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Laughter.

  As the girls walk away, I stand up from where I’ve been hiding behind the library counter, my ears burning. I hate my stupid name. I hate hate hate it.

  But after about a minute, I calm down.

  I don’t hate my name. I’m not that crazy about sharing it, but I don’t hate it. My first name is the only thing my birth parents left me with, and my surname I got from Mom. It’s who I am.

  So, whatever anyone might think, I’m the real Katie Holmes.

  And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my hair.

  * * *

  Okay, so here’s what’s happened.

  About three weeks ago, after my big argument with Finn, I decided that it was time I got a life. I’d had enough of being that loser’s sidekick. He could go to hell for all I cared.

  Especially as another kid had gone missing – this time a girl from Gardens, sixteen years old, a brilliant student and the daughter of a pastor. She also disappeared into thin air one night, snatched out of her own bed, just like the other three.

  And Finn still refused to do anything.

  So I gave him a formal letter of resignation, and told him to leave me alone during untime from now on. Enough was enough.

  In my mind it was like Lois Lane informing Superman that she was done with him. Or Hermione refusing to do Harry’s research any more. Or Pepper Potts telling Tony Stark he looked stupid in his iron suit. It was Jane saying to Tarzan that she was sick of the jungle, Tinkerbell hiding her fairy dust from Peter Pan, and Miss Moneypenny telling James Bond to get his own damn coffee!

  Sidekicks of the world unite!! We have nothing to lose but our pathetic crushes!!!

  In reality though, it was a bit less impressive, a bit more subdued. (There were definitely fewer exclamation marks.) I gave back the weapons, the gear, the lock-picking tools, even the car keys, and I stopped attending his lame training sessions. The only things I kept were the Watch and the Screen, just in case some stupid gangster decided to shoot him again and I blinking well froze to death.

  The fact of the matter was that I couldn’t be bothered any longer with what Finn got up to – he could use his stupid superpower to spy on cheating husbands for all I cared.

  After all, as he so kindly pointed out to me, I had to live my own life.

  So I did.

  Finn didn’t comment, and I didn’t care.

  I was starting a new life. Project High School.

  * * *

  Yes. Well.

  Turns out that making friends and influencing people isn’t quite as easy as everyone makes it out to be.

  I sent Lelicia a bunch of flowers and about a million text messages in which I sucked up to her big time. At the same time I decided to make more friends, so I began to hang out with Asanda – that nice, clever girl in my history class. (Of course, it took quite a bit of effort to get all those girls’ names straight … Let’s just say that I began to smile a lot.) I also participated in the school’s charity fun run, went to an open-house party, and I gave up my restful library lunch breaks to stand around in the quad, trying to look like that’s exactly where I wanted to be.

  Right.

  And the results of this stealthy but well thought-out campaign for gaining social acceptance?

  Underwhelming.

  Lelicia and I have started speaking again, but I wouldn’t really call us friends. Some things just can’t be unsaid, you know? And to be honest, maybe we never were friends in the first place, just people clinging to each other because we didn’t belong anywhere else. (The funny thing, though, is that I respect her more now than I ever did when we were friends. Honestly. Sometimes I just don’t understand myself.)

  I began to like Asanda even more after spending time with her, but Ayanda, Lusanda, Luyanda and the rest of them are just as painful as ever. (Also, I might have pulled a muscle in my cheek from all that smiling.) The fun run went okay in that I won by about a mile. Unfortunately, that only got me into trouble because I hadn’t tried out for the athletics team at the beginning of the year, and Finn also gave me a lecture about drawing attention to myself. [21] At the house party, Daniel and I had fun, but then his ex-girlfriend threw a total hissy fit, which kind of ruined the night for me. Break times were still hell, and I was seriously tempted to ditch this particular detail.

  Now see, usually this is the point where I would’ve thrown in the towel. This is where I would normally say – you know – that’s it. Enough. I give up.

  Only … This time I was proving something, and not only to Finn. To myself.

  I did have a life. I could be as normal as the next person. And I would fit in if it killed me.

  So what I did, right, was I joined the drama club.

  * * *

  Okay, so I guess it’s pretty obvious why I never considered getting involved in the whole drama thing before. This time, though, I was desperate and, as luck would have it, the club’s first play meeting was in the library (where I was planning on hiding that day in any case).

  This year they were doing a modern, shortened version of Macbeth, and I figured they’d need lots of backup – apparently they planned to set the play in South Africa and stuff it full of references to the current political situation. (I know, I know … But it can hardly be worse than last year, when they did a lesbian Romeo and Juliet to encourage gender awareness and the right to sexual preference!)

  At first I thought I’d just help out with sound effects or lighting or décor or something. You know, be in the supporting squad. Show everyone that I wasn’t a bitch; I was nice and friendly and sociable. A fricken team player.

  When I attended the auditions, though, and saw how the other girls were butchering the role of Lady Macbeth, I decided to give it a shot. I’ve always been kind of fond of Lady Macbeth [22] and also I was feeling sorry for Mrs Frazer, the poor drama teacher, who kept shouting: “This is not High School Musical, for pity’s sake! Stop smiling!” and pulling her hair in desperation.

  Whatever, it wasn’t like I had anything to lose.

  (And Daniel had already been cast as Macbeth, although of course that didn’t influence my decision in any way whatsoever.)

  I was the last one to audition, and I have to say I was pretty good, in spite of the fact that a bunch of clowns at the back kept humming the theme song from Dawson’s Creek the whole time I was on stage. (When are the reruns of that stupid show going to end?) Mrs Frazer must have liked the way I handled those idiots though, because I got the role, which meant, of course, that You Know Who would play my husband.

  When I went home that day I was walking on air. Things were turning around at last.

  Mmm. Maybe not so much.

  Five reasons why I’m sorry I ever got involved with that “Scottish Play”: [23]

  1. Lady Macbeth is a racist.

  No she’s not. Of course not. But that’s our take on it, as part of this whole Shakespeare-has-so-much-to-say-about-modern-South-Africa trip Mrs Frazer is on.

  Honestly. Why people are forever trying to make art “relevant” I’ll never understand. The Macbeth I read was this cool, totally gruesome play where everyone spoke funny and got inappropriately philosophical at weird times. You know. Like Highlander on acid.

  The one we’re doing is just … bizarre. And I don’t mean in a good way.

  2. Lady Macbeth sounds like Naas Botha.

  Imagine, if you will, the following said in a thick Afrikaans accent (another of Mrs Frazer’s bright ideas):

  Come, you spirits

  That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,

  And fill me from the crown to the toe top full

  Of direst cruelty!

  It’s comedy! Sheer comedy! But try convincing Mrs Frazer that this play is supposed to be one of the greatest tragedies of all time …

  I am so going to be toast on opening night.

  3. The witches all speak Zulu.

  I kid you not.

  When I realised the battle for the play’s integrity was lo
st, I tried to convince Mrs Frazer to translate their parts into isiXhosa instead, so that at least part of our audience would have a cooking clue what they’re saying. But the woman insisted, so iBubble, ibubble umsebenzi nohlupheka it is then. [24]

  The Weird Sisters are going to sound weird all right.

  4. Our director might be certifiably insane.

  Please see points 1 to 3 above.

  Can I also just mention that King Duncan is supposed to be Jacob Zuma, Macbeth is supposed to be Julius Malema and MacDuff – wait for it – Helen Zille?!?

  I rest my case.

  5. I might be going off Daniel van Huysteen a bit.

  I’m not entirely sure why this is, actually. He’s still really nice to me, and charming, and kind of flirtatious. But there’s something about the crowd he hangs with that makes me uncomfortable.

  I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain.

  Like I said, Daniel is friendly to everyone and everyone likes him, but his real friends are these three guys, two of whom work in our technical team. There’s Joseph, a short guy with translucent blue serial-killer eyes; Jamal, a chain smoker with gangster tendencies; and Willem Struwig, an Afrikaans guy who got kicked out of Jan van Riebeeck High School. (Not that I’m judging him or anything. Not on this point.)

  The three of them seem to do everything together, clinging to Daniel like an unpleasant, three-headed shadow. And this, in my book, is always a negative. (I mean, how can you trust someone who always has to be surrounded by other people? What are they afraid of?) To give you an idea, I think they must have attended every single rehearsal, and I’m pretty certain it’s not because they’re really that into Shakespeare.

  Apart from Willem (who usually starts panting like a dog when I’m around) they’re never openly rude or aggressive towards me. But in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on, they always make me think they’re laughing behind my back.

  Maybe I’m being unfair.

  I am, probably.

  Okay, I am.

  It’s just … I don’t like them.

  They’re exactly the type of guys that give men in general a bad name. It’s like they’re cool, right, all three of them – four, if you count Daniel. But the thing is, they’re cool all the time. They never take a break and just be human for a while. Everything’s like so funny to them, but the joke’s always at somebody else’s expense. It’s like they pretend to enjoy messing around with one another the whole time, but everything’s always got just that bit of an edge.

  And they’re forever ripping everyone else off, but I reckon that secretly they’re absolutely terrified of looking stupid. The butt of somebody else’s joke.

  As if being laughed at is the worst thing in the world.

  Maybe this is why they creep me out. Because you never know what they’re really like because they’re always being sarcastic, even to one another. Like the most terrible, most embarrassing thing you can do is show any sincere emotion. I don’t know how they keep up their friendship, seriously. It just looks so exhausting, so competitive, so … harsh.

  And when Daniel’s with them he’s like that as well. Super ironic. One hundred percent surface.

  Less of a person, somehow.

  * * *

  But then again, what do I know about male social interaction, right? At least they’re performing Shakespeare in their free time, instead of breaking other people’s faces or snorting cocaine or smooching schmodels or torturing assassins.

  So that must count for something … mustn’t it?

  Chapter 11

  The first time I worked with Finn during untime I was only twelve years old. That experience, I think, more than all the other weird things in my life, shaped me into the person I’ve become today.

  What happened is that we were watching a live soccer match on TV – Pirates versus Chiefs at the old Athlone stadium – but before the match could really get under way it was clear that something had gone wrong. Fans were climbing over fences and squeezing through holes, thousands of people piling into an already full stadium. At one stage the TV cameras cut away from the field entirely, focusing solely on the chaos outside. I was watching open mouthed as people began pushing and shoving, everyone screaming. Then one guy went down, and the TV camera zoomed in as his body was crushed beneath hundreds of feet.

  Finn stopped time.

  I sat there, feeling stunned and kind of numb. I wanted to help.

  So I asked if I could go with him, and he said yes.

  We spent approximately twenty-one days [25] in untime on that job, so it was a really good thing I went along. I helped him load and carry people out of the way. I also drove a ten-ton ex-army truck and operated all kinds of heavy machinery. He taught me how, like it was the most normal thing in the world to teach a twelve-year-old girl.

  And I did it.

  Later though, after about two weeks in untime, Finn began to get confused, and my job changed to simply keeping him straight. Focused. In the moment.

  See, untime messes with Finn’s body and his mind in a way that it simply doesn’t do with mine. As far as my body is concerned, untime is just like normal time. Only colder. And more boring. I still need to eat, and sleep, and … you know. Business as usual.

  But for Finn it’s different. He doesn’t need to eat. He can’t sleep. He “loses” time, both physically and mentally, and the longer he stays in untime the worse it gets. Simon had this theory that it’s all about balance. That it’s as if he “pays” for untime with his life’s real time. I still don’t know if I believe that theory or not, but I do know that after long periods in untime Finn becomes visibly younger, forgetful, bewildered.

  And this doesn’t go away once he’s back in real time either, which is why he remembers so little of his life. Why he sometimes does such stupid things, in spite of having lived so long. He becomes more reckless, more impulsive, more violent.

  I don’t. I stay just the same.

  And if I stay with him, we learnt that first time, I can help him. Anchor him. Keep the worst of his confusion at bay. By talking him through it, step by step, by repeating again and again what we are doing, why we are doing it, I help him remain his best self. Help him fight the chaos that threatens to overwhelm him.

  It was a tricky job that first one actually, because it was televised and we couldn’t just get rid of the barricades and stuff. [26] But Finn was amazing and now, if you watch the old tapes, you see a brief moment of blackness (we switched several cameras off, just to hide our tracks) and then it looks as if the fences and barricades are simply pushed over by the fans. As if those enormous constructions weigh almost nothing.

  They weighed tons, let me tell you.

  Anyway, that job went brilliantly. When we were driving home Finn told me that he couldn’t have done it without me. That it would have been far more of a mess. That people would have died.

  To this day I still remember how I felt at that moment.

  I felt awesome.

  Like I was special. Like I had never been abandoned. Like I wasn’t a freakishly tall, painfully thin kid with a mouth full of braces and three inflamed spots on my forehead.

  I mean, imagine yourself in my position. I was only twelve years old, and I had helped save the lives of dozens of people. Hundreds, maybe. I had done something extraordinary. Something that people would never know about, but that I knew about.

  Something like that impacts on a person. If you know what I mean.

  * * *

  Okay, so I guess you’re wondering why I’m boring you with this little gem of personal history. We-e-e-ell …

  As I’ve tried to explain, the whole Project High School thing wasn’t exactly going too well for me. For all intents and purposes my “new” life was going nowhere fast.

  So – quite understandably, I think you’d agree – after about a month of mainstreaming I made the rational and well-considered decision to return to my other life. My secret life. The one I’m good at. The one I’ve been
secretly living since I was twelve.

  Only this time I’m going to do it on my own.

  The little sidekick is going solo.

  * * *

  Now that I didn’t have to work with Finn any more, I could finally do things by the book, do it right, the way I liked to. This meant that the first step would be to compile a background file on the subject, [27] to do my research properly.

  I mostly use the internet for this, because I have some absolutely wicked hacker programmes that can get me into even the most private pages on most networking sites. (I often had to do research for Finn. In the old days.) I also look at media pages, school sites, teenage chat rooms, research and information hubs, and any police reports or research files posted on the SAPS databases that I have access to. (Don’t ask.)

  The info I get is depressing.

  Apparently if you want to find a child that has genuinely been abducted – as opposed to having run away from home – you need to move fast. Especially if you’re dealing with a situation where the abductor is not a parent (like an ex-husband) or other family member (like a grandmother). And especially if there’s no ransom demand.

  The things strangers do to abducted children are usually not nice. And if they’re not found soon, they’re often not found at all.

  It’s the little details that get to me.

  The first of the children stolen, Samantha Kunene, is only six years old. The photos show a pretty, round-cheeked child with two missing front teeth. Sammy, as everyone called her, was an orphan who lived with her aunt at the time of the abduction. The aunt works as a receptionist at a swanky Sea Point hotel and they both lived on the hotel premises. Sammy “disappeared” out of a locked room while her aunt was working the night shift.

  Her favourite teddy bear was left behind on her bed.

  The second child that was stolen is a ten-year-old Afrikaans boy named Dawid Rademan. The little guy’s got Down’s syndrome, he’s an only child and he lived with his mom and dad (a successful lawyer) in Tamboerskloof. Dawid seems to have been his mother’s whole life: she quit her job after he was born to give him every advantage possible. She home schooled him, took him to extra lessons, speech therapists … the works. He also just “disappeared” out of his bed in the middle of the night, about two weeks after Sammy was taken.