Death By Carbs (12 page)

THE CO-AUTHORS

 

 

Wednesday 10:19pm

 

 

‘Hello, Cyril speaking.'

‘Cyril, it's Shaun Thomas.'

‘Oh, hello Shaun. I'm so sorry to hear about the Prof.'

‘Thanks, but I called because there's something I need to talk to you about.'

‘Is everything okay?'

‘I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but I think you ought to know. If I was in your position, I would want to know.'

‘What? You're making me nervous, Shaun. Have you been drinking?'

‘You know how you thought Xolisa was staying over at her sister's place last night, and a few times every week for the last month or so?'

‘Yes?'

‘She wasn't.'

‘What on earth do you mean?'

‘Don't be so naïve, Cyril.'

‘What the hell are you talking about?'

‘She was right about you, Cyril, you are an idiot.'

‘Now you wait a damn. . .'

‘Wake up and open your eyes. I've been fucking your wife behind your back for weeks.'

‘You fucking a...'

But there was a beep, beep, beep, and Cyril was left with nothing but the dialing tone.

 

THE HIJACKERS

 

 

Wednesday 10:27pm

 

 

‘Thabo, brother, look at this, I can't believe it!' Papsak shrieked.

‘What? Did you find money for petrol?' Thabo asked, craning to see what Papsak had found in the cubbyhole of the gusheshe.

‘No, something much, much better,' Papsak said, dangling a small bank bag that contained marijuana and a packet of Rizlas in front of Thabo's face. ‘Lefty must have missed it.'

‘Or forgotten it.'

‘Maybe it was on his blind side.'

The two men roared with laughter, then fist-bumped.

‘You drive, I'll roll,' Papsak said. ‘Find us somewhere we can park.'

‘But what about Uncle Mlungu?'

‘He can't have any.'

 

THE COP

 

 

Wednesday 10:59pm

 

 

‘Felicia, I can't sleep with you crying like that, and I really need to get some rest,' Bennie September said, patting his sobbing wife gently on the arm.

‘I'm sorry, Bennie, but I just can't believe he's dead.' Felicia wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her nightie.

‘Sweetie, I know it's sad that Professor Noakes has gone, but you didn't even know him.'

‘Well, I feel like I know him, okay! He changed my life. Plus I once saw him at the coffee shop at Palmyra Junction, you know?'

‘So you've said, about a billion times.'

‘He looked so kind, n
ê
, the way he was stirring his coffee.' Felicia started sobbing again. ‘Promise me you'll catch the bastards who did this, Bennie! Swear to me!'

‘I'm going to do my best, sweetie. But I can't do my job if I don't get any sleep.'

‘Promise me!' Felicia sobbed. ‘Cross your heart and hope to die.'

‘Felicia, come now, I promise, I'll try my hardest.'

His wife blew her nose loudly, then sank back into her pillows, and heaved a few more sobs. Then sighed heavily, and a minute later her breathing slowly started to even out until she was snoring.

‘Great!' Bennie sighed under his breath. How was he going to get to sleep now? He didn't sleep a wink last night because of the murder – and then the fucking hijacking and the missing body. He couldn't go another night without sleep – he'd be a mess tomorrow. God help him if he ever told his charming, dainty wife that she snored like a two-stroke chainsaw. He'd considered recording her on his cell phone one night and making her listen to the proof, but he'd always chickened out in the end. Here he was, a cop who dealt with some of the nastiest pieces of human shit this country managed to produce, and yet he was still too scared to tell his wife she snored.

How did she do that, he wondered? She could be awake one second, and fast asleep the next. It drove him nuts. Ooh. Nuts. He rubbed his stomach, then sat up, slipped his feet into his blue stokies and padded down to the kitchen. He stood staring into the fridge and rubbed his stomach again. He scooped up a handful of something green and sniffed at it. Ugh, kale.

Bennie shuffled into the garage, unlocked his car and felt under the passenger seat for the cardboard Pick 'n Pay box, just in case he'd left an uneaten donut behind by accident. Fat chance: the box was empty, not even crumbs left. He spotted a green jelly baby in the footwell of the car on the driver's side. Leaning in, he picked it up, wiped the fluff off of it and popped it in his mouth. Standards had dropped drastically.

 

 

 

THE CEO

 

 

Wednesday 11:41pm

 

 

‘Don't turn around,' Trevor quavered. ‘Don't look at me. Just keep
drivin', mate.'

‘What's wrong with your voice?' asked the taxi driver.

‘It's my accent, it's cockney,' Trevor said.

‘You're from a place called Cock?'

‘No, it's . . . never mind. Look, they told me at the taxi rank that if I needed somefing taken care of, you're the man, innit?'

Trevor's voice wobbled. It had been bad enough, a white man wandering around a taxi rank late at night with a plastic bag full of cash, asking if there was someone who ‘sorted out problems'. The taxi driver he had been directed to certainly looked the part. He was huge, with what looked like ritual scars on his face. Probably some prison gang thing.

‘I can try to help you, brother. But you need to tell me more,' said the taxi driver.

‘I 'ave the money 'ere, twenty up front, twenty later when it's all been taken care of, plus all the information I could get me 'ands on about this person, name, number and so on. The one that needs taking care of. But there's a small problem. . .' Trevor blurted out.

‘What now?' The taxi driver looked over his shoulder again.

‘Please keep your eyes on the road!' Trevor yipped, forgetting his accent.

The taxi driver rolled his eyes, then turned to face the front again. They were driving slowly down a deserted road near the airport. A lone pedestrian tried to wave them down, then shouted something insulting as they barrelled past.

‘What problem?' the driver asked.

‘I need this done urgently, sooner the better. But the bloke involved, 'e may not be so easy to track down. I 'aven't been able to get hold of him on his cell phone. And also, well, he's in the same industry as you.'

‘He drives a taxi?'

‘Not that industry, the other one.'

The taxi driver whistled.

‘Also, er, this problem guy, 'e might be in prison. But you got connections inside, right?'

Trevor passed the man his plastic bag with a shaking hand. The driver used his knees to steer as he flipped through the notes.

‘It's all there,' Trevor said. ‘You'll get the rest when the thing has
been done. With a small bonus if you do it within the next twenty-four hours. My pager number is written on a slip of paper with the cash. Once you find him and “take care” of him, call me from his phone.
Then I'll know for sure you've done it. That make sense?'

There was a long silence, then: ‘We have an agreement,' rumbled from the front.

 

The taxi driver dropped Trevor at the airport – International Departures. Then he drove back to Khayelitsha praying for forgiveness for his sins. The stupid white man thought he could hire any old taxi driver to kill someone, and all because of that terrible Dewani thing, when some tsotsi taxi drivers had murdered a poor sweet Indian girl on her honeymoon, giving good taxi drivers everywhere a bad name. So perhaps God would forgive him for taking the stupid racist mlungu's money. He'd nearly driven off the road when he'd seen the fat wad of R200 notes. But then he'd realised that Jesus was answering his prayers. He'd be able to get a new roof for Sis Sindiwe's crèche for the orphans. And maybe he and the others of the Tabernacle Gospel House of Prayer could take the children to the sea for the day, fill up their tummies with fish 'n chips. And with whatever was left over he could buy some textbooks for the prisoners' rehab programme he ran. He began to sing: ‘Hallelujah, I thank you Lord for stupid white men. . .'

 

Trevor hired another taxi from outside International Departures, this time a metered sedan, to drive him back into town. If he'd had his passport with him, he would have jumped on the next plane going anywhere and disappeared forever.

Twenty minutes later, the taxi dropped Trevor off at his car on Green Point Main Road. He crossed the road, looking lovingly at his Merc.

His life had taken a horrible turn for the worse. He was officially a murderer, a double murderer. He wondered if this made him a serial killer.

But he hadn't had a choice in the matter, had he? If he didn't do something, he would definitely lose his job. And if he lost his job, he would have to give up the penthouse and the Merc. And then he'd definitely never get a girlfriend.

Everything would be okay now, surely? Paying hitmen to rub each other out couldn't be the worst thing, could it?

Trevor pressed the remote to unlock the Merc, then changed his mind and pressed the remote again to relock it. Then he walked into the twenty-four-hour KFC. His guilt and anxiety were chewing him up; he might as well return the favour.

 

 

THE FANS

 

 

Wednesday 11:32pm

 

 

THE BANTING FOR LIFE FACEBOOK PAGE

 

Herman De Laat

Hey everyone, I was just thinking how when you're Banting everything changes. We even need new sayings, anyone have any suggestions for a new saying to replace “The best thing since sliced bread”?

 

My attempt: “The best thing since bacon snacks”.

Like
304

 

Annelize Van Tonder
Best thing since biltong.

Like 24

 

Siyamthanda Sekota
Best thing since psyllium husk.
J

Like 2

 

Tina Zylstra
Best thing since Tim Noakes.


Like 1040

 

Anton Norris
How about the worst thing
since Tim Noakes! What a
bunch of fatty fools you all are, taken in by a charllatan. Your lucky he's
dead, otherwise he would have brought out another book in a years time
to pick you're pockets again, about how carbs are the new salad or some-
thing like that!

Like 2

 

Herman De Laat
Have some respect, you idiot!

Like 1098

 

Siyamthanda Sekota
What's wrong with you, Norris, a great man has died, we're all in mourning.

Like 1698

View 1107 more comments

THE CEO

 

 

Thursday 2:03am

 

 

Trevor tossed and turned, but even though he was achingly tired in every single joint, muscle and bone, it wasn't the kind of tired that would let him sleep. It was three minutes past two, then fifteen minutes later it was only five minutes past two. He got up. There was no point lying there going mental doing ceiling duty.

He made himself a cup of warm milk, he'd seen that in the movies before, although in the movies nobody ever burned the pot and scalded three fingers.

Then he tried to go to sleep again. After a while, he got up and rifled through the medicine cabinet to see if there was anything that would help. He took three expired sleeping pills, got back into bed and stared at the ceiling for another forty minutes. Then he got up and took two Panados in case they'd do the trick and activate the sleeping pills. They didn't. Sleep was nowhere.

He watched a Ginsu knives commercial on e.tv, then surfed through the channels and watched the second half of one of the
Die Hard
movies. The whole time his mind raced, alternating between the fear of being caught, and the guilt of what he'd done. He might keep his job, but he was definitely going to hell now. One dead body was bad; two was unconscionable.

Trevor went to heat another cup of milk, but discovered he was all out. He'd put the carton back in the fridge with only an inch of milk left in it. It was one of the things he did that had annoyed the crap out of his ex-wife, and now he could see why. At least she had been able to divorce him and get away. She was the lucky one; he was stuck with himself forever.

He walked out of his apartment in his socks, pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, and dragged his feet along the pavement all the way to the twenty-four-hour garage. When he got there and took a carton of milk to the till, he patted his pockets and realised he hadn't brought his wallet, just the fucking mute pager.

Trevor loped back to his apartment, the hems of his pyjama bottoms dragging along the ground. He left muddy footprints on the carpet in a trail from the front door all the way to his medicine cabinet, where he took another two sleeping pills, then back to the couch, where he flopped down, turned on the TV and watched the Ginsu knives commercial again and again, until it was time to go to work.

 

THE HIJACKERS

 

 

Thursday 6:02am

 

 

‘Wake up, bra,' said Thabo, nudging Papsak, who was slumped to one side in the passenger seat, his jacket covering him like a blanket.

Papsak mumbled something and turned away from Thabo.

‘You've got to get up.' Thabo slapped his friend, knocking the Supersport cap off his head.

Papsak grumbled and then pulled the car seat upright and rubbed his eyes. ‘What happened?'

‘It's morning, we must have passed out.'

The two men turned in their seats. Uncle Mlungu was still in the back seat with his seat belt on. He had his beanie and sunglasses on, and a half-smoked cigarette sticking out of blue lips. Both his arms were raised above his head, touching the roof of the car.

‘No, man! Why didn't we get rid of him last night?' Thabo shouted. ‘This is all your fault, Papsak! I told you we should have dumped him before we smoked all that stuff.'

Papsak shrugged. ‘My mouth tastes like something died in it.' He climbed out the car to go pee against a nearby tree.

‘Mine too. Hey Papsak, hurry up, look, there's nobody around, if we're quick we can dump him here now.' Thabo got out and opened the back door of the gusheshe, undoing Uncle Mlungu's seat belt. ‘Tyhini, he weighs a ton, and he's all stiff now, I can't get him out. Come help me quickly.'

Papsak zipped up his fly, then ran to the other side of the car and climbed in the back seat next to Uncle.

‘Push him!' Thabo shouted.

‘I am pushing, but he's stiff like steel, he doesn't want to go anywhere,' Papsak yelled back, pushing hard at the other side of the dead body.

‘It's his arms, they're getting stuck in the doorway, why are they up in the air like that? I can't get them out of the door,' Thabo said. ‘Try pull his arms down, Papsak.'

‘I can't, they're stuck in the air like this!' Papsak said, pulling down on Uncle Mlungu's right arm, practically hanging on it.

‘Maybe if we roll him onto his side we can pull him out that way?' Thabo suggested, trying to push the body over on the back seat.

‘I think Uncle is stuck to the seat,' Papsak said, leaning back and trying to heave the body over.

‘Fok, somebody's coming,' Thabo hissed. ‘Eish, it's more runners!'

Papsak pulled Uncle's beanie down over his face, knocking his sunglasses off, snapping the cigarette in half and sending it flying. They jumped into the front and sped off before the runners reached them.

‘Shit, shit, shit!' Thabo smacked his palm against the steering
wheel in frustration. ‘What did you do to Uncle Mlungu last night, Papsak? Why are his arms stuck up in the air like that?'

‘Don't you remember, Thabs? Last night we were pretending we
were at Ratanga Junction. We put Uncle on the rollercoaster, remember? Everyone always puts their hands up on there.' Papsak burst out laugh-
ing at the memory. ‘But I think Uncle Mlungu preferred the ice cream and candy floss.'