Zoo City - By Lauren Beukes Page 0,93

mesmerised by the spectacle. A firefighter is dragging a blackened body out of the rubble, collapsed in his arms like a scarecrow. Scrawny. Girl-sized. Wearing purple cowboy boots. They are still smouldering.

"There's another one," someone shouts from inside the building.

"Get away from there!" one of the firefighters yells at me, snapping the security guard out of his trance. But when I raise my hands in apology, I catch a glimpse of something else in the crowd. A shadow. The crowd is a tangle of lost things, but there is something moving through the threads. Like a ghost. Or an invisible demon.

"Come, lady, you can't be doing that," the security guard says, pulling me away. "What's the matter with you? Get back over there."

"Sorry," I mutter and let him shepherd me towards the crowd, which is shifting unconsciously away from the demon, parting like a magical sea to allow it through towards the parking lot.

I chase after it, pushing past people, grabbing at impressions as I go. Except that just like outside Mrs Luditsky's on the morning of her murder, they're no longer just impressions. The images leap out at me in crisp high-resolution: a broken drum-stick scrawled with a band's name, a pair of girl's boyshorts with red lace detail, an orange plastic casio watch, a keyring attached to a Bratz doll's head. And a tattered book with a golden tree on the cover.

"I know you're there, Amira!" I yell. But she keeps fading out, like a developing photograph in reverse, not so much like she's bending the light around her as bending people's minds, making herself unobtrusive, making your eyes slide away, your attention drift. Nothing to see here. Except that ruined book. I hold on to it as hard I can, but the crowd is resisting me.

"Oh come on!"

"What is wrong with you?"

Someone grabs my arm. It's the snooty waiter from the clubhouse. "I know you!"

I step forward into the waiter's hold, twisting his arm down and, at the same time, smack him in the throat with the open palm of my hand. He lets go with a strangled noise. Hey, what's an extra assault charge on my rap sheet tonight? They're probably going to lay the fire on me anyway. I turn and break for my car, people shouting after me.

I drive away, tyres squealing. The Capri snaps the boom like a teenage heart.

33.

The tension in the car is as dense as a collapsing star. Benoît is quiet, looking out the window at the streetlights streaming past the car. I picked him up outside Central Methodist. He didn't argue, didn't ask questions, didn't try to convince me to go to the cops. He was the one who suggested using his uniform to get access, in case there was another "dangerous criminal" warning posted at the neighbourhood security boom.

Reflected light catches on the brass-plated name-badge, like an unspoken accusation. These are all the things he doesn't say in the silence: that I'm risking everything – his asylum status, his family's chance of a future here. The Mongoose says it instead, his beady little eyes glaring up at me from Benoît's lap. Those eyes say "useless backstabbing junkie slag".

I pull over a few blocks away, out of sight. It's unnaturally quiet. The birds will only start up in an hour or so. And in the meantime, dream city is dreaming.

"Give me ten minutes," Benoît says. I pass him the bag of Lagos fried chicken, and he gets out of the car and strolls down towards the security hut, chewing on a piece of chicken. It's more disguise than bribe. Who would suspect a man with chicken, particularly one in a Sentinel uniform and a name-badge?

Headlights swoop over him and then past, not even slowing – it's not unusual for people to be walking at 3 am. It's like there are two different species inhabiting Johannesburg. Cars and pedestrians.

It's forty-two minutes before the official 4 am shift change, but a man can be persuaded to go off duty early. It takes a little longer than anticipated. Not because the guard is diligent, but because he wants to shoot the breeze a little, share some greasy chicken before he heads on home. It takes all my willpower to stay in the car. Finally, he parts company with Benoît and starts walking up the road away from me, towards the main road. If he thinks there is a chance of a taxi at this time of the morning, he is a man