Outside the building, a large man is walking his dog. The dog pauses to sniff the innards of a pothole. The man uses the time to look at the entrance of the building, get an idea of the security system. Backs up, looks up to the corner apartment of the 17th floor where a light is still on. Having seen enough, he makes a kissing noise: pulls the protesting beagle along, firmly, but not unkindly.
Kirsten’s watch rings; it’s Marmalade. Oh shit, she thinks, looking at the time, then at the two empty bottles of wine on Keke’s desk. The clockologram clicks in disapproval. She touches her earbutton to answer the call.
‘Hi, sorry I’m late,’ she says, her voice gruff. Gives Keke the grimace of a schoolgirl in trouble.
‘And you haven’t called,’ he says.
‘And I haven’t called. Sorry.’
‘I was worried about you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘When are you coming home? I made dinner. Four hours ago.’
‘Ah, sorry! I didn’t know. You should have told me.’ She stands up, throws two empty sauce-stained Styrofoam shamburger clamshells in the bin.
‘I wanted to surprise you. Do something nice for you.’
‘I’m really sorry. I’m with Kex,’ Keke gives her a soft kick in the shins. She winces and hops up and down. ‘At The Office. We’re working on a… story.’
‘Well, wake me when you get home.’
‘It’ll be late.’
‘Wake me, Kitty. I miss you.’
He ends the call. They never say ‘I Love You.’ They agreed long ago that that the phrase was overused and trite. They wouldn’t reduce their relationship to a cliché. What they had was deeper.
‘How much trouble are in you in?’ asks Keke.
‘He cooked dinner for me: a surprise.’
Keke looks at the time on her phone. ‘Ouch.’
‘He wanted to do something nice for me.’
‘Double-ouch.’
‘So where were we?’ Kirsten asks, but Keke is looking at her strangely.
‘What?’
‘Since when do you lie to James?’
‘What? I didn’t. I don’t.’
‘We’re working on a ‘story’?’
‘Well,’ says Kirsten, ‘we are, kind of. Aren’t we?’
Keke pouts, not convinced.
‘You’re the one that says everyone has a story. Maybe this is mine. And, believe me, the less James knows, the better.’
They go back to solving the puzzle they had been working on all night: trying to make sense of the code that was in the plastic envelope they found in the seed bank. It was a list of barcodes that when scanned were numbers, 18 digits to a line.
100380199121808891
104140199171209891
20290199142117891
20201199161408891
101250199160217891
201250199160217891
1010199112016891
They all started with either 10 or 20, all contained the numbers 1991 in the same position near the middle, and ended in 891. The more wine Kirsten drank, the more the numbers glowed with their colours. It was distracting. She had never been good at maths for this reason.
‘I don’t know how much longer I can look at this,’ she says, rubbing her neck, which was tender from the car accident. ‘Are you sure you don’t know any maths-geniuses-code-crackers?’
Keke shakes her head. ‘Nope.’
They had tried everything they could think of, from simple alphabet a=1 algorithms to squares and prime numbers, and all the search engines they could think of. Kirsten is playing with Keke’s Beckoning Cat. If you push its belly-button its USB port comes out the other side, like a stunted tail. A secret porthole of information.
Maneki Neko, she thinks: Japanese Lucky Cat. Brings good fortune to owners. She gives the hard plastic a squeeze, puts it back on Keke’s desk.
‘Look, we’ve had a hectic day and we’re not getting anywhere tonight,’ sighs Keke, standing up. ‘Why don’t you go home to Marmalade and make up?’
Kirsten starts to protest but she knows Keke is right. ‘Besides,’ says Keke, putting on her leather jacket, ‘I need to get laid.’
As soon as Kirsten opens the front door she smells roast chicken: her favourite. James had left a plate for her on the kitchen counter: a golden thigh, butter-roast potatoes, candied golden beetroot. She peels the cling wrap away and starts to eat the chicken with her fingers. It is exactly right, the taste: an undulating curve with a few small points bouncing off it, finishing in a wavering line. She’s exhausted; it feels like more than just tiredness. Deathargy.
Her body is cold when she climbs in next to James, and she’s unsure of whether to wake him. She moves closer to him, barely spoons him, trying to gauge how lightly he is sleeping.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers, ‘the potatoes were perfect.’
He grunts, turns around, pulls her towards him in a full-body hug. A warm, sleepy hand slides under her pyjama top, rubbing her back, then settles under her panties, on the arch of her hip. She moves against his hand, slowly, rhythmically, but stops when she realises he is asleep.
A few hours later Kirsten wakes with a start. Colours swirl in her head: green, grey, brown, yellow. 7891. She knows the colour combination so well, but where from? Pine Tree, Ash, Polished Meranti, English Mustard. Somehow she knows it’s part of her. Then she gets it. She bumps Keke, even though it’s past 2am:
KD> The colours are backwards!
Surprisingly, or not, Keke responds.
KK>> Wot R U doing? LSD?
KD> It should be yellow/brown/grey/green.
KK>> U need to be institutionalised. Good night & good luck.
KD> Not 7891, but 1987, the year I was born. Think the whole sequence is backwards. It says 60217891, that’s my birthdate, backwards. 6 December 1987. It features twice in the list, 5th and 6th lines. It must mean something. I knew the colours but it was hard to see when they were backwards.
KK>> What about the other numbers?
KD> No idea.
KD> Yet.
TOY CHASE
21
Johannesburg, 2021
Despite a very late night, Seth is in the office early. In theory he is trying to tweak his 3D mathematical model animation of the CinnaCola taste experience but his head is pounding and Fiona’s pass is burning a hole in his pocket. He gulps down his anxiety with a few pills and leaves his office, heads towards the Waters wing of the building. He walks past Fiona’s office and does a double take as he sees her sitting at her desk. Relief like a splash of water on his face.
‘Fiona!’ he says. The brunette at the desk looks up at him, puzzled.
‘Hello?’ she says.
It’s not Fiona. Similar looking, thinner, more attractive.
‘Oh,’ says Seth, taking a step back and looking at the new name on the door. ‘Do you know where Fiona is?’
‘I don’t know a Fiona,’ the usurper says, mechanical smile, cherry red lipstick, and a whiff of Stepford. ‘Can I help you with something?’ She is being super polite: she wants him to leave.
‘This is her office,’ Seth says, incredulous.
She blinks at him, stops smiling. ‘Not anymore.’
Besides Seth’s better judgement he strides up to the main reception. The receptionist looks alarmed.
‘Fiona Botes,’ he says, ‘she’s been away from the grind, and I was wondering if you knew where she was.’
The man fingers his hair, taps on his tablet, looks cheerfully confused.