Death By Carbs (10 page)

THE EX-PUBLISHER

 

 

Wednesday 4:59pm

 

 

‘That's it, you've had enough! I'm cutting you off,' the barman said, swiping his cloth along the counter. Frank had managed to get more of his most recent drink on the bar than into his mouth.

‘You're damn right, I've had enough!' Frank shouted, slamming his left fist on the bar counter. He was slurring even worse, and he kept sliding off his barstool. There was clearly something wrong with it.

Frank turned to speak to his new friend, the man sitting two barstools down from him. ‘I'll tell you what I've had enough of, that fucking Tim Noakesh, that'sh who. Hashn't he had enough? Enough fame, enough money, enough ruining other people'sh lives. . .'

Dimly Frank realised the man two stools down from him wasn't
there anymore. So he heaved himself up and onto the foot rungs of his barstool, and shouted out to everyone in the bar: ‘I losht everything thanksh to that fraud Noakesh and his hair-brained money-making shcheme. I had to go work at a fucking chain bookshtore, for fuck'sh shake! Two yearsh ago I was one of thish country'sh greatesht publishers. I had a corner office and my own PA. And then I turned down one manushcript. One! I thought it was just another diet fad, and a crazy one, too. How wash I to know it would make millionsh? Sho I punched him in the face, I punched him and I punched him and I punched him, I punched that professhor until he fell over. Then I shtood on him,
and I kicked him and kicked him.'

By now Frank was staggering around trying to demonstrate his ninja kicking technique, but he couldn't get his legs to co-operate.

‘Wait, are you saying you attacked Tim Noakes?' asked the barman.

‘Yesh! In the fashe!' Frank roared. ‘Ha, he killed my career and now he'sh dead! Good riddansh!'

‘My wife lost thirty-three kilos on that diet,' the barman said. ‘That man is a national hero. They should have put him in parliament. He would have shut down the gravy train one time. You sit down over there and don't move a muscle, I'm calling the cops.'

‘Call them!' Frank shouted, ‘I'm glad I did it. I'd do it again!' Then he tried to sit on his barstool, missed, and collapsed in a cursing heap on the floor.

 

THE HIJACKERS

 

 

Wednesday 5:32pm

 

 

‘So is this the Rondebosch Common?' Papsak asked.

‘Ewe,' Thabo said.

‘Okay, so then why are you driving around and around, you're mos wasting petrol and making my head spin. Let's dump him already.'

‘Don't be an idiot your whole life, Papsak. I'm looking for a more private place. Look at these people coming past all the time. See, they're all running around and around, they keep coming back, the same ones. I need to find somewhere we can stop and get Uncle Mlungu out of the car so that none of these people will see us.'

‘What if we carry him between us and pretend we're going for a walk, like we did earlier to take the taxi to Lefty's place? Then we can just drop him when nobody is looking and run back to the car quickly?' Papsak suggested.

‘You see all these people coming past us all the time?' Thabo asked.

‘Ja-aaa?'

‘They're runners, Papsak.'

‘So what?'

‘I read on the internet on my new Samsung that Uncle Mlungu is a professor of running, so I'm worried that if we take him out of gusheshe here, these people will all recognise him for sure. What if someone comes to ask him for his autograph? Then what, ne?'

‘No man, we'd better get the hell out of here,' said Papsak. ‘Is he a professor of surfing too?'

‘No, I didn't see that on the phone.'

‘Good, then maybe we can dump him in the sea and nobody will recognise him there.'

The phone in Thabo's pocket bleeped.

Papsak jumped. The runners were making him nervous. ‘Who is it?'

Thabo took out the phone and smiled. ‘It's a “please call me” from Cynthia. I left her a message.' He leaned back in his seat and dialled her number.

Papsak rolled his eyes and turned on the radio. Thabo slapped Papsak's hand away from the dial and clicked his tongue at him.

‘Hi baby,' Thabo growled into the phone, making his voice sound as deep and sexy as possible.

. . .

‘No, it's me, Thabo.' His voice rose back to normal pitch.

. . .

‘Yes, me, Thabo, from the shebeen the other night, remember? I'm calling you from my new phone. I got it this morning, it's a Samsung. It's got unlimited airtime.'

. . .

‘Yes, brand-new. It was on special.'

. . .

‘It's almost as cool as my new gusheshe!'

. . .

‘Yes, a car too.'

. . .

‘So baby, I thought maybe we can go out together some time?'

. . .

‘Yes, I can pick you up later, I'm just working now.'

. . .

‘Yes, I've got a job.'

. . .

‘No, it's a real job, Cynthia. Serious business. That's where I got the money for the car and the phone.'

. . .

‘Umm . . . my job? I've got my own business, baby, I'm a BEE.'

. . .

Papsak pointed theatrically at the clock on the dashboard.

‘My friend Papsak says hi, my baby,' Thabo said, ignoring his buddy.

. . .

‘Yes, he's here with me, we're working together.'

. . .

‘No, we're not at the shebeen, I told you, we're at work. Why don't you believe me?'

. . .

‘We're making money, I told you.'

. . .

‘Where do you think the money for all this airtime comes from?'

. . .

‘Okay, I'd better go back to work. I'll call you later.'

. . .

‘Okay, I love you.'

. . .

‘Don't you love me?'

. . .

‘Fine then, I'll call you later, you can tell me you love me then. Bye.' Thabo hung up at last.

 

 

THE EX-PUBLISHER

 

 

Wednesday 5:47pm

 

 

‘Can you open the window, pleashe,' Frank slurred, ‘I think I'm going to be . . . BLEURGGHHHH. . .'

‘Great, just great!' sighed the cop in the passenger seat.

‘Is he dead or did he just pass out back there? You'd better check. They're going to want this guy in one piece back at the station for questioning on the Noakes murder,' said the other cop, tapping down on the indicator.

The first cop craned his neck to check through the window into the back of the police van. ‘I can see him breathing. But I think he may have pissed himself.'

‘Sis man! It's your turn to hose out the van when we get back to the station.'

‘I thought it was your turn.'

‘I did it last time, when we picked up those bergies who'd been riding the blue train on Long Street.'

‘Oh, that's right.'

‘Do you think this oke murdered Noakes?'

‘The barman did say he confessed a bunch of times, loud enough for the entire bar to hear; there were at least ten witnesses. One of them even filmed it on his cell phone.'

‘Yeah, but the barman also said he'd been in there drinking hard the whole day,' said the driver, scratching his head.

‘And did you see the state of his hand? He definitely punched something very recently. Plus he only told us he did it about sixteen times.'

‘Yeah. And then he pissed himself and passed out. Super-reliable.'

‘You have a point. Did you ever try that Banting thing yourself?' the passenger-seat cop asked. ‘I've heard it's a miracle diet. You can eat bacon and fat and everything.'

‘My mother-in-law does it. She says it's not a diet, it's a lifestyle.'

‘And? Has she lost any weight on it?'

‘Ja, a whole bunch, but she's still a cow.'

‘Still . . . bacon. A diet that lets you eat bacon. That's a thing.'

 

THE FANS

 

 

Wednesday 6:08pm

 

 

THE BANTING FOR LIFE FACEBOOK PAGE

 

Lydia
Steenberg

This has been a dreadful few days...there's been Professor Noakes's tragic murder, which I worry we may never get over. As well as the horrific disappearance of his body (only in South Africa!). And for the last straw my amazing cat, Ginger Mary, passed away earlier today. She was run over outside my flat. I know this isn't strictly Banting related, but the reason I'm telling you all this is, I have discovered that I am an emotional eater and if I had not adopted the Banting way, I probably would have consumed everything in sight today. But it has been quite the opposite. I know it will be difficult in terms of eating, and I'm sure I will have one or two high carb items to eat as I mourn, maybe even a little bit of ice cream later on tonight, but not so that it is out of control. I've been in distress before and the cravings were massive, but now I feel like I can manage it. I was looking at some photographs of Ginger Mary and me when she was just a kitten, and I can't believe how much weight I've lost in such a short space of time. I went from being a fat cat-owner to a thin cat-owner. Ginger Mary I will miss you lots, I know how much you liked the cream we are allowed to eat with the Banting Way, and I will think of you whenever I eat it. Thank you Banting friends for letting me vent. It's been a very very hard day.

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THE CEO

 

 

Wednesday 6:58pm

 

 

‘'Ello, it's me again,' Trevor whispered into the handset in his cockney accent, which he was definitely getting more adept at. ‘This is the third message I'm leaving for you. You 'aven't made contact to collect the rest of your, er, renumeration. The job's been done, I saw it on the news, so
I don't understand why you 'aven't been in touch. So gi' us a call, mate, and put me in the picture, orright? On the radio, they're saying the coppers 'ave arrested a suspect, and that 'e's confessed to killing the Professor. No uvver details, but let me know you're okay, there's a pal? I bloody well 'ope it's not you they've got banged up. It's just that it would explain why you 'aven't been in touch, so I'm a bit nervy. Is this
a set-up? Because if it is, you'll never get away with it. If any of this
leads back to me, I'm just saying . . . if you rolled over on me to cut a
deal for yourself . . . I . . . I wouldn't last in prison, I'm too white, my 'ands are too soft. So what I'm saying is, please, the second you get this, call me. Let me know what's goin' down and that it's not you in custody
so I can stop worryin'. Orright, mate?'

Trevor put down the phone, then wiped his sticky hands down the sides of his dark-blue suit pants. Next time he'd bring some of that disinfectant they sold at the tills at Woolworths, the ones that didn't need water, where you just squeezed some onto your hands, rubbed them together and they were disinfected, the dirt gone.

For a split second Trevor fantasised about being the CEO of the company that made that clear disinfectant stuff, instead of being the head cheese at SnackCorp. That handwash company would be so easy to run. There wasn't a professor on earth who would make it his life's work to outlaw disinfectant. What a dream that job would be.

Trevor's cell phone rang in his breast pocket and he fumbled for it. It was his boss, Gunther. Again. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, letting the call go to message. Then he lifted the collar of his coat, shoved his hands deep into his pockets and headed back to his office. That would make it five times Gunther had tried to ring him today, and he'd left three messages. Trevor had only listened to one of them. Gunther wanted to let him know that they'd had an emergency board meeting and Trevor was urgently needed. This really did not bode well.

SnackCorp's stocks had plummeted by another ten points since the reports of Professor Noakes's death had gone viral. It wasn't what Trevor had expected, but maybe he just needed to hang in there. He was sure his thinking was still sound: out of sight, out of mind. As soon as the hype surrounding the Prof's death died down, things would go back to normal, and, according to Trevor's plan, the stupid diet would fade into obscurity, bread and cake sales would increase again – people were emotional eaters after all – and by the end of next year, they'd all be smoking cigars and golfing it up in Barbados again. Trevor just had to hang in there.

But he was very, very worried about the remaining loose ends. Why hadn't he thought through the whole thing more carefully?

Trevor's tummy rumbled: all this stress was making him hungry. He darted into the Debonairs outlet a few blocks from his office and ordered a Something Meaty Pizza, upgrading it from a standard to a large at the last minute.

 

 

 

T
HE CO-AUTHORS

 

 

Wednesda
y 7:02pm

 

 

‘A
re you sure you're okay?' Shaun asked, wrapping his arms around Xolisa.

‘I'm fine. Please stop asking me.' Xolisa pulled away from him and went to sit in a chair across the room.

Shaun knelt beside her. ‘Sweetheart, stop being so stubborn. Here, let me take a look at your chin. How's it feeling?'

Xolisa pushed his hand away. ‘Shaun, I've changed my mind.'

Shaun sat back on his heels. ‘About me looking at your chin?'

‘No, about us,' Xolisa said, her voice flat. ‘I think we should take a break from each other, at least until everything calms down.'

‘But, but I thought. . .' Shaun stuttered in shock.

‘I know, I thought too, but still, I've changed my mind.'

‘But last night you said. . .'

‘
I know what I said, Shaun,' Xolisa interrupted, her tone sharper now.

‘We were going to be an
IT
couple, you said! You said we were
going to be the new face of Banting, together we were going to. . .'

‘I know what I said, okay! But I've been thinking. We can't both be the face of Banting. Only one person can front this thing, that was the way it worked with the Prof, and it's why it worked so well.'

‘And let me guess: you're that one person?' Shaun said, his voice suddenly laced with sarcasm.

‘I suppose that remains to be seen, but I could be, if that's what the public wants,' she said. ‘I'm not going to be the one giving you credibility, a nice little multi-racial package. Decolonisation, transformation, it's happening. Deal.'

‘Why are you doing this, Xolisa?' Shaun pleaded. ‘I don't understand
where any of this is coming from. We're so good together!'

‘Shaun, I have a public image to think of. Plus I need to try and make things work with my husband before throwing away three and a half years of marriage.'

‘What? But you don't even like Cyril,' Shaun whined. ‘How did you decide this overnight?'

‘He's my husband, Shaun. Try to understand.'

‘Well, I don't understand!' Shaun's voice started to climb. ‘You can't even say his name out loud! You refer to him as your “husband”.'

‘That's because he is my husband,' Xolisa said, her voice now calm and even.

‘But . . . we just told Marco and Shireen about us, what will we tell them now?'

‘I don't care. You can tell them whatever you want. Tell them our chakras weren't aligning.'

‘I can't believe you're doing this to me, Xolisa. Was this your plan all along? String me along, get me to do all the dirty work, then bail on me once the Prof was out the picture?'

Xolisa stood. ‘No, Shaun, it's just the way things worked out. Of course I never meant to hurt you, and I care for you a great deal. I'm grateful for the things you chose to do for me. But with Noakes gone, everything's changed. I need to think very seriously about how I want to go forward with my career and my future.'

The couple stood staring at each other for a long minute, Shaun silent for once.

‘I'm going to head home now,' Xolisa said, standing and picking up her overnight bag. Then she walked towards the door, limping slightly.

‘No, wait. . .' he called, his voice desperate.

She reached the front door and opened it. ‘One last thing, Shaun. That stubble you think is so sexy? It makes you look like a homeless person.'

‘You're going to regret this,' Shaun threatened. ‘You'll never get away with it.'

‘That's the thing.' Xolisa looked back at him before she walked out the door. ‘I think I will.'