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Authors: Paige Nick

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BOOK: Death By Carbs
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THE PARAMEDICS

 

 

Wednesday 4:06am

 

 

Zayne felt like he was going to be sick. Bile rose in his throat, and saliva pooled in his mouth. He buzzed opened his window and breathed in big gulps of air as he drove along the highway towards town.

‘You okay, bru?' S'bu asked from the passenger seat.

Zayne nodded.

‘Your first dead body?'

He nodded again, worried that if he opened his mouth to speak, he wouldn't be able to stop the bile from coming up.

‘You'll get used to it,' S'bu said. ‘Just take deep breaths. Do you want me to drive?'

‘Nah, I'll be fine,' Zayne managed to get out.

‘It gets easier. Well, it doesn't, but you'll get better at dealing with it.'

‘How long have you been doing this?' Zayne asked.

‘Five nights.'

They drove along in silence for a few moments.

‘If you don't mind me asking, what made you decide to become a paramedic?' S'bu asked, breaking the silence. ‘No offence, it's just you seem a bit squeamish, and you know in this job. . .' he trailed off.

‘My mom really wanted me to be a doctor. But I wasn't so great at school, so this was kind of the next best thing,' Zayne said.

There was no moon, so they drove along the highway in silence through dark pockets of night, both lost in their thoughts. Zayne
thought about the once-living, now-dead man in the back of the ambulance, and the choices that had brought him to the front seat of an ambulance in the early hours of the morning. He was young and bright; he could have gone into PR, or been a teacher, or anything. Maybe
even a model: his mom and aunts were constantly telling him how handsome he was. To say he was having major regrets would be an understatement, and this was only his first night on the job.

‘S'bu, do you think if we had better equipment, or someone more experienced riding along with us, we could have saved him?'

S'bu looked out the window and took a minute before he answered.

‘Maybe,' he said quietly. ‘I did absolutely everything I knew how to do.'

‘I know you did, bru,' Zayne said as he came to a stop at a dead traffic light on Main Road, Salt River, checking carefully for cross-traffic.

‘Out, out, out! Don't make me hurt you! Turn off the engine and get out, and no funny business or I'll shoot you!' A voice shouted through the open window, deafening Zayne, flying spit flecking his cheek. He lifted his foot off the brake in shock and the ambulance shuddered and stalled. Before he could think or move, Zayne felt the ambulance door give beside him, cold air rushing in, and he froze as the man climbed up next to him, the smell of his sweat overwhelming. Cold metal pressed against his forehead. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. You never knew how you would react in a situation like this until it happened, and clearly his default reaction was paralysis.

In what felt like slow motion, Zayne was yanked from the driver's seat by his sleeve and thrown to the pavement. He heard S'bu shout out, and in his peripheral vision he caught sight of his partner crumpling in the passenger seat, hit or shot, Zayne couldn't tell. As he pulled himself into a sitting position on the street, the thought crossed his mind that once all this was over, if he was still alive and S'bu was hurt, and he called for an ambulance, they probably wouldn't have one to send.
These cutbacks were going to kill them all.

Zayne watched, his vision blurred by panic, as the man in the driver's seat turned on the ignition. S'bu must have also been hauled out the ambulance, because there was now another man in a leatherette jacket climbing up into the passenger seat.

‘Thanks,' the driver said to Zayne, a casual smile on his face. Then before the other guy had even closed the passenger door, the ambulance was skidding off down the road, the rear end fishtailing for a moment, then righting itself as it disappeared out of sight.

‘Zayne, are you okay?' S'bu shouted across the road.

Zayne staggered to his feet, bent over and vomited his guts up in the middle of the road. This was not how he'd pictured his first night in his new job.

 

THE HIJACKERS

 

 

Wednesday 4:19am

 

 

Papsak rifled through the cubbyhole in the ambulance as Thabo hurtled down the highway towards Epping Industria.

‘Anything in there?' Thabo asked.

Papsak pulled out a wad of papers and paged through them, tossing the ones that didn't interest him out the window, along with a few empty chip packets. He kept the manual and the ambulance's papers to one side, then went back to fishing in the cubbyhole. He brought out a black peak cap embroidered with the SuperSport logo, dusted it off, turned it around, and put it on.

‘Nuh-uh, Thabs,' he said, as he fished around in the other pockets in the ambulance door, then felt under the seat. Finally he reached round into the spaces behind both their seats.

‘Look properly, don't miss anything . . . no gun, no knife? You sure?' the driver asked.

Papsak shook his head.

‘Not bad, hey?' said Thabo, patting the steering wheel. ‘Only ninety-seven thousand on the clock. Moe should give us more than five grand for this; it's a major find. Five grand's a rip-off.'

Papsak paged through the vehicle's manual. ‘Nxaa, slow down,' he snapped. ‘If we get pulled over, Moe will kill us slowly.'

 

Thabo pulled the ambulance into the back of the workshop and waited for the garage door to close all the way before he turned off the engine, and they both climbed out.

‘Check out the back,' Thabo said.

‘Why don't you check out the back?' Papsak spat.

Thabo rolled his eyes at his friend, then went round to the back of the ambulance, Papsak close behind him. They hauled open the doors and both scrambled in.

‘Fok!' Thabo shouted.

‘But . . . but . . . they weren't driving with any sirens or lights on. How were we supposed to know there was anyone in here?' Papsak asked.

Thabo leaned over to get a closer look at the body. ‘Shit!' he said. ‘You' d better go get Moe.'

 

THE CO-AUTHORS

 

 

Wednesday 4:22am

 

 

Marco's tummy had been gurgling and churning ever since he'd snuck in just after three that morning. He'd had a stingingly hot shower and crawled into bed as quietly as possible so as to not wake Chris. His nonna used to call those sounds tummy goblins.

He lay watching his beautiful husband breathing evenly in the bed beside him. He was so lucky: he was with this phenomenal man, he was the co-author of a successful book, with another one on the way,
he had his own restaurant, and now the man standing between him
and household-name fame was dead. The body had only just been
found and the internet was already exploding with news and rumours. He should be happy. So then why couldn't he sleep? Was it guilt? He owed so much to the dead man.

The restaurant was half the problem. When he'd first opened the Banting Bistro, he thought it would be packed from morning till midnight. Hundreds of thousands of South Africans had embraced the Banting lifestyle, after all. But he'd learnt the hard way that it wasn't always that simple, and running a niche restaurant was a fool's errand. The way things were going, he had barely enough to keep the restaurant afloat for another couple of months – and only thanks to his share of the royalties from the Real Meal Revolution book – and then he was going to have to consider closing down. Unless of course, this new book of Mediterranean Banting recipes shot to the top of the bestseller lists, and him being the face of it helped turn the restaurant around. It was his only hope.

His stomach gurgled again. He gave up on sleep, snuck out of bed
and tiptoed down to the kitchen.

 

Marco kneaded the dough by hand, the way his nonna and her nonna before her, and
her
nonna before her, used to back in Italy. The methods were identical; only the ingredients were different. Not eggs from the back garden, or home-milled flour, or butter from freshly milked, grass-fed, free-to-roam cows, but the local equivalents from Oranjezicht City Farm instead.

He wiped his forehead with floury fingers, getting clods of dough stuck in his thick black hair. He ignored them and went back to knead-
ing. He didn't know of a more contemplative or therapeutic pastime. Once the dough was in the fridge, he heaved his nonna's ancient stainless-steel pasta machine out of the cupboard and set it up on the counter, before turning on the stove to bring a pot of lightly salted
water with a splash of extra-virgin olive oil to the boil. He ran his hand over the cool steel of the pasta maker. It weighed a ton, and was as solid as a battleship. They didn't make things like this anymore.

While Marco's homemade pasta came to the boil, he whipped up
a basil pesto, using fresh pine kernels and leaves he had picked from
the potted basil on the windowsill, one by one.

He drained his al dente pasta into the sink, then dished up a large bowl of it, spooned in the pesto, grated in shavings off a large wedge of Parmesan, and finished it with pinches of Maldon salt, fresh parsley from another pot on the windowsill, and a couple of turns of pepper from a large wooden grinder he and Chris had received as a wedding present.

Marco settled at the kitchen counter, dug his fork into the bowl
and gave the pasta a twirl, wrapping it around his fork, and scooping
it into his mouth with the aid of a spoon, Italian-style. Once he'd finished the first bowl, he dished up a second, and then a third, and finally a fourth bowl. This time he didn't bother sitting down; he stood beside the Smeg, dug his fork in, twirled the pasta around it and
leaned against the cool brushed-steel refrigerator, shovelling the pasta into his mouth as tears poured down his cheeks, marking trails
through the flour that dusted his face. He slid down the fridge and landed on the black-and-white chequered kitchen floor, sobbing, the half-empty bowl lying in his lap, the fresh pasta turning flabby.

Marco was crying so loudly, he didn't hear the footsteps until Chris was bending down beside him.

‘Oh honey,' Chris said gently, taking the bowl from him, ‘not again.'

 

THE FANS

 

 

Wednesday 6:09am

 

 

THE BANTING FOR LIFE FACEBOOK PAGE

 

Deborah Gogh

I have terrible news for all my Banting friends and fans on this page. I just read on Twitter that Professor Tim Noakes died after an attack in his home in the early hours of this morning.

 

Phillip Stewart
Is this somce kind of joke? Because if it is its not funny.

Like 46

 

Melissa Giles
It's true. I went to go look on Twitter.
How did he die? Does anyone know any other information or circumstances? My condolences go out to us and his family.

Like 12

 

Borrie Human
HOW? WHAT! THIS CANT' BE! I DONT'UNDERSTAND

Like 19

 

Deborah Gogh
From what I can see on Twitter, the police haven't yet released a statement. It's such sad news. I just can't believe it. I was reading his book only this morning, it's become my bible.

Like 42

 

Margie Oosthuizen
Do they know how he died?

Like 2

 

Murray Bruvick
I hope he didn't have a heart attack!!

Like 31

 

Charte Tonder
That would be really bad!

Like 19

 

Kwela McKaiser
They're saying he was murdered and there's some pictures of face full of blood from someone's cell phone on the scene which is very blurry. But it hasn't been confirmed by the authorities yet.

Like 21

 

Murray Bruvick
Phew, as long as he didn't have a heart attack!!

Like 19

 

Joanne Sloanne
My condonlenses go out to his whole family. This is tragic. I feel like I've lost a close friend. We are praying for you all.

Like 12

 

Maureen Ewehout
I can't believe what I'm reading. Ever since my husband died, this group and Banting have saved me. I've lost more than 27 kilograms, and I feel like at the age of 60 I've finally found my calling and my purpose in life, thanks to The Real Meal Revolution. I've made so many new friends. This is the worst news I've heard since my husband's passing. Tim Noakes was my very good friend. Just before he died, we worked together on some Marvellous Tim Noakes ENDORSED Real Meal Revolution Meal Plans. Get yours for just R150 each. Direct message me to find out more. It's terrible news, but in his honour we should all dedicate ourselves to his incredible, life-changing, world-beating diet plan, with the help of my Marvellous Tim Noakes ENDORSED meal plans.

Like 8

 

Bernard Lewis
I know me too. He's done so much for me. Banting has changed my life. Ive also lost a whopping 24 kilograms since January and Im speeding towards my goal wait. I've tried every diet known to mankind my whole life, and nothing has ever worked for me before. Without the Prof, I'd probably still literly be eating myself to death.

Like 35

 

Sheena Easting
Hi
Maureen Ewehout
your diet plans does sound interesting. Are they really endorsed by the Prof himself?

Like
3

 

Maureen Ewehout
Hello
Sheena Easting
yes, I met the good Professor at a Banting conference in Balito 18 months ago, and we've been working intensely on these meal plans together for the last four to five months. We were going to launch them soon. But with this tragic news of his death, I know he would have wanted me to launch them now, to keep his work alive. Message me if you'd like your very own Marvellous Tim Noakes ENDORSED meal plans, for just R150 each.

Like 4

 

Deedee Wolhutter
Hey everyone, join me in a celebration of a great man's life. Let's each one of us light a candle tonight and put it in our windows in honour of the great professor, who has touched so many lives, and changed the way we think about food and about bacon.

Like 28

 

Dot Swart
Hello, are candles on the green list?

Like 2

 

Doug Larter
That has to be the most ignorant comment of the day,
Dot Swart

Like
11

 

Dot Swart
No
Doug Larter,
I mean that candles are made of wax, and isnt that made from bees and honey? And all Im saying is that if honey is on the Red or Orange list, then I just think that to honor the professor and all his work, and how hes changed our lives forever, then we shuddnt use them.

Like 15

 

Pauline Oppelt
Honey is on the Orange List. You're allowed one spoon of it a day, so I don't know if we should do the whole candle thing or not.

Like 22

 

Donna Kirsch
Maybe just half a candle?

Like 22

 

Shana Kurz
Hello clever banting people ... a question about psyllium husk – do you know, can you tell me is there a difference between all the products, are some better than others ... or are all psyllium husk brands pretty much the same?

Like 0

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BOOK: Death By Carbs
6.23Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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