The Lazarus Effect by H. J Golakai Read Free Book Online

Adele. Vee swiftly cast a vote for Moving Adele. Still Adele looked ready to rise at any moment and slap the taste out her mouth for holding the cup the wrong way.
    ‘I’m Liberian. From Liberia,’ Vee added stupidly.
    Adele ‘ahhed’ and raised her eyes ceiling-ward, snapping her fingers. In the measured cadence of an educator, she rattled off the capital city and two neighbouring countries before leaning into current politics since the end of the civil war. Vee jarred, pleasantly surprised and impressed. Most locals had little knowledge of other cultures ‘further north’, as they called it. The darker Africa, a realm devoid of ice cream or shopping malls.
    ‘To be honest, I really didn’t know what to expect after we spoke yesterday,’ Adele said, wary as the small talk died. ‘With a surname like Johnson … but you’re obviously not coloured. What does your first name mean?’
    Vee’s internal alarm beeped a warning. They were gliding into avoidance-tactic territory, and time was something she didn’t have much of. ‘I’m named after a trading city in the north. There was a mix-up on my birth certificate between place of birth and my intended name, so … Voinjama stuck.’
    ‘What name were you meant to have?’
    ‘Ms Paulsen, I’m sorry to be abrupt, but …’ Adele tipped her head, understanding mixed with resignation that they had to buckle down to it eventually. ‘I’ll start by being upfront as to why I called. I mentioned looking into old missing persons cases, but … it’s actually for a magazine article. I’m an investigative journalist for Urban magazine. Maybe you’ve heard of it.’
    Paulsen gave no response except to settle deeper into the sofa. Vee plunged on.
    ‘I’m not connected with the police in any way, nor am I a private detective. But I do care about what happened to your daughter and others like her. Her story stood out and … shall we say, led me here.’
    Truth kept light. No way in hell could she explain to this woman that during her panic attacks she caught glimpses of what looked like the ghost of her missing child. The photograph she’d ‘borrowed’ from the bulletin board at the Wellness Institute would remain under wraps for now.
    Vee squirmed under Adele’s gaze. She was reminded of waiting outside the principal’s office for punishment.
    ‘So Ian, Dr Fourie, he didn’t hire you to find Jacqueline? How’d you find me?’
    ‘Um, no, he didn’t,’ replied Vee, taken aback. Had she gone that far in her misrepresentation? She was certain she hadn’t. Ignore the second question.
    Armed with the photograph and buckets of innocent charm, she’d managed to wrangle an identification out of the more talkative staff at the paediatric oncology unit. People were blabby if they thought there was a chance of seeing their namesin print. It was easy enough to link Jacqueline to her mother, but suspicion sealed off communication beyond that. Otherwise, all she got was a very tenuous connection to a Dr Fourie; both an Ian and a Carina falling under that surname had refused to take her calls.
    ‘I’m sorry if I led you to think otherwise,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t change your mind about speaking to me.’ She cringed internally. Never give a source the option of shutting you down. Her sanity, more than her livelihood, depended on finding the truth behind Jacqueline’s disappearance.
    ‘How much do you want to know?’ Adele Paulsen asked wearily. Vee wasn’t fooled. Adele’s eyes were heavy with words, heaving for release. Vee whipped out her Nokia, switched it to voice recording and got a mute nod from across the table, the go-ahead.
    ‘Please,’ said Vee, propping it on the table. ‘Everything.’

4
    At the age of sixteen, she had met Ian Fourie, Adele Paulsen began. They were two middle-class coloured teenagers growing up in Athlone, her family a few rungs further down the ladder of the class system than the Fouries. It was the early eighties and