Daddy Long Legs Read Free

with him.
    ‘ Schweet ,’ Kyle said, beaming.
    Kyle and Thabo passed Lindsey’s office and ambled towards the staircase that would take them down to ground level where the bar was located. Festive noises drifted from below. Next to them, an elevator pinged and opened up. A tall black youth stepped out of the elevator interior. It was Sibusiso, a young art director from another department. He threw his hands up to the air and affected a falsetto.
    ‘Yo w’zuuuup , Niggaaaaa .’ He greeted Thabo with an elaborate series of handshakes. As the highest ranking black creative in the agency, Thabo was somewhat of a hero to the younger black creatives. ‘Hey Kyle, what’s up?’
    ‘Howzit dude.’
    ‘Hey Thabo, you wanna?’ Sibusiso swiped his forefinger under his nose throwing his head back. It was the universal sign for schnarf ... blow ... icing ... cocaine. The Vitamin C that powered the agency engine. The powder that fuelled the high-octane lives of people in an impossibly demanding industry. It was also the same stuff that caused some of the industry’s most spectacular meltdowns.
    ‘Dude, now you’re talking,’ Thabo said with enthusiasm. He looked at Kyle. ‘You gonna join us, bro ?’
    Kyle shook his head. He had learned a long time ago to steer clear of the industry’s single biggest vice. ‘You kids go enjoy yourself.’
    ‘Catch up with you later,’ Thabo said walking with Sibusiso to the bathrooms.
    Kyle carried on down the elaborate staircase. The building had once housed a firm of powerhouse attorneys and everything in the architecture and layout affirmed this. Several agency staff passed him on the staircase, most greeting him with fondness. With more than a few he exchanged jovialities and friendly words. The party mood in the agency was building to a fever pitch. Oh yeah, baby. It was going to be another legendary Corke soireé.
    At the bottom of the staircase, Kyle passed the sweeping reception desk. He had met up with a girl from media planning, and they were skipping towards the bar area, arm in arm. Someone called his name. He turned around and saw Luz, the luscious Davis Corke receptionist, holding a phone in her hand. She motioned for him. ‘Hi Kyle. I’ve been trying to reach you in your office. I’ve got a call for you. Do you want to take it upstairs?’
    ‘Nah, it’s fine. I’ll take it here.’ He took the receiver from a radiant smiling Luz and looked up at the towering foyer ceiling while he put it to his ear. ‘Yeah? Kyle speaking.’ There was silence. Kyle forced the receiver against his ear. ‘Hello.’ He listened carefully but there was nothing. Thinking the call had been dropped, he was just about to hand the receiver back to Luz. When he heard a rustle of movement. Somebody was at the other end. ‘Hello.’ Nothing. And yet. Once again he heard a sound. The unmistakable scrape of a stubbled chin against the phone on the other end. ‘Listen, can you hear me?’ He waited. But no-one responded. And yet. There it was again. Somebody was there. And they were messing with him. ‘Listen, I don’t have time for –’ And then he heard it. Something that made him bite his sentence in two. If he hadn’t had the receiver right up against his ear he probably wouldn’t have heard it at all. But he did. And for some reason it sent a cold chill down his spine.
    Kyle.
    Somebody had whispered his name. Hoarse and malicious.
    Kyle threw down the receiver and walked towards the bar area. Badly shaken. There was something deeply disturbing about the voice on the other end.
    If only Kyle knew.
     
     

Three
     
    On the seventh of May, 1985, Barry Coetzee vanished without a trace.
    Barry, aged ten, had been on his way home from tennis practice when he disappeared. Hope was a small town and it was less than two kilometres from the premises of Hope Primary School to Barry’s house in the lower-middle class suburb of Mooigenoeg. Barry would normally walk this distance, his tattered