Consent (The Loan Shark Duet 2)

“Ready for more adventures?” I shade my face with a palm, looking up at the road that snakes past the houses to the top of the hill.

Charlie groans, but he follows as I start walking. After an hour, we hit the first small commercial area. It’s a strip mall consisting of a grocery store, a Wimpy restaurant, a bank, a pharmacy, and a liquor store. I stop at every store to ask for a job, but as expected there’s nothing available. With an unemployment rate of over forty percent and me not having formal qualifications or referral letters, I have zero percent chance of landing anything, not to mention that the affirmative action law isn’t in my favor.

By midday, we hit another residential area and a beach. I’m famished, and Charlie is tired. We stop at a beach kiosk selling ice cream and hot dogs. I count out my last few cents on the counter, but it’s not even enough to buy Charlie an ice cream.

The man waiting behind us in the queue clicks his tongue. “Eish,” he says in the local dialect, “you look hungry, little miss.”

I turn to look at him. He has brown, wrinkled skin, like the coloreds who are a mix between black and white.

He shuffles past us to the front, goes through his pockets, and takes out a bill, which he hands to the vendor. “Give this lady and man each a boerewors roll.”

I gape at him, blinking back tears. From the state of his clothes and the way the soles of his shoes flap when he walks, he’s worse off than us.

“No, please.” I hold up a hand. “It’s very kind, but I can’t accept.”

He makes a tsk-tsk noise and rumbles off something in Zulu to the man grilling beef sausages on the gas grill behind the counter.

Before I can protest again, the vendor places two boerewors rolls with all the trimmings in our hands.

I avert my eyes, ashamed that we robbed this poor man of a meal, but too starved to refuse him a second time. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Charlie has already dug in. We sit down on a bench facing the sea to eat. The bread is toasted and the beef sausage thick and juicy with fat. The chakalaka sauce is dripping with onion, peppers, and tomato. It has just the right amount of chili to give it a bite without burning. Charlie devours his in seconds and licks every drop of sauce from his fingers. I finish half of mine and give him the rest.

The man who bought us lunch walks past, a bottle of Coca Cola under one arm and a loaf of bread under the other. A worn jacket with patches on the elbows stretches over his crooked back. The stitches are visible where the fabric is pulling apart on the shoulders.

“Wait!” I jump up and run after him.

He turns and smiles. “Yes?”

“Do you have a number?” I wipe the windblown hair from my face. “I can call you when I get a job to repay you.”

“Not necessary,” he says with a shake of his salt-and-pepper head, “but you’ll have a hard time finding anything here.”

“You don’t know of something?” I ask hopefully.

He laughs softly. “If I did, I would’ve told you.”

“Thanks again for the food.”

“Good luck.” With a wave he’s gone.

We’re going to need more than luck.

To distract Charlie, I take him swimming. He hangs around in the shallow water until his lips are blue and his teeth are chattering before he lets me towel him dry. For a while, we lie in the sand, looking up at the clear, blue sky. It will be dark in a couple of hours. We need to head back to the car. While we walk I talk and sing to keep Charlie’s mind off the effort, simultaneously watching out for unfavorable elements. At least here, in the residential area, we’re safer.

At the strip mall, we sit down on the lawn of a small park facing the back of the shops to rest. This is what I tell Charlie, but I have an ulterior motive. When a waiter at the Wimpy brings out the trash bags, I tell Charlie to stay put and run across the road.

“Excuse me,” I call as I near.

The man looks up. He has a skin as smooth and dark as oil and his apron is a pristine white.

“Are there any jobs here?”

He shakes his head. “Aikona.”

“Maybe some leftover food?”

He shakes his head again and dumps the bags in the trashcan.

“There must be something someone didn’t finish. I’m not fussy.”

“People take home what they don’t eat in doggie bags.” He pushes past me, heading for the door.

I grab his arm. “Please. Don’t make me go through the trash.”

He jerks free and slams the door in my face.

Swallowing my pride, I look around, and when I see no one, I lift the lid on the trashcan and tear open the bag on the top. The inside is a mashed-up version of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners with splatterings of coffee and milkshake. I push back my sleeve and plunge my arm in up to my elbow, but all I grab is mush. It will be easier to take out the bag, but it’s heavier than I thought. I battle and grunt, and just as I’m about to free the bag from the bin, a hand closes around my throat. Uttering a shriek, I drop my loot.