The House of the Vegetable

by Frank Lamour

  “I thought—” Don coughed trying to think of some way out of this developing nightmare. “I thought you get like hundreds of thousands for a kidney?”

  “It’s not that much,” Lesley said not looking at him. “There’s a lot of overheads.”

  “I’m saving,” Don said.

  “How much you got?”

  Don had to think about it.

  Lesley shook his head. “I’ve given you long enough, Dino. And you haven’t even given me any money in good faith. Not even mentioned it until I called you in today.”

  “I suppose,” Don said. “I suppose I thought it would go away.”

  “That’s not a very grown up attitude? Is it?”

  Don shook his head.

  “So it’s settled then.” Lesley picked up and knocked back the rest of his Dragon. “I’ve got a surgeon friend that’s going to do the procedure. Well, he’s a GP, but he knows what he’s doing—he’s cut up cadavers, he’s done his two years.” Lesley paused. “If I’m honest, I want to be upfront with you, Dino, he’s also not technically a doctor anymore. He was diagnosed schizophrenic and he spent some time in an asylum. And had his licence taken away. But he takes meds now so don’t worry ‘bout it. There’s a brief period of recovery and then, with a managed lifestyle, your quality of life will be as good as before.” He patted Don warmly on the shoulder. “I mean you were never really into sports or anything?”

  Don shook his head. He was really beginning to feel not at all good.

  “I don’t want to have to do it, Dino. I like you,” Lesley said, using the gun barrel to point. “I do, man. You do a good job at the shop. Everyone likes you. But you know that fucking place makes no money?”

  Don nodded.

  “It’s a hobby,” Lesley went on. “Girls ask, ‘Oh, you the owner of that shop in Melville?’ But what it takes in is just enough to pay you ouens. I got to take whatever opportunities to stay liquid that present themselves.”

  Don was still trying to think of how to talk his way of this but kept being distracted by the character, still apparently getting battered on the huge screen.

  “Unless…” Lesley said, scratching his chin, what appeared ostentatiously. “Maybe there is something you could do instead.”

  Don was listening.

  “Now that I’m thinking about it, a job that’s probably perfect for you. It’s not tough, but it needs a bit of finesse. It needs someone smart. You’re clever Dino, also dumb, but also smart. Do this right and we can forget about organs. And maybe… you know…,” Lesley paused for moment then added, “…there might even be a commission for you.”

  Don was glad of any way to keep his excretory system intact but was now definitely apprehensive about what fresh hell might be in store.

  He sat and listened nervously as Lesley detailed the mission.

  Chapter 4

  As Don made the short cycle back to his place, the conversation with Lesley involuntarily turned over again in his head.

  “There’s this hippy that Hamza delivers to,” the big man had begun, still wiping at the, by now, gleaming Desert Eagle. “He runs some kind of commune. Up on the Brixton ridge. He calls himself Thornapple. A fucking grasseater, but he’s a good customer so I’ll give him a pass. Any-whey, two nights ago Hamz is up there on a call, he gets buzzed in by one of the kids and goes up to transact. Hamz says this, uh, fucking dude is in his usual position, passed out on a beanbag. But tonight Hammie notices on the floor next to the guy a big like, fifty-fucking-kilogram fucking mielie meal sack. Hamz thinks it’s a bit, you know… fucking weird. But the fucking dude is passed out, so Hamz takes a peek inside.”

  Don waited for the fat man to continue.

  “Currency,” Lesley said, before leaning back in the couch, looking somehow satisfied, like he’d related a good tale.

  Don nodded, not sure what to say, but maybe seeing where this was going, and not liking it.

  “So this is where you come in, Dino.” Lesley raised a hand as if to ward off any potential protest. “Now I know you aren’t a criminal—at least aside from doing illegal drugs—but if you having any moral qualms? The way I see it the cash is already stolen. This human vegetable is a just a con artist. He’s fucking over his followers. Taking their hard-earned coin and burning it on getting munged! So, what about it? We could just let him drug himself into a coma? Or we could repurpose the wealth?” He stopped wiping the gun. “So, what do you say, Dino?”

  “Uh. How much is it?” Don asked.

  “Huh?”

  “In the bag?”

  “From what the Hamza says, enough. Enough to make the venture worthwhile.” Lesley paused a moment, eyes narrowing. “I know what you thinking,” he said. (Don hadn’t been entirely sure himself what he was thinking but waited to hear.) “You’re thinking just because I don’t know how much is in the bag you might skim a little off the top.”

  Don shook his head.

  “Well just think about this,” Lesley said, starting to get worked up. “When you get back, I’m gonna ask you if you took any scratch. I don’t know how good of a liar you are Dino, I suspect not fucking very, and if I catch you skimming I’m gonna skim two kidneys outta your frikkin’ mielie meal sack,” Lesley was getting red in the face, using the gun again to gesture at Don.

  Lesley calmed, continued, “And I’ve got to tell you, from what I’ve heard, Dino, quality of life fairly fucking rapidly deteriorates after that.”

  “Nah, I, uh,” Don said, trying his best to assure Lesley that he would never even dream of “skimming.”

  “If you worried about whether or not you gonna get in,” Lesley continued. “We’ve done some research. The guy, this…, uh, he gives his number out. He recruits. So, you fucking get in and get out. You’ll fit in. And the sweet thing is they aren’t going to report it—they’ve got a freaking rain forest of illegal plants up there, they’ve got some kind of dubious subletting arrangement… they aren’t going to want to get the police involved. And they aren’t gonna get tough either. Because they a bunch of fucking hippies!” Lesley appeared to spit out the last word with some distaste

  Don nodded.

  “It’s a sweet deal,” Lesley said leaning back.

  Don didn’t think so but nodded anyway.

  “I know what you gonna say,” Les continued.

  Don shook his head.

  “Why don’t I just get Hamz to pick it up the next time he’s in? Look, even if Thornapple didn’t have enough to last a month, I don’t want this being traced to me. It’s bad PR—even dealers need to maintain some kind of brand identity. Maybe I could get some characters to jump the wall, but there are dogs, an alarm. It’s a fucking hassle and anyway why would I when I got you? This is a class job.”

  Don nodded.

  “Just watch out for love-bombing.” Lesley added.

  Don nodded, despite not really knowing what love-bombing was. He made a note to look it up later.

  “I’ll tell Hamza to give you the address, fill you in on more of the fucking deets. I can give you a couple of weeks. After that, Dino, I’m afraid it’s time to start prepping the theatre, and by theatre I mean my garage. So you in?”

  Don didn’t think the idea sounded like it had a remote chance of working, but at least it gave him some more time. He shrugged and nodded.

  Lesley laughed and slapped him so hard on the back that it brought small tears to Don’s eyes.

  Chapter 5

  It was getting into evening by the time Don got back home. He was just setting his backpack down when his old Nokia beeped.

  He picked up the phone.

  It was Hamza. The text read: “I’m outside.”

  Don headed up the little alleyway, alongside of the house, up to the staff door that served as his main entrance, recalling again the conversation with Lesley. Idly wondering how much of the schizophrenic doctor part was true? The doctor? The schizophrenia? At any rate if he messed up the results would surely not be good.

  Cou
ldn’t he just somehow get hold of a weapon, go, make an appointment and go and “take Les out?” That would solve the problem. But even if he could do it Don was sure he’d never have a good night’s sleep again… and anyway then he wouldn’t have a job any more.

  Don fumbled with his keys and opened the steel door.

  Hamza stood outside on the pavement, dressed in a silver bomber jacket and white Capri pants. His car, a battered old green Mercedes, parked in the street behind him.

  It was the first time Hamza had been to his house and Don did half wonder how he’d got the address, sure he’d never revealed it to anyone associated with the shop.

  Hamza smiled, offering Don a glimpse of his—not so—pearly whites. “How safe is the car?”

  Don wanted to say fine but had heard from his landlord, of two occasions where friends she had visiting had had their cars nicked out of the driveway—well one theft, one hijacking. “Err… It’s not it’s not the best,” he said.

  “Okay. Let’s sit outside. I wouldn’t want to give you a black mark with your landlord anyway.” Hamza went to lean against the bonnet of the Merc and Don joined him.

  “The fat man said I must brief you,” Hamza said.

  Don nodded.

  “How much do you already know?” Hamza asked.

  Don shrugged. “He said it was some kind of a church or something?”

  “The House of the Vegetable,” Hamza said. “Inspired maybe by another larger organisation. That’s what Thornapple calls it anyway.”

  “The guy you deal to?”

  “Yeh. They’ve all got plant names. It’s a ‘plant medicine’ collective.”

  Don shook his head.

  “From what I’ve been able to find out,” Hamza continued, “he started it out as more of a DMT thing—” he saw Don was not following. “It’s a psychedelic. You get it in synthesised or in plant form. Synthesised DMT has been described as the drug equivalent of being shot out of a cannon. The effects lasting only ten minutes or so. In plant form you drink it. It lasts about ten hours, so I suppose it’s like being shot out of a canon, but slowly, over eight hours. It almost always causes puking, sometimes diarrhoea.”

  “Shit.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you tried it?”

  Hamza shook his head. “It’ll put you in contact with aliens and entities. I’ll pass.”

  “That’s what they’re drinking in Brixton?”

  Hamza shook his head and for some reason Don felt his anxiety bump up a couple of notches.

  “From what I could find out this guy is making his own mix. If he’s still using DMT all you need is a plant with the DMT molecule, then a MOA inhibitor to stop it breaking down in the gut.”

  Don wasn’t sure he was following but nodded anyway.

  “The plants are usually sourced from overseas, but I hear Mr Thornapple claims to have found an indigenous analogue. He might also be adding or substituting mushrooms, THC, datura, frog poison” He shrugged. “Datura’s fairly grim. You know, mal pitte?”

  Don shook his head.

  “It grows on the sides of the roads ‘cos no one wants to take it. It’s a deliriant. For some reason when you on it you forget you’ve taken something and every violent and fucked up hallucination you have seems normal. Or you just black out. The thirst is horrendous—and it’s toxic. That I took and wouldn’t really recommend.”

  Don was feeling less good about all this, and he’d already been feeling pretty bad about it to start.

  “Don’t worry about all that, you’ll be fine,” Hamza said, reassuring him, perhaps seeing his expression. “I don’t think anyone’s died up there yet. I don’t think.” The last he added more almost to himself. “As long as you not on any meds, like SSRI’s? Or eat aged cheeses. Or have any issues like psychosis in family. You don’t have any of that?”

  “Uh… I don’t think so.”

  “You’ll be fine. Just focus on the plan and I’m sure you’ll be out of there before you have to partake.” Hamza’s phone beeped, and he checked it. After returning it to a pocket he said, “I gotta go. I’ll give you the address. Look for a big, beigeish wall with rusted barbwire running all along the top. Rusted gate. As you come in you’ll see the main house to the left, lots of veg gardens on the grass in front of it. Straight up, above the garage, that’s where Thornapple stays. That’s where the money is. It was in a white like fucking mielie meal bag or something.”

  Don nodded. “What about alarms? And stuff?”

  “I haven’t seen any signs of an alarm. There’s two dogs. Of the broad Africanis variety. They bark but don’t bite—at least I haven’t got bitten yet—and dogs usually don’t like me. Maybe if you jumped over the wall they might. Other than the dogs, there’s not a huge amount of security. Barbed wire. There’s another gate I go through on the way up to Thornapple’s quarters. Otherwise I don’t know, the place is mostly fucking falling apart. There’s a girl, Nutmeg, she’s the one that always contacts me, lets me in. I think she runs the day to day of things up there. You’ll meet her. She’s an, uh, interesting character. They all interesting characters.”

  Don nodded.

  “Try see it as fun,” Hamza said. It’ll all go better. I don’t know, just pretend like you are Bond and Lesley is just a much fatter version of M.”

  Don nodded.

  “Uh, oh yeh,” Hamza said raising a finger. “Something I nearly forgot.” The dealer turned and went to retrieve something from his car. After rummaging around in the cabin a bit, he emerged with a small leather object. Dark brown, worn, it was about the length of his hand, a couple of fingers wide, narrowing at one end, flat and stitched around the edges.

  “Take it,” Hamza said, extending the object to Don. “I still feel bad for the whole situation. Mentioning the bag to the fat man, you know. Getting you hooked when you were broke. I tried to absorb some of your debt, but I’m in debt myself—barely keeping my head above water.

  “It’s okay,” Don said, embarrassedly waving the issue away.

  Hamza was still holding the object out to Don who now took it. It was heavy, one end weighted.

  “What is it?” Don asked.

  “It’s a sap.”

  Don slapped the weighted half against his palm.

  “Go for elbows, wrists, knees, it will incapacitate, shatter bone. Careful going for the head though, that thing can kill.”

  “Jesus,” Don said, trying to hand the weapon back. “Thanks. But I’m okay. I won’t need it.”

  “Just take it. It’s small enough to conceal. Just put it in your jocks, they might search your bags.”

  Don stared down at the sap.

  Hamza’s cell rang and he checked the screen. “Back to the coal face. I’ll send you the deets. Give them a call. Say you’ve had a problem with drugs—you got the number from a friend who met Thornapple at a party or something. Say you were called, the plant called you. Add something about synchronicity. They go for that sort of thing.”

  Don nodded.

  “You’ll do fine,” Hamza said. He patted Don on the shoulder and then turned and got back into the Merc.

  Don watched the old car turn and tear off down the street.

  Chapter 6

  After Hamza had left, after some time putting off task, Don headed down to the Spar on the main road where, just inside, was still an ancient coin-operated phone.

  Don’d been a bit concerned about being traced by his cell. He’d thought of hiding his caller ID but then worried that that might look suspicious? Would they even answer?—and even if he did hide his number wouldn’t they still be able to trace him through RICA? Lesley had said they wouldn’t report the theft, but Don didn’t trust the guy as far as he could throw him—and that wasn’t very far.

  Don bought a roll of toilet paper to make change and took his place at the payphone. It had been there for years and, despite the prevalence of cell phones, for some reason still remained a fixture—maybe just for the grumpy owner to
point to if anyone asked if they could charge their mobile.

  It was moving into late evening on a work day and the small Parkview strip was still noisy with evening shoppers. He debated waiting till the street quietened down, but the neighbourhood had in the last few years been getting more of an unsavoury quality after dark and Don wasn’t that keen to be out then.

  Don lifted the handset, inserted his coins and dialled. He held the receiver tight to his ear, pressing a palm to the other to block out the street noise, and listened.

  The phone rang for a long time before finally a woman answered.

  “Hello?” Her voice was pleasant enough, if a touch gravelly. He pictured her mid-to-late twenties.

  Don introduced himself as Dan.

  Don had decided it was close enough to his own name so that if someone called out to him while his back was turned he would at least not continue staring blankly off into the distance. Okay, perhaps not a level of subterfuge that MI6 might sanction, but maybe just enough to throw off a casual internet search. (Dino had also been an option, but Don wasn’t sure he could really stand being called that for any length of time—the association with Lesley and all.)

  He still though made another mental note to cancel his social media accounts. Just to be safe. He’d never really had much use for them anyway.

  Don felt a bit bad about lying but tried to recall Hamza’s advice about seeing it as a mission.

  The call was short, but after Don had hung up felt his left ear sweaty—hot and a bit sore from pressing it into the handset.

  The woman, who’d given her name as Nutmeg had, after Don had given a short spiel about synchronicity, had arranged for him to come in and meet them in the morning, saying something like, “The plants are calling you.”

  So far so good. There was bit of a snag though, a three-grand joining fee—“For upkeep of the plants.”

  Don didn’t have nearly that much. He would have to ask the fat man. He would try not to worry about it. He still needed to be accepted, but at least he had his foot in the door.