Ishmael Toffee Read Online Free Page A

out the kitchen door. She hears the tweet of the car alarm as he unlocks the Mercedes and then the low rumble of the engine. Tires crunch on gravel and he’s gone.
    She sees the child outside on the lawn, talking to that bloody garden man again, keeping him from his work. She’s about to call Cindy inside when the child laughs at something the man says and Florence decides to let it go. What’s the harm, the little thing looks so happy?
    She feels a moment’s sick guilt for not talking up about what Mr. Goddard is doing to that poor girl. Then she reminds herself of all the children being raped and murdered every day on the Cape Flats, an epidemic out there and nobody cares. So why should she worry about this spoilt white brat?
    She leaves the kitchen to vacuum the hallway carpet, thinking how relieved she will be in a couple of days when she gets that money and packs her things and leaves this bad luck place forever.
     

6
     
     
    The wind blew something terrible Tin Town side, rattling his roof like it was gonna fly off and go back to the dump where it come from. Kept Ishmael up all night, and it takes a lot to do that.
    Blew here, too, in Constantia. But not so bad. Protected by the mountains, this place, and the big old trees that go back to who knows when. Still, the swimming pool is full of leaves and the automatic pool cleaner—blue thing on a long pipe, runs around under the water all day—lies on the bottom like it’s drowned.
    Ishmael sees the cleaner’s pipe disappearing into the side of the pool. Gets down on his knees (carefully, he’s no swimmer) and lifts a plastic lid and finds the little basket in there is packed with leaves. Hauls the basket out and gives it a smack on the tiles, and wet leaves come out like a cake from a tin. Connects the pipe again, feels it throbbing, and there goes the pool cleaner, sucking like the new boy in the cellblock.
    Ishmael gets the scoop from the little room by the pool and uses the net to clean up the leaves on the surface of the water. The kid comes across the grass, wearing little pink shorts and a T-shirt. No shoes.
    “Hello, Ishmael.”
    “Hullo, missy.”
    “I told you, my name is Cindy.”
    She sits down, feet dangling in the water. He makes like he’s going to scoop her up and she laughs and splashes his shoes with water. No matter, they’re old shoes these, seen worse than pool water in Tin Town.
    “Did you read your book?” she asks, squinting up into the sun.
    “Tole you, can’t read. But I looked at the pictures. Very nice.”
    “What are we going to do with you, Ishmael, about your reading?” Sounding like a proper white lady, all grown up.
    “Too late for me, I’m telling you.”
    He lifts the scoop from the water, tips and shakes it so the leaves fall onto the grass, then he takes it back to the little room. Kid follows him.
    He stows the net and crouches behind the pool house, out of the battle axe’s sight. Digs a roll-up—newspaper and coarse tobacco—from his pocket and lights it.
    The kid sits by him and wrinkles her nose. “Poof,” she says.
    He exhales and offers it to her, deadpan. “Want some?”
    “I’d rather die !” she says and he hears her mommy in there, the one gone to heaven.
    They sit a while, Ishmael smoking, kid pulling at bits of grass like she’s thinking deep thoughts. The sun shines through the trees, hitting her legs and he sees marks on her skin, right up on her inner thigh, near her privates. Bruises. Like somebody grabbed her there. A grown-up.
    Ishmael is about say something. Stops himself. He looks away, over the trees toward the mountain. There’s a crazy man up there, in the sky, hanging from one of those big kites, gliding like a bird.
    The child stands and walks away, not saying nothing, like kids do. Ishmael gets to his feet and nips his smoke between thumb and forefinger. Wets his index finger with spit and makes sure the smoke is good and dead before he puts it back in his pocket for