked her. I was worried about you and I think she was worried about her."

Kim stood rigid, staring down at him. Her eyes filled with tears and ran down her cheeks. Her small face twisted and she ran from the room, into her bedroom and slammed the door.

Left in the lounge, David realised he was not the only one with shattered dreams and a bruised heart.

Kim had lost a potential mother. In Mary, strangely, he thought. It was Mary who took Kim to the shops, bought her makeup, showed her how to use it. Mary bought lovely clothes, introduced Kim to fabrics, colour combinations and accessories. Kim began to pick out a look for herself and it showed. It was a classy look. For some reason, she responded to Mary's gentle instruction. Mary used the overseas fashion guides, subscribed to all the beauty magazines, read articles on new massage techniques and health guides. She introduced Kim to better eating patterns and it showed. Kim said she felt better, more energetic.

While he had been forging a relationship with Henrietta, his daughter was doing the same with Mary.

David went to Kim's room about ten minutes later and knocked on her door. He found himself doing this recently. She suddenly appeared grown up and he worried he may walk in on her, in a private moment.

When he opened the door, he found her standing near her dressing table with an expression he had never seen on her face before. Her eyelids were puffy and red rimmed from crying, but her green eyes glittered, her face pale. Her nostrils flared slightly and her lips were white rimmed and tight. She was furiously angry. The way he could get angry.

He had never seen Jackie like this. Sure, she yelled and screamed on occasion, but it had been almost laughable, in fact, once he did that, and she threw something at him, so badly it must have missed him by about two metres. Looking at Kim now, he was certain if he were the target of her anger, she wouldn't miss.

Her green eyes bright and sharp, she hissed, "She had no right. She had no right to do this to us." Her fists clenched at her sides, Kim breathed deep and slow through her nose. "I want to hurt her. If she were here now I would want to scratch her eyes out, bash in her surgically enhanced nose and tear all her hair out. She is so lucky she is in Europe or wherever."

Kim was not yelling or speaking loudly. Her voice low, vibrated with anger.

"How dare she? Who does she think she is, to come into our lives and then do this. She knew daddy, she knew what you thought, you never hid it. You never hid how you felt about her. What she did is not fair. She could easily have pulled back, but she didn't."

Kim stopped, and David, across the room watching her, didn't know what to say in the face of such anger. He had become this angry in the past and it had never ended well for the person on the receiving end. Once, he nearly killed someone. Would have, if Robbie had not stopped him. Kim was angry with Henrietta for hurting him, and Henrietta had hurt him, terminally. He sat down on the bed.

"When your mum died, I left work and came back here. I wandered around, I went upstairs and touched her clothes, smelled them, fiddled with her jewellery. I went through to your room, remember the one?"

Kim nodded stiffly.

"You were lying in your little cot, asleep. I wanted to pick you up and squeeze you tight to me, scared you would leave me too, I suppose. I didn't of course, you would have woken up and screamed.

"You helped me then, helped me get over losing your mum and now you are here again for me, on my side. I don't feel like you do about Henrietta, it's too soon, but I know sometimes I felt like that about your mum. I felt anger towards the lorry driver, the owner who couldn't be bothered to send his lorry to have its brakes repaired, towards the rain. I even felt anger towards her, for being there that day, for insisting on driving her stupid little car, I don't know, I suppose for being her. It all eventually dulled into a low level pain that only popped up occasionally."

He stood up and took his daughter in his arms and felt her wrap her arms around him. "Please don't go away from me again. I want to be part of your life. I want to share everything, your ups and downs. I want to know when you get dumped, or when you dump someone, I want to know if you have sex."

Kim shook her head against his chest and he laughed.

"OK, maybe not the next morning, but I want to be a part of your life, of your future. I feel you have been slipping away from me recently. I kept thinking I was going wrong but I didn't have any guidelines to work with. And then I went off and did what I always promised myself I would not do. I never brought women back here. I didn't want our life disrupted. I neither wanted a stream of women through here, changing our lives, upsetting you, imposing on us. And I then I went out and did it anyway."

Kim's body stiffened. She stepped back from him, anger on her face again.

"Not true. Sorry. You didn't bring her here. You went to her house and when you came back the first time, I remember how different you were, happy, carefree. I was happy for you, but scared too. After a few weeks, I went to see her. Remember? I asked her what she was up to. You didn't do anything. I did. I wanted it to be OK and she was the one who buggered it up."

"Kim," David said shocked.

"Well she did. She knew you didn't have lots of girlfriends; she knew what happened to mum. OK, Mary and I were the ones to organise to get you guys together, but it worked. I hated that I was stopping you finding someone, I worried you would pass Henrietta up because of me, and I didn't want that. I wanted you to be happy. I went to see her and I told her and she carried on. She could have backed out then. What happened to make her change her mind? Why now?"

"I think I pushed her too much. I wanted to make some plan for us to all be together for longer periods of time, but it appears it was only me who wanted that. You and Mary were happy on your own. Henrietta too. It appears she doesn't want to have a long term relationship, says she has secrets. From things she said, and now what you tell me Mary said, she has never been able to maintain a relationship."

"Well if she does what she did to you, I am not surprised," Kim interrupted sharply.

David smiled and shrugged, "Well, it's over now and we must pick up the pieces. You OK to talk a bit? You know, about our future?"

His daughter shrugged and finally nodded.

"You know, I haven't been happy for some time, but we were settled here, you in school and my business is here. And recently with Henrietta, I saw some sort of future..."

Kim's eyes flashed.

"Well," he stopped again and blurted out, "I want to go home, Kim. I wanted to even before I met Henrietta. I just hadn't worked it out. I probably should have gone after your mum died. It would have been much better for both of us. I don't know why I didn't think of it at the time. The schools are still good there, and you won't be behind. They do 'O' levels and next year they begin the syllabus. I bought a house, close to the school, close to town, with water. It needs lots of fixing up, but it may be fun, you know, the two of us," he rushed on quickly before she could object.

"Many things you love doing are well done in Bulawayo, lots of sport, great outdoor activities, plenty of room and you won't need a driver or an armed security guard!"

David put his hands up, palm outwards, "There's no pressure at all. Come back with me and we'll look at the schools and the house and... well, let's take a break. Would you mind? You and I, you know an adventure," he faded out.

Kim's face lit up, "Hey, that would be cool. We could see granddad again and the guys from the SPCA. Yes, that would be good fun. When do we go?"

WELL, that went well, thought David as he walked up the stairs. He had been unsure how Kim would take the news, or like the idea of leaving her friends, although she said on several occasions she had not made many new friends since beginning senior school.

He wished it could be as easy for him. To forget Henrietta, to open up to a woman again, to get over the hurt.

Worse, he had to go to work in the morning and tell Robbie he wanted to sell his share of DaRo, the company they had built together. Would Robbie be able to find another partner? Would he resent the fact he had pulled out, left him in the lurch?

David would miss Robbie, but he would not miss Johannesburg.

### * * *

"HENRIETTA's gone," David told Robbie when they met in the gym. "She's left Johannesburg, and gone to Europe."

"Did she say why?" asked Robbie.

"No, not really. Well not that I could understand. But she's gone. I spoke to several people at Henri's, until I got hold of this Chris Nyakhumbi guy."

"Head of her security."

"Oh, is he? Well him. He told me she went to Europe and he didn't think she would be back any time soon."

"You OK buddy?"

"No. No I am not Robbie. I'm enough. I want to go home. I want to sell my half of DaRo, and go home. I'm sorry."

"Sell half?" said Robbie. "Let's sell the whole thing. I have had a guts full too. I am sick of South Africa. I also wanna go home."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I've had this place in buckets and it's going the way of Zim anyway. You know, it's not home. I've been thinking this for some time, only I wasn't sure how you would handle it."

"Well, I applied for a place for Kim at school there and Henrietta found me a suitable house. It's in Suburbs which is nice. One of the old houses there, with water. I told her I had to have a borehole. I think Kim is a small town girl, she doesn't get much out of living in Johannesburg and she can always come back here if she wants to, later. After all, she is born in South Africa. What about your wife here? Will you bring her home?"

Robbie laughed. "No way. She will never move to Zim. You joking. She and her daughter won't manage without the shops and the clothes and all."

"Well, she's also your wife and your daughter remember."

"Don't worry Davo, I will get it all sorted out. The African way. I think she'll be happy to see the back of me."

David didn't comment. Robbie's family life had always been a mystery to him. He would never understand it, and instead concentrated on tiring himself out utterly on the exercise machines.
Chapter 71

PAUL Brewster stood with his shoulder against the wall in the Bulawayo terminus, trying to catch a little of the breeze from the narrow doorway.

He glanced over at the deep purple cloud and wondered if it may rain. Typical, he thought, lots of nice looking clouds, plenty lightning and thunder. Heat. Not much rain.

He shifted his attention from the cloud outside back to the ugly metal hangar Bulawayo was obliged to call an airport.

He remembered the old terminus with its lovely colonial style wooden steps, the upstairs restaurant where children could go to see the aeroplanes take off and land, where loved ones could get a last glimpse of their families heading off into the sky.

Customs had been a civilised room where one was sometimes asked to open baggage. Right about now, David and Kim would be standing in the hot airless room waiting to be searched. The customs officials would be hinting to get a bribe if they possibly could.

With a sigh he wondered how anyone could claim the systematic destruction of Matabeleland was a myth. Harare airport had been completely upgraded while Bulawayo's had been demolished and half rebuilt, forcing commuters to use this old metal hangar.

A trickle of people began to pass through the door from the closed area where baggage was first collected and then searched by Customs.

Travellers carrying only hand luggage came first and not for the first time, Paul thought Robbie's way of travelling was better for the blood pressure.

David emerged, Kim preceding him. They were a striking pair, David and Kim, he thought. He had not seen her for more than a year and she had changed in that time. She had grown taller and slimmer and her hair had darkened.

His granddaughter squeaked and running forward launched herself into his arms.

Holding her by the shoulders he said, "You are growing big now. I reckon you are a couple of inches taller than you were last time you came."

He smiled at his son with affection and shook his hand.

Although in obvious good health, David seemed tired and harassed, lines showing against his eyes. He could be a farmer rather than a successful Johannesburg businessman.

"Let's get out of here," he said to them, "it's so bloody hot. I wish it would rain."

David laughed. "The Matabele lament. All we ever want here is rain," he said to Kim. "And of course we never get enough. I hope it does rain. It always seems much more worthwhile here at home than it does in Johannesburg."

His wish was granted before they made it to the Umguza bridge immediately outside the town limits. It poured down in sheets forcing Paul to slow, his windscreen wipers working at full speed.

"Wow," said Kim sniffing. "What's that smell. It's amazing, what is it?"

"It's the rain, Baby," said David smiling. "It's what rain smells like here, I don't know why, but it only smells like that early in the season, the first rains. And it smells best here, at home."

### * * *

DAVID and Kim drove through the rusted wire gate of the double stand he had bought in Suburbs. Although the house stood on the Duncan Road side, the entrance was through the back, in Clark. A thin red dust driveway meandered through thick shrubbery, overgrown and unkempt.

He parked as close to the back of the house as he could and they climbed out, staring about them. At the sagging back porch, the drunken washing line and peeling walls.

"How about we go through the front door?" David suggested, looking for a way around.

Kim trailed her father wordlessly, staring about her; at the overgrown bougainvillaea, at the deep red soil, the old, dilapidated house.

Once upon a time, there had been a piece of lawn here, she thought and flowerbeds in raised stone ledges. Half buried under a tree, a garden gnome lay on its side, cracked.

Three shallow steps led to the veranda, with the front door directly ahead.

Kim remained on a broken cement pathway, while her father battled with the lock.

Closing her eyes she lifted her face to the hot bright sky and inhaled deeply. Parched soil sated by the rain, bird noises, muted traffic sounds infused. Peace settled. The sun on her skin, a slight breeze shifting her hair, uplifted.

She opened her eyes, the dilapidated structure faded and in its place appeared their new home.

Light sandstone paint, a teak balustrade spanning the existing wooden veranda posts. Garden furniture directly behind. Bright cushions, a low wooden table. Tea things. The stained glass window in the little roof peak throwing pretty coloured patterns on the warm wall. The gutters, painted a dark green, a feature to compliment ridged chimney pots high up on the roof. Behind, a sweeping lawn, a Labrador chewing a ball, a raised pagoda. Eight sided. White. Arms above her head, Kim spun around taking it all in.

This house tugged her. She smiled at her father and with a characteristic hop skip, ran up the three short steps and joined him in the lounge.

IT SEEMED as if all the furniture from the entire house had been moved into this room. Kim gazed wide eyed at side tables cluttered with lamps, at too many overstuffed chairs, books everywhere and paintings on every wall. Two carpets covered the floors, side by side, both a muddy sort of grey brown. Numerous standard lamps, their huge shades ragged and stained stood dotted about the room. Kim wondered if they worked, or if the owner collected lamps.

The cluttered room had a musty smell, but the huge bay window on the far side and its twin overlooking the veranda, attracted their attention. The windows had little leaded panes and wooden frames with thick architraves.

The lovely window-seat, presently cluttered with bowls and boxes and old flower pots invited an afternoon reader.

The floor was wooden, Kim guessed, but covered with a cracked and peeling cover of some kind which she didn't recognise.

"What's this stuff on the floor?" she asked.

"Linoleum," replied David. "Popular at one time, and if we're lucky, there will be an Oregon pine floor under here or maybe a teak one. It depends on how old the house is."

Wrinkling his nose, he said, "Poof, this place stinks. Seems amazing some old lady lived in here."

"Was there? What happened to her?"

"She died. I bought this house from her estate. I wanted the borehole. I will not buy a house in Bulawayo without one. Look what a pain it is at granddad's house with no water in the taps. Shall we keep looking?"

"Sure," Kim said, dragging her gaze reluctantly from the ceramic edging around the fireplace.

The dining room was about as full of furniture as the lounge, but Kim decided the light fitting was classy. She pulled aside the old, thick velvet curtain wrinkling her nose against the dust. The room was not big, but had potential with its high moulded ceiling, cast iron fireplace and colourful surround.

"Did you buy the furniture too?"

"Yes, we bought it lock stock and barrel. Everything. Grandad put a guard here as soon as I told him I had bought it. He wanted me to come and have a look at some of the stuff. He thought there may be some antiques in amongst the junk."

Kim left David's side and went through a passage to the back of the house. She saw the kitchen on one side, a door immediately in front. Pushing it open she squealed loudly and David came hurrying to find her.

"Look at this," she said turning an excited face towards him. "Look at this bathroom."

David had to admit it had potential. It was large, with an old fashioned tub on one side.

A red polished floor offset marble panelling, a window high up provided light and an old commode with a tiled top and little wheels held a set of old fashioned taps, dripping into a stained basin.

With a stab of pain, he recalled Henrietta's bathroom, her shower. All modern, all shiny. This was the complete opposite; it was old fashioned.

He liked it.

"Do you like this house?" he asked, tentatively.

"I love it. No, I really do. I love the high ceilings with their pretty patterns and the wood panelling and I love the way you can put up this wall paper. I like the cute little glass windows above the doors." She paused. "The bedrooms are a little dark, but maybe with some lighter paint they will be OK and you must have an on-suite."

"I know it is not a big house, but there is only us two, we don't need more," he said.

An awkward pause developed.

Kim had still not reconciled herself to Henrietta's rejection of him, causing occasional unpleasantness. She tried to avoid saying anything to him though, she knew he still hurt.

DAVID enjoyed watching Kim bubbling over with ideas. She wanted to get magazines, look up on the internet to find the style of house and go to an architect. She had lots of ideas about the garden, a pagoda, how to fix the veranda.

He wondered if Kim would miss the house in Honeydew.

At present she seemed on course to settle in here in Bulawayo. He was amazed at how she liked the old world shops, the slow life, the wide empty streets.

She was tickled pink when the owner of the little corner store they went to at Bradfield came over and spoke to them.

"Like we're special," she had whispered, nudging him, her eyes sparkling.

Perhaps she would get sick of it, but he didn't think so. Kim was a social animal, but a clean loving one.
Chapter 72

DAVID crossed the N1 on his way to work, travelling mostly with the early morning minibuses, thankful he did not have to do this much longer. He couldn't wait to be back at home in Zimbabwe, fixing up their little house there, walking his daughter to school himself.

Bulawayo didn't have enough traffic for traffic jams, the wide roads open and clear. He was not blind to the problems encountered by residents: intermittent power, poor water delivery to name a few. But money smoothed over all those kinds of problems and the years he had spent in Johannesburg and the money he had made there would allow him to enjoy himself back home.

And he was going to enjoy himself. He was going to make an effort to forget Henrietta, get out, meet people and start over. He had existed for the last few months, he guessed he could slowly start living, with a little practice.

The radio, which he usually only left on for the traffic accident report, penetrated his consciousness.

'...financial news. VLC shares have risen sharply at close yesterday with the announced reappearance of Lisa Van der Linde earlier in the day. According to a VLC spokesperson, the reappearance of the missing heiress and major shareholder of the corporation spells good news for the VLC, which has been floundering due to the ill health and subsequent death of the chairman, Johann Van der Linde. The Van der Linde Corporation has a major interest in several of the large gold mines on the Rand, and in platinum mines in the Rustenburg area. They have wide interests in the pharmaceutical and petro chemical industries of South Africa...'

David reached over to turn the volume up, but the reporter moved on to other news. He wondered if Robbie knew anything about this. Had Lisa simply reappeared? Rather a coincidence, since they had been looking for her for more than six months, and Robbie always said he didn't believe in coincidence.

David made it to DaRo by 6.30am, went into his office and called up to the flat to see if Robbie was there. His South African wife was obviously not taking the news of the sale of DaRo as well as expected. Robbie had been spending more and more time upstairs, unhappy with his home-life.

She was someone David had never been comfortable with. He found her arrogant and over sensitive, plain jealous of the relationship between himself and Robbie.

Always well dressed, covered in jewellery, she drove a Porsche and spent all her time shopping and visiting other women in the same situation as herself. They had one child, a girl, a perfect little clone of her mother.

Robbie answered on the second ring. "Yebo."

"I just got in Robbie, I heard on the six o'clock news Lisa Van der Linde reappeared. I didn't know. I'm sorry. I've been rather wrapped up in myself these last few months and I haven't kept up with developments."

"I'll be right down Davo, hang on," Robbie sounded strange, resigned perhaps. David wondered at Robbie's use of his nickname, he rarely used it any more. Shrugging his shoulders he booted up his lap top. He wanted to have a look at what the news had to say about Lisa Van der Linde.

Robbie walked into the room while the pages were still opening and laid two folders down on the desk.

"Howzit buddy," David said. "I'm sorry about the Lisa Van der Linde thing. I have been quite out of things. Did you find her, or did she reappear?"

"Well it was a bit of both," Robbie replied slowly.

David raised his eyebrows, "Bit of both?"

"Lisa Van der Linde assumed another identity and moved here to South Africa, about 1990. I don't think she would have come forward if I had not uncovered her identity. I think she would have stayed hidden; she didn't need the money from the Van der Linde Corporation."

David, listened to Robbie as the pages opened on his laptop.

"OK, whose identity did she assume?"

"Henrietta Steyn's."

The name fell into the silence of the early morning office, as David brought up a page with a photograph of the long lost Lisa Van der Linde. He sat frozen in his office chair, staring first at the picture on the screen and then up at Robbie.

"I'm sorry Dave," Robbie said quietly, feeling extremely sorry for his friend and also guilty about his own involvement. David leaned back into his chair staring up at Robbie.

"Who found her? Who knows about this?"

"Only me and Coral. We put the thing together, although we used information from all our branches to join the dots."

"Join the dots," parroted David in a daze. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm sorry Dave," he said again, "the right time never came up. It was all happening at once, you know you and her and the investigation... well, it was never the right time. I always hoped..., always hoped we were wrong. That Henrietta wasn't involved in the Lisa disappearance, that I could chuck the file away and forget about it, never tell you we investigated Henrietta Steyn or Henri Properties. But the deeper we investigated, the more obvious it became... I went to see her at her house. You know, to confirm."

"Yes? What did she say?"

"Nothing Dave. Absolutely nothing. She stared down at me, and then walked away up the steps. Left me standing in the lounge."

A thin smile twisted David's mouth.

"Then," continued Robbie, "I heard from you Henrietta had left. Gone to Europe. I wondered if she was going to leave, take up another identity, disappear again or something. Then yesterday, the money for finding her arrived in our account, although I never told the VLC anything. I had already decided I couldn't do that, that this time if she wanted to hide, she was free to."

"So why did you hunt her down? Why the hell didn't you leave her alone?"

"Because of you Dave. I..."

"Damn it Robbie, I'm an adult. You don't have to watch over me. I could have put up with it. I would have put up with anything. Anything,"

David put his head in his hands, elbows on his desk.

"Why did she hide? I always knew she had secrets, but this? I can't believe she didn't tell me, can't believe any of this. Just...just."

"Read the files, Davo," said Robbie.

David heard the door click closed.

He opened his eyes and stared around the room, as if he had never seen it before. His glance passed over the two files Robbie had left on the edge of the desk, to his laptop open on a page showing the long lost Lisa Van der Linde.

His Henrietta stood on the steps of the VLC headquarters in Rotterdam, flanked by several men in suits. She also wore a business suit, stockings and matching shoes, her hair pulled back from her face. She was immaculately dressed, everything in place: her hair, her clothes, her make-up. She appeared closed. Completely shut off, blank, more like a model of a successful businesswoman, or a wax figure.

Instinctively David knew she had locked down, that she used that blank face to hide. Why on earth was she hiding? What did she need to hide from?

With a sigh, he reached over and picked up the two files.

He needed to know what happened to Lisa that made her run away all those years ago. He opened the top one, an investigation done in 1998 and 1999; an investigation of Jackie.

David guessed Robbie had done that, but what did it have to do with Henrietta?

He frowned and began to read. When he finished, he picked up the second file and read it straight through too. He re-read them both, more slowly this time, trying to absorb the contents.

Jackie, at Cages. Dates, times she had been there, with Anton with other men. Women. He flicked through the reports, the photos. The photos of Eugene, of the real Henrietta. Of his Henrietta after her nose job, surprise at Kim's perspicacity. Robbie's report of the dungeon built into the cliff at Henrietta's house. Of the money. Millions of Rands, millions of dollars. Houses in Europe, in the US all over Africa, Australia. Her portfolio, not a small side-line for a bored businesswoman, but millions of dollars worth. The photos of the red stripes on the buttocks of Eugene's latest slave. The transcript of his own interview with Lukas, Coral's seduction of Justin. Lisa's golden handcuffs in Henrietta's dungeon.

David scrubbed his face with his hands.

Jeez, he thought, I got taken in. Not once, but twice. Twice, he had been in a relationship with a woman who liked to be tied up and beaten. No, twice he had been in love with women who liked that. What does this make me, he asked himself, a closet sadist?

So much of what had gone wrong with Jackie became clear now. But why were both women attracted to him? What did they see in him, why did they pick him?

And Henrietta he thought, flinching at the idea of her under the control of a man like Eugene Leclerc. Still under the influence of Eugene. Eugene had been to visit Henrietta recently, had been in Johannesburg as recently as two weeks before she left. He tortured himself with the image of her tied up in her dungeon, Eugene hurting her.

The notion of an animal like Eugene anywhere near Henrietta, made David murderously angry.

He was insanely jealous, jealous of Eugene and revolted too. Revolted by the thought of Eugene, a coloured man, in a relationship with Henrietta. Touching her, arousing her.

He clenched his fists and stood up from his desk determined to kill him.

Eugene Leclerc deserved to die.

God what a savage, David raged, and now he was living in the flat in Borrow Street, where Lisa had lived all those years ago. No, he reminded himself, where Henrietta had lived all those years ago. Beating some other poor girl to death.

Unable to hold his temper any longer, David walked to the door, wrenched it open and stepped into the corridor.

### * * *

ROBBIE, making coffee in the kitchenette near the stairwell, recognised a version of his friend rarely seen. The version capable of murder.

David appeared furious, deadly. His body held tight, his face scary, lips white and tight, nostrils pinched.

He walked swiftly to the steps and ran down them to the basement.

Robbie ventured down about thirty minutes later, relieved to see David's face had assumed a redder appearance, never comfortable with the pallor that accompanied his anger.

Watching his shirtless friend, beating the punch bag with deadly blows, Robbie recalled the first time he had seen him blindly angry.

David had nearly killed someone.

The easiest going of guys, David loathed the use of physical force to intimidate or dominate.

They had been playing tennis together on the Hillside Police Camp courts when two white boys offered to play against them. The boys, several years older, expected an easy win. After all they reasoned, both their opponents were younger and one of them, black.

As the game progressed, it became apparent they would lose, rather than the walk over they thought they deserved. They began to throw insults across the court, allusions to David's friendship with a black boy, Robbie's puny size, in fact anything they thought may get a rise.

David fielded them with good humour, but when at the end of the match, the taunts turned physical, and against Robbie, David lost his temper and it was an eye opener for everyone there that day. Especially Robbie.

He hardly recognised his friend in the cold blooded, technical brute with white face and thin white lips. At first, he only noticed David's eyes became a sharper blue, that he paled somewhat and appeared taller than normal.

Only when David clinically despatched one of their opponents, and held the other down by the throat, had Robbie begun to process the seriousness of the situation.

He pulled David's arm, in an attempt to dislodge his vice grip, and had been almost casually side-swiped. David's backhand connected with his jaw and side of his head, knocking him off his feet. Robbie rolled away and approached more carefully, talking rather than touching him.

It made little difference, David appeared deaf, intent on choking the life out of the man under his hands. Robbie watched powerless as the young man's face turned a deep shade of purple, his eyes bug out and his swollen tongue, protrude. Blood poured out of a cut in his head and Robbie had known if he didn't do something soon, the guy would die.

"Stop it Davo, you gonna kill him, man," Robbie had screamed directly into his friend's ear.

Almost as if awoken from a dream David had jumped up, dusting his hands against the back of his tennis shorts. He had stepped back, picked up his racquet and walked off down the road.
Chapter 73

DAVID pushed open the double doors of the VLC boardroom and walked into the room. Lisa Van der Linde rose slowly from the head of the table, her face blank and expressionless.

"Hey, I say," said a man sitting on Lisa's right, "this is a private meeting. You can't come in here."

David fixed his eyes on Lisa's face.

"I want to speak to you, Henrietta. Now," he said.

Across the room David appeared menacing and implacable, his warm clothing increasing his bulk. He seemed angry, Lisa thought, and did not look as though he would go away if asked.

She lifted her chin and with a stab of pain, David recognised that little lift as a characteristic particular to Henrietta. One she made when she was unhappy with something, or about to say something she found difficult.

"I am sorry gentlemen," she said, her eyes still on David. "Will you please be patient for a moment."

A red faced man, David guessed to be about fifty-five years old, began to bluster, attempting to intimidate and bully.

"What is going on here? Who the hell are you?"

David did not bother to look his way.

"Who the hell is Henrietta?"

Lisa moved towards a door leading off the board room and motioned with her arm for David to follow her.

"Hey," shouted the man again, "what do we do? Wait?" Neither Lisa nor David answered him, only walked through the door into the room beyond.

"What the hell? What is going on? Who does that guy think he is, Johann Van der Linde? Exactly the kind of stunt he used to pull. Thought we had stopped being treated like floor-mats now he is dead."

Lisa and David heard his voice as it floated through the closing door.

Lisa smiled thinly.

"Henrietta," David began. Pain tightened his face and he swallowed. "Now I am standing here in front of you, all the questions I had, left me." He shook his head slowly from side to side. "Oh god, you are so beautiful, I missed you so much. I love you." Great, David thought, great opening speech. Bound to solve all my problems.

He stared at Lisa, at her blank, expressionless face, the face she used to hide behind. Hide her feelings, her passionate emotions, her true self. He knew her control to be enormous. He didn't want to break it down, he wanted her to be herself enough to help him understand.

"When you left," he began, "I was heartbroken. Yes, that's the right word. I gave my heart only twice and twice it was ripped out. I presumed there is something wrong with me, something I am lacking."

Lisa shook her head, about to interrupt, but he ploughed on.

"So I made some decisions: sell my share in DaRo, move back to Zimbabwe, get Kim into school there, take stock of my life. Start over. You obviously had good reasons to leave. You had the right to leave. I knew you would never make a decision like that lightly, it would be well considered. Once I received your email, I only called your office. I made no other effort to search for you.

"Robbie hadn't told me anything about finding Lisa, I suppose he was putting off the inevitable unpleasantness, poor bugger. If I had not heard a snippet on the radio, he probably would have got away with it, I hardly ever read financial news or watch TV."

"I read Robbie's file, both on you and Jackie. The facts, how he joined the dots. Some of it may be wrong, most of it is not understandable to me. Will you help me? Will you tell me what happened? We have only the facts. Will you tell me... explain, and maybe I can get my head round it," he paused, his voice cracking, "so I can get on with my life, move on?"

Lisa turned her back on David and appeared to stare out of the window.

"Henrietta," he begged.

"Please leave me to stand like this," she said raising one hand. "I cannot talk if I have to see your face, and I want to be able to think clearly and discuss anything you wish, rationally.

"The facts? At fifteen years old I met Eugene, at twenty-three he helped me obtain Henrietta's documents. I developed Henri Properties from the money I inherited from my grandfather and my investment portfolio. The money from the VLC was all re invested. You know I have lived with Mary since I was seventeen years old, and that Eugene and I have had a dom./sub relationship since I was fifteen years old. Those are the fact you are talking about?"

"Yes."

"Eugene sought me out the first time I attended a social at the Barham Green Community Hall, hosted by Father Duncan to encourage interracial harmony, in May of 1982. Eugene already knew who I was and he went to the social that night to seduce me, and use me to scope the houses of my contemporaries, gain entry, and burgle them. At that stage I don't think he knew how shy I was, how introverted, how much of an outsider.

"But something else happened that night at the Barham Green Hall, something happened to both of us. I like to believe we were both saved in the moment when our eyes met across the room, although I don't know much of what Eugene's life has been, or in fact much of what he feels, but I presume he would have been different, if he had not chosen me."

Lisa paused, and standing against the window in an aggressively tailored, lime green suit, she appeared stiff and formal.

Her shoulders rose sharply under the padded material when she breathed in and continued, "You have to understand I was a pathetic rich girl, who couldn't talk to people, who had no confidence, a huge disappointment to my parents. I lived all my life inside myself. I was ugly, fat with a huge hooked nose and crooked teeth. My hair, which you love, was short, lank and greasy. That night at the Barham Green Hall, Eugene told me never to cut it again. I never have, you know, to this day. You see how I obey him?" she added sarcastically.

"Eugene taught me how to do many things, how to deal with people, how to dress, what to say in different circumstances. If I had not met Eugene, and he had not taken over my life, I would not be anything like I am today. He had a vision, an end point, of what I must look like, how I must act, how I must live," she gestured with her hands to the suit she was wearing. "I had no such vision of myself, I cannot put myself there, I cannot easily see how others see me.

"As time went on, Eugene moulded me more and more, it gave him a kick to utterly control another person. Imagine the feeling, to hold someone in the palm of your hand. I gave myself to him, understand that," she stated flatly. "I would have done anything for him, even gone into the houses and helped him steal from my friends. I didn't. He wouldn't let me, wouldn't let me unlatch a window or turn off an alarm. I have never, ever been involved in his business.

"So often over the years, when I was older and knew more, I asked myself why. Why did he not get me completely under his control? Why not get me into real trouble, maybe murder, or accessory to murder?" She hurried on, "I like to think he did it, so I could stand here one day, at the head of that table out there and say, "I am Lisa Van der Linde," and not have to hide anything I had done in the past."

"I still don't understand," David blurted out. "Why did you need a new identity? You didn't do anything illegal, we couldn't find one single thing that would make you run like you did. What did you do, Henrietta? What did you do that made you run? Please Henrietta," he begged.

"I didn't do anything. I wanted out. Out of my life. I was a terrible Lisa Van der Linde, I was never going to be anything in that life and with her hanging over my head and the VLC a grim reminder of what I had to face sometime, I knew I would never be anything. In order to be someone, someone I was in control of, I had to hide, and hide well. Develop a new character, a new persona. I had to be absolutely confident they couldn't find me in order for me to do that. I was fairly sure my parents wouldn't bother to look for me. They never understood me.

"I have always hidden, you know. When I was a child, I hid behind surliness or a blank face, but when it came to the VLC, I knew I had to physically hide. It is what I do when I can't handle things. Hide. You see, I am easy to manipulate, only shout at me, or brain bash me, and I fold. Always.

"If I had stayed at home, I would have been sold to the highest bidder, probably someone older than me, someone sitting in that boardroom I would guess, so they could keep the shares in the family. But I didn't, Eugene set it up so I left home at seventeen, moved into my own flat and began to learn how to deal with the world, with him in charge, guiding and teaching.

"He never ever involved himself in my business. That was the freedom he gave me, the freedom he insisted upon. He must have always known he would not hold me, that he would mold me rather. He made sure I was completely in control in one area of my life. He genuinely believed the money was mine, he truly was not interested in taking it from me. I would have given it to him, believe me I would have given him anything he asked, I was that infatuated.

"He didn't even hold me sexually. From the start, he taught me sex is something separate from love. Sex and physical gratification is something that affects, or influences your body, and I was an apt pupil, don't get me wrong. Don't think he abused me, or hurt me in any way. He did not. Control was what he got his kicks from. Or rather gets his kicks from; he hasn't changed. People don't change you know.

"I could have been a potent weapon in his hands. Think about it, no one knew about our relationship and I had entrée to one of the largest corporations around. He could have had me in there," she said, pointing to the board-room, "using me how he wanted. He would have loved that. Imagine the power trip he could have had, such an evil man as Eugene, manipulating the rich whites he hated, the very people he loved to hurt."

She spoke bitterly, sarcastically.

"He sent me to Rotterdam to take up that seat. I came back a wreck, asked him to hide me, and he did. Without hesitation. He did that for me. I know it now, now I am older and know more.

"If he had plans for the VLC, he shelved them when he saw me on my return from Rotterdam in 1988.

"Eugene is a monster? Yes? More of a monster than them?" she asked flinging her arm towards the board room.

"Sorry, not to me," she whispered, shaking her head, "not to me. Mary once told me he owned her, because he saved her life. Well, the same applies. If he had not saved me, I would not be the woman you see standing here.

"You fell in love with Eugene's creation," she said, and left that one sentence to reverberate in the silence of the wood panelled room. She paused, but when David remained silent, continued.

"He knew better ever than I, what I could do and what I could not do. What kind of monster takes over the life of a young innocent girl? What right did he have to do that, perhaps you ask? I ask myself instead, what would have happened to that girl if he hadn't.

"What is wrong with Eugene anyway? Is it because he is a coloured from Bulawayo? Is it because he is a criminal? Is it because he is a dominant?" Lisa spoke slowly, her voice rising slightly at the end of each question.

"Well, now I have been working with them for a few months, I have learnt they are the same in many ways, only hidden under a veneer of respectability," she said bitterly.

"Eugene accepts what he is. Those people next door are as criminal as him, as dominant but without the disadvantages of being born in the coloured plot-area of Bulawayo.

"Henrietta, Eugene is a murderer."

"Oh, is he? Perhaps he is. I don't care. I do not know anyone he murdered and I can't care about someone I don't care about. The VLC murder people too, only not as honest about it. Don't look into the pharmaceutical industry closely if you want to keep your illusions," she added cynically. "If Eugene murders someone I presume he will do it with a knife, himself, up front and personal.

"I have never lied to you. I know I have not, because only I knew the truth. Only I knew Jackie had been in a submissive relationship with Anton for years, and only I knew I too had been in one for longer. You told me your relationship with Jackie was on the rocks, and I knew why. When Robbie came and pointed out that we were no different, Jackie and I. That it hadn't worked out for you and her, and it probably wouldn't work out for us, I guessed he was right. I am too different to the norm and I had more secrets than Jackie."

"Robbie had no right. He had no right to say anything to you about us, Henrietta. OK, he found Lisa Van der Linde, it should have ended there," David exploded, interrupting her.

"Robbie loves you like a brother," she said. "He is your brother really. You should hear how you talk about him, with pride, affection. I wish I had a brother like him. Don't blame him, he was looking out for you."

Lisa took a long shuddering breath, her head down and David wanted to go over to her, hold her, shield her. He wanted to take her away from all this, something she was obviously unhappy with.

"Robbie thought I set you up. He thought I knew you were looking for Lisa Van der Linde. He thought I put myself in your way, to shake you off the path."

Lisa dropped her head forward further.

"I didn't do that," she whispered. "I didn't know it was you looking for me."

David watched as Lisa's shoulders squared, her head rose and she collected herself again.

It was hard for him to have to talk to her back. Yet she said she needed space, and he respected her wishes.

He didn't want to respect her wishes, he wanted to pull her round to him, shake her by the shoulders or fold her into his arms, he couldn't make up his mind which.

For once in his life, he wanted to simply act, only feel. He wanted to abandon restraint.

"Eugene taught me control in all areas of my life, except for physical gratification, sensuality. There he encouraged the opposite, he loved to make me feel. I have always had trouble feeling, especially emotion. The night you came to my house, that lack was to blame and I am very sorry. Sorrier than you can imagine. Even as I was doing it, I knew I should not. I knew you thought differently to me about sex and yet when you were standing there in front of me, preparing to leave, I couldn't stop. I wanted to feel. I wanted to experience, and I used my looks and our relationship to get that. I am sorry. Not for the magic time we had, but that I messed up your life, broke your heart and I know I have no right to ask your forgiveness. I haven't actually."

David stared at Lisa's tall figure by the window. Her words almost exactly mirrored Kim's, as if he had no part in what happened.

LISA turned away from the window, towards him.

"There, I have said what I needed. I struggle to talk to people, especially about emotional things when I am facing them."

"Do you love me, Henrietta?" David asked. "I thought you did, or were beginning to anyway."

Lisa considered his question, her face serious.

"I don't know what love is, you know. I have strong feelings for you, for Mary and Eugene. Until you came along, there were only two people I cared about in the whole world, Mary and Eugene. Do I love them? Do I love you? I feel differently about all of you, strongly for all of you. Eugene asked me the same question. Did I love you, were you the one for me."

"You discussed me with Eugene?" David heard his voice rising.

"I have never lied to you, David. I won't start now."

David stared at Lisa incredulously, but noticed she had used his name for the first time since he walked into the boardroom.

"I told him I didn't know, knowing all these secrets lay between us. Many more secrets than were between you and Jackie. Because love doesn't conquer all," she said sadly, shaking her head.

"You had a daughter who meant more to you than your own happiness. I had secrets, huge secrets. Of the two of us, I think I better understood there are many kinds of love. I had to find one that fit us, and shoehorn us into it. Years ago, Eugene told me he loved me."

An expression flashed across David's face. Pain? Anger? She had seen it before, at her beach house in Port Elizabeth.

"The kind of love that comes without a ring, children and a house in the suburbs. I was prepared to accept that love then. It was what I needed at that time. He told me one day I would no longer need his dominance and then he would no longer love me, that mutually we would have no hold on each other. The question was not did I love you, rather have I stopped needing Eugene's dominance.

"I had no baseline to judge from. I asked myself instead what I would feel if you died. Would I be devastated, would I feel I couldn't go on without you? When I first asked myself that question, the answer was certainly yes. I could go on, but the night Robbie came to my house and I knew it was all over, I was devastated, shattered."

David took a step forward, towards her, but she put up her hand halting him.

"I have never made the big decisions in my life, Eugene did that for me. He left me alone while things went along on an even keel, but whenever there was some big decision to be made, he was there and he made it. At the time, I didn't realise what a big decision I was making when I asked you to stay with me. For the first time ever, I made a decision on my own, and it was the wrong one. I made the wrong choice, not when I entered into a relationship with Eugene, but when I forced you to sleep with me that night at my house. That was wrong and I have wanted to rewind, go back in time ever since.

"I am reactive; things happen to me, I don't make them happen. I operate best maintaining a system. Left to me, things will happen. I will do nothing to stop them. Don't you understand Dave," she cried desperately, "I need someone to own me, someone to make my big decisions for me. I need someone to look after me. I need someone who looks inside me and knows what I want, because I sure don't know what I want, I am simply not qualified to make certain decisions," she said, speaking rapidly, the words tumbling out as if she couldn't stop them.

"Give me a set of figures," she said struggling for control, "I don't need you. Give me a stock portfolio, or a balance sheet, I am better than anyone I have ever met, more confident than anyone I know. Give me a personality with a face attached, and I am lost. Perhaps I made the wrong choice the night Robbie came to my house, I won't be surprised if I did, but I judged you could not own me. Would not own me. You would not want to make the big choices for me, and it was for that reason I left. You may learn to see inside me, but you probably believe I have the right to make my own choices. I already knew you wanted Jackie to make her own decisions. You refused to make her decision for her.

"Jackie's need for dominance was a very real thing, essential for her happiness and she obviously still needed it somewhere in her life. She chose to assuage her need physically at Cages, but release from Anton's mental dominance by marrying you. She didn't know what she was doing, but I was able to learn from her experience and I do know what I am doing. I never fully entered into the physical aspect of dominance, but accepted, needed, mental dominance.

"You were right you know," Lisa said, her voice suddenly soft, "you failed her. You failed Jackie because you didn't take control of her, of her life. She needed you to say "You WILL do this, or you WILL do that" and you wouldn't. You said you didn't own her, you were only married to her.

"You didn't have to tie her up and beat her," she said, smiling thinly at the grimace that crossed David's face.

"That's only one of the manifestations of a sub/dom relationship. A true dominant must take control where the submissive needs to relinquish control. A person who dominates another, who is not a true submissive, is a sadist. Eugene is not a sadist. I am the same as Jackie, Dave. I need you to own me, to tell me what to do. To pull my shower cap off, take control. It's how I am built and Eugene developed it, only worked with the raw material, he didn't make me like that."

Lisa paused, her eyes on David's face.

She took a few steps away from the window towards the closed door into the boardroom.

"YOU need to leave me alone now," she continued, "and go away where you are not affected by my face and remember instead my words. You have to ask yourself if you can get it right the second time. Perhaps you are not a dominant person and can never learn to be. If you think that, in the cold light of day, unclouded by recollections of a false persona, then you must walk away from me. It will hurt at first, but better a clean break now, than a long, slow death."

David didn't move, and Lisa brought out both hands, palm up. "Oh Dave, I wish, wish, wish I had not stood up from my chair that day," she said.

"I wish I had called another assistant to help you. I should have been warned by the fact I hardly ever look through that one way glass and see someone I would like to have more to do with."

"I am not sure if it would have made any difference, you know," David said. "I would have sought you out some other way."

"Yes, that is what Eugene said."

David groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands.

"I won't lie to you David," Lisa smiled, "but you would probably have given up after a while. You told me you did when you first met Jackie, when she was still dating Anton; that you won't ever force the issue."

"You remember I told you that?" he asked.

"I remember every, single word you ever said to me," said Lisa softly and David reached out and grabbing her upper arm, pulled her towards him, wrapping his arms around her.

He tried to bury his face in her hair, but found it tied back in a bun at the back of her neck. Almost angrily he tore at the tight knot, pulling it loose, shaking the pins out and tugging at it until all Lisa's glorious hair lay tangled but free down her back.

Still with his head against hers, he stroked the length of her hair with both of his large hands. From the top of her head right down her back, over and over, soothing himself, breathing in her scent, feeling her body against his.

Lisa stood within his arms, relaxed against him, waiting for him to make the next move. He reached down, took her hands and covering them with his, brought them up to his face. He pressed their hands together against his cheeks. He leaned slightly forwards and kissed her gently on the lips.

Lisa felt herself falling, as always into the sensual pull of that action. Eugene's action. His trigger.

She pulled back from the kiss, and stepped away.

"This issue will not be solved that way. That is the reason we are in this mess. If we have any chance of a future, we have to do it through communication, at a distance. And I promise not to lie to you, not even by omission, and that's going to be the decider here. You came to me David, and I give you my terms. From here on in, I will be open with you and if I cannot say something to your face, I will either turn around or send you an email, and I will not lie to you. Eugene is a reality, as is our past relationship. I have been in a relationship with him since I was fifteen years old, and have lived as Henrietta Steyn as long as Lisa Van der Linde.

"Can you replace everything Eugene was for me, and more? I want it all this time. I don't want someone who comes to visit occasionally, offers me crumbs, keeps his other life from me. I want the whole package or nothing, and it won't be a breeze. If you can't, you need to walk away, go back to your beloved Zimbabwe, find a normal Bulawayo girl and marry her. Give Kim a mother."

"Henrietta," David said reaching out to her. Lisa stepped away from him.

"Those are my terms, Dave. This time, I care enough about you to force you to use the brain in your head. Last time I didn't."

She turned and went back towards the window and David was left staring at her back, her long hair a little tangled. Unusual for her.

"How is Lisa doing, Henrietta?" he asked, softly.

She blew out a sharp bark of a laugh. "Badly, Dave. Badly."

"Is Eugene here to help her?"

"No. No he isn't, and if he were here in Rotterdam, he wouldn't be in there," she said, pointing to the boardroom. "It is in there Lisa cannot function. He would be in the background manipulating, organising. He has never been out in the open. That was one of his rules. No, this time..." she was interrupted by a knock on the door. They both swung around towards it, David swearing under his breath.

Lisa's secretary entered holding a silver tray, with a square, off white envelope in the centre.

David heard Lisa's breath hiss in her throat but she remained standing against the window.

"Mr Brewster? Are you Mr Brewster?" the secretary asked David.

He nodded, picked up the square envelope and opened it. He pulled out two cards. One had Lisa written on it in a swirly font and on the other was written:

You don't have to kill me, I am already dead.

I always gave Lisa what she needed - you are the last thing I will ever give her.

David glanced at the other card, the one for Lisa. Nothing was written on it, except her name, and stuck across the middle, a piece of clear tape holding down two pieces of thread. He handed it to her and watched helplessly as her face closed over, shut down, emptied. Even her eyes seemed blank, desolate.

Dead.

David moved over to her and pulled her into his arms again.

"I'm sorry, Baby. So sorry," and she began to cry.

Horrible racking sobs that nearly broke his heart. She went on and on, crying into his shoulder and all he could do was stand and hold her and he thought nothing is as hard for a man to endure as listening to a strong woman cry.

"I always knew they would do it, the VLC. I always knew they would be the death of me, and I was right."

She held the card from Eugene tightly in her hand.

"It wasn't my fault. I didn't want them. This," she sobbed, waving her hand around the room.

"I didn't break it, they did. I am nearly clear of them, nearly out. Finished with them."

David pried the card out of her hand, scrunched it up and threw it away. He wanted to tell her to stop reacting to Eugene's mind games, but knew it wouldn't work. She would have to work through it herself.

He didn't know what the broken thread meant, but it was of obvious significance to Lisa; meant Eugene had left her life.

Eugene had better be dead to her, he thought savagely. If he wasn't, David was absolutely certain he would kill him.

He waited with Lisa for another quarter of an hour, until she became calmer.

He walked through the door into the boardroom where the assembled men were still seated around the table, waiting.

David went to Lisa's chair at the head of the table and resting his hands on the back of it said, "I'm sorry gentlemen, Ms. Van der Linde will not be available again today. I will let you know when she can meet with you."

"Hey, who the hell are you?" said the man sitting to the right of Lisa's chair. "You come in here and bust up our meeting and make us wait like this."

David looked around the table, at the faces there. His eyes finally settled on someone he recognised. Mr Aylesworthy, the lawyer who had started this whole sorry mess.

"My name is David Brewster," he said.

"So? Who do you think you are? You can't come in here like this, we have business to deal with. We have travelled far for this meeting. Who do you think you are," he repeated, "Johann Van der Linde?"

David stood back up to his full height behind Lisa's chair and stared firstly down at him and then slowly around the rest of the men, assessing each one.

"No. I am not," he said, and nodded dismissively. "Thank-you for your patience, gentlemen. This meeting is over."

He walked back into the small anteroom and Lisa. Closing the door, he moved towards her, seated at the oval table and drew her up, into his arms.

"God, you sound just like him," she said against his shoulder.

"Like whom?"

"Like my father, like Papa. He would have done exactly what you just did in there. He was an autocrat, a bully and he was an arrogant son of a bitch."

David smiled, pressing his cheek against her hair. "I am not any of those things, but I can pretend."

~THE END~

Thank-you for finishing my book, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Silk Threads is my first novel, so please go to my blog....and leave a message, it's the only way I will know if my writing is appreciated.

Please connect with me:

<http://frankiekay.wordpress.com/>

If you can't go to my blog, below is a little about me...

Of course my real name is not Frankie Kay... I have a boring day job.

The nice thing about Frankie Kay, is she can be whatever I want her to be. I can leave out all the boring bits. The other me is really boring.

I live in Bulawayo now, although as a child I was brought up a little out of town. I never really got into the whole black, white, coloured thing.

Race and race issues are a constant undercurrent in Bulawayo, and one I often find annoying, or confusing. It is something that interests me though. On some occasions even my own actions or thoughts are contradictory or obtuse.

A couple whom I respect tremendously encouraged me to begin writing. They said I portray a character or scenario well. Tell funny stories.

Useless at English at school, I didn't think it would work. I thought only people who knew me would understand, that my stories would have no impact without all the associated sounds and actions.

I began by writing short pieces about things that made me laugh, or made my cynical streak scream out, and I didn't bother that much with the English. I don't know how successful I was, but my plan was to have a whole library available to use when I began my first novel.

Understand here folks, this was my rational side working...

I was writing a love story, of all things, when Silk Threads 'came' to me. It came to me all in a second. In one moment, I saw Eugene lean into Lisa on the flowerbed, and murmur, "Come next week," demand she no longer cut her hair. I saw his beautiful face and Lisa's lonely life.

I wanted to write about how easy it is for a smooth man to seduce a young, shy girl. I forgot about the love story, I am sure it was boring anyway, and began furiously to write Silk Threads. I finished the bulk of it in about three months of exhilarating imaginings. I was totally caught up in Lisa's world.

You see, I know about how difficult it is to be an Aspie in this modern world because I married into a family full of them. I had so much to say, so many different themes to intertwine, but I didn't want to force them on you, the reader. I just kept them in the background of my mind. Some I managed to fit in, others I didn't. I didn't manage to get in as much about Bulawayo as I would have liked.

And the BDSM theme? Yes, I put it in because a few books recently have portrayed this world as sick and twisted. I wanted to challenge that.

I have subsequently written a vignette, entitled Reckless Gambol, further developing the story of Dion and Lisa. Please click on this link to Reckless Gambol on Smashwords here.

I have also completed a prequel/sequel to Silk Threads, African Cuckoo. A full length book, this story gives readers an insight into Eugene's childhood while adding a few new characters to the mix. Below are the first few chapters of African Cuckoo – please send me an email (forfrankiekay@gmail.com)) if you would like to read the entire book. I'd love some criticism.

### African Cuckoo

### CHAPTER 1

##### Bulawayo 1965

Wolf was, as always, tapped awake at exactly 7.30pm. He smiled as he came out of his reverie.

"Under the cat's paw, that's what I am," he said, stroking Tabitha.

She moved slightly against his hand, in appreciation, but also impatiently.

_Tirer les marrons du feu_ or in English, 'under the cat's paw.' A person used by another as a dupe or as a tool.

That's me certainly, thought Wolf.

"Do you only love me for my food?" he asked her. "If I stopped feeding you, you would go away to someone else, wouldn't you?"

Tabitha, certain Wolf was now fully awake, jumped off the arm of his chair and ran over to the door, her undercarriage swaying from side to side. She stopped, looking over her shoulder to check he was following, before she ran to the kitchen.

Wolf pushed his heels against the footrest of his recliner and followed her.

"Everyone here?" he asked and his family did what each individual normally did at feed time. Tabitha jumped on to the counter; Sylvester twisted around his legs. Rat, lurking on the veranda, would only enter the kitchen when all the others had begun their dinner.

Wolf dished mince into four bowls, placing them on the floor in the same place he always did. Two more he filled with pre-cooked pet food and added milk. He measured Tabitha's chicken-liver and placed it in front of her. He put a communal bowl of water and one of milk near the wash up area and leaned back against the sink, surveying his family.

Tabitha delicately picked at hers, holding her whiskers clear of the food. She raised her head and stared at Wolf a few times, licking her mouth with her little pink tongue but always returned to her liver, licking the porcelain bowl clean.

Rat, the huge striped wild cat slunk in, keeping to the wall as usual. He swept a watchful eye over the other occupants, ready to fight, ready to run if anything should be out of the ordinary. He always ate, and left immediately, through the sitting-room window Wolf left open for him.

Wolf set about making his own supper, a ham sandwich tonight. He arranged the plate artistically, with a wisp of fennel, thinly sliced tomato and lettuce, a single pickled onion.

No way I could get any of these guys to pick chestnuts out the fire for me, he mused, smiling again. The telling of the fable flickered at the edge of his consciousness. A big chair, a man's voice. Comfort, warmth, a gale blowing outside.

Wolf couldn't catch the memory, it drifted away from him leaving only the moral of the story and the short French phrase.

"What shall I play for you people tonight?" he asked aloud, moving to his sitting room.

Stooping over his piles of music he looked for inspiration. He didn't really need the score, he mostly knew the pieces, but it felt right. Pick the music, sometimes at random, and inspiration flows.

He propped the sheet music on the piano, pulled up the stool and began playing.

He was not sure how much time had elapsed when Rat rushed up to the window, his body crashing against the lower pane. The big tom clawed through the opener, streaked through the sitting room and hid under the fridge.

Someone was outside in the yard and Rat wouldn't come out until the person left.

Wolf wasn't particularly concerned; he had nothing anyone would want to steal.

Good excuse to change from the piano, though. Piano was not doing it for him tonight.

He stood and placing his violin under his chin, pulled the bow over the strings experimentally a few times, waiting for inspiration.

Losing himself in the music, he played the violin in his hands, the other parts of the orchestra in his head. Wolf didn't need a gramophone, he had everything he needed in his head, to pull up whenever required. During a boring wait to pay his electricity bill, or while his neighbour droned on about something. Complaining his cats ate birds, usually.

Much later, Rat slunk out from under the fridge. He walked into the lounge, sat down and stared at Wolf balefully.

"Hey, Rat," Wolf said, dropping the violin from his chin.

"Has he gone now?" he asked, wondering who on earth had been in his yard for so long. And why?

Across the room, Rat pushed his leg past his ear and licked his tail end.

"Hey, I played the whole of Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E Minor," he said to Rat. "That's nearly an hour long. And I didn't cheat, I waited for the rest of the orchestra."

Rat didn't answer, only washed his face rhythmically with his paws, first one side, then the other, his tiny tongue busy, his whiskey eyes fixed on Wolf.

With a shrug, Wolf put his violin into its case and carrying it with him, went through to bed.

### CHAPTER 2

At 7.30 the following morning, Wolf heard a knock on his front door. He hurriedly pulled a tee shirt over his bare chest and toed on a pair of yellow plastic slip slops.

Opening the door, he found two uniformed police officers, standing almost at attention.

Wolf's heart slammed, as always, at the sight of a uniform.

Blood draining from his face, he stood blinking in the doorway, smoothing his un-brushed hair. Clutching the door for support, he considered slamming it shut.

"Good morning, Sir," one of them said.

Wolf didn't reply, only stared.

"Could we ask you a few questions?" the more senior policeman asked and Wolf nodded reluctantly, his eyes on the uniform's brown leather belt, large pockets and shiny buttons.

"I am Section Officer Charles Williamson and this is Patrol Officer Douglas Scott."

When Wolf only stared, pupils dilated, the officer prompted, "Can we come in?"

Heart thudding against his ribcage, Wolf backed into his short hallway.

The policemen, removing their peaked caps, followed him, all crowded in the small space.

"What do you want to look for?" Wolf asked.

"No, Sir, you don't understand. We don't want to look for anything. We just want to ask you a few questions. We thought you would be more comfortable sitting."

Wolf backed away from the hallway until he reached his sitting room and standing in the doorway, gestured with his hand.

The two policemen stared around at the bare room. They took in the single recliner chair and small side table, the piano against one wall. Three metal school chairs were arranged in a semicircle of sorts and behind them, flimsy three legged, metal stands. More music stands lay in a tangled heap near the fireplace. All around the room, lay sheet music stacked in bundles.

Neither policeman moved to the chairs, only stood awkwardly, a few paces into the room.

Eventually the senior officer cleared his throat and recorded Wolf's name and other details in his notebook. Taking in Wolf's clothing, his obviously un-brushed hair he asked, "Are we keeping you from work?"

Wolf said nothing.

"Were you about to go to work?" he asked.

"What work do you do?" he prompted when Wolf stood, silent.

"I fix musical instruments."

The two policemen stared at him.

"I also make instruments. Violins..." He could be speaking a foreign language.

"Last night," began S.O. Williamson, pointing through Wolf's window, "your neighbours were robbed. We hoped you may have seen something. They went out in the evening, and when they got back, around eleven, discovered the break in. Were you awake then?

Wolf stared at the policeman and nodded.

"Were you in this room?"

Wolf nodded again.

The policemen eyed him in disbelief.

"OK. I tell you what. Why don't you walk us through what you did last night?"

Silent for some time, Wolf eventually said, "Walk?" in his accented voice. "I do not understand."

"Listen," said the policeman, "your neighbours went out at about eight. What were you doing then?"

"I fed my cats at about half seven. Myself too. This is as normal."

The policeman nodded encouragement.

"Then...I came in here. I played Beethoven on the piano, and then after, I played the violin."

Neither policeman appeared to know what to say next. Eventually P.O. Scott asked, "What time did you finish?"

Wolf shook his head. "I do not know. The Mendelssohn is more than half an hour. Well, between half an hour and an hour. I play only the violin parts, but I keep time. I do not play when others would play," he added earnestly.

Once again, both policemen stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language.

"Did you notice anything odd last night?"

"Yes. My cats were unhappy last night, and Rat, ah...that is one of them, ran in and hid under the fridge."

The policemen gave up and left; saw themselves out of the house, their shiny brown shoes loud on the parquet flooring.

####  ———————————————————————

"Jeez," breathed Dougie to his partner as they walked along the road skirting Wolf's property. "What a weirdo."

"Yeah. Strange guy, and what's up with that accent? How can he have a name like Jimmy Sinclair?"

"Well, it's hardly an accent."

"He's not English, and James Clark Sinclair is an English name, Scottish more like. Also, he was scared."

"And how about that house. The bare sitting room. He didn't have anything in it. Well, other than the piano."

"Who would play music for two and half hours? I don't think I could even pick out a violin in a line-up."

They paused out on the street, staring back into Wolf's large sitting room window. It took up most of the wall, and next to it, a double glass door led onto a narrow veranda.

On the veranda stood four garden chairs and a matching table.

Wolf could be clearly seen in the middle of his sitting room, his hands covering his face.

He stood, bent slightly forwards, his bony elbows sticking out from his body, belly pushing against his Tee shirt. Knobbly knees gave his legs a slightly bowed appearance.

The two policemen watched as Wolf appeared to collect himself and dash from the room.

"If he were standing there last night, in fact, most places in that room, he would have seen everything going on next door."

"But how stupid. Why get involved with a burglary and then admit to standing there all night?"

"Hey, you should know by now how stupid people are. That's how we catch most criminals. Stupidity."

####  —————————————————————————————————————

Two men in uniform. Standing in the doorway. Young. Shiny shoes. Wolf dropped his hands from his head and rushed to his bedroom, scrabbling for a pen, his hands shaking. A piece of paper. Any paper. Anything to write down a memory. This memory clear now, clear enough to write.

_I did not open the door. Hilda did. We all heard the knock on the door. No it wasn't a beating, just a knock. It gave us all hope. I can feel the hope we have. When she opened the door, I couldn't see around her large body, but I could see her thick socks sticking out from under her dress. They have guns across their chests. They push her back through the door and their feet make a clop, clop noise on the wooden floor._

_I look at their faces. They are young, clean. Pale skins, blue eyes, blond hair. They look warm, well fed._

Wolf's hand began to shake. He squeezed his eyes shut. Try to remember. Try to let it come by itself. The act of writing will bring back the memories, the psychologist said.

But they drifted away like smoke. He heard a click. Their boots, then a barked order in a language he couldn't understand.

Now the memory dissipated entirely. Back, away to the recesses of his consciousness.

She said it would be harder to recall things which were more hurtful. Unspeakable horrors, she said.

Unspeakable, thought Wolf. So she says I must write them instead, as if that makes it easier. Unspeakable horrors, un-writeable horrors. Horrors.

He picked up the scrap of paper and threw it in the box under his bed, the box full to overflowing with scraps of his memory.

Years ago, the government psychologist had suggested a diary, but it had never suited his way of working. When a memory came to him, he often wasn't near his diary. Most of his memories were written on scraps of paper he had handy. Pages torn out of exercise books, cigarette paper, even paper napkins.

He hardly had any new memories now.

He resorted to pulling memories out of the box at random and reading them, reliving the memory his words evoked. He had given up trying to fit the whole picture together. He just knew which fork to pick up at a dinner, how to hold a violin bow, knot a tie.

He must have been taught all those things, but that was before the unspeakable horrors. Before the endless days in trains, the long treks through dripping forests, the diving planes; the guns. It was before the disease, the dead bodies.

At times he had been desperate to know who he was, who he had been. Now, he had almost entirely given up trying to seek out his mind.

He dug in his box again.

_I'm hungry and my feet are sore. The road is long and straight and it goes directly up a hill. We are still walking downhill. I can see the mule carts around about at the bridge, but I see the trailing stream of people struggling up the other side and probably over the hill. It's hot and dusty, but we don't want to get rid of our warm clothing. No one knows how long we will be kept here like this, walking walking walking. Trudging. It's mind emptying. I hear a noise. It means nothing to me though. It's mechanical, but not recognisable. I'm tired and hot and not really listening and the next thing I hear is screams and a duk,duk,duk noise. I see a tiny aeroplane, low to the ground, flying along, above the road. I see people running, in every direction, some off into the ditch on the side. Bundles are thrown away. Bodies become bundles. Little crumpled heaps. It is as if I have suddenly awoken, but instead of from a nightmare, it's into one. I don't know what to do. My guts are water. I pull my sister and little brother with me, off the road, into the ditch. But I look up, and it's open to the sky. So I haul them again by their little stick arms. That memory is clear. Their arms are sticks. I run to a log and hide under it. I look over to see if everyone else has noticed what is happening ahead. I hear the plane come past again, and again. I can smell the smell again now. Blood. Dust. Fear. Vomit, urine. Digging up memories, I ask myself if I could smell hatred. I couldn't. Could I remember feeling it? I couldn't. And then the memory fades. I obviously survived._

Wolf put his fingers to his cheek. Mostly now, if he smelled rotting wood, he would touch there, where he could feel the log pressing.

His hand shaking slightly, Wolf threw the scrap of paper back into the cardboard box. He wouldn't be able to work now.

He was too tense. The flute needed a steady hand, the tiny screws must be replaced correctly. He couldn't afford to cross-thread any of them. He needed to find a happy memory, something soothing.

He dug about in the box. Blue. He had written it down on a blue sheet of airmail paper. Almost frantic he scrabbled further.

_Eek, Eek. I hear the metallic squeak. "Push me higher, push me higher," I scream, and someone, I can't remember who, shoves the swing._

_My head snaps back._

_I see the world from changing perspectives. From high up, from level. On the back swing, I see the groove cut out in the soil under the swing. Brown against the green grass. I see my sister, sitting on a blanket, a basket behind her, baby asleep with a net covering. Green grass, tall trees. Exhilaration. I see my knees in front of me, my legs folded back, tucked under the swing seat._

_My hands hold the bar tightly. I'm scared, but I want to be scared. I'm happy. Free. It's spring and we are allowed out, so I'm happy. I remember being very happy._

Wolf sat on the end of his bed, his head in his hands, calmer now, reliving the memory.

He pulled on his work suit, brushed his hair and went through to feed his cats, grab something for himself. He had to finish the flute on his workbench. The owner was counting on him, he needed to focus and finish it.

####  ———————————————————————

"Hey, Dougie," said Charlie to his rookie partner.

"I spoke to the Inspector about that man, Sinclair. He knows him."

"The Inspector knows him?"

"He is from Eastern Europe somewhere. But doesn't know where exactly."

Charlie paused for effect.

"No, it's not the Inspector doesn't know, it's Sinclair who doesn't know."

Charlie smiled at his partner's puzzled face.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. They only worked out which part he came from by the languages he could speak, and yes, he speaks several. During the war, displaced people banded together and moved around from place to place. Sometimes herded by soldiers, other times just on their own. Sounds like no one really wanted them, so just shuffled them off. Some of them travelled more than ten thousand miles. On trains, walking, army transport. Many died on the way. Mostly women and children. He would have been about twelve, maybe fifteen or so.

"He ended up in Allied territory and eventually in India of all places. He arrived in Cape Town, off a ship; didn't know his name or where he came from. Apparently he can remember only fragments of what happened to him. Sent up here to Fairbridge and provided with a name and identification, he went to work on the railways as a carpenter, when he was old enough.

"He now works from home.

"He is terrified of anything in a uniform. We are lucky he didn't flake out, when he saw the pair of us standing on his porch this morning.

"The Inspector's daughter plays the viola. He says this guy Sinclair has groups of kids over to his place and they play, you know, all with those kinds of instruments. But just for fun. No pressure, and nothing serious, no performances or competitions or examinations. The Inspector says it's very good for them. And yes, Sinclair also makes violins and such for a living."

"Jeez," said Dougie.

"He lives for music. The Inspector said this guy was so lost, he didn't even know he could play. He must have learnt as a kid back wherever he came from, and then when his memory got wiped, he lost that too. The funny thing is, he only lost the knowledge that he could play. He didn't lose the ability to play. Weird hey?"

"So we leave him alone?"

"No, the Inspector didn't say anything like that at all. You know what he is like. He would never say that. But he did say the guy is terrified of uniforms, so if we think he knows something, we should go back to see him in plain clothes."

"So will we? Go back to see him?" asked Dougie.

"Maybe. Probably not. Let's see how things go with the rest of the interviews."

### CHAPTER 3

Wolf cleared up after the group left. He stacked the music back in heaps, double checked the locks on his work room and sat back in his recliner as usual.

He had finished the flute and the owner had collected it. He had worked on a new violin and also on the fretwork lampshade he had been commissioned to make.

He closed his eyes, relaxing, stroking Tabitha, sitting on the arm of his chair as usual. The group today had worked on one of Mozart's many pieces for strings, but hadn't really got into it. Perhaps he had not been in the mood, he thought.

The police had upset him this morning, had put him of of his rhythm. He wondered if they would come back, ask more questions he couldn't answer. He liked to keep to himself, remain within his comfort zone. He had his small group of clients, and made the few musical instruments required in Bulawayo. Most afternoons he made his home available for youngsters who loved music as much as he did. He welcomed anyone; he didn't offer music lessons and hardly played himself, mostly encouraged and applauded.

Music was his life, his light and he hoped nothing would disturb it.

Unable to settle, he decided to pull up a memory. He walked through to his bedroom and pulled the cardboard box from under his bed.

He fingered the scrap of paper in his hand, rubbing it between two fingers. A memory, from his past.

This one, he had been so certain about. The monotonous tick tick tick of the train wheels made melodious, bearable with the addition of music. Music running through his head.

Sometimes when a particular piece of music played and it exactly matched the rhythm of a train, an image would flash across his consciousness: a view out of the window, the smell of unwashed bodies, children crying softly. Once in the middle of a symphony, he experienced burning hunger.

Then the fleeting image would be gone, floating away into his mind like smoke, only to reappear at the most unexpected times. He would scrabble for his pen and write what he could remember, even if incomplete.

_Today, I found out about music. I was sitting in class, and I heard beauty and I knew I knew beauty. I got up off my chair, and I made a little bow to the teacher, I am not sure why. She looked at me a little shocked and then I walked out of the classroom. I found beauty, in a room. A man, sitting playing a piano. I walked up behind him and listened to him play, and when he got up and moved to one side, I slipped onto the seat and played. I didn't know I knew how to play but I could._

_And suddenly I was playing a piano that was long and flat and shiny, the lid open. The room was big with a shiny floor and tall windows, the curtains moving slowly in the breeze. Outside, I could see green lawns and flowers in long beds. I heard something making a tick tick noise._

_The man had stopped and turned around when he heard me play. He didn't move, just stood there, watching me and then he went to a heap of music. He placed the music on the stand in front of me and I said 'thank you' and I played it. I don't know how I knew the notes, but I did. It was joy this, although I stumbled over some sections._

_The man was excited, but then my teacher came in and said I had to go back to class. I stood up from the stool, and I bowed to him and left._

Wolf smiled at the memory. It had been the beginning of a romance. He discovered he could play the violin too. He could read music, could hear music in his head. At that time, he didn't know he knew the names of the composers, but he could listen to whole pieces in his mind. He often did that when he needed to soothe himself.

The music teacher at the orphanage had been excited, happy to find a child who could play. He encouraged Wolf, gave him pieces, organised him time to practice.

Tabitha let him know when it was supper time, and Wolf, still unsettled went through to the kitchen, just as he did every night.

Had the person who remained outside for more than an hour, also burgled his neighbour? Should he have told the policemen that someone had been outside in his yard? He had tried to, but it hadn't come out right.

He remembered their expression when he told them his name. Ever since that name had been pinned to his shirt, back in Cape Town, it had not sat comfortably on him. He didn't feel like a Jimmy Sinclair. He was Eastern European, everyone said so. How could anyone give him a name as English as Jimmy Sinclair?

Told he could keep his name if he could remember it, Wolf had dug the recesses of his mind. Wolfgang floated up, but they said it was too German. They said if he introduced himself as Wolfgang, everyone would assume was German and it would be difficult for him.

So he was named Jimmy Sinclair although he never became him. There was something of 'him' he could never shake. The real 'him.'

Wolf gently rubbed the place where his name tag had sat.

All the way from Cape Town on the train, he had stared out of the window. For six days, they had powered through the desert. Freezing cold at night, broiling hot in the day. The brown, dusty view had unfolded, unchanging day after day and Wolf wondered if he had swapped one kind of trekking for another.

When he eventually arrived in Bulawayo, mute, numbed and disorientated, he trailed along with the rest of the group. Into an old army transport and off to the barrack rooms. A familiar life: barrack rooms, transport lorries. He could remember that much. Walking. Travelling in trains. Barrack rooms. Cold nights, hot days.

They were good at Fairbridge. They understood the horrors of war, the bombs, hunger. They accepted everyone had experienced the war, and each person reacted differently. They were kind and Wolf appreciated his new sense of permanence. He would prefer never to move again in his life.

He smiled once more, stroking one of his cats.

Well, he hadn't moved very far. He lived with three other orphans once he began his apprenticeship at the railways, moving into this, his own house when he qualified.

When his workmates invited him fishing, he had declined. He didn't go on holiday, his only excursions, in and around Bulawayo. He caught a taxi to the public library each week and the City Hall for concerts on the weekends. He walked to the shops for his groceries and cycled to work.

He roused himself, his memories pushed back.

He already knew what he would play tonight. Rachmaninov, technically difficult, would require all his attention and concentration.

Rachmaninov is not pretty like Beethoven, but it suited his mood. Dark, difficult, twisted. Soon after he began to play, Wolf heard Rat rush through to the kitchen. He didn't falter in his playing; pretended he didn't know someone hid outside.

He was playing to an audience.

Wolf realised he had spent most of the day secretly hoping his night time audience would return.

Rat didn't come out from under the fridge until Wolf bashed out the finale. He closed the piano lid and went through to the bath-room.

So began a strange duet. Wolf and his invisible audience. Flattered, excited that someone felt the same about music as he did, Wolf chose pieces easy on the ear, Beethoven, Liszt. Of course, Mendelssohn on the violin. He was disappointed any night Rat didn't dash through the room and hide under the fridge.

### CHAPTER 4

"I've got a recorder here somewhere I can give the child," said Wolf to Sylvester. The black cat arched up against his leg, over and over, rearing slightly each time.

"I just hope it's not broken. I didn't look carefully when I bought them," he said, wrestling with the padlock at the very top of the door leading into his workshop.

"Just hang on, hang on," he added, as the cat twisted between his feet.

It was a game he played with Sylvester. The huge white throated cat always seemed to know when he was about to go through the complicated routine of unlocking the doors to his workshop.

Purring loudly, he rubbed against Wolf's legs, tripping him up when he stepped down into his converted garage.

Once inside, Sylvester sat in his favourite position, sphinx-like, watching Wolf work, squeezing his eyes open and shut from time to time. A deliberate blink.

Mostly, when he arrived in his workshop, Wolf walked around slowly, touching his wood-lathe or testing the edge of one of his tools. He liked to be in this room, comfortable among the wood shavings, piles of quality ply-wood; his machines.

He had started this collection immediately he began working on the railways, adding to it regularly, sometimes saving for months to buy the larger machines.

Today however, he went directly to a large wooden cupboard and dug about. Frustrated when he couldn't see clearly, he eventually pulled a box out, dragging it to the roll up garage door. He scrabbled about, searching for the three matching sections of a wooden recorder he had bought on an auction. One of the schools had thrown all their wooden ones out when plastic Yamaha's became fashionable.

"Ghastly," he muttered with a shudder. The wooden ones are much prettier, he thought and had better tone.

Good instruments for young children to learn woodwind, recorders have close enough gaps between the holes for small fingers. It is easy to move on to a flute, which has similar fingering, but without the technical difficulties of the embouchure.

Wolf rubbed the perished cork seals off with his thumbs.

None of the sections were split.

"They're fine, Sylvester," Wolf said, and the cat squeezed shut his bright green eyes shut, before opening them wide again.

"Kids sit on them, you know. By mistake," Wolf added. "Even if only one section is split, I can't fix it."

He moved over to his selection of blades, picking a couple.

"I'd like to leave this one wood colour, scrape off all this awful dark lacquer."

He resented varnishing the violins he made, darker colours. But usually he had no choice, his clients specified what they wanted from him. If they wanted a dark varnish on their violin, that's what they got.

"Why do people want this ugly stuff on their instruments?" he asked and once again, Sylvester's only answer was a prolonged, tight blink.

Wolf ran a sharp blade along the recorder, slowly working on the instrument, and the dark lacquer began dusting his knees, piling up around his feet.

"I was right, Sylvester," said Wolf, hours later, carrying the recorder to the bright African sun. "It's lovely."

The contours and colours swirled along the length of the recorder. Varnished, it would look beautiful.

And it did. A couple of weeks later, Wolf held the recorder in his hands. He had repaired the corks, cleaned the inside and finger holes with circular brushes. He had applied clear varnish twice a day, layer upon layer, each coat very thin. The swirls and shapes, the texture of the original wood, glowed golden under the varnish.

When next Rat took refuge under the fridge, Wolf walked outside onto his small veranda. He placed the recorder and a fingering book on the metal table. With a shrug, he walked back into his lounge, picked up the piano lid and ran his fingers along the keys.

Perhaps he was wrong about the child. Perhaps he would never hear anything further, perhaps the child will take the recorder and break it, or sell it, he thought.

He had no idea of the age of the child outside, if he could even hold the recorder easily, or if indeed the child was a boy.

He guessed he was a child because of Rat's reaction. If the intruder had been an adult, Rat would have reacted differently. Wolf thought the child was a boy, but only because he couldn't imagine any parent allowing a girl out so late at night.

Night after night, rat growled under the fridge, his tattered ears flat against his head. He would only come out well after Wolf had shut the piano lid, or clipped his violin into its case.

The child didn't break the recorder, or sell it. A week or so later, Wolf heard a lonely, wavering sound from outside, somewhere near the edge of the veranda.

The first halting notes of a recorder.

With dismay, he realised the child was playing wrong. He hadn't worked out the length of the notes; didn't know the symbol for a rest.

Wolf rushed over to his heaps of music, scrabbling for a duplicate copy of the fingering book. He sat at the piano plonking out the notes, over and over until he heard the child play correctly. Only then did he move on to the next page.

Within a month, the contents of the book mastered, Wolf put out a more advanced one, recovering the first.

This began an unusual relationship.

Some days, he would find one of the books, or single piece he had placed on the table a few weeks previously. He would swap them around with new ones. He always kept a copy handy should he hear the boy go wrong, but this happened less and less as time went by.

One evening, nearly six months later, Rat scrabbled at the lounge window and streaked past. Wolf, smiling in anticipation, lay back in his recliner, shutting his eyes. The music began as usual, cautious, correct, gracefully evolving into a beautiful smooth composition. Certainly not something in any of the music books he had lent the boy.

Wolf felt his breath catch and his heart rate pick up. The child played the same tune over and over, changing it slightly as he went along.

He got up off his chair, and dug about his music. Muttering to himself about how he should sort it better, he eventually found what he was looking for. A book of recorder music and another one of flute. Bach.

Baroque music. "Plenty recorder, even a tin whistle in Bach," he said aloud.

When the music outside stopped, he walked out and placing the books on the steel table, went directly to bed.

Wolf wanted to give the child a flute, but he didn't have one. They were too expensive an instrument for him to have lying around in the bottom of a cupboard.

He wondered if he could make one.

### CHAPTER 5

##### Kimberley ~ Bulawayo 2014

I opened the garage door and glared at my father's badass, silver-grey four wheel drive, parked next to my teenie tiny Corolla. Torn. I should be driving his car today. I know it, but I am as pig headed as the next person.

Yesterday, I used my Corolla to drive up to Morningside and I think I bent something. Probably a rim again. The potholes are huge. I have never used that road before, so didn't know my way around them.

I was up there, in Morningside, because I received an email in my inbox from 'Pet-Help' when I got back from school yesterday. Instructions to feed eight cats belonging to a guy who had been rushed to hospital. According to our coordinator, he went into full panic mode worrying about his cats.

I printed the email and saved his telephone number in my contacts. I either call people, or message them to let them know everything is OK. I figure if I were in hospital, I would like to know all my pets were happy and healthy.

I sighed and stomped back into the house, opened the safe and removed my dad's keys.

My dad wanted me to have a car like his, and we nearly had a big argument about it. An argument he nearly won.

You see only a few girls, trying to show off their money, drive a big muscle car like his. I would hate to fit into that category. I told him I wanted something small, easy to handle and something fuel efficient.

We went round and round, neither of us willing to give the real reasons why we didn't want what the other one wanted. He reminded me about the potholes. He reasoned I may want to go to the Matopos, or pull a horse-box.

Then he nearly won the battle.

He shrugged his massive shoulders, embarrassed, sheepish, and admitted, "I want to give you a present for doing so well in your exams."

He took me in his arms and hugged me against his big body. I realised he had told me his real reason, and I hadn't told him mine.

I must explain here. My dad always takes the advice of experts and when my mum died, he went off and studied how to be a 'mum.' He read books, visited child specialists, psychologists. One of them convinced him that punishment and reward don't work; that children develop better if they are responsible for their own choices; that targets and prizes erode that responsibility. So giving me a car as a present for doing well in my exams was definitely a no no!

In the main, he has stuck to this formula.

He is a great guy; has been a great mum.

Still muffled in his chest, about to give in, I heard him say, "OK, Kim. Look on the internet for a Japanese import and let me know what you like."

I chose my little Corolla, and I love it. It is very fancy inside, but pretty plain outside. It has a nifty Sat. Nav. which I needed that first time I drove up to Morningside. Pity it doesn't mark the potholes!

Smiling as I climbed up into his car, I remembered the day I collected my 'O' level exam results. Confirming there were no surprises, I left the printed sheet under the land-line telephone in our little hallway.

The next time I saw it, was in my dad's large hands.

Leaning up against the kitchen counter, his head bent over the printout he had a puzzled frown on his face. I remember he looked up at me still frowning. The best way to describe his expression would be to say he looked perplexed.

"This is amazing, Kim," he said. "You got all 'A's."

I nodded and smiled.

"It's amazing," he repeated.

Now I really smiled wide. He stared at me as if I were some strange being, someone out of his experience. Reverently. Baffled.

"How did you do that? he asked.

He gave me a hug and when I looked up, he had a huge smile on his face.

I love my dad. I love the way he can be so happy for me. He doesn't steal my happiness, or even try to share in my glory, he is just really, really happy for me.

Later, when I visited him, my grandfather seemed less surprised. I told him about my dad's reaction when he saw my results.

"Your father's generation was the first where such a fuss was made about exam results. In my time we hardly wrote exams. If I had wanted to go to university, I would have written an entrance exam, and although there were tests at school, they were few and far between.

Then suddenly everything was tests, scores, exams and your dad was no good at them. He was slow to begin reading and his mum taught him via the Correspondence School, because we lived in Nkayi.

"Robbie of course handled it well. He never had any trouble keeping up. Sylvia taught them together to make some sort of effort at a classroom.

"Tests didn't suit David, and getting poor results repeatedly, and the emphasis placed on the results, convinced him he was stupid. I minded at the time, but could do nothing about it.

"Your father always thought highly of Robbie. He has always placed enormous weight on Robbie's mental abilities and luckily Robbie never took advantage of it. Because actually your father has amazing gifts, just they can't be measured easily."

He is right, my dad has incredible 'people talents.' He can remember details about people, what they look like, where he last saw them. He can remember their wives names or how many children they have. He reads people well too.

My dad has an aura. He makes me feel safe, loved. I wonder if other people feel like that around him, or if it is only me, or people he cares about. Maybe it is because he is so big.

He is getting bigger too. He hasn't been spending as much time in the gym and I think he is putting on weight.

### CHAPTER 6

Today, the journey up to Morningside went much better.

My dad's four-wheel drive has huge wheels that jump over potholes almost without noticing them. Unlike yesterday, I misjudged the turn into the gateway with the large car and had to reverse twice to get into the driveway. Luckily the only people to observe my terrible driving skills, were a couple, sitting on old buckets, selling banana's and sweets.

We have these informal sellers all over the suburbs here in Bulawayo. You will find them under a tree beside a tiny table, set up with pyramids of tomatoes, a cabbage or two and cigarettes, I'm told. I'm amazed they sell enough to warrant sitting out there all day.

Robbie tells me they are often maids or gardeners using their free time to earn a few extra dollars in these tough times.

I parked the car as I did yesterday and grabbed my instructions off the passenger seat. Some of the cats ate different food, and I didn't want to make any mistakes.

I had the keys for the back door which lead to the kitchen.

As directed, I collected the different types of cat food in the pantry, the chicken livers from the freezer compartment. Each cat had its own bowl and I had instructions about where to place them and which kind of cat biscuits to put in each.

One of them was outside, for a cat I hadn't seen yesterday.

I collected the bowl on my way through, washed it and put mince in it. I counted seven cats, all moving about meowing and rubbing up against my legs. A stout black one sat on the counter waiting, her tail lashing, eyes huge and round in her face.

When everything settled down, I opened my phone intending to message the pet owner. Scrolling through my contacts, I noticed his number had arrived in my WhatsApp listing.

"So your pet isn't old, mmm?" I said to the black cat. I don't know any old people with smart phones.

I wondered why had he had been rushed to hospital. Instead of a message, I was able to share a separate photo of each cat via WhatsApp.

One of them, a pure white, green-eyed, long haired beauty whom I was instructed to feed biscuits on the counter, seemed a little confused. He jumped down and stood on the floor, blinking at the door. My instructions were clear, so I picked him back up and set him on the counter for his food. I couldn't resist another photo.

Today, I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the cat eating outside. A fairly old, scarred tabby, probably a tom. He rushed off as soon as I walked out of the kitchen door. Pausing near the car, hoping to take a snap of him returning, I felt my phone vibrate. It was the pet owner returning my message.

He had named each cat along with a cute little message to thank me.

That first set of photographs began a strange relationship lasting nearly three weeks. I sent photographs of the cats and received short messages in reply; personal details, little stories about each individual.

Today, when I got up to Morningside, I found a vehicle in the driveway. The kitchen door stood open and I was met by a nurse when I knocked. Her patient had been discharged from hospital, but was not strong, she said. She had been paid to come over three times a day to check on him. She told me she had just arrived and was preparing his soup.

"He's awake," she said to me, "why don't you go and speak to him?"

I went through, into a room off the corridor to find a very old man propped against a pile of pillows, his reading glasses half way down his nose.

He had three cats lying in various places on his bed and had what I thought was a hearing aid until I saw the lead running down his chest. He held a phone in his folded hands and I wondered if he had fallen asleep while speaking to someone.

One of the cats, a beautiful tabby I hadn't been able to touch, stared up at me standing in the doorway and slunk off the bed.

The movement must have alerted the sleeping man, because he opened his eyes. He stared at me for a second over his glasses and a wonderful expression came over his face. He looked happy, peaceful... No, those words don't even remotely describe what he looked like. He looked delighted, ecstatic, euphoric. At peace. Like Gandhi in all the photos, but with square glasses instead of round ones.

"Oh, it's you," he murmured in a thin reedy voice. "So beautiful, always so beautiful. I'm glad...it's taken so long. I always hoped I would find you there."

He closed his eyes again, obviously dreaming. Then he whispered, "I'm sorry. So sorry. I don't mind paying for it. It was wrong."

The nurse came up behind me and peering over my shoulder at his closed eyes, asked if he was asleep.

"I'm not sure," I whispered. "He appeared to be awake, but he didn't make much sense, so perhaps he was dreaming."

The old man opened his eyes again and frowned. He pushed his glasses up and peered at his phone screen. He tapped it and then pulled out his earphones; he must have been listening to music.

"Come Mr. Sinclair, don't be rude, you have a visitor. This is Kimberley."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Kimberley," he said formally, with a quaint little bow. Just a tiny movement of his head, and a little bit of his shoulders, rather old-worldly.

"Please call me Wolf," he added.

He spoke with a faint but discernible accent.

The nurse rolled her eyes and walked over to the bedside. She picked up his head and fluffed the pillow.

"Would you like to sit up a bit?" she asked.

She didn't wait for an answer but moved over him, pulling him up in the bed, adjusting his pillows

She reached over to a mug next to his bed and fishing in it said in a sing song voice, "Now, let's put in your teeth. OK?"

The old man squeezed his eyes shut and tried to turn his head away, but she had his chin cupped in her hand.

"Now. That's better isn't it?" she asked, pushing his teeth into his mouth.

He only nodded.

"Okeydokey," she said brightly. "I will leave you with Kimberley," and bustled out.

"Painful woman," he muttered as he turned to look at me.

"I am sorry to disturb your sleep. I came over to feed your cats, I didn't know you were home."

His only answer was to stroke the cat sleeping nearest to him.

"I didn't want to go to the sick house; I didn't want to leave them here alone," he said and I wondered about his accent. It was faint and unfamiliar. About to leave quietly, I heard him murmur, "Thank you for looking after them. They are my family."

"It's no problem," I said. "They are beautiful."

"They don't like that woman. I don't like her either. I don't know if she will feed them properly," he said.

I didn't think he sounded petulant. I thought he sounded worried, upset.

"Would you like me to come back tomorrow?" I asked.

"Please. I would appreciate that."

I left then, and I agreed with him. The cats didn't like the nurse, and she didn't like them.

We spoke for a short time in the kitchen. She disliked his kitchen; she said it was old fashioned.

I admit, I hadn't really looked at it in that way. It had Formica tops, and cupboards probably fashionable in the 1960's. But nothing was broken. The drawers, even if they weren't modern, slid open and closed easily, the doors hung straight. The fridge, although not new, worked fine.

"Have you seen the lounge?" she complained. "There is no furniture in it. It's bare. Only decent thing are the curtains. The spare room has piles of boxes only. It's a disgrace. With medical insurance as good as his, he can't be short of a bob or two. Private room in the hospital, an ambulance to bring him home. He could afford a full time nurse, you know, stubborn old man.

"He must be able to afford some furniture at least.

"And these cats, all over the place. They lie around, all over Mr Sinclair, on the counter tops. It's not hygienic. Hair all over the place. It's not good for his pneumonia. And he is a rude, pig-headed foreigner."

She continued in this vein for some time, and I couldn't get away.

"Why does he ask to be called Wolf?" I asked.

The nurse huffed. "That's the name he uses. Wolfgang. His name is James Sinclair. That is the name on his insurance policy, so that's what I will call him. Wolfgang Amadeus. He thinks he is some fancy musician, you know, like that composer guy from the movie."

I finally managed to get away, but only once I had fed the cats. She complained about the two on the counter-tops, but I persisted.

I think she is beginning to dislike me too.

The following day, I was only free after five and by the time I got up to Morningside the hawker lady had disappeared. Wolf's gate however, stood open.

He had even more cats on his bed than before, although today, they didn't run away. Even the ugly, battered tabby only looked up at me. Wolf's surprisingly slim fingers gently stroked him. Awake, he pulled out his ear phones, as soon as I appeared. He pushed his glasses up his nose and peered at his phone. He fiddled with it and then looked up at me smiling.

"Hello, Kimberley," he said.

"Hi, there. You feeling better?"

He nodded. "Thanks for coming again. I suppose that nurse woman will be along soon. The cats hate her."

"She's here already, in the kitchen," I replied and Wolf screwed up his face.

"I didn't hear her arrive. My music is much more entertaining. Pity these batteries go flat so quickly. I always turn off the music when I am not listening to it, to conserve battery. Then I have to play the music in my head instead."

He smiled at me. It's a sudden thing, his smile. A white, shiny ceramic flash, his faded eyes crinkling deep into his face.

"Wonderful devices these phones. This one has slyde and predictive text, so I don't have to look at the screen too carefully. I use the voice feature mostly though. And the music player. Marvellous."

I laughed. I could have been talking to my friends, kids my age. I'm not used to discussing phone features with a man Wolf's age. Most older people curse them as annoying inconveniences. They complain they can't make head or tail of them.

"Thank you for the pictures you sent to me. It kept me going," he said, suddenly sober. He closed his eyes and I wondered if he had drifted off to sleep but he continued, speaking quietly.

"When I fell ill, I decided to just give up. I'm so old Kimberley, I really shouldn't still be living. People my age are just relics. Unnecessary encumbrances. Past our best before dates."

I laughed again and he opened his eyes. And then he grinned at me, a really great, cheeky grin. His false teeth are even and white and he looked a little like Happy the dwarf in Snow White, his ears sticking out from his head under his beanie.

"I'm well past my 'sell by date.' When you came in yesterday, I thought I had died and gone to heaven." He laughed this time, ending in a rheumy cough, "Died and gone somewhere, put it that way. Maybe not heaven, though."

I thought he looked a bit sad for a moment until he smiled again.

"I should have been happy to let go, knowing you would home my cats. But thinking up those smart comments in reply to your photos and waiting each day for the new ones, gave me something to look forward to; made me interested in living another day. Wondering what my family were doing, hoping they missed me."

He paused, stroking the large tabby.

"Of course, deep down, I know they don't miss me. They will stay with anyone who feeds them."

Looking at the tabby lying under his hand, I wasn't so sure. He would be very difficult to home. Wolf closed his eyes again. He looked as if he needed a rest.

I decided to hunt down an extension lead, to plug in his phone charger. I eventually found one in a cupboard in the spare bedroom.

The nurse was right about Wolf's lack of furniture. The spare room was piled with boxes, with no bed or chair or any other furniture usually found in houses. His lounge had one chair, one of those ones with a flap to rest your feet. You sit on it, and push backwards and the flap jumps up under your calves. It was old, with worn upholstery, the arms scratched and tattered. Wolf's bedroom has only his bed, one chair, a bedside table and a mat on the floor next to the bed. Old fashioned built-in cupboards line one wall.

I went back into Wolf's room, plugged in the lead and ran it along the wall to his bedside. It was now a simple thing to connect his phone.

Once again, he pulled his earphones from his ears, peered at the screen and shut off his music.

"You know," I said to him, "I'm sure you can set the phone so all you have to do is pull out the earphone lead. Mine certainly does. Your music will go off automatically and when you push the lead back in, it will start from where you left off."

"Really?" he said.

I nodded reaching out for his phone.

"Here, let me have a look. The microphone is in this little thing." I pointed to the square pad on the earphone lead. "I can set it so you just press it when a call comes in."

"Don't bother," he said. "I hardly have any calls."

But he handed me the phone.

Holding it in my hand, I realised it was the latest model android, with its signature large touch screen. Small wonder he easily managed to see the pictures I sent him.

I ran my thumb over the screen and it lit up with a picture of a man.

A dark skinned, green-eyed man.

Once again, I found myself staring down into his face and feeling a pull, a magnetic force.

His is a striking, exotic face. I could say a beautiful face. Staring down at him, my thoughts tumbled, rolled and twisted back to Johannesburg, to when we lived there. Back to the first time I saw his image, staring up at me.

And now, I guess, I will have to go back in time, to Johannesburg 2010, or the significance of this face, on the phone screen of an old, old man, living in Bulawayo, will be lost.

