Like Clockwork

31

The chef’s assistant wiped the last sushi knife clean and flung his apron into the laundry basket. Exhausted, he scrubbed feebly, ineffectually, at the red stain on his trousers. He said goodnight to the stern Japanese chef, shrugged on his jacket, and hooded himself against the wind outside. He hurried over the road, shoulders hunched. Looking out for cars, he didn’t notice the moonlight being lightly tossed by the waves close by. Glad for the shelter of the bus stop by the palm trees, for the kick of the longed-for joint, he slowly looked up at the sea, at the quiet wink of the lights across Table Bay.

The girl lay on the grassy bank between two palm trees. A flower among restless plastic bags, abandoned sticks, dog shit. Her black hair arrowed due west, her feet were splayed east – the left one naked, the right encased in a long, stilletto-heeled boot. Her bloodied hand, bound with a thin blue rope tied agonisingly tight, was partially obscured by a plastic bag that had drifted against her body. Her clothes were ripped, and the buttons of her blouse had popped open, exposing breasts feathered with stretch marks.

She lay there as if she were sunning her long legs. He called. Nothing – no response. He went over to her, thinking she was just another young clubber full of drugs. Her body was beautiful. It had been a long time since he’d touched a woman without having to pay for it. He bent down, cupping her breasts in his hands. They were as full as the moon. The wind lifted the scarf around her neck, the movement drawing his eyes towards her face. The exposed smile of her slit throat hurled him back towards the bus stop. Her throat had been cut with such savagery that a neck vertebra was visible, seeming to have been scored. Her eyes were open. She gazed blindly up at the heavy moon. His expensive white trainers imprinted their logo in blood on the pavement.

He saw a bus approaching. He controlled his breathing and got on.

Sat down.

Nobody saw her. Nobody looked.

She receded as the bus moved away. Then she was indistinguishable from the mounds of seaweed strewn across beach. He rubbed his hands together: they burned where he had touched her.