‘Hey,’ she greets Keke, ‘this place is packed! I thought we were only meeting at nine-thirty.’
She waves the woman off. ‘I decided to come early, to network.’
‘So that’s what the kids are calling it nowadays?’
Keke smiles, and Kirsten grabs the still-warm barstool, which is more of a post-modernist statement than an actual chair.
‘Seriously, she’s a good contact to have. Grinds for the Nancies.’
‘Yuck,’ says Kirsten, ‘and I thought my life was bad.’
‘She’s clearly a masochist.’
‘Those masochists. Handy to have around.’
Keke orders them a couple of beers, hits the ‘tip’ button twice, and the barman delivers them with a wink in her direction. Her account will be debited with the balance by the KFID system as she leaves.
‘So, why are you early? I thought Marmalade was taking you out tonight. What happened, did he stand you up? No petrol in Zim again? No water? No aeroplane stairs?’
‘It would have been better if he had.’
‘Oh, shit. Sorry. Another fight?’
‘Argh… I’m so sick of hearing about my own problems. Fuck it. What are we here to celebrate?’
‘Well… can I tell you a secret?’ asks Keke, eyes a-sparkle.
‘Hello,’ says Kirsten, ‘who else would you tell?’
‘You can’t tell anyone, not even Marmalade.’
Won’t be the first time, thinks Kirsten. She nods.
‘I’m just about to break this big story. It’s huge. I’d love to say that it’s been weeks of hard journo-ing but actually it just fell into my lap. All I had to do was fact-check.’
‘In other words, all your Friend With Benefits had to do was fact-check.’
‘Yeah-bo.’
‘Hey? Who did it come from? Why would someone just hand over a story to you? And why you?’
‘I don’t know. The gods of the fuck-circus that is journalism decided to smile down on me. Why do whistleblowers toot their flutes? – Justice? Revenge? It arrived in my SkyBox with no note and no author. Just the picture of a little green rabbit that disappeared as soon as I opened it.’
‘Bizarre,’ says Kirsten.
‘I know already. But listen to this. You know that Slow-Age super-expensive beauty-salon-slash-plastic-surgery clinic in Saxonwold? Tabula Rasa. They were the first spa in SA to have a Lixair – vitamin air – chamber. They made headlines a while ago with their FOXO gene therapy? The one with all-white everything? Like, you get blinded when you go in there?’
‘Heard of it. Never been. My freelance salary doesn’t stretch that far.’
‘Lucky for you. All that white was hiding something very dark indeed.’
‘Let me guess. They were exchanging their wrinkled flesh-and-blood clients for smooth-skinned Quinbots?’
‘Worse,’ says Kekeletso.
‘Ha,’ says Kirsten. ‘What?’
‘They were buying discarded embryos from dodgy fertility clinics, spinning them for their stem cells, then injecting them into their clients’ faces.’
Kirsten stops smiling. ‘No,’ she says.
‘That’s what I thought. No way it could be true. But this report came from someone who had worked there. Had infiltrated the system and had proof of hundreds of transactions. Pics, video, everything.’
‘That is so fucked up. Horrible. I wish you had never told me. I wish it wasn’t true.’
‘Sorry,’ says Keke. ‘I had to tell someone. I’ve been sitting on it for days waiting for all the facts to check out.’
‘What kind of world are we living in?’ asks Kirsten.
‘One where at least there is someone willing to out those bastards. If something like this had happened fifty years ago we wouldn’t have had a cooking clue. May The Net bless Truthers everywhere.’
‘To Truthers!’ says Kirsten, raising her drink. ‘Also: ha ha.’
‘Huh?’
‘Don’t you think it’s funny? The name? Tabula Rasa means “clean slate”, doesn’t it? Like, come in all aged and wrinkled and shit and leave with a face like a clean slate.’
‘And a brain to go with it,’ Keke adds.
‘Except now it’s going to be revealed as a black clinic.’
‘Poetry!’
‘You’re right, it is funny. Ha!’
‘Or would be, if it wasn’t so fucked up.’
‘Yes,’ Keke pulls a face, ‘well. You know what they say.’
‘Tell me. What do they say?’
‘If you don’t laugh, you cry.’
‘Story of my life. Well, congratulations. That’s one big fucking story. I sense some kind of award for journalistic excellence on the horizon. Huzzah!’
‘I wish I could take the credit. Oh, Kitty… there’s something else,’ says Keke, looking hesitant.
‘What’s up?’
‘I found something else. It’s something about you. About your parents.’ Keke rubs her lips, rings for another round. ‘You’re not going to like it.’
Seth is gliding to electro-house swampo-phonic with a drunk woman in a kimono on the superglass dance-floor. It is easier to dance if you don’t look down: five hundred floors up, the vertigo from looking down sucks the rhythm from your feet.
Usually he loves the mixed crowd at the SkyBar but he feels off-balance tonight. The drinks don’t taste as good; the women aren’t as pretty as usual. It’s too crowded. He tried taking more coke earlier but it seems like a waste with this mood. Usually he would have already banged this girl in the plant pool, or in the unisex bathroom, but tonight it doesn’t feel worth the bother. This makes him feel worse. Is he getting old? Is grinding in a corporate environment leaching him of his personality? What’s next? Wearing a suit and tie? A nametag? A hearing aid? Joining the Fontus gaming club? Facebook? Getting married? Viagra? He shivers involuntarily. The sooner he can get his job there done and move on, the better.
He gives up on having a good time, abandons his drink, shrugs the kimono off and goes to get his jacket and gun from the security counter. While he manoeuvres through the warm bodies that block him he inadvertently gets close to the bar. As he’s making his way forward he feels a surge, an electric current zip through his body. It shocks him into standing up straight. He is surrounded – touching so many creeps at the same time – and he looks about to see if anyone else felt it, but no one around him registers any kind of surprise.
The fuck was that?
Kirsten is doubled over. Keke grabs her arm.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Christ,’ she whispers, ‘what the fuck?’
‘What?’
‘I just had the weirdest feeling.’
‘Your synaes-stuff?’
Slowly she starts to straighten up, hands on hips. ‘Fucking hell. I don’t think so. More like getting the electric chair. You didn’t feel anything?’
Keke shakes her head.
‘I must have touched something,’ she says, and looks around for anything that looks like it could have shocked her. ‘It’s so crowded in here, maybe it was just some kind of sensory overload.’
Keke looks unconvinced. ‘Good God, woman. The more I get to know you, the stranger you become.’
‘It’s nothing. I’m okay. Hit me,’ she says to Keke. ‘I can take it.’
‘You weren’t adopted,’ says Keke.
‘What?’ says Kirsten, cupping her ear.
‘You weren’t adopted!’ shouts Keke.
‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘I know,’ says Keke. ‘But my FWB knows his stuff and there is no record of your parents adopting you, or of you being put up for adoption. He’s the best hacker I know. If Marko didn’t find anything, believe me, there is nothing to find.’
Kirsten can’t think of a word to say.
‘It wasn’t easy, either. I did some of the digging myself. Since the last orphanage closed in 2016 it’s tricky to get information… enough red tape to strangle all the bureaucrats on the planet. It’s as if, now that adoption doesn’t happen anymore, it’s a closed chapter in SA history.’