ShelfLife

by Barrie Seppings

  ‘Fuck. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Tell me, Gavin, how did this happen? Were you with him when he was captured by those dogs?’

  Gavin shook his head. ‘It must have happened after.’

  ‘After what?’ Peter’s eye narrowed against the smoke.

  ‘We had lunch by the market, it was a slow day, he got talking with some locals who said there were rumours of an attack being planned on the east side of town, close to the centre. Henri wanted to check it out.’

  ‘You went with him?’

  ‘He wanted me to stay here at the hotel, but I guess I was being stubborn,’ Gavin looked down at his fingers. ‘I told him that you had said to always go in a pair if it looked like it could be trouble. Safer that way. Besides, I wanted to see it for myself. That’s why I rented your life.’

  ‘What did you want to see for yourself?’ Peter studied the lit cigarette between his fingers.

  Gavin looked around the small room, the peeling walls and the mismatched furniture from another century. ‘War, I guess.’

  ‘So, Gavin, what was war like for you?’ Peter’s eyes locked onto Gavin’s.

  ‘It was awful. I just wanted to get out of there. To make it stop, or go home, or anything. I really thought I was going to die,’ Gavin looked to the ceiling, jiggling his clasped hands back and forth, as if in epileptic prayer. ‘I still do.’

  ‘People think we do this because it is exciting. That’s bullshit,’ Peter took a long drag. ‘War is terror, nothing more.’

  ‘Then why do you do it? It can’t be for the money?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Peter gave a small laugh. ‘There was not much money in this job before, even when we did have regular jobs with the newspapers. But now we are all contractors, freelancers. It is almost charity. Once the newspapers learn to fly drones properly, they won’t need us at all. No, we do it because people forget that war is terror. Our job is to try to remind them. Otherwise, it can become very easy for people to get used to war.’

  ‘How can you get used to this?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what humans will adapt to when they have no choice. Look at this city. Almost a battlefield, but still every day people wake up to sell meat at the markets, to drive taxis, to clean this hotel, to take photographs,’ Peter stubbed his cigarette on the sole of his boot. ‘It’s madness.’

  ‘Henri and I got separated when the snipers were shooting at us,’ Gavin’s voice broke at the recollection of the sound of the air being split by metal.

  ‘Don’t take it personally, Gavin. Those fuckers shoot at everyone. Even each other,’ Peter smiled.

  Gavin blinked hard. ‘He told me to run for a door across the alleyway while he was shooting back at them, to give me cover. That’s the last I time I saw him.’

  ‘He had a gun?’ Peter raised an eyebrow.

  Gavin nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry. He’s been getting mixed up with one of the local factions. I heard some militia were after him. It’s tempting to get involved, to take sides, but it never does any good. For any of us.’ Peter pushed himself off his thighs and stood. ‘He should never have taken you to the eastern side. Better for you to go home now. This is no place for you.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Peter,’ Gavin rubbed his face with both hands and exhaled. ‘I told myself I came here to see something real, something exciting. Truth is, I did it to impress a girl.’

  ‘It must have worked,’ Peter smiled. ‘She sent me to come get you.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Gavin’s mood brightened.

  ‘This is the girl you moaned about when you first got here, yes?’ Peter asked. ‘Tracked me down to my wife’s house in Dubai. Told me I had to extract you or she’d tell my wife how much money I have in my other accounts. I don’t know how she knows this stuff.’

  ‘This girl usually finds a way to get what she wants,’ Gavin sat back on the bed. ‘I just wanted her to want me.’

  ‘That’s funny, my wife said something very similar. Told me that if I really wanted her, I had to stop running away. This girl at your company? Shansi?’

  ‘Shanti.’

  ‘Maybe she wants to tell you the same thing?’ Peter patted his pockets and extracted a crumpled piece of paper. ‘She also told me to give you a copy of my flight costs. She says that you’ll cover them out of your part of the exit deal. Does that sound right?’

  ‘It does. Thank you, Peter, for letting me be you for a few days,’ Gavin smiled and took the paper. ‘Now I just want to get back to my own life.’

  ‘How lucky you are to have a life you want to get back to. So many people in this shithole don’t,’ Peter said. ‘Pack your stuff, you’re waitlisted on the next Lufthansa flight.’

  ***

  Gavin sat on the front steps of the hotel, roasting in the afternoon sun as Peter scanned both ends of the street for a taxi. A few children played in the shade opposite and a couple of small shops had rolled back the shutters to start trading again.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Gavin.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About your wife?’

  Peter blew his cheeks out and squinted into the glare. ‘I told her I’d come home, try a normal life with her for a while.’

  ‘Really? In Dubai? What are you going to do there?’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of commercial work. I can shoot for tourism, for property, all sorts. Just not weddings. I never shoot weddings. Too dangerous.’ Peter swung to check the other end of the street. ‘And what are you going to do when you get home to Singapore?’

  ‘Get straight back to work. The company’s gone off the rails a bit. We need to tidy things up and get our exit sorted.’

  ‘Commendable, but I was talking about the girl,’ Peter looked down at Gavin. ‘I see myself, chasing after so many girls because I don’t want to be on my own. But I see you, chasing just one because you don’t want to be with anyone else. I think you should chase a little harder when you get back home. OK, this might be your ride.’

  Peter waved at an asthmatic old Mercedes as it lumbered up the dusty street. It wasn’t marked as a taxi, but most car-owners in Antakya were happy to put their vehicles to work. The Mercedes saw them and picked up speed. Gavin saw the figures rise in the back seat, but wasn’t able to move fast enough. He heard Peter shout in his ear and felt a hand plant itself in his back. A burst of gunfire spat through the heavy sunlight, far louder than the sniper fire he’d heard a couple of days before.

  He rolled in the dirt and pressed himself behind some crates left in the street, covering his head as the shots continued. Angry voices shouted. The Mercedes bellowed as the driver sped past.

  Gavin opened his eyes but saw only dust, kicked up by the gunmen’s car. The street had fallen quiet just as quickly as it had been engulfed in violence. He rolled on to his belly and crawled through the dirt, staying close to the crates, back towards the steps.

  ‘Peter?’ he whispered.

  There was no sound on the street. No sirens, no screams, no calls for help and no assistance. Only Gavin’s harsh, shallow breathing rushing through his own ears. It was as if the sound of gunfire had chased away the entire population.

  After a few moments, Gavin pushed himself around to the end of the crates, to where he could see the hotel steps.

  Peter stared back at him, his body splayed awkwardly on the concrete steps. His eyes did not move.

  Cancel all my meetings

  A genuinely relieved Trent pocketed his mobile as he leaned into the frosted glass door of the incubator, protecting his takeaway coffee: Gavin had been located and would be on a flight back to Singapore by the end of the day. The downside was that the episode had heightened the Singapore investors’ angst. Charles had recommended Trent cut short the promotional tour of north Asia and return to HQ: ‘Nothing major – just show your face and help me calm the horses.’ Whatever happened, Trent was determined not to miss his speaking slot at StartSlam Taipei, a three-day mosh pit of investors, dr
eamers, coders and hustlers, now being scrutinised by the likes of Bloomberg, AWSJ and Fast Company.

  He should have prepared something a little more formal in the way of a debrief for Charles, but then again Charles had advised against spending too much energy on reporting success when your primary job was to generate it. Trent was sure he’d done plenty of that. Charles’ connections had opened doors almost everywhere and the continued rise of ShelfLife guaranteed Trent was invited to step inside.

  ‘Ready for you now, Mr Carlisle.’ A sharply-dressed young man carrying a tablet and wearing a headset intercepted Trent before he could get to his desk. Clearly someone had been hiring in his absence. And purchasing headsets. He hoped the costs were covered by incubator management. ShelfLife’s costs were continuing to outpace revenues, but Charles said this was standard for a hot startup and absolutely necessary for the Private Equity market to consider them a legitimate IPO candidate.

  Swinging open the conference room door, Trent was met by a row of executives wearing tailored suits in variations of navy, seated at the opposite side of the conference table. There was no sign of Charles.

  ‘Good of you to join us finally, Mr Carlisle. Perhaps now we can begin.’

  It was the woman he had met on his first trip to Singapore, Ms Lim, the one who had fashioned the original investment deal.

  ‘Mr Shaw, pass a copy of the agreement to Mr Carlisle, please.’

  A younger man – perhaps the same young man at the initial meeting, Trent couldn’t be certain – slid a stack of papers across the table.

  ‘I think I might be in the wrong meeting,’ Trent gestured outside. ‘My apologies.’

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Carlisle. You are exactly where you need to be,’ Ms Lim said.

  ‘But not where we need you to be,’ added an older Singaporean man, peering over his wireframe glasses.

  Trent took a sip of his coffee and surveyed the room. He guessed these were heavyweights from the investment co-op, or maybe even higher up in the government itself. Trent had met dozens of these types at presentations and cocktail parties, but most of the upper-level government relationship management stuff had been left to Charles. Which is what he thought Charles should be doing right now.

  ‘I was expecting to have a private conversation with my business partner,’ said Trent unhitching his carry-on from his shoulder and taking a seat.

  ‘Which is exactly what you are doing now, Mr Carlisle,’ said Ms Lim. ‘As representatives of the organisation that has acquired a significant stake in your firm, we naturally consider ourselves to be your business partners here in Singapore. And we have serious reservations about your ability to manage this business and deliver continued growth.’

  Wire-rims cleared his throat. ‘We are most concerned with your ability, or rather your inability, to follow simple instructions: you continue to offer an array of dangerous, immoral and, frankly, distasteful life-rental options to our citizens. This is unacceptable.’

  Trent gave tight smile and a small nod. This must be blowback from Gavin’s little Syrian adventure. Some initial media reports had mentioned a so-called a ‘job-swap app’, but then the world’s attention had swung to a second video the Jihadis had released claiming they would strap the French reporter to an anti aircraft missile.

  ‘I can assure you the incident in Syria was completely unrelated to our business,’ Trent smiled warmly.

  The senior representatives exchanged glances. A few of the juniors began flicking through stacks of documents, murmuring to each other and shaking their heads.

  ‘An incident in Syria?’ Ms Lim adjusted her eyeglasses. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  Trent reached for his coffee cup and took another sip to buy some time and hide his reaction. Fuck. If they didn’t even know about Gavin’s little Middle Eastern flame-out, then what was their grievance? And where the hell was Charles? Stall them, Trent reasoned with himself, just buy the fat man a little more time and he’ll straighten things out, surely.

  ‘My apologies. I had assumed you were referring to rumours that had surfaced recently. I assure you, none of our operations are garnering negative publicity. Quite the opposite.’ Trent reached into his bag for his laptop. ‘I’d like to give you an update on my press tour of our major growth markets in north Asia,’

  Wire-rims cut Trent off, shaking a sheaf of papers. ‘You are currently offering a week as a drug dealer in Los Angeles, several dominatrixes – dominatrices? Dom? What are they called?’

  ‘I think we decided on dominatrii,’ a junior offered.

  ‘So did we,’ Trent brightened.

  ‘Your input is not currently required, Mr Carlisle,’ said Wire-rims. ‘At least a dozen listings for dominatrii; a…a “dole bludger” in Perth; a hydroponics grower in the Netherlands; a police officer on the east coast of Malaysia –’

  ‘I thought we decided that one was OK?’ The junior was quickly shushed.

  ‘A breast health technician at a clinic in Toronto, a stunt driver in Bollywood, a race car driver in Santiago and a tank driver with the Ukraine army.’

  Trent made a mental note to ask Gavin to ask his team of interns to please do their fucking jobs. He made another note to get them to package up those last three as ‘the Ultimate Driver Experience.’ He placed a finger in the air to start, but was mown down by Ms Lim.

  ‘Also of growing concern is your list of creditors. It appears you have arranged to pay many of your vendors in kind, promising to deliver services you cannot hope to provide,’ she flipped open a ring binder. ‘Your hosting company claims you owe them a week as an engineer with NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab. A coding company in Bangladesh claims a week as a Development Lead in Silicon Valley for ten individuals…’

  ‘And we have received several requests, via diplomatic back channels, from a senior Cambodian Ministry official,’ added the junior without looking up from his paperwork, ‘who believes he is owed either a week as a ranch-hand in Colorado or a new Harley Davidson Fatboy.’

  ‘You appear to be in breach of several clauses of both your shareholder’s agreement and director’s contract,’ said Wire-rims as he stood and straightened his tie. The other executives also rose, straightening their clothing in sartorial support. ‘Make a swift and silent exit, Mr Carlisle, and we may decide not to prosecute these breaches. If we do pursue, it will be as a criminal suit, not a civil matter.’

  Wire-rims strode from the boardroom, shadowed by his entourage of suits.

  The air-conditioning hummed in the empty room. Trent exhaled. It had to be a mistake. Or maybe a bluff. The investors were probably jockeying for a lower valuation prior to the IPO, which would increase the intra-day gain on listing. Charles had warned him of this.

  Where was the pudgy old Brit? Trent wondered. He reached for his phone just as the main door crept open and the young man wearing a headset peered in.

  ‘Ah, Mr Carlisle, there is someone here looking for you.’

  ‘If it’s Mr Archer-Ellis, send him in,’ Trent said, leaning back in his chair and placing his feet on the boardroom table. Headset Boy winced.

  ‘Ah, no. He says he is from a business publication in Taipei and he would very much like to interview you.’

  Trent sprang forward and checked his watch. ‘I wasn’t planning on doing any media before lunch, but you can send him in.’

  The man who pushed past Headset Boy did not fit Trent’s expectations of a Taiwanese business journalist. He didn’t fit Trent’s expectations of a Taiwanese anything.

  ‘I understand you’re pressed for time so let’s get started,’ the journalist lowered his solid frame into a chair and slicked back his blond hair. ‘I’d love to get your profile in the weekend edition.’

  Trent waved Headset Boy away and smoothed his fringe. ‘Well, of course, that would be great. Can I just ask which publication you’re from? My assistant neglected to tell me.’

  ‘Just let me get set up here,’ the reporter placed a small black recorder on the t
able. ‘I want to get this straight from the horse’s mouth.’

  Trent nodded. He had several new sound-bites ready.

  ‘Okay, if you could just state your name, your title and your area of responsibility.’

  Trent leaned in towards the recorder and spoke from his diaphragm, just as the media trainer had advised. ‘I am Trent Carlisle and I am the CEO and founder of ShelfLife,’ he said with the bravura of a weekend anchorman. ‘My role is to help people change their lives, one week at a time.’

  ‘Mr Carlisle,’ said the reporter as he scooped up the recorder and replaced it with a manila envelope. ‘You are hereby served with notice to appear in court in the state of Connecticut within thirty days.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. You’ve been served,’ The journalist tapped the envelope to underline his point.

  ‘Seriously? Is that even a thing anymore?’ Trent grabbed the envelope and shook it as if it were covered in wasps.

  ‘Apparently so.’ The fake reporter had pushed himself out of his seat and was now looming over Trent. ‘Unless we serve you with US papers, we’d have to file our claim here in the local court. And Susan Carlisle has no intention of travelling to this fake sweaty Manhattan-in-the-tropics to attend a court case.’

  Trent looked down at the envelope. ‘This is from my mother?’

  ‘She’s seeking the total proceeds of the Vandten Corporation shares you sold, while in breach of your employment contract with Mediclinical.’

  ‘She’s wasting her time. The money’s gone,’ Trent folded his arms.

  The fake reporter wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘She’s not after the cash, she’s after what you spent it on. She now considers herself the owner of a significant stake in a hot new interweb startup, which I assume is what these flash offices are all about.’

  Trent exhaled. ‘I can’t believe my mother would come after me like this.’

  ‘I’ve only been working her for a few weeks,’ said the fake reporter as he made for the door. ‘And I can definitely believe it.’