Don't go in when the lights are out

Douwlina du Plessis

The Mall is even busier than usual. "Jingle Bells" is driving me crazy. Somewhere "Mary's Boy Child" starts up when "Jingle Bells" has died a lingering death. A not too small hammer is chipping away at the base of my skull. I know that "Jingle Bells" is sure to follow again. It seems that it is the only Christmas music pouring out from the loudspeakers, which seem to be everywhere.

The song follows me into the passage to the toilets. That and the clinging oily smell of Chip-away's chips and some unidentifiable odour of toilet deodoriser. It is hot even inside the mall itself, but here, in the narrow passage to the ladies' toilet, I am sweating. Sweat runs into my eyes. The heavy bags full of Christmas shopping prevent me from wiping my brow. My cellphone rings just as the door to the toilets is pushed open. There is no way for me to find it in time to answer it.

"There is somebody murdered in there," the grey lady says.

Or I think that is what she says. She speaks with a hoarse whisper. "Jingle Bells" begins playing, competing with The Lady in Red for my phone. Her eyes are glazed like those of an addict.

She had said it in a way that it could have been just another comment on the state of the public toilets. Anything.

The light switch is sticky to the touch. Click, click. No light to brighten the cubicles. The smell is even more cloying, like some dirty hot and wet blanket pressing itself onto your senses. Underneath the smell of urine and old cigarette butts is something more sinister. Some metallic smell.

I manage to get my parcels safely to the floor. Wipe the seat with a Wet One. Sit down suspiciously. I find my cellphone in my handbag. The missed call was from my first husband. I know the drill by now. I am sure he is calling with some exasperating excuse why he cannot take the children for the holidays.

I slip the phone back into the bag. When I lift the bag from my lap to put it back on the floor, I see the dark smears on my light summer dress. The smell is suddenly overbearing. The same smell that hangs in Casualties in the hospital. The same saddening smell of the slaughterhouse.

I look down at my expensive shoes. Near the floor the soft beige leather has taken on a darker colour. A sinuous dark red snakes around my ankles. I pull back my feet in horror. The soles pull from the red with a soft whisper as if in warning.

Fresh red shoeprints lead from the pool, out from the cubicle where I sit, making a slow turn to the right. I follow them as if mesmerised, my feet in a slow march by their own will. The cubicle door is slightly open. I push against it. A sad, hollow sound escapes from the hinges.

She is sitting there in her own blood. Green blowflies and a lonely black fly feast on the gaping black wound that circles more than halfway round the cream neck. Her mouth is open and her glazed eyes ask for answers that I will never be able to give. Her hands lie like two slain doves. Cuts all over the soft palms stretch from pinky to thumb on the left hand; the ring finger from her right hand lies like a small, helpless piece of discarded meat next to her naked feet. Her shoes are drowning in the red Jell-O.

I hear my own voice gurgling in my throat. Too soft to rise above the words of "The Little Drummer Boy". Vomit spouts through my fingers. I find my voice. I shriek. It rises to a full scream. Over and over I scream for help. Yell for God to help me. My elbows chafe against the rough walls. My legs refuse to obey any orders. They do not move. Do not fold under me like cooked spaghetti even if they feel like it. I just stand there in my own urine and vomit. My throat is raw and my voice hoarse, like that of the grey woman who had passed me in the doorway to hell.

Time freezes around me.

It cannot be suicide! The murderer could still be around. I push my fingers into my mouth to stifle any sound. Bite the screams off. Blood runs down my forearm. Urine pools around my feet, diluting the congealed blood. I am going to faint in blood, vomit and urine.

I do not faint. Tiredness just weighs me down. My eyes are burning and I recognise my own voice escaping from my painful throat in small yelps like those of a lost pup. There's blood, snot and tears on my silk blouse. I wipe my face on the sleeve.

Then I follow the bloody shoe prints out of the cubicle, out of the toilet.

As I push open the door with my remaining strength, a woman loaded down with packages slips in. She is animatedly speaking into her cellphone.

"There is a murdered woman inside ..."

She nods in my direction. "Jingle Bells" drowns out my words.

"Thank you."



LitNet: 29 October 2004

Douwlina du Plessis I am a general practitioner from Bloemfontein. I did my MB ChB at Kovsies. I love writing, especially competitive writing in whatever genre. I started to write competitively in 1999 for the Bloemfontein Writers Association/ Volksblad competition. One of my stories received a third price and two others special recommendation. In 2000 I received a second price for a story (Donderweerkind) and in 2001 first price for Nag sonder einde.     In 2003 the short story Keerpunt was second in an e-mail magazine (Klets) competition. In 2004 I participated in a competition of the ATKV / woordwoekeraars. The short story Sprong was in third place and was also seen as the story with the most potential. In October 2004 I competed in the Waterberg Art Festival. The three short stories that I have sent in received the three highest scores on percentage from the judges.     Some of my short stories appeared in magazines like Landbouweekblad, Taalgenoot, Loslyf, Gesundtheid and Huisgenoot.     I wrote the script for a documentary Help my, Hoor my for kykNET. Writing poetry is not my strongest quality. Some of the poems I wrote are on LêNet and some appear in Komsat, Woordgilde and A Honderd Dichters in Holland.     I am part of Women in Writing and a short story was published in the book Voices from the Free State.    I wish that there were more time to really sit down and write.

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