Why You Were Taken

4. A Big Red Bloom Over His Heart

4

Johannesburg, 2021

Kirsten gasps, clutches her chest.

'Jesus Christ!'

'I've been called worse,' says the dark figure. The overhead lights flicker back on.

'The fuck are you doing here?'

'Hai wena. Is that the way you would greet the son of God Almighty?'

'As far as I know, the son of God doesn't skulk in dark corridors with inflatable motorbike helmets.'

'And how would you know, being the infidel that you are?' asks Kekeletso, arms akimbo. 'And, bless you, sista, still such a filthy mouth.'

She holds up a black bag. 'Is it okay if I shoot up in your place?'

Kirsten leans forward and hugs her, smells nutmeg in her cornrows, and warm leather. She loves the way Keke dresses. She seems to pull off a look that is sexy, hardcore, and feminine, all at the same time. Kirsten always feels like a tomboy in her company, in her uniform of tee, denim and kicks. She swipes her card and opens the door.

While Keke is dosing herself with insulin in the lounge, Kirsten opens the door of her antique aqua Smeg and roots around for a couple of craft beers. The idea of needles makes her gril, so she's never been able to watch Keke do it. Just hearing the beeping of Keke's SugarApp on her superphone makes her shudder. There is the zip of the black bag (Squid Sable), which means she's finished, and when Keke comes through to the kitchen her nano-ink tattoo is already fading. The white ink is sensitive to blood sugar: when Keke's level is normal the tattoo is a faded grey; antique-looking. When she needs a shot it turns white, and the dramatic contrast with her dark skin quite unsettling.

Kirsten twists off a cap with a hiss and hands the bottle to Keke, who looks like she needs to say something.

'So,' says Kirsten, 'never known you to be lost for words.'

Keke: 'I think you're going to need something stronger.'

She opens her black leather jacket and slides out a folder, laying it on the kitchen table. Kirsten puts her hand on it. It's warm. Keke moves it away from her.

'Drinks first.'

'At least you've got your priorities straight,' Kirsten says, forcing a smile. The folder burns a slow hole in the kitchen table. Finally, she thinks: finally some explanation, some kind of way forward. She grabs a bottle of Japanese Whiskey by its neck, and hooks two crystal tumblers with her fingers. With her free hand she gets some transparent silicone ice cubes from the freezer.

'Do you ever miss real ice?' she asks, 'I mean old-fashioned ice, made out of frozen, you know, water?' She sits down, across from Keke, across from the folder.

'Nope,' says Keke. 'That's like saying you miss coal-powered electricity. Or cables. Or teleconferencing. Or hashtags. Or church. Or Pro-Lifers.'

'Or condoms. Or tanning,' adds Kirsten.

'I wouldn't know,' says Keke.

'I hope you're referring to tanning.'

Keke laughs.

Kirsten says: 'You know what I don't miss? Handshakes. I always hated shaking people's hands. I found it bizarre even before the Bug, before people stopped doing it. It's too ... intimate ... to do with a stranger. Which is when you usually had to do it. I'm no germophobe, but ...'

'I know! You're taught as a kid to catch your sneeze with your hand -'

'- and cover your mouth when you cough -'