Dead Money

by Srinath Adiga

  “So how about that favor you were going to ask me?” Hans asked.

  “Oh, that … yes. I need you to be in a commercial.”

  “You mean like a model?”

  “Something like that.”

  Hans burst out laughing. “Do I look like a model to you?”

  Theo cupped his chin and appraised his friend’s outfit: a loose Indian shirt, blue jeans. “Well, you’ve got this whole social-worker chic happening. But no. We’re not looking for model types. We want real people.”

  “What’s it for?”

  Theo cleared his throat. “Afterlife Dollar investments.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Nothing. Just be yourself. So are you up for it?”

  Hans shrugged. “Yeah … guess so.”

  “Great. In that case, you need to sign this.” Theo slid a contract across the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “A talent release form. Something that says you give us permission to run this commercial with you in it.”

  Hans signed without asking any questions. Theo folded the contract carefully and placed it in his shirt pocket.

  “I’m just going to the gents’,” he said. He weaved through the tight cluster of tables to the back of the room, where the jukebox was once again playing Beastie Boys.

  A double door led to a short corridor with the gents’ toilet at the end. Theo went in and stood at the urinal, studying the ceiling’s flaking paint as he relieved himself.

  After he finished, he went to the washbasin. As he wrung his hands under the running tap, he heard it: a short, sharp burst, like a stray drum and bass note. The room shook as if jolted by a tremor. The mirror cracked into a spiderweb. Puffs of dust dropped from the ceiling as the light flickered and died.

  Theo used the glow from his mobile phone to guide him to the door. He counted to ten before opening it. Smoke flew in his face, sending fiery needles into his eyes, nose and throat. He squinted through the cordite fumes, mouth covered, exiting the corridor through a door that hung lopsided on one hinge.

  The bar was unrecognizable in the light of the sparking jukebox. Voices rose from the floor, dismembered cries that sounded more animal than human. Every now and then, his foot landed on something squishy, as if he were in a swamp. A sick feeling rose in his stomach when he thought of what it might be. He hastened to the end of the room and crawled through a hole blown by the blast.

  A voice yelled as he emerged into the daylight.

  “Cut!”

  It was Miguel. The Colombian was in a director’s chair, dressed in a grey suit and back-to-front baseball cap. Behind him, a movie camera retreated on tracking rails.

  Theo dusted himself off and looked back at the hole, expecting Hans to come out. Then he realized Hans wouldn’t be coming. Not then. Not ever. The sight of his blood-soaked brogues triggered a spasm of nausea.

  “Did you get him to sign the talent release?” Miguel asked. The serpent eyes under the visor drilled Theo.

  He nodded and handed over the contract from his pocket.

  “Good job.”

  Theo had just turned to leave when a voice called from the other side of the road. It was Walter, his client, alongside his colleague, Nick.

  Walter crooked a finger, beckoning Theo. His eyes were glassy while the Englishman’s were bloodshot, both smelling like they’d drunk an entire brewery between them.

  “We’re going to a club,” Walter said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Want to come?”

  “He means the strip club,” Nick said loudly.

  “Shhh.” Walter nudged his companion. “Do you want the whole world to know?”

  “You guys go. I’m … I’m not in the mood,” Theo said.

  “That wasn’t Hans in there. You do know that, don’t you?” Nick said. “That was a double. It’s all a game, mate. Subprime yesterday, Afterlife Dollars today. You can’t take this shit seriously. Come on. Let’s look at some tits.”

  “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand? Leave me alone,” Theo hissed. He turned to go, but Nick snaffled his wrist and dragged him toward a taxi waiting by the curbside.

  “Let go!” Theo shouted.

  He woke up kicking and punching, stopping when he realized it had been a nightmare. He was not in some dusty Mumbai street, but in his bedroom, a familiar darkness lit by the wan glow from his digital clock. The sheets lay in a swirl by his feet. The breeze stirred rangy shadows in the window.

  He turned on the TV, filling the room with pale, flickering light. Resting his head on a stack of pillows, he watched a rerun of an old football game for the remainder of the night.

  8.

  INSIDE THE BRIGHT-GREEN WAITING ROOM, Theo closed the out-of-date magazine and sighed with exhaustion.

  “Shouldn’t be too long,” the receptionist responded with a look of sympathy.

  He nodded and closed his eyes. The nightmares had been occurring for three weeks now. The last time he’d experienced anything like this was after his mother’s death. Time had erased memories of what transpired in those visions, but he remembered waking up, kicking off the sheet. He’d sit up and hug his knees, dealing with it the only way a nine-year-old could: cry, and cry softly, no louder than a sob because he was afraid he’d disturb his father, sleeping in the next room.

  In his little head, he was convinced that the old man held Theo responsible for his mother’s death. When Theo came home from school, he’d find the strapping Nordic figure hunched over the potter’s wheel, not acknowledging Theo’s presence. None of the usual questions: How was school? What did you learn today? Later, they ate microwave dinners in silence, talking only when the gravy needed passing.

  Then one night, Theo woke up with an almighty scream that brought his father to the room. He buried himself in his father’s chest, pressing into the smell of sweat, clay and plaster. Father patted him awkwardly and waited till he stopped crying before depositing a little blue pill in his palm.

  “This is going to make you feel better.”

  It sure did. Next morning, Theo woke up feeling rested but a bit dull, as if some part of his brain had been surgically removed. He went to school and did all the things he’d normally do, except he didn’t feel like talking much to anyone. And that’s when he understood that Dad’s reticence had nothing to do with anger, but the pill working its magic. And that’s why he was there in the garish waiting room, to get more of those pills. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait too long, as the receptionist uttered the magic words, “The doctor will see you now.”

  He was ushered into a small office, this one painted fleshy pink. The doctor was a hirsute Turkish man with a smiling face. His name was embroidered on his white coat: Osman, although Mathias referred to him as “Dealer” on account of his relaxed attitude toward prescribing sedatives.

  “I need something for my jet lag,” Theo said. “Something stronger than usual.”

  The doctor slanted an eyebrow.

  “I’m just having more trouble sleeping this time. You know how it is sometimes?” Theo smiled.

  “How long has this been going on for?”

  “Uh … about two weeks.”

  “Are you sure it’s jet lag?”

  “I have been traveling a lot.”

  Just give me the goddamn pills.

  The doctor gave him a searching look and printed out a prescription.

  “Thank you,” Theo said.

  “Wait,” the doctor said as he was about to leave. He gave him another printout.

  “A referral to see a therapist.”

  Theo pocketed the referral with no intention of using it. What was a therapist going to say that he didn’t already know? That the Hans in his dream wasn’t real, but just a sock puppet for a conscience that was all too eager to pin the guilt for selling Afterlife Dollar investments? But let’s try and be objective here: was it Afterlife Dollars that killed Hans?

  Currency was an inanimate object. It possessed neither t
he desire nor the ability to press a detonation switch. Money wasn’t the root of all evil, humans were. Besides, nothing was forever. Years from now, no one would even be talking about Afterlife Dollar investments. They’d have moved on to the next thing. He just needed something to get through this.

  The little blue pill.

  9.

  THEO JERKED AWAKE WHEN THE PHONE RANG. He stared blankly at his surroundings like someone who’d risen from years in a coma, although he’d been sleeping only a few minutes.

  Where am I?

  A room—no, a cubicle: grey walls, black tiles, white light, tinkle of running water.

  The office toilet.

  The phone stopped ringing. Then a second later, it rang again, forcing Theo to answer.

  “Hello.”

  “Where have you been? I must have rung you at least a million times.” Mathias’s voice crackled in his ear.

  “Sorry, I was meaning to call.”

  “You sound like shit. What’s wrong?”

  Theo grimaced.

  I feel like shit.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept a full eight hours. All he knew was the nightmares had started in summer. Now it was autumn. He’d tried all sorts of pills: blue ones, red ones, yellow ones, white ones. Nothing worked. And the only way he could get through grueling twelve-hour workdays was through naps like the one he’d woken up from, a trick he’d learnt from Nick, who had a one-month-old baby. He felt like a string stretched to the limit of tautness. How long before he snapped?

  “Theo. Are you there?”

  “Yes, yes, sorry. I’m fine. Just busy.”

  “I bet. Have you got a costume for tomorrow?”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Ha! Knew you’d forget. My Halloween party.”

  “Mathias, I—”

  “What the hell’s going on? You don’t come out. You don’t answer my calls. I want you there tomorrow. No excuses.”

  After finishing the call, Theo flushed the toilet. At the sink, he wrung his hands under the tap, staring at a face broken by insomnia: sallow skin; muddy, bruised eyes; cheeks swollen from the comfort food and chocolate bars he was eating to get through the day. He hissed at his reflection and dragged himself back to his desk.

  The long call-center table was empty at lunch hour. He sat down and widened his eyes to make himself more awake, then turned his attention to the document open on one of his screens. Normally, he’d finish this report in an hour. But in his present state, everything took infinitely longer. He frowned at the blinking cursor on the screen, urging his brain to think. Then he resumed writing.

  A few paragraphs later, he found his concentration wavering, his mind distracted by thoughts of Mathias’s party.

  Snorting angrily, he opened a fresh browser window and typed “Halloween costumes.”

  The search engine furnished an array of ghost and spook images. He stared at the screen, once again frustrated by a blank mind.

  Just pick something.

  But the fog of sleep deprivation rendered him incapable of this seemingly simple decision. He scrolled mindlessly: up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, until finally paralysis turned to rage.

  Fuck the costume. Fuck the report. Fuck this job. Fuck everything.

  He pushed the chair back and rose, ready to kick the computer, when he heard a voice behind him.

  “You better not be surfing porn.”

  “Miguel.” Theo turned around and smiled nervously. How long had he been standing there?

  “What’s this?” the Colombian asked, peering officiously at Theo’s screen.

  “I’ve got a Halloween party on Saturday,” Theo replied, heart running.

  Did I just come close to a meltdown?

  “Saturday?” Miguel frowned. “I don’t remember giving you the weekend off.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Theo responded with a plastic smile, one he was able to furnish on demand these days.

  “Grim Reaper,” Miguel suggested. “Go as the Grim Reaper.”

  “Good one,” Theo said, glad that someone had made that decision for him. He returned to his seat and shuffled his papers in the hope that Miguel would leave. But the Colombian dragged over a chair and sat next to him, hands steepled, drilling with those serpentine eyes.

  Theo stiffened. What now?

  “Do you remember what I said to you a couple of months ago?” Miguel asked.

  Theo swallowed.

  “You were so negative and detail-obsessed. I gave you a kick up the butt and look at you now … my star player. Way ahead on the leaderboard.” Miguel beamed. “Your efforts have ensured our product will be a huge success. That’s why I’ve decided to make you a member of the Ninja Council. Welcome aboard, Theo. You’re a Ninja now,” he proclaimed, as if awarding a knighthood. In the world of Alpha Capital, it was like the knighthood. An honor that came with an invitation to Miguel’s Monday breakfast club, an unparalleled opportunity to kiss his ass and earn your next promotion. But right then, Theo craved one thing more than a promotion, a raise, or a seat on the damn Ninja Council. Sleep. To sleep and never wake up, because if he did, he was afraid he’d never go back to sleep again.

  10.

  THE APARTMENT WAS A GROTTO OF BLACKED-out windows and pumpkin lights. Bats and crescent moons, dangling from the ceiling, twirled in the air. Mathias was dressed like the clown from It: white face, red nose, fuzzy orange wig stuck to his bald head.

  He stood back, appraising Theo’s Grim Reaper costume.

  “Is everything okay? You don’t look so great,” he asked.

  Theo sighed. He was about to mention the insomnia. But something stopped him—pride, or perhaps he was more like his father than he thought. A man who believed that pain was private, even when going through cancer.

  Besides, the person he really ought to talk to was a therapist. The near-meltdown at work the previous day had finally convinced him to pick up the phone and make an appointment. Something he should’ve done weeks earlier.

  “It’s work stress,” he said. “I’m doing crazy hours.”

  “Have you had any pussy since Valerie left?”

  Theo rolled his eyes. “Not all problems in the world relate to sex.”

  “Most do. Get yourself a drink. We’re going to have fun tonight.” Mathias winked.

  The drinks were in the kitchen, wine, liquor and cola bottles scattered haphazardly on a wooden bench. A window overlooked the fire escape and lights in the back garden. Theo leaned his scythe against the fridge and tipped some vodka into a Styrofoam cup.

  “Theo!” a voice shouted, nearly causing him to spill his drink.

  Mara’s bony figure was standing behind him, blonde hair tied in a ponytail, hands tucked in her parka pockets. Seemed she’d picked the most appropriate costume for a Halloween party: coming as herself.

  “Are you involved with Afterlife Dollar investments?” she asked point-blank.

  “Yes … I mean, no.”

  She gasped. “My God. How could you? After Hans …”

  “Don’t drag Hans into this. This isn’t about him.”

  “Then what’s it about?”

  He cleared his throat. “A bunch of investors wanting to capitalize on an undervalued asset.”

  “Undervalued asset?” she scoffed. “Why don’t you be honest and say this is all about your bonus? That’s what you people really care about, isn’t it? Do you have any idea what’s going on out there while you’re chasing your bonuses?”

  “No, Mara. You tell me.”

  “Pull your head out of your ass and you might be able to see for yourself.”

  She turned on her heel and stormed back to the living room.

  The cup crackled in Theo’s hand. He drank the vodka and poured another one, then went in search of Mathias.

  He located his friend near the fireplace, talking to a bunch of people. A woman dressed like Maleficent, with a tight black dress and two symmetrical animal horns rising from her hair
. Beside her was a man in an orange jump-suit and hockey mask, and next to him, a stocky man with a green face.

  “Everybody, this is Theo,” Mathias said, drawing him into the group. “My partner in crime, although I’m sad to report, we’re not committing many crimes these days.”

  “Hey, are you the banker?” the man with the hockey mask asked.

  “Yes.” Theo leaned forward and whispered, “But please keep it to yourself. I’ve been telling everyone I work for a tobacco company. Less chance someone’s going to want to punch me.”

  The comment drew a wry smile from Maleficent.

  “Do you have anything to do with Afterlife Dollars? Because if you did, that would be so appropriate,” Hockey Mask remarked.

  Theo looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t there a custom where you leave a coin in the mouth of a dead person for the Grim Reaper?”

  “You’ve got your wires crossed,” Green Face said. “That coin is for the boatman who ferries you across the Styx.”

  Maleficent rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you people believe in this nonsense?”

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss it. Of all the theories I’ve heard on the subject of the afterlife, this one makes the most sense,” Green Face countered.

  “What? That God is mercenary?” Maleficent frowned.

  “If there were a compassionate god, how would you explain the Holocaust and leukemia in children? There’s no compassion in nature,” Green Face preached. “Nature is cruel. This whole business of compassion is a figment of our imagination. Just like morality. I mean, if you tell me moral boundaries are necessary because if everyone did as they pleased, society would descend into chaos, I buy that. But don’t tell me that it’s going to determine the outcome of our afterlives. That doesn’t make sense. Yet for centuries, we’ve been led down this garden path by a succession of prophets. As far as I’m concerned, only two people have come remotely close to understanding the truth. One of them’s Charles Darwin.”

  “And who’s the other?” Theo asked, bemused.

  “Adam Smith. And his god didn’t have seven archangels, but two. Supply and Demand. God is the invisible hand,” Green Face declared.