Free The Reactive by Masande Ntshanga Page A

other. Two cars drive past us and after they’ve gone, I notice a figure standing in the house opposite. I can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman, but I can see them looking out at us through a veil of curtain lace. Eventually, when it seems like our eyes have met and locked for a long time, the figure takes a step back and draws the curtain closed between us. I lean back and feel the tar and pebbles digging into my palms.
    Then I take a breath and decide to tell Ruan what I’m thinking.
    The two of us, I say, we’ve already accepted the money from the client.
    Ruan tells me that he knows we have. He sits down on the pavement next to me and kicks a pebble into the road. He says he hopes Cissie has, too.
    It takes Cecelia another half an hour to return. The three of us take the lift to her flat, and as we do, she doesn’t speak to me or Ruan.
    Cissie walks into her kitchen and starts rifling through the cabinets. Then she crouches and opens the drawers beside the stove.
    I’m looking for the Industrial, she says. In case anyone’s interested.
    Ruan and I take our seats on the living-room floor in silence, facing each other from the opposite ends of her coffee table.
    My aunt died today, Cissie says. It happened just over an hour ago.
    She dips her head back behind the counter, rifling through more cabinets. Then she opens a coffee tin and, finding it empty, lets it roll out of the kitchen.
    It’s weird, she says. First, we’re picking twigs. Then I take the train and she’s dead.
    Cissie turns to the basin, plugs in a drain stopper and starts running the hot water. She removes a heap of cups and plates from the sink and stacks them on the dish rack. Then she draws back the short floral curtains and pushes the windows open to let in a gust of air. The water slams hard against the sink. She squeezes soap against the steam.
    On the other side of the counter, Ruan and I watch.
    Cissie whisks the soap to a lather with her hand. Then she closes the tap and flicks the foam off her fingers. The crazy thing is, she says, I almost didn’t bother going today.
    I return my eyes to my knees and notice a plastic bottle lying on its side under her table. I reach for it and find it still closed. Then I get up and hand it to her.
    Cissie receives it with a nod, unscrews the lid and sniffs the top. She starts to huff and the bottle crinkles inward. Done, she leaves it to drop in the sink. She brushes both hands over her face. Then she arranges the plates on the dish rack.
    The client, she says. When does he want to meet?
    I look at Ruan. He keeps his eyes on his phone.
    Tonight, he says.
    Cissie nods. I want the money, she tells us.
    Then she reaches for a dishcloth and dries her hands and elbows. She turns around.
    Do you?
    This is what she asks us.
    Ruan and I fall silent for a moment. Then we answer her at the same time. We tell her that we do.
    Cissie finds half a pack of Tramadol on her top shelf. She’s kept it in an old Horlicks tin above the kitchen counter, saving it for a day like today. We split the pills over her glass coffee table. Then, while passing around a glass of water, Cissie gets a text message from Julian. It’s about a Protest Party at his flat off Long Street. We take what’s left of the pills.
    Outside, the sky’s grown dark again, thick and almost leaden in texture. To the north, columns of rain emerge from the hills that once came together, more than a million years ago, to create the crest and saddle of Devil’s Peak. We smoke another cigarette with the painkillers. Then we wait for a taxi out on the main road. I get the feeling, as we do, that the sky could drop down on us at any moment.
    Thankfully, the trip doesn’t take long. The sky shows no interest in us, and we arrive at Julian’s an hour later. Standing across the road from his place, I realize that my hours have become something foreign to me, that they’ve taken on a pattern