Free Like Clockwork by Margie Orford

gripping her elbow ice tentacles. Clare forced herself to turn and look at the man trapping her between his hard body and the car.
    ‘I hear you’ve been looking for me. Here I am. I thought you’d recognise me.’ He sounded disappointed.
    Clare forced her mind to function. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, but the man made no further move towards her or her car. She looked at the face, lit by a distant street lamp. It was familiar. Then he moved and the white scars etched down his cheek were visible. ‘Kelvin Landman,’ she whispered.
    ‘The same.’ He smiled, mouth turning up, wrinkling his scar, his eyes untouched. ‘I hear you are looking for a star.’
    Clare’s mind had been so far from her film that it took her a few seconds to remember that she had put the word about that she wanted to talk to Kelvin Landman, to interview him for her film. She swallowed. ‘I wanted to interview you, yes,’ she said. ‘Get your side of the story. See how the business works.’
    Kelvin Landman shrugged. ‘I am a simple man. Bit of import, bit of export. Bit of pleasure. It’s a service that I provide. There’s a demand – so why not?’ He smiled, the muscles in his neck taut.
    ‘Did you know Charnay Swanepoel, the girl whose body was found in Sea Point?’ Clare was irritated that her voice quavered.
    ‘Why? Should I?’
    ‘It’s meant to be your territory now,’ said Clare. She tried to free her arm from his grip. Landman held her for a single menacing second, his physical power needing no other demonstration. Then he held the door open for her.
    ‘Let’s do lunch. It sounds like we might have some interests in common.’
    Before she could respond, he took her hand. The silver pen flashed like a knife in the moonlight. He wrote a phone number on her exposed palm. ‘Call me,’ he said, folding herhand closed, closing the door. He waited until she’d started her car and driven back towards the exit. When she glanced into her rear-view mirror he was nothing but a shadow between the trees. She kept her eyes on him as she waited for a gap in the late-night traffic. As she slipped into her lane the shadow moved in the direction of the marina.
    Clare started to shake, but she managed to keep the steering-wheel steady. Rear-view mirror. Brake. Breathe. Indicate. Turn. Park. She rested her forehead on the steering-wheel. The panic was gone. She was home.

13
     
    Dinner with Julie and Marcus was at eight. Clare reversed her car out of the garage and set off across town for her older sister’s house, a bottle of cold wine on the seat next to her. She stopped to buy sunflowers before turning up the steep road that led to the house. The grey mountain, its flanks lit for the tourists, loomed like a ghostly elephant above her.
    The security gate slid open before Clare could ring the bell. Beatrice, who could now just reach the button if she stood on tiptoe, had been looking out for her. She bulleted down the stairs, and into Clare’s arms. Imogen was just behind her to rescue the wine and flowers and to be kissed on the cheek. Beatrice patted Clare’s body expertly until she came to the pocket with the chocolate bar in it. This she wolfed down before her mother was out of the front door to greet Clare.
    ‘Hello, Julie.’ Clare kissed her sister and accepted the affectionate hug from her brother-in-law. ‘Hi, Marcus.’
    She carried Beatrice inside and plonked her on her bed. Beatrice ferreted around in the drift of soft toys. A plump and triumphant arm brandished the book she’d been looking for.
    ‘Read me a story, Clare. Please read me a story.’ Beatrice was already flicking through the old fairy-tale book.
    Clare settled down next to her. There was no point inresisting Beatrice. One story would settle her, and then the adults could eat in peace. Clare drew her small niece inside the crook of her arm, delighting in her grubby warmth. ‘Okay, Bea, what shall we read? Cinderella? The Lemon