Death By Carbs (13 page)

BENJAMIN

 

 

Thursday 7:49am

 

 

Benjamin Di Rosi
Lydia, are you there? Lydia?

 

Lydia Steenberg
Hi, yes, I'm here. Just leaving for work. Morning.

 

Benjamin Di Rosi
I'm sorry to write so early, but I needed to talk to somebody, and I didn't know who else to turn to.

 

Lydia Steenberg
Oh my goodness, what? Are you okay?

 

Benjamin Di Rosi
Lydia, I've done something terrible, something horrific, something unforgivable.

 

Lydia Steenberg
Benjamin, you're scaring me now. Nothing is unforgivable, I'm sure whatever you did, you had good reasons for it.

 

Benjamin Di Rosi
I did, I really did.

 

Lydia Steenberg
Trust me, whatever you've done can't be as bad as some of the things I've done in my life! It's not like you killed anyone or anything.

 

Benjamin Di Rosi
Well, ummm. . .

 

Lydia Steenberg
Benjamin?!

 

Benjamin Di Rosi
I'm worried if I tell you, you'll never
talk to me again.

 

Lydia Steenberg
Listen, Benjamin, I think you may have put me on a pedestal; you think I'm this sweet innocent girl, but I've done bad things too. Everybody has some skeletons in their closet, or things they aren't proud of. I've been dishonest, I've lied to people.

 

Benjamin Di Rosi
Lydia, I've hurt a lot of people! It's all
my fault, and it's chewing me up, I can't sleep and I crave carbs
all the time.

 

Lydia Steenberg
It's okay, Benjamin. Can I call you Ben? We all have our reasons for doing the things we do that hurt other people. We're only human. We're weak, lonely, flawed. You seem like a good person, you work hard, I can't believe you would have done anything awful on purpose. Maybe you just need a bit of sleep and to start eating properly again. I know if I eat carbs I really struggle.

 

Benjamin Di Rosi
Yes maybe you're right. . .

 

Lydia Steenberg
Sometimes we have to do things that may not necessarily be considered the right thing to do, traditionally, but we all have our reasons . . . we do what we have to do to make our lives better.

 

Benjamin Di Rosi
You're right, you shouldn't listen to me,
I'm exhausted, I'm not making sense.

 

Lydia Steenberg
I really do have to get to work, but you need to know that everything is going to be okay. It will all work out in the end, and if it hasn't worked out yet, that just means it's not the end.

 

Benjamin Di Rosi
Thank you, Lydia. You have no idea how
grateful I am to have you to talk to.

 

Lydia Steenberg
Me too. Feel better, chat later, Ben.

 

 

 

THE CEO

 

 

Thursday 8:31am

 

 

By the time Trevor saw Gunther walking through his office door, it
was too late to fling himself out of the window. He was so tired, he felt like he'd been wading through treacle all morning. Gunther was the
last thing he needed. He stood and reached for his jacket.

‘Trevor, I've been trying to get hold of you,' Gunther said.

‘You have?' Trevor started pulling his jacket on, realising half-way through that it was inside-out and not having the energy to fix it. ‘I was just on my way out, important meeting with the sales team, this will have to wait!'

‘I've left you at least five messages. Why haven't you returned any of my calls?'

‘Really?' Trevor tried to sound surprised. ‘Could we perhaps pick this up tomorrow? I'm running terribly late.' He glanced at his watch, realising too late that in his mushy-brain state he had forgotten to put the stupid thing on.

‘We can't pick this up tomorrow or any other time. I need to speak to you right now. Sit down.' Gunther pointed to Trevor's guest chair, as if it were his own office.

As Trevor sat down slowly, he noticed that Gunther had decided to remain standing. He moved to stand, knowing that in the power politics of the boardroom, it was important never to be the lowest person in the room. If your adversary was standing, you should stand too, just to even the playing field. But seeing the stern look on Gunther's face, he realised he didn't have the energy for power politics anymore, and sagged back down in his seat. Here it comes, he thought.

‘We have a problem, Trevor.' Gunther reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic sachet.

‘Have you seen this?' Gunther handed Trevor the packet.

‘Sure,' Trevor said, turning it over in his hands. It was one of their products.

‘Take a closer look.'

Trevor turned it over again, not quite sure what he was supposed to be looking for.

‘Notice anything missing?' Gunther asked.

‘I'm sorry, but no, I don't. Perhaps you should just tell me what's going on here, Gunther.'

‘Well, if you look closely, you'll notice that our standard disclaimer is missing from this particular package.'

Trevor spun the packet around and examined the back, squinting so he could read the small print without his glasses on.

‘If you could just confirm one fact for me, please. It is your responsibility to ultimately sign off on all packaging, is it not?' Gunther went on.

‘You know it is, Gunther. You wrote my contract.'

‘Well, our problem is that this product is missing the very important disclaimer that states that this product was made in a factory that uses nut products.'

Trevor took another look at the packet and felt his scrotum shrivel.

‘I'm sure you'll agree with me that someone has to take responsibility for this gross error in judgement. The board had an emergency meet-
ing last night, and I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go with immediate effect.'

‘That's nuts.'

‘I don't think it's nuts, and I resent your levity, Trevor. It's an incred-
ibly serious matter. Do you realise we are going to have to recall the product? That's more than thirty thousand individual units. Plus all the ones we have in the warehouse at present will have to be reprocessed
and repackaged. We'll also have to put out a public safety message through the press. Do you have any idea what this little error of yours
is going to cost us, besides the damage that it's going to do to our corporate and brand image? It's a public relations disaster!' Gunther spat.

From where Trevor sat, he could see up the Chairman of the Board's nose. ‘No, Gunther,' he said patiently, ‘I mean it's literally a packet of assorted nuts! Of course it's made in a factory that uses nuts, because . . . well, because they're nuts.'

‘Yes, we discussed that point in our board meeting at great length. However, we all agreed that this kind of egregious mistake could very well result in us being sued by some poor unsuspecting consumer who happens to have a nut allergy.'

‘But Gunther, surely anyone with a nut allergy would know not to purchase, open and then eat what is clearly a bag of nuts?' Trevor stammered.

‘Be that as it may, you've really left us no choice,' intoned Gunther. ‘It's simply one misjudgement too many. The board is concerned that you may be having some form of mental breakdown, and that keeping you on puts the corporation at even further financial and legal risk. Our decision is final.'

Trevor nodded. Then he got to his feet and walked out of his office for the last time. Not caring that his jacket was still on inside-out, or that he was still wearing his pyjama bottoms from the night before.

 

 

THE EX-PUBLISHER

 

 

Thursday 8:37am

 

 

‘Am I dead?' Frank mumbled as he swam to the surface of consciousness from the depths of what felt like hell.

His eyes were gummy and swollen, his mouth furry, and the smell . . . the smell was horrific. He sat up, wondering where he was, but the pain that seared through his head and his right hand was so severe, he had to lie back down again and re-close his eyes.

After a long minute, Frank forced himself to open his eyes again if only so that he could work out where he was; otherwise he would have kept them closed for the rest of eternity. He sat up once again, this time much more slowly and carefully. And it became horrifyingly apparent to him that he wasn't at home, but in some kind of cell. Three of the walls were concrete, and the fourth consisted of floor-to-ceiling metal bars.

He looked down at his right hand, which was throbbing. His fist had been wrapped in a dirty white bandage, and blood had seeped through in spots at his knuckles, and darkened to a muddy brown. He nursed the arm, holding his hand up by the elbow, so as not to allow his fist to touch any surfaces. The pain jabbed at him like a red-hot poker.

The cell had no external windows, so he had no clues as to the time of day or his location. It was lit by two fluorescent bulbs, one of which was dead, thankfully. Frank's scratchy eyes and porridge brain could only handle so much light. He smacked his lips together, after first having to tear them apart. Breathing deeply to keep his panic at bay didn't help; the smell of urine and vomit assaulted his nostrils.

Small flashes came back to him. The drunken night before last, and the resulting broken hand, punching the cardboard cutout in the bookstore before walking out on his job, the bar down the street, drinking, ranting, drinking: then nothing. His stomach burned, and he bent over the lidless toilet and vomited up stinging, hot, yellow bile.

The sound of his retching brought a policewoman to the bars of his cell.

‘Oh good, you're alive,' the policewoman said. ‘I'll call September.'

September? Frank thought. Shit, had he been passed out for three months?

 

THE EX-CEO

 

 

Thursday 8:59am

 

 

Trevor followed his feet down the green-carpeted passage and out of his office building for the last time. Earlier that morning he had somehow managed to put on his work shoes, and get them on the right feet, but he wasn't quite sure how he'd missed the whole pants thing.

When Trevor looked around, he found himself at the payphone again. He'd practically worn a trail in the pavement between it and his office. Muscle memory alone had gotten him there. He felt in the pockets of his plaid pyjama pants for his wallet, but his pockets were still empty except for that stupid, impotent pager, which stubbornly refused to show any messages.

Trevor slumped down on the ground next to the payphone and
tried to work out his next move. He wondered where his first hitman was, and how much trouble he was in. Chances were high that the first hitman was the suspect the press had reported was in custody. It was the only thing that explained his radio silence. But that was yesterday; surely by now he would have ratted Trevor out? So why hadn't the cops come for him yet? Trevor wondered how much they'd had to torture
the hitman to spill the beans. Or would just the insinuation of jumper leads on his gonads do the job? If somebody put jumper leads anywhere near his nuts, he'd sing like a canary.

But maybe he was being paranoid, Trevor told himself for the thousandth time. What if the first hitman had offed the Prof as planned, and then done a runner straight out the country? What if
he was happily settled somewhere in Cancun right this second,
drinking a margarita and getting a lap dance, and the reason he hadn't answered any of Trevor's calls was because he didn't have roaming on his cell phone?

But the same old questions kept circling the drain that was Trevor's brain. Why hadn't he called for the rest of the money? Why do the job and then skip town without the remaining cash? Maybe the hitman had just been in the bath. For the last two days.

Trevor looked up as someone walked past in a blur and dropped a five-rand coin in his lap. No surprises there; he was sitting on the pavement next to a public phone, unshaven, in his now ragged and muddy-bottomed pyjama pants, businessman's shoes and an inside-out jacket, mumbling to himself.

Trevor spun the coin in his fingers, then stood and fed it into the phone and dialled the first hitman's number one more time. A number now so engrained in his brain he'd never forget it.

The phone rang and rang and rang. Again.

 

THE HIJACKERS

 

 

Thursday 9:12am

 

 

‘This phone is making me crazy. Between you calling, calling, calling every babe in Khayelitsha and it ringing and ringing and ringing all night and all day ever since you got it,' said Papsak, rubbing his eyes. ‘You must just turn it off before it makes me lose my mind.'

‘I told you a thousand times, I can't turn it off,' Thabo said. ‘If I
turn it off, then when I turn it back on again, we'll have to put in a password to use Uncle Mlungu's free minutes, and I don't have his password. Do you know Uncle's password, hey? Do you?'

‘Maybe Uncle Mlungu's password is “stinks like shit”, or “going rotten”.' Papsak turned up his nose and looked daggers over his shoulder at the offending corpse.

The phone stopped ringing. A minute later, it started up again.

‘So, what are you going to do about it?' Papsak asked, nodding at the phone buzzing around in the gusheshe's consol.

‘Just ignore it. We have more important problems.'

‘I know! That's what I've been trying to say! We've been driving around forever, Thabo. Everywhere I say we must dump Uncle, you don't like it. Too light, too dark, too close to town, too close to people running. When is this all going to be over? I just want to go home and sleep.'

‘We have a plan, Papsak, let's stick to it. We're going to drive around here and find a quiet spot, and then toss Uncle Mlungu in the sand dunes, remember? I think this will be perfect for us.'

‘I hope so. I don't know why there are always so many people all the time in all the places where we want to dump Uncle. I'm tired, I want to go home,' Papsak whined.

‘It's the beach, Papsak, we should have known there would be people here.'

‘Why aren't they at work? And now what?'

‘We just carry on driving around carefully till we find the right place. I know there will be one. And we don't break any laws, so the cops
don't pull us over,' Thabo said. ‘Everything will be fine, you'll see.'

Papsak didn't seem convinced. He pulled a face, then wound down his window and waved the fresh air in with his hand. ‘Shew, Uncle Mlungu, sies man!'