Moxyland

Kendra

When the swivel grinds through its rotate to open onto the landing, there is an audio notice stuck to the outside of the door that activates as soon as it senses us.

‘For your convenience, please find enclosed a digi map to your nearest immunity centre. This is a South African Police Services public service announcement.’

‘Cunts. Jesus. Motherfuck.’ Toby wipes his nose with his sleeve, rips off the GPS chip and scrunches it under his heel, only it doesn’t scrunch. ‘Fuck!’ He picks it up and hurls it across the corridor, but it’s so light it drifts to the left and ricochets off the wall with a dull plastic ting. He kicks the wall, then punches it for good measure.

He comes away shaking out his hand and still swearing. He looks shocking. His eyes are pouchy and bloodshot, and he’s pale under his scrag of beard. I still haven’t been able to face myself in the mirror. I’m grateful that I don’t feel like he looks. He’s already taken three painkillers this morning.

He cringes as we step outside the building, and tries to turn back for his sunglasses.

‘There isn’t time, Toby.’

‘Are you chaffing me? We still got thirty-two, thirty-three hours at least. And if we don’t make it, they can always come get us. They’ll have a roving unit. Door-to-door delivery. Now that’s servicing the community.’ But he tags along anyway.

We still don’t have a phone between us. When we tried to log in this morning, his connection was down. ‘The cabling in this fucking building,’ he muttered.

‘Does it go down a lot?’

‘Murphy’s law, innit mate?’ he says, putting on a jokey Brit accent. ‘It’s exactly the kind of crap that would go down today.’ But I can tell he’s unsettled.

Before we found the warning on the door, the plan was to find a public terminal, to get hold of his corporate friend, but now I don’t know. We might just be bringing the shit to her.

‘She can handle it,’ Toby says. ‘She’s a big girl.’ He spits a glob of phlegm onto the street in front of Truworths. A young house spouse coming out pulls her black leather handbag against her and steps pointedly around us.

‘Yeah, fuck you too,’ snarls Toby and starts coughing so badly, he has to lean against the window. Inside, there is a flurry of motion, and I grab his arm and pull him away before the security guard lumbers out to chase us away.

Glancing back over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of the window among the moto-mannequins in gleaming fabrics. My face is totally healed.