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“I’d like lunch.”
My answer pleases him.
“Italian?”
My favorite. “How did you know?”
Instead of answering, he kisses my nose.
Damian
After Lina’s submission, I fuck her at every chance I get. God knows, she’s been the fantasy in my head for long enough. I deserve every rush of blood to my pelvis, every hard-on, and every climax she ignites. Leaving her to go to my office in the city is almost painful, but there’s much to do at the mine. Making money takes time. Making more money takes an even longer time, and I need a lot of money to keep safe in this city. I need the means to give Lina the life I promised to make up for keeping her in a cage.
Still not sure what to make of Lina’s accusations, I keep a careful eye on Zane. His behavior is exemplary. He’s courteous to Lina, even if he limits their contact to mealtimes. It’s his word against hers, a situation of uncertainty I can’t allow. Sending him on an errand while Anne visits Andries, I have cameras installed. I don’t want anyone in the house to know about the added security measure. While the installation is underway, I take care of other business with Lina. It’s not something I look forward to, but she needs to understand the consequences of betrayal.
I bundle her into the car and drive to the dump in Brixton.
She gives me a wary look when we exit in front of the dilapidated apartment building. “What are we doing here?”
I know what she sees when she looks up at the brick façade marred by graffiti and broken windows. She sees me, before I met Dalton. She sees hunger, criminality, and depravity. She sees hopelessness and a futile future or, if you’re strong, a will to survive and rise above the debris of human scum, of parents who don’t know where their kids hang out because they’re too busy working their fingers to the bone to put bread on the table.
Taking her arm, I lead her up the piss-stained stairs and peeling walls. At the first door on the second level, we stop.
She hangs back, looking at the crooked numbers on the door that write sixty-six instead of ninety-six, and the section around the lock that’s splintered. Hardening myself, I don’t spare her the knock that falls hollow on the pressed wood.
A shuffle later, the door opens. Dalton’s face appears in the crack, unshaven and hard. It’s what this neighborhood does to people. They stop using razors and hate people like me who have their faces shaved in a barber chair while sipping espresso and making multi-million rand deals on their smartphones.
When she recognizes her father, she pulls back harder, straining on my hold, but I push the door wide open and bring her inside.
“Well, well.” Dalton looks from her to me. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“Watch your mouth,” I say, kicking the door shut.
He looks ten years older in a vest, sweatpants, and slippers. His hair is uncombed, and he smells like sour soup.
“Aren’t you going to say hello?” he says to Lina. “Too good for me now?”
I shove him aside and stride into the single space that defines his life. “Disrespect her again and you’ll regret it.”
He follows with his smug smile. “Come to gloat, have you?”
“You said you wanted to see your daughter.”
She looks at the unmade bed and the dirty dishes on the kitchenette shelf. Her gaze takes in the moldy shower curtain and the grainy imagine on the fat-belly television. It’s satisfyingly depressing.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he says, addressing Lina again. “What did you expect? A five-star hotel?”
This is what he’s been degraded to. When he’s been stripped from his business and reputation, his true colors show. He never had a bone of dignity in his body.
“It must make you happy,” he continues, “seeing me barely making ends meet while you look like this.” He motions at the pretty dress and sandals I’ve chosen for her, the brands screaming luxury.
“I don’t,” she says softly.
The one thing he hasn’t mentioned, has avoided looking at since we’ve entered, is her bare arms. It’s odd, not the kind of behavior one would expect from a caring father who dotes on his only daughter.
He lifts a chipped mug from the table. “Drink?”
“No, thanks,” Lina says, standing there with her arms at her sides.
“Oh, well.” He shrugs and downs the dregs left in the mug. “I saw you tried to kill yourself again.”
She doesn’t deny or confirm it. The look she gives him is pitying, if not sad.
He assesses her from head to toe, ignoring her arms again. There’s taunting in his tone. “You’re getting fat.”
She’s seen what I wanted her to. There’s no need to drag out the unpleasant disillusionment. I expected at least a warm welcome for Lina, a little bit of affection, not envy for her fortune and good health.
