Like Clockwork

11

Cornelle walked out of the school gates alone. She jerked at the book bag slung over her shoulder, reaching for the cigarettes in her blazer pocket as soon as she had rounded the corner. She swivelled, hip bones jutting above her grey skirt, towards Clare’s greeting.

‘Hi, Cornelle. I was hoping we could talk about Charnay.’ Clare leaned over and opened the passenger door. ‘Get in,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll drive you home.’ The girl narrowed her eyes, but the day was raw, and her cold hand was already reaching for the door. She folded herself into the passenger seat, shaking her blonde hair loose from its regulation ponytail.

‘How do you know my name?’ she asked. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Clare Hart. I’m part of the team investigating Charnay’s murder.’

‘Oh,’ said Cornelle, interested now. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I was at Charnay’s house earlier. J.P. showed me the photograph of you two. I just wanted to talk to you about her.’

Cornelle turned her head away, her hair curtaining her expression. She dragged again on the cigarette and then lit a fresh one from the glowing stump. Clare ignored the smoke.

‘What was she like?’

‘She was my friend,’ said Cornelle. ‘We used to do everything together. Before.’

‘So what happened last week?’ asked Clare. ‘Where did you go? Where did she go?’ Cornelle kept her face averted. She shrugged.

‘I don’t know. We didn’t always spend our weekends together.’

‘Charnay’s mother thought you did. What about yours?’

‘Mine doesn’t give a fuck,’ said Cornelle. She ground her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. ‘She wouldn’t even have noticed if I had disappeared.’ Cornelle dashed the back of her hand against her cheek. Clare could not see if there were tears.

‘Did you go out together last weekend?’ Clare persisted.

‘No.’

‘I thought you did everything together?’

‘Ag, we used to. But not so much lately,’ said Cornelle. ‘We didn’t always jol together on the weekends. We had different friends sometimes.’

‘Where do you live? I’ll drive you there’ said Clare. Cornelle directed her – left, right, second left, number 32. Then she was silent. The house she pointed out was shut up, blank. Cornelle scrabbled in her bag for her keys.

‘Are you going out this evening?’ asked Clare.

‘I don’t know. To the Waterfront, I suppose.’

‘Shall I give you a lift? I’m going that way.’

Cornelle shrugged. ‘Ag, why not? Let me go change.’ She didn’t ask Clare if she wanted to wait inside. Clare looked at the depressing face-brick, blinds hanging askew in the upstairs windows, and was glad not to have been invited in. ‘I’ll be quick.’

Cornelle was gone in a flash of long legs. The look in her eyes, the tears, had not been grief, thought Clare. It had been fear. She watched the bathroom light go on and then snap off again. What was Cornelle afraid of? She put a call through to Riedwaan but his answering service kicked in before the first ring. She snapped her phone shut; Cornelle was hurtling out the door. Transformed in ten minutes by a tight black T-shirt and a skirt that could be mistaken for a belt.

‘Poes pelmets is what my ma calls them,’ giggled Cornelle, allowing Clare a glimpse of the child that she had so recently been. Cornelle turned back to the mirror to lacquer on her after-school face and the illusion was gone.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Shop, I suppose.’ There was a long pause. ‘Maybe meet some friends later.’

Clare glanced over at Cornelle – imported designer skirt and sunglasses. An indiscreet double C on her handbag. ‘Where do you get the money?’ she asked, weaving in between the late afternoon traffic. ‘Where did Charnay get her money?’

‘Oh, we model,’ said Cornelle with the nonchalance of a practised almost-truth. ‘Sometimes we get gifts after a shoot. Got gifts,’ she corrected.

Charnay’s broken body flashed into Clare’s mind. A driver hooted and she swerved back into her lane. ‘Those are expensive clothes.’

Cornelle looked at her again. And again there was a shadow across her face.

‘I work hard,’ said Cornelle. ‘So did Charnay.’

Clare dropped the subject. They drove in silence as darkness gathered, the elevated highway offering them a view of the glimmering harbour. Clare turned off the highway towards the Waterfront. Dockworkers and shop girls thronged home, shoulders hunched against the cold under thin jackets.

‘Drop me here please,’ Cornelle said. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’ Clare swung around the next third of the traffic circle and pulled over. She pulled the blue card she had found in Charnay’s room from her pocket. ‘Do you know this number?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Cornelle, pulling her cellphone out of her bag. ‘I’m so bad with numbers. Let me see if I’ve got it on my phone.’ She peered at the number and dialled it. A name flashed onto the small screen. Cornelle ended the call, a flush rising on her pale neck. ‘The Isis Club,’ she muttered, not meeting Clare’s eye.

‘The strip club?’ asked Clare.

‘Ja,’ said Cornelle. ‘We auditioned there. Me and Charnay.’

‘As strippers?’ asked Clare.

‘No,’ answered Cornelle, her voice very low. ‘They were making movies. We auditioned for a part.’

‘Did you get one?’ asked Clare.

‘I didn’t. It was too hard-core for me.’ Cornelle looked down at her hands. The cuticles had been bitten until they bled.

‘Did Charnay?’ asked Clare.

‘Not that I know of,’ said Cornelle, reaching for the handle.

Clare put her hand on Cornelle’s arm and handed her a card. ‘Phone me if you want to talk,’ she said.

‘I will,’ said Cornelle. ‘I mean, I won’t need to. I told you everything.’

The door slammed, muffling the thanks flung over her thin shoulder. Cornelle did not head towards the Clocktower with its evening jazz cafés. Instead she took the road wedged between the repair dock and an abandoned office block. Two men painting a Chinese ship watched her progress, turning back to their work when a directed wolf whistle failed to even register in her stride. And then she was swallowed by darkness.