“Maybe you can help us,” I say to Nomhle’s father. “We have a head prefect and an outcast, and we are caught in a crisis. We could be stranded in the Karoo or crawling on the floor in a bank robbery. What do you think, Mister Nkwali?”
He stares at me like he’s watching a wild animal doing something utterly fascinating. Like he’d like to raise a rifle and put it to death actually. He spins on his heel and marches into the dimness of the house.
Is this the same man who helps the minister to heal people’s hearts?
“Does your Tata work at night, too?” I ask Nomhle.
She nods miserably. “Panel beating”.
Just then the kitchen door flies open and three young men walk in. One raises a hand but they don’t bother to greet us. They are rough-looking characters, these ones. Are they here to repent to the deacon? The men slope through the lounge and unlock a heavy gate at the far end. Nomhle scrapes back a chair on her side of the table, tries to distract me.
“Come and sit here. It’s not so hot.”
I refuse to budge. “I’m cool.”
Nomhle’s father, now dressed in jeans, follows the men into what must be the garage. The white cat weaves between his feet, goes in with him. Nomhle’s father locks the gate. I hear him shoot two bolts on the door beyond it.
Nomhle swallows like her throat has swelled up. “How about we make it a bus accident?” she chokes. “I mean, not just a breakdown.”
“Good idea!” I muse over it. “The only thing is, bus accidents happen very suddenly. Teacher Mahlangu said he wants us to build the tension, start off calm. So there must be some warning signs.”
Soft sputtering, clunking sounds come from the garage. Are they spraying a car? The air begins to smell a bit funny.
Nomhle looks like she wants to cry. “The bus driver could be tired.”
“Or drunk?” I suggest. The gate door across the lounge opens. One of the skollie men comes out, the white cat streaking behind him. Now I see that the man’s skin has a strange blue tinge. He has prickly hair on his cheeks and acne on his neck. Close up, his fingernails are yellow. The cat flies between our feet as he fills the kettle, stands there waiting, like the house belongs to him. He smells like drain cleaner. Ammonia, I think.
The cat streaks up the yellow checked curtains, tears the fabric with its claws. Nomhle’s mother raises a broom to it. “Shooo!”
The blue-tinged man laughs a weird, harsh kind of laugh and walks out with the kettle steaming. The cat launches from the top of the curtain, lands in the middle of the table, sends coffee flying all over Nomhle. She screams. The coffee is cold by now. I can’t help laughing.
***
Tell us: Are you enjoying the plot twists so far? What do you think is going on in this house?