Prelude

Scorpio Rising…

No moon. The desert wind knifes down the gully, rattling the dry grass. Stars hang heavy above the dunes. To the east, the sky is clear. In the west, the retreating fog hovers over the sea. The vehicle crests the dune, its lights malignant twin moons. Car doors open, spilling a burst of laughter, music, the tang of tobacco.
Perfect, the heft of a pistol in your hand. Circle forefinger and thumb and slide down to trace the blind eye, open. A fingertip dipped inside the barrel fans desire, warms your cold body. Pace back one step, two. The target watches. Hands bound. Eyes riveted. Breath held. Filled with hope that you mean something else. Not this. Not you.
Your forefinger curled round the trigger anticipates the weight needed to fire. Uncurls, extends the ecstasy. Your eyes on the metal marker, a nipple erect on the barrel. Breathe out. It mists the desert air. Breathe in. Breathe out as you beckon. Release. The force of it explodes through your arm, chest, head, groin, erasing everything.
The silence distils. Turn and reach for a cigarette. The match flares into the night filling again with calls and stars. The cigarette flares red, the nicotine soothing the choppy sea that is your blood. You yearn for what is coming. Oh. The final breath tongues up your back. You turn to look. Wonder lingers in the unblinking eyes, almonds above the high cheekbones. The crumpled whorl of the ear is innocent of the blood marking the forehead. The open eyes glaze.
You go home to sleep, taillights red in the dark. Scorpio’s tail is poised over the numinous star at its base. The star-eye winks in the centre of the constellation, mocking the dead face. The blood soaking into the sand summons the first wave of tiny scavengers. Insects, flies, bacteria, marshal themselves for the onslaught.

Chapter One

The sound sliced open Clare Hart’s Monday morning, dragging her out of a catacomb of sleep. She sat up, heart pounding, and pushed the tousle of hair from her face. It was her cell phone writhing on the bedside table. She reached for it, knocking over the glass. She shook the water off the phone and onto the sleeping cat. Fritz hissed and dug her claws into Clare’s bare thigh. She caught the tiny bead of blood on her nail before it trickled onto the sheet.
‘Witch,’ hissed Clare. The cat stalked from the room, flicking her tail in regal affront.
‘Dr Hart?’
She pulled the duvet around her naked body. The reception was always bad in her bedroom. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Captain Riedwaan Faizal, South African Police Service.’
Clare sat up, zero-to-panic alert. The other side of her bed was empty.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m downstairs. Buzz me in.’
‘You bastard!’ The tension ebbed.
‘Tell that to my mother.’
‘Where’s my tea?’
‘Come on, Clare. It’s freezing out here and the security guard is getting suspicious.’
‘You know the deal, Riedwaan. You get sex and a bed for the night, I get tea in bed as I wake up.’
‘I’m trying to break your habit. I’ve got you a cappuccino and hot croissant instead.’
Clare wrapped her gown around her body. ‘Fair enough. Hang on.’ She pushed the red button on the intercom, listening for the thud of Riedwaan’s shoulder against the glass door. He came upstairs, bringing with him the blast of cold dawn air and two steaming coffees.
‘Giovanni’s. My favourite.’ She took them from him and went into the kitchen.
Riedwaan tipped the croissants onto a plate and into the microwave. ‘Maybe you should give me some keys. I could have brought you this in bed.’
Clare opened her coffee. ‘Maybe.’
She snatched the Cape Times he had clamped under his arm and went back to bed.
Riedwaan pinged the microwave and put his coffee and the croissants onto a tray. He followed her into the bedroom. Clare had propped herself up against the pillows. The soft fabric of her wrap fell open as she leaned over to get her croissant.
‘I love this about you.’
‘What?’ asked Clare, her mouth full.
‘That you wake up ravenous.’ He reached forward cupping her breast on an upturned hand. The air seemed thin, as if there was only just enough oxygen, which he would have to use judiciously. He moved his hand down her body, onto her hip. Clare put her cup on the table and slid down the bed. She pulled him towards her, practiced hands undoing buttons, seeking the satin warmth of the skin on his belly, his back.
‘I’m glad you came back,’ she whispered. His body fitted hers without effort.
Riedwaan smiled down at her. ‘I’ll be back any time for a welcome like this.’ When he reached for his coffee, it was cold.
‘It’s time to get up,’ said Clare.
He tightened his arms around her. ‘Stay a bit. You’re going away.’
‘I’ve got things to do.’ Clare slipped from his grasp and went to the bathroom. Riedwaan listened to her splash, open and close cupboards.
‘Do you hum when I’m not here?’ he asked.
The humming stopped. ‘None of your business.’
Riedwaan rolled over and looked out at the grey sea heaving itself against the rocks. He had meant to tell her about his wife last night.
Clare came out of the bathroom in her tracksuit. ‘You coming?’ She bent to put on her running shoes.
‘You must be joking.’
Clare reached under the duvet, her hands cold now. ‘I’m not. You need to do more exercise than occasionally getting it off with me.’
‘Clare?’ She turned towards him at the door, sunlight catching her face. He could not spoil the happiness he had coaxed from her.
‘What?’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘Your eggs, fried or scrambled?’
‘Hardboiled would be apt, don’t you think?’ Then she was off, two steps at a time.
‘Feed Fritz,’ she yelled up the stairs. ‘Then she won’t attack you.’ The door slammed and she was gone.