THE DNA OF LOVE

CHAPTER 1 : THORNS AND THISTLES

She stands under one of the lamp poles, shouting, pointing, and crying all in one motion.

I crane my neck for a better view. He is next to his motorbike, one hand in the pocket of his black leather jacket puffing away. His back faces her.

She grabs his arm.

He yanks it back.

She falls.

He bends down, wraps her hair around his hand, and pulls her up. He speaks into her face.

They are so close their noses almost touch. I jump off the bin. The wanton wind cuts through my skin and into my bones as it whooshes past me. I run around the courtyard towards them. Too late.

Her screams pierce the night sky.

Again he grabs her by the hair.

My knuckle duster connects with his face.

He staggers backwards, dazed. Then he looks up. A thin stream of blood drips onto his jacket. He shakes his head and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes narrow. Then widen.

It is Luke.

He leaps forward.

My ribcage explodes. The earth is spinning as I intercept his studded boot heading straight for my face. I hold on and struggle back on my feet. I plant my knee into his groin and watch him go down.

"You'll regret this, you freak."

Now, more composed, he is licking the blood from the back of his hand with exaggerated pleasure. Then his gaze shifts from her to me one last time. Without any urgency he gets on his bike, fastens his helmet and speeds off leaving us with the thoughts in our heads and the miserable wind in our ears.

I pick up his unfinished cigarette and sit down on the tar surface pressing my back against the lamp pole for extra lumbar support. It's impossible to ignore the sharp, stabbing pain radiating from my rib area that faced the wrath of Luke's boot. I fight against the impulse to cry out.

I hear the music, voices, and laughter filtering through from the Thorns and Thistles in the distance.

I can see my uncle's house behind the TnT. The soft glow of the lights around his Dutch-style mansion illuminates the plot at the back. A red, brick wall with an automated metal fence separates his living space from the club area. A well-lit, paved footpath flanked with exotic palms, ferns, and water-wise plants snake all the way from the club to his stoep.

Uncle Tim regularly shares anecdotes of how he used to live on top of his double-storey club while building his house with his 'own two hands' on the far end of his one-acre erf. One day I want to live in a house exactly like his. Her sobbing interrupts my thoughts.

She is wiping her nose and face intermittently while pressing and touching her cheeks. Eventually, she stands up, tidies her hair and straightens her long-sleeved sequined sweater which glitters with every movement under the artificial light.

"You'll need ice to keep the swelling down. Come, I'll sort you out if you follow me."

"I'll manage," she says after a protracted silence.

I muster up all my reserve energy to tighten my core and get up when she waddles off. Then she stops and turns back as if she forgot something.

"Thank you. I'm Rachel."

She extends her free hand while pressing against her nose with some tissues. The red sling bag slides off her shoulder and lands on her wrist. Her nails are decorated with little designs that sparkle when they catch the light. Reddish lipstick is smeared across the side of her cheek and her mascara has left black marks below her eyes. I extend my fist instead of my hand to her outstretched hand.

"I'll be a witness when you lay a charge against Luke."

Our knuckles touch and I feel her cold flesh against mine. It sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine.

"You know Luke?"

Her voice sounds as if she has a cold and her eyes are searching my face with heightened interest.

"Unfortunately, I do. Luke and I go back a while."

She tucks her hair behind her ears. I can't make out the colour of her eyes, but they notice me now.

"Really? What's your name?"

She looks directly at me. The tempo in her voice and actions have shifted gears. She's fidgeting with her sling bag. She's pulling on her sweater and her hair. When it seems as if there's nothing more to straighten out she folds her arms, waiting for my reply.

"Listen, correct me if I'm wrong, but I am missing something here. Your face is-well, you don't want my ice. Then there's Luke. You're not pressing charges against that scumbag for making a punching bag out of your face. Please, excuse me. I must resume my shift."

I take one last puff from Luke's cigarette and crush it under my boot as I struggle to remain steady with the help of the pole.

"You don't understand. It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is."

Glancing at my watch I turn my back on her and make my way back to the courtyard. The South-Easter is tugging at my windbreaker, adding an extra layer of agony to my pain. I fold my arms around my ribs and struggle past the black plastic bags bulging with waste, empty beer bottles, and discarded cans until I reach my spot in the corner of the yard. I rest my head against the rough-textured wall which hems in the courtyard.

My uncle never ceases to sing the praises of his wall, built when he was much younger. 'This wall is our best defence against the South Easter' he always reminds me when he finds me cleaning up the courtyard.

It's something I never fully understood. How could this wind with its destructive streak enjoy such admiration among the locals? But, she's their Cape Doctor, their antidote against the toxic fumes of pollution that choke the life out of their Mother City they say. They even tell bedtime stories of her magical battles at the foot of Table Mountain
But tonight I don't like their South Easter very much. I'm only happy I have a few minutes to compose myself behind my uncle's wall.

I pull my beanie lower. The coarse exterior of the wall presses into my skull. I hear the bell above the sounds of the night. It is 9 pm. At this exact moment, Uncle Tim has that over-sized brass bell in his firm grip and drinks are sold at half price for the next hour. He is behind the counter surrounded by the regulars for whom the bell is of no consequence because they enjoy happy-hour rates the minute they set foot inside the door. That, they say, is one of the coolest perks of being a regular.

My uncle never complains, but sometimes I see how he tires of old Chris' prowess tales not to mention Vince who's there night after night and still can't figure out why his wife whom he obviously still loves dearly left him for a priest of all people.

My favourite is Hoy the retired policeman. I recently learnt that his name is actually Hoyston February. He is a huge man who is never bothered by the weather and he wears a sleeveless vest in wind and rain. He took me under his wing and taught me everything I know about self-defence. When he had a few drinks too many he says, 'Let me see those muscles'. Then I must leave everything, push up my sleeves and bulge my muscles for him to decide if I'm ready. He never goes into much detail about what I'm supposed to be ready for, but I don't mind, because uncle Tim says Hoy was a good policeman who knows about being ready.

My throbbing ribcage reminds me that I still have some explaining to do but painkillers are the only thing on my mind when I slide behind the counter.

"What happened to you?" It is my uncle who senses my discomfort.

"A fight in the parking area."

"Again? That's the third one this week. Why didn't you call us? Are you hurt?"

"Yes." I can smell the heavy odour of nicotine on his breath while he examines my side.

He sighs. "Take the rest of the night off. You will see the doctor first thing in the morning. And I don't want to see you here until you are better. That's an order."