Why You Were Taken

UNLUCKY FIRELIGHTER ₃₅

Johannesburg 2021

‘You fucking viper,’ hisses Kirsten, thinking of the 26 years of lies.

‘Au contraire,’ says Miller. ‘I’m one of the most loyal members of the Genesis Project. Was born into it. Not a bit of traitor in my blood.’

‘Did my mother know?’ she asks. Miller looks like he is going to say something, then shakes his head. ‘It’s complicated.’

Seth spreads his feet, wields his shovel like a sword.

‘Don’t get uppity, whippersnapper,’ says Miller. ‘Dig.’

‘Fuck you,’ the twins say, at the same time.

The gun glints in the late afternoon sun.

‘Where’s the packet?’ asks Kirsten.

Miller pats his pocket.

‘You never gonna get it, sweetheart. It’s over.’

To illustrate his point, he zips his pocket open and takes out a plastic wallet. He opens the wallet and pulls out what looks like a notebook full of bookmarks and stickies. It is wrapped up with an old fashioned flash-disk on a lanyard, like a retro ribbon.

‘Inside this book is everything you need to know to bring down the GP,’ he says. ‘Do you think I would hand it over to you punks?’

The combustible smell of paraffin wafts towards them. Petrol-green pinstripes. He had pre-doused it. Turned it from a book, a holy grail, a weapon, into an unlucky firelighter. Kirsten imagines the pages and pages of handwritten details. Blue ink on oily paper. Who their real parents, the Chapmans, were; what had happened in 1991. Who their abductors really were. Why they were killed. And why she and Seth, and the other five children, had been taken.

He throws it on the ground, among the wildflowers. Takes a matchbox out of his top pocket, lights a match, and drops it towards the book. The match moves towards the ground in slow motion.

‘No!’ shouts Kirsten, starting to run towards it. Miller shoots the ground next to her foot and she freezes. Puts her arm up in surrender. The match lands, nothing changes, and then the front cover begins to slowly curl, pulled by an invisible flame. The fire gains momentum, and is soon hungry and crackling. They stand in silence, watching it burn, scorching the surrounding flowers. Kirsten feels like she is burning along with it.

‘Get on your knees,’ Miller says. ‘Hands behind your heads.’

They fall on to their knees, their faces are masks. Seth puts his hands behind his head but Kirsten is in pain. Miller allows her to cradle her broken arm. He walks behind them.

He has never enjoyed killing, not like some of the GP assassins, but will do what he has to. For this reason, he prefers execution-style, otherwise the faces come back to him in his dreams. He wishes Marius could have taken these two out, but The Doctor said something about the girl knowing him. Would have complicated things. Marius was the primary hitman: he was legendary in the Project, made the people on his various lists magically disappear by apparent suicide or accident. Gave the disturbing impression that he loved his job.

At least, thought Miller, he was channelling his psychopathic tendencies in a constructive way.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ says Seth.

‘Actually, I do,’ says Miller, gripping the butt of his gun, placing his finger on the trigger. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

The colours of the sunset tinge the flowers orange and pink (End of the Rose). Miller congratulates himself for choosing this place to kill them. There was some poetry in being surrounded by wildflowers, and death at dusk.

Miller takes aim. Kirsten reaches into her makeshift sling, grabs her revolver, turns in a smooth arc and shoots Miller in the shoulder, sending him listing backwards. Shocked, he tries to regain his footing, aims the gun at her again, but she is faster than him and she gets another bullet into his torso. He begins to stumble, still trying to shoot her, but not able to lift his arm high enough.

Seth jumps up, grabs a shovel, and smashes the gun out of his hand. He falls forward, onto his hands and knees. Blood spreads over the flowers on his shirt and the ones under his body. He grunts from the pain, then pulls himself up so he is kneeling in the flowers. He notes the irony of his position.

‘Where are they?’ demands Kirsten, gun cocked.

He laughs. ‘And why would I tell you? An extra bullet isn’t going to make a difference. In fact, you’d be doing me a favour. Go ahead, do it.’

She lowers the Ruger, kicks him in the stomach. He moans. She kicks him again. He falls onto his back and lets out a long, terrible sound. Seth wields his shovel as if to brain him.

‘Tell us!’ she screams, stamping on his crotch. He cries out, tries to protect himself, so she stamps on his broken hand, too. Seth waits for him to stop screaming, and says ‘We can draw this out for hours.’

‘I have a knife in the car,’ says Kirsten, ‘A Genesis Project pocketknife.’

‘Think of what that would feel like, ‘punk’,’ says Seth, ‘death by pocketknife.’

Miller mumbles something.

‘What?’ says Kirsten.

‘Okay,’ says Miller, ‘okay.’ There is blood coming out of his mouth now. ‘You’ll never be able to get in, anyway.’

‘Where are they?’ she asks again.

‘ChinaCity/Sandton. A round building made out of glass. Called inVitro.’

Kirsten kicks him again. ‘You think we’re stupid? You think we’re going to believe that?’

‘It doesn’t matter. You’ll never get inside. You need a member with you to bypass the biometric access. Every member has their own access code, and it has to be combined with that member’s fingerprint. Impossible,’ he coughs scarlet, ‘to hack.’

‘Then you’re coming with us,’ says Kirsten.

Miller spits rubies on the grass, shakes his head. ‘You kids have no idea who you are dealing with here.’

Miller’s whole shirt is red now, his eyes are getting glassy.

‘I don’t think he’ll last the trip,’ says Kirsten.

‘Me neither,’ says Seth, ‘and he’ll slow us down.’

They know they don’t have a choice. Miller watches the darkening sky. Seth fetches the car and drives it over the flowers; they lever him into the back seat. His breathing is laboured, there is a bubbling sound. Kirsten finds some cable ties in the cubbyhole and Seth ties Miller’s wrists together, then his ankles. Kirsten hands Seth his gun back, returns hers to her sling.

‘Big mistake, “honey”,’ she says to Miller, ‘thinking a woman wouldn’t be armed.’

Miller gets paler as they get closer to the clinic. His eyes are closed; skin waxen. His Cheerios are fading. Kirsten is sitting in the back with him, Ruger pointed at his stomach, safety catch off. She thinks: he will die today. I have killed someone. I’ll never be able to eat cereal again.

Seth is driving as fast as the car will go, 110km, which feels infuriatingly slow.

‘We won’t be able to get in,’ says Seth.

Kirsten looks out of the window, as if searching for an idea. In the second she takes her eyes off Miller he jumps up and strangles Seth with his tied wrists. Seth takes his hands off the wheel to release the pressure of the noose and loses control of the car. Kirsten shoots in the direction of Miller once, twice, three times, and eventually his body goes slack.

The sound of the gunshots and the ricocheting is blinding. Seth tries to steer the car back onto the road but it’s too late and they hit something and are flying through the air and then there is an almighty crash. It’s the loudest noise Kirsten has ever experienced and her brain short-circuits. Everything goes black.

The twins gain consciousness at the same time. The front of the car is smoking, the boot has sprung open. Miller lies dead in the road in front of them, his bare skin lacerated by the broken windscreen. The smashed insulin kit lies beside him. Kirsten and Seth don’t talk. They reach out for each other, touch hands. Kirsten can hear herself blink.

She starts scanning her body for injuries: wiggles her toes, pumps her legs, palpates her ribs. Apart from the pain in her already-broken arm she feels fine; or as fine as numb can feel. Seth is holding his neck. He gives it a few squeezes, then kicks the door open. It takes three hard kicks to swing it. He gets out and wrenches Kirsten’s door open, helps her out.

They mumble worried phrases at each other, touch each other’s grazes with furrowed brows. Satisfied that they are not too badly injured, they go over to inspect Miller, make sure he is dead. He is a red spectre: his skull is crushed and he has five bullet holes that they can see. His skin is etched with a patina of blood. There is no life in him. His Cheerios are gone.

Kirsten picks up the bag of insulin. Despite being atheist, she crosses her heart and says a quick prayer to The Net and any god that will listen. She goes to the boot and heaves when she sees the contents. Motions for Seth to come over. Seth doesn’t seem surprised. He leans in closer, to get a better look at the day-old corpse’s face. A battered face and a body dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and chinos. Some fingernails are missing.

The real Ed Miller, they think.

Kirsten checks the insulin kit, and sees that the only remaining vial is broken. The bag is wet with the precious liquid. There is no insulin left for Keke. No medicine to stop her from going into hypoglycaemic shock, stop her from going into a sugar coma and dying.

How strange, thinks Kirsten absent-mindedly, how sugar and death can be so closely linked. She bites down hard to stop herself from crying.

The car is un-driveable. They try to hitch but know that no one will pick them up looking the way they did. They give up and sit on the kerb, facing the road, wobbling knees pointing to the sky. Seth puts his arm around Kirsten.

‘James,’ she says.

‘What?’

‘James can come get us. He has a car.’

For some reason this fills Seth with dread.

‘James might have insulin.’

Kirsten sends James their co-ordinates, puts it on tracking.

‘Let’s walk so long. It’s not too far from here. Five or six kilometres?’

Kirsten checks Keke’s phone. Her diabetes app timer says 34 minutes.

‘Keke doesn’t have that long.’

‘Can you run? With your arm, I mean?’

They both knew that even if they did run, they wouldn’t make it to the clinic in time. If they made it to the clinic in time, they wouldn’t be able to get in.

‘I can try.’

‘Good girl.’

They stand up and start jogging. Seth tries to flag down cars as they go. Kirsten is dizzy, and she feels every footfall deep in her broken bone. The jagged pain mounts and mounts, until the blue light blots out her vision and she has to stop and throw up into a patch of roadside ivy. A plague of rats scurry away. She wipes her mouth and starts to run again, almost falls. Tries again, but Seth stops her.

‘Stop,’ he says, catching her, ‘stop.’ She tries to wriggle free, tries to keep running, but he grabs her again, just in time, and she faints into his arms.

When Kirsten comes to, it takes her a second to remember where she is, and she is startled.

‘Keke?’ she asks, but Seth shakes his head. 21 minutes left on the SugarApp. When it reaches 20 minutes it begins flashing a red light.

‘You’ve done everything you can,’ he says.

She stands up, trembling. ‘No.’

As if on some otherworldly cue, a white van appears on the road and drives in their direction. Seth starts yelling, waving his arms, like an island castaway trying to signal a rescue chopper. Kirsten blinks at it, trying to figure out if it is real, or some kind of desperate inner-city mirage. The car drives right up to them and stops on the shoulder of the road. The driver gets out and Kirsten’s knees almost buckle again.

‘Kirsten!’ shouts James, running towards her.

‘James,’ she says, ‘James.’

‘Where have you been?’ he shouts. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere!’ He is angry, agitated, but becomes gentle when he takes in Kirsten’s shorn scalp and broken arm. He hugs her gently on her right side, kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her shorn head.

‘What have they done to you?’ he asks, ‘What have they done?’

Who? thinks Seth. What have who done?

‘I’m okay. But… Keke…’

Seth steps forward. ‘We need to leave right now.’

James looks at him, the shock clear on his face. He doesn’t say anything.

‘This is Seth. He’s been helping me,’ says Kirsten. ‘I’ll explain everything later. We need to find Keke. Immediately. She needs insulin. Do you have any?’

James releases her.

‘We’ll get some.’

He jogs over to the van and opens the sliding door. It is dark inside the back, and there is a silhouette of someone, sitting in the front passenger seat: a large man. Both Seth and Kirsten stop.

‘Come on,’ says James, beckoning.

There is a flash of light in Kirsten’s mind that bleaches her vision. Some kind of terror, some kind of dreadful déjà vu, roots each to the spot. Seth shakes his head, wants to hold Kirsten back. Kirsten’s whole body is telling her not to get into the car, but she reasons with herself: Must Save Keke. Also: this is James; Sweet Marmalade. James beckons again, and this time Kirsten obeys: head bowed, like a shy little girl. Seth swears under his breath and climbs in next to her.

James slams the door closed and gets into the driver’s seat. The passenger is looking out of the window and doesn’t acknowledge them. The car has a chemical smell to it, rectangular in shape. Dry cleaning? New plastic? No, neither shape is right. And then she gets it: paint. A new paint job. Just as James is about to start the car, she gives him the clinic’s address. James and the passenger look at each other. He stops for a moment, as if he can’t decide whether to press the ignition button or not.

The man scowls at him, and only then does Kirsten recognise him.

‘Inspector Mouton!’ she says, not understanding the connection. He purses his lips, gives a nod in her general direction. Had James been so worried about her that he had called the cops? Did Mouton agree to help him find her?

The engine starts; the doors all lock automatically. She tries to open her door, but it won’t budge, as she knew it wouldn’t. Child-lock. There is the distinct aroma of turmeric in the air.

Seth’s Tile vibrates with a bump.

Two separate PDFs come through. The first is the report on the Fontus samples: Anahita and Tethys clear, Hydra with lots of red tabs, showing irregularities. Seth recognises the main chemicals: ethinyl estradiol; norgestrel; drospirenone; mestranol; ethynodiol – the same active ingredients you’d find in a contraceptive pill. James casts a backward glance, but keeps driving.

The next PDF is the analysis of Kirsten’s yellow pills, and he sees some more red tabs. Confused for a second, he checks that he is looking at the right report and not the Hydra analysis, but it’s the correct one. The red tabs highlight various chemicals, all of which Seth recognises from his time at Pharmax. Diazepam, Sertraline, Doxepin. The fuck? He thinks. It’s a zombie pill. He starts as he remembers that James was the one who filled her prescription for her.

James speeds up and weaves through the traffic, causing them to sway in their seats at the back. He swears under his breath and skips red lights. Smacks the steering wheel with his palm.

Seth bumps Kirsten.

Kirsten digs in her handbag for her lipstick magic wand, and slips it into her pocket, along with her pocketknife. When the front entrance of the clinic is in view the tension in the car climbs. Inspector Mouton pulls off his long sleeve shirt. Kirsten’s eye is drawn to the skin on his arm. It’s marbled, shiny. Burn scar?

They pull into the parking space closest to the giant glass entrance, and James and the inspector get out. Kirsten tries her door again, but it’s still locked. She jimmies the handle, knocks on the window.

‘James!’ she calls. ‘It’s on child-lock!’

The realisation hits Seth just before it does Kirsten, and he puts his forehead in his hands. She doesn’t understand his reaction, and then all of a sudden she does.

The memory comes back to her like a swift punch to the stomach, slams her back into her seat, takes all the air out of her lungs. She sees it as if she is back in that moment, that terrible moment, when the light went out of her life. A moment so long buried in her subconscious you’d think it would be decayed in some way, but it’s not. It’s cruelly vivid and so clear that Kirsten can taste the colours.

She is playing a game with her twin brother on an emerald lawn in the front garden of a pretty little house. She remembers the building: rough ivory paint that scratched your skin if you brushed up against it, curlicue burglar bars in the windows, cracked slasto leading up to a light blue (lemongrass-smelling?) front door. A brittle little letterbox on a pole with two red numbers on it (Lollipop)… red means two, so maybe it was 22? The garden was bursting with colour, enough to make Kirsten giddy.

The sun was shining brightly but it was uncharacteristically cold that day, and they were dressed in warm boots and brightly coloured jackets: peppermint for Sam and mandarin for her. Her mother – her real mother – is leaning on the doorframe, watching them. She is pale and slim in a charcoal polo neck. She has her gardening apron on, and dirty gloves. A smear of soil on her cheek. Young, beautiful, with a long, thick braid of red hair. Kirsten gives her a toothy grin, and she responds with a smile and a thumbs-up. The phone rings from inside the house, and her mother peels off her gloves and goes to answer it.

Despite the warmth of the jacket, the skin on her hands is red when she looks down at them. Sam passes her something: a toy horse. No, a little pony, pink with a grubby white mane and tail. One of his action figures astride. A Thundercat. She zooms the pony over the grass and makes the appropriate sound effects; laughs. Sam doesn’t smile. Something has caught his attention in the street and he looks past her, frowning. He stands up on his chubby legs, toy still in hand, held against his round stomach.

A black combi has pulled up and all of a sudden there is a blonde-haired little boy right there, on their pavement. He seems only slightly older than they are. He beckons to them with his hands, his sweet face promising something fun and exciting. She babbles excitedly, starts to go towards him, but Sam puts his hand on her shoulder, wanting to hold her back. He looks at the boy and then back at the house, for his mother, but the doorframe is empty. Kirsten keeps walking and is soon beside the rosy-cheeked stranger. Sam calls out: ‘Kitty!’ and runs to catch up with her.

As he reaches the walkway beside the combi, the door slides open and a giant man swoops over them and there are meaty forearms squeezing the air out of them. Before they know what has happened they are struggling in the car. The other boy, stricken, is shouted at and jumps in last, and the door is slammed shut. From light to darkness, like that. Like that, the light in her heart went out. Nothing but darkness and a shocked wail in her ears. She realises the wailing is coming from her. In the dim interior she sees the blonde-haired beckoner also crying, his face contorted with silent tears.

The face she knows so well. James.