by Paige Nick
‘Well, this is the insane bit. The latest news is that the ambulance taking him to hospital when he died was hijacked, with the body in it.’
Marco staggered and sat down, still clutching the phone to his ear. ‘What?’
‘Yup. They don’t even know where he is now,’ Shaun said.
‘Fuck. This is unbelievable. Do you think whoever killed him hi-
jacked the ambulance?’
‘To get rid of any evidence before an autopsy was done? Maybe.’
‘My head is literally spinning. Have you spoken to Xolisa and Shireen yet?’ Marco asked.
‘Yeah, I just got off the phone with Shireen, and I’m with Xolisa. They saw it online. It must have happened too late to make it into the morning papers.’
‘How are they?’
‘Shocked, freaked out, crying.’
‘Christ. . . What do you think this means for us?’
‘Sales will probably go up.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Shaun!’
‘What? It’s true. That’s what happens when a celebrity dies! Michael Jackson sold more albums after his death than he did the entire decade before.’
‘I don’t think we should compare the Prof to Michael Jackson.’
‘Fine, whatever. Listen, one of us is going to have to take over as the public face of this whole enterprise now that he’s gone.’
‘Jesus, Shaun. His body, wherever it is, is barely cold. How can you even think about something like that at a time like this?’
‘Well, someone has to think about it! It’s all of our futures at stake here. We can’t fart about wringing our hands because one of us is no longer around. Someone needs to take charge, and I, for one, am up for the job.’
‘Shaun, please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with his death. It wasn’t you, was it?’
‘What? Wait, you think I killed him? Are you out of your freaking mind?’
‘No, but I mean, I have to ask. You don’t seem particularly thrown by his death, to be honest. And I know how difficult it’s been for us, and you especially, to accept that we’re just the nameless co-authors behind the scenes, while he’s been the one getting more famous by the day. Nobody calls it the Shaun diet, the Marco diet, the Xolisa diet or the Shireen diet: it’s the Noakes diet. Everyone knows that hasn’t been easy for you to handle, Shaun.’
‘That’s rich! You’ve been just as frustrated as me. Plus you’ve hardly had an easy run with that dead-end, money-pit restaurant of yours. I’m sure it’ll get a much-needed boost now with all the press we’re about to get. You must have thought at some point that it would do a whole lot better if you had more of a public profile.’
‘For the sake of our partnership and our friendship, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that, Shaun. We should stop this conversation now before one of us says more stuff we might regret. Something traumatic has happened, we’re upset, in shock. And we shouldn’t be having this kind of conversation over the phone, anyway. You never know who might be listening in.’
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment.
‘Fine. The police and the press are going to want a statement from each of us. We should get together to figure out what we’re going to say,’ Shaun spat.
‘A statement?’
‘Sure, don’t be such an idiot! It’s a fucking murder, we’re his closest business partners, they’re going to hang us upside down and give us a good shake, looking for answers to fall out. I’ll set up a time, we can Skype with Shireen in Joburg. I’ll text you the details,’ Shaun said.
‘I can’t believe this is fucking happening.’
‘Oh and Marco. . .’
‘What?’
‘Don’t talk to the press until we’ve gotten together and worked out what we’re going to say, okay?’
‘Jesus, what do you take me for? Of course I won’t.’
Marco slammed down the phone, then placed the knife he was clutching down on the counter and breathed deeply. He thought he’d come across as appropriately surprised and horrified, which was important. He didn’t want Shaun to know that he already knew about the Prof’s death. He’d been practicing his surprised response and his devastated face all morning; it was going to come in handy over the next few weeks, he thought, returning to his bok choy.
THE EX-PUBLISHER
Wednesday 9:16am
‘You’re late,’ Clive snapped at Frank from behind his stupid face and his stupid tie and his ridiculous glasses.
‘I had business to attend to; it won’t happen again,’ Frank said to his boss, before muttering ‘fuck off, you adolescent cunt, or you’ll be next,’ under his breath as he struggled to pin his name badge to his chest with his left hand.
‘Jissus, what happened to your hand?’ Clive asked.
‘None of your fucking business,’ Frank mumbled.
‘It’s bleeding! Are you okay?’ Clive walked towards him from behind the bookstore counter.
‘It’s nothing,’ Frank said, loudly enough for Clive to hear this time, giving up on his name badge and leaving it unpinned and dangling above his shirt pocket.
‘You’re bleeding all over the place, and your hand looks really swollen. In fact, it’s blue. Are you sure you didn’t break it?’
‘I told you, it’s nothing. I punched a wall, that’s all,’ Frank said.
‘What on earth for?’
‘Anger, celebration . . . or maybe I just had an itch.’ The sarcasm dripped from Frank’s mouth.
‘Come to the office, I’ve got a first-aid kit. We can put a bandage on it,’ Clive offered.
‘I’m fine,’ Frank said. ‘Really, I’m better than I’ve been in ages.’
‘Okay, but don’t get blood on any of the books,’ Clive called after him. ‘You bleed on it, you buy it!’
‘I promise I won’t bleed on your precious books,’ Frank said wearily.
‘And once you’ve stopped bleeding, I need you to reorganise African Fiction. That section is a disaster.’
‘It’s going to take more than a bit of reorganising to fix African Fiction,’ Frank mumbled.
‘What’s that?’ Clive asked.
‘I said, I’m on my way.’
It was bullshit, Frank thought as he shuffled the books in African Fiction around with his left hand, his right one dangling uselessly by
his side, the knuckles throbbing. American bookstores didn’t have shelves specifically for American fiction. Bookstores in the UK didn’t separate books according to their origin. Fiction was fiction; it didn’t matter where it came from. It only mattered if it was any good. South African bookstores had been getting it all wrong for years.
If he was in charge he would . . . he had to stop and remind himself that he had been in charge once upon a time, not so long ago, and he’d cocked it all up royally. And then his whole life had fallen apart.
He pushed the thought out of his mind and whistled as he worked. He wasn’t going to let any of this bullshit ruin his good mood. This
was his day and he felt great, better than great, in fact. He finally had
the revenge he’d been waiting for for two years. Sweet, sweet revenge. The image of that old geezer lying all bloody on the floor would be forever engrained in his brain.
Maybe now that fraudulent Professor would be forgotten. Maybe now that he was dead, people would no longer be bamboozled by his medically irresponsible bullshit. And maybe, just maybe, he would stop being everywhere Frank turned, a constant reminder of his biggest, baddest failure.
Noakes was dead! Nothing was going to get Frank down today, not his shithead boss who was half his age, his dumb-as-a-plank customers, or all those annoying assistants just days out of the womb. He whistled as he finished reorganising African Fiction, then shifted over to Self Help. Books were still his happy pla
ce.
He scanned the shelf and shook his head; none of the books were in the right order here either. The Chicken Soup for the Soul book needed to be swopped with How Much Joy Can You Stand?, which was actually where If You Had Controlling Parents should be. He pulled the books
off the shelves one by one with his good hand, and then placed them back in alphabetical order.
Frank paused at a book called, Are You Living or Surviving? He balanced it on the shelf and paged through it, turning his nose up at the chapters offering tips on improving health, finances and romance. He replaced the book, then revisited How Much Joy Can You Stand? by Suzanne Falter-Barns.
‘I don’t know, Suzanne,’ he said to himself, ‘right now I’m pretty fucking joyful.’
‘Excuse me. . .’ a voice cut in, interrupting his train of thought. ‘Do you work here?’
Frank considered shaking his head, but then remembered he was in a great mood, so he nodded.
‘Oh goodie,’ the middle-aged woman said. ‘I’m looking for a nice book, what would you recommend?’
‘What are you looking for?’ Frank asked. ‘Fiction or non-fiction?’
‘We’re going on holiday, and I have to have something good to read,’ the woman said, clutching the pendant on her chest between her fingers and spinning it on its chain. ‘Definitely fiction.’
Frank turned to the fiction shelf. ‘This is great,’ he said as he tugged a new Kate Atkinson novel off the shelf awkwardly with his left hand and handed it to the woman.
She examined the back cover for half a second, then scrunched up her nose and handed it back.
‘Too serious,’ she said.
Frank fumbled as he replaced the book with his left hand. Then he pointed at the latest Marion Keyes. ‘She’s great,’ he said, not wanting to pick it up with his left hand if she wasn’t sure she wanted it – everyone knew Keyes wrote heavy books – literally, not figuratively. ‘It’s the perfect holiday read, so they say.’
The woman slipped it off the shelf herself and eyed the front cover for a millisecond before replacing it. ‘I just don’t know,’ she said, her voice a kettle-boiling whine. ‘You don’t have that new Fifty Shades of Grey book everyone has been talking about, do you?’
Frank sighed, led her wordlessly to the front of the store, and handed her the latest spin on the bestseller. A million copies sold in its first week. The injustice of it threatened to ruin his good mood for a second.
The woman took the book from him without thanking him and made her way to the till. Frank shook off the encounter and started whistling again as he followed her.
‘Hey,’ Siya greeted him, or maybe it was Mark, or Phil, or Khanya, or who cared? The myriad revolving-door university students who part-timed alongside him in the bookstore were all the same. They all seemed impossibly young, and Frank couldn’t be arsed to remember their names. It wasn’t like he was going to hang out and discuss the latest Vladislavić with any of them.
As a forty-six-year-old man working as a sales assistant in a massive chain bookstore, he knew he stood out like erotica in the kiddies section, and he knew the other staff all talked about him behind his back, but he couldn’t give a fuck. Especially today: today, he couldn’t even give two fucks.
‘You’re in a good mood,’ the stripling assistant commented.
Frank carried on whistling.
‘I haven’t seen you in a good mood since . . . well come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a good mood,’ the boy said.
‘Yeah? Well, first time for everything,’ Frank said.
‘Did you see the news about that Banting guy?’ the kid asked.
‘I heard.’ Frank gave a small self-satisfied smile.
‘It’s crazy, right?’
‘Wild.’
‘Just awful!’ the perky girl assistant with the short dreadlocks chimed in.
‘Too terrible,’ Frank added, unable to stop his small smile developing into a wide grin.
‘I wonder who offed the poor guy?’ the boy said.
‘It was me,’ Frank said, straight-faced, looking the kid right in the eyes.
The boy looked at him with surprise, and then burst out laughing.
Frank continued to stare at him, unwavering, willing the boy to challenge him.
‘Ha, good one, Frank,’ the boy said, slapping him on the shoulder.
Another woman entered the store and made a beeline for the tills. She had dirty-blonde hair that reminded Frank of his wife – or rather, his ex-wife, even though this woman was much heavier than Sylvie had been when they finally divorced. This customer carried her weight in her belly and her hips, just like Sylvie had. Her jeans stretched mercilessly at the seams.
Frank wondered where his ex-wife was right this second. She was probably getting ready for her gym session. After her workout, she’d head off for a spot of lunch, something healthy no doubt. No more junk for her. Then she would fetch Chloe from school and take her to ballet class, and then she’d probably go fuck her gym-instructor boyfriend for an hour in the fucking house Frank had paid for. She was looking incredible these days, but then she had really put in a lot of effort. Fuck, he hated her and her now perfect tight ass and incredible divorce-settlement-shop-bought tits. Fuck her.
‘Hi,’ the woman said. ‘I’m looking for that Banting book. Do you have it?’
‘I think we’ve sold out,’ the boy told her apologetically. ‘We’ve got more coming in on order.’
Frank whipped his head around. ‘What!’ he yelled.
‘Sold out again?’ the perky girl piped up. ‘Sheesh, that’s like the hundredth time this year, dude.’ She had a ring in her nose, like a bull.
‘Yup, we’ve had a major run on them this morning, because of the news of the Prof’s death, I guess. We’ve already sold, like, twelve or fifteen copies at least, and we’ve been open less than an hour.’
‘Oh, you’ve got to be fucking shitting me!’ Frank said.
‘Yup. Amazing what a little death will do for sales,’ the boy said as he restacked the adult colouring-in books on the counter. Another stupid craze that made Frank want to shoot himself in the head. ‘I called some of our other branches. They’ve sold out everywhere: Canal Walk, the Waterfront, even the airport.’
‘Jesus!’ Frank bellowed. ‘That’s it. I can’t do this anymore.’ He stepped out from behind the till counter.
‘Where are you going?’ the kid looked confused.
‘I need a drink,’ Frank said.
‘But it’s not even ten yet,’ pointed out bullring nose.
‘You know Clive will fire you if you walk out in the middle of a shift, hey?’ the boy called out after him.
‘Kid, it won’t be the first job I’ve been fired from,’ Frank announced. As he walked towards the door of the store, he swiped his hand across the main display table, knocking the neatly stacked piles of bestsellers and new arrivals onto the floor with a clatter. He paused, turned, and punched the life-sized cardboard cutout of Tim Noakes in the face. He shouted as pain shot through his damaged fist, and up his arm. He hopped up and down, swearing and nursing his hand for a moment, then he dropped his hurt arm and continued punching the cutout with his left hand, over and over again, until it collapsed. Then he stamped all over it, bent and tore at the head, screaming, ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!’ The young assistants and the customers stood inside the doorway watching him, their mouths gaping.
At last Frank levered himself upright and stomped off through the mall.
‘It’s fine, I’m leaving, I’m leaving!’ he shouted, as he passed a security guard walking towards the commotion, speaking into his radio. ‘I need a drink anyway.’
THE HIJACKERS
Wednesday 9:29am
‘Hold him up on your side,’ Thabo hissed.
‘I am holding him up on my
side,’ Papsak snapped back. ‘You hold him up on your side, wena!’
The woman in the seat in front of them turned and stared.
‘Molo, Mama,’ Thabo said, smiling at her politely. She scowled at them, then heaved herself forward again.
The second she wasn’t looking at them, Thabo glared at Papsak, then adjusted the beanie and the oversized sunglasses, which had started slipping off the dead man’s face.
‘What’s wrong with Umlungu?’ the taxi driver shouted over his shoulder.
Papsak and Thabo eyed each other nervously.
‘Too much shisa nyama,’ Thabo said.
‘He’s my uncle,’ Papsak said.
Thabo gave Papsak a filthy look and tried to tell him to shut up telepathically.
The driver turned in his seat to side-eye Papsak, and his taxi swayed dangerously into the next lane, making the mama shout at him.
Papsak adjusted the sunglasses, which were slipping down the dead man’s face once again.
‘This mlungu? Your uncle?’ asked the driver, facing forward.
‘Yes. He’s married to my mother’s sister,’ Papsak explained, shrugging at Thabo.
‘Hawu!’ exclaimed the mama, clicking her tongue.
‘It’s his birthday,’ Thabo said. ‘We just came from his party. Too
much phuza. We’re taking him home so he can sober up before he goes home to my aunt, otherwise she will kill him.’
‘And us,’ Papsak added.
The taxi driver eyed them warily through the rearview mirror.
‘For an extra ten, can you drop us outside Lefty’s shebeen?’ Thabo asked.
The taxi driver swerved into the other lane without indicating, and the corpse’s head bobbed sideways, landing on Papsak’s shoulder. Papsak patted him on the beanie. ‘Happy birthday, Uncle Mlungu.’
THE CO-AUTHORS
Wednesday 9:49am
‘Thank you for taking the time to chat to me over the phone, Mr Cannata. Particularly during what must be a difficult time of mourning for you. I won’t keep you long, I only have a few questions to help fill
