by Peter Church
“You crazy?” said Richard.
“I’m not scared of those things,” Johnny retorted. “You know how hard it is to get a shark to attack someone? That’s the whole problem, not avoiding being attacked.”
“Oh yeah, know-it-all!” Richard replied.
“Fuck off, you fag. Just because all you know is computers and rent boys…” Johnny glared at Richard.
“Alistair, what do you think?” Devon stepped in.
The sound of his name shook Alistair from muteness. He lifted his beer then put it down again. “I think it’s madness.”
“But if the victim was willing…”
Alistair shook his head.
“An old age home,” Richard interjected. “Good evening, sir! Sorry to hear about the cancer. Skin or prostate? Oh, lung. Nasty. Can I interest you in a little sea safari?”
Johnny drained his beer, lumbered away for a refill. Alistair’s can remained undrunk on the table.
Richard continued his charade. “We design a pamphlet. Are you tired of living? Picture of old timer in pain. Are your loved ones taken care of? No? Picture of homeless family huddled in the rain. Then why don’t you—dun dun dun—just get eaten by a shark? Picture of great white with old timer in its mouth…”
“OK, enough,” Devon interrupted, annoyed. “That’s the challenge. There wouldn’t be so much money involved if it wasn’t a challenge. Finding a willing participant is the key.”
“Are you for real?” said Alistair. He lifted his beer and took a solitary sip. “Imagine the first person you approach declines. Then someone accepts. What happens a few months later if we actually get someone to do it? The first person comes forward and you’re busted.”
“Now you are thinking, Alesandro….Carry on.”
“You’re asking for someone who has cancer or something, can swim proficiently, has destitute relations and is prepared to die, in a horrifying manner.” Alistair’s low voice muffled the enthusiasm of the room like soot over glowing embers. “Then you have to find a shark who’s happy to eat the guy on a given date. Like Johnny said, we may be shit scared of them but they don’t just attack humans. And breaching is extremely rare, happens at Seal Island when they’re attacking seals from deep down, virtually nowhere else in the world, so chances of that happening are less than zero…”
“Now who’s the know-it-all,” interjected Johnny quietly.
Alistair ignored him. “So,” he continued, “we might get two fifty thousand if—if—we can convince some demented old guy to be mauled to death in front of us. Hmm, might pay for the therapy bills for the rest of our lives.”
“OK, relax, Alesandro, relax,” said Devon. “Let’s all take a deep breath and have a think.”
“You never know until you try,” said Johnny, banging down his second empty beer can on the table. “I reckon there must be a way.”
Alistair looked at his watch. Five o’clock. He had better things to do. Richard turned the sound up on the amplifier, threw out an ungainly dance move. Thump, thump, thump.
“I say we make a victim,” suggested Johnny. “We lay bait in the path of some early morning swimmers.”
“Ridiculous,” muttered Alistair under his breath.
Johnny swung around and grabbed his shirt, the button on the sleeve popped off.
“What did you say, huh, rich boy?”
Alistair yanked his arm free. “It’s murder, you fuckwit,” he said, brushing down his shirt.
Richard jumped up and unleashed a series of mock karate chops in Johnny’s direction. “Murder on the dance floor,” he laughed.
“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” Alistair was astounded; it was almost surreal.
“Look, it’s not easy,” said Devon. “Perhaps we laugh it off. Wait for the next one…”
“Fuck that, this is a great opportunity,” said Johnny. “We’ve got the largest great white population in the world, take a boat a kilometer out of Kalk Bay, and they practically swim right up to you.”
“Laugh it off,” Alistair advised. “It’s not legal.” He stretched his legs, motioning to move.
“What would we, Mr. Fucking LA Law, be guilty of, if the participant was willing?” asked Johnny.
Alistair threw his hands in the air, fed up; he made to leave.
“Sit, Alesandro. How’s your beer? We’re just debating. Intellectual banter.”
Alistair halted in mid-dismount, remained flexed on the edge of the couch.
“Hypothetically, Alesandro. Think John F. Kennedy. A guy with a motion camera, Zapruder, just happens to be filming. In 1963! Think the Twin Towers. Aeroplane flies over and you get the shot that no one else got. Now, if you’re filming on a boat and some guy swims past. Next minute—whoosh!—out the depths, this monster grabs him. You’ve got a problem with that?”
“That’s coincidental.”
“And you wouldn’t sell that video?”
“I might,” Alistair replied reluctantly. “Sure, if this were not underhand, the video would be public domain. We’d sell it to media. The fact that we’ll sell it to Carlos means, by definition, it’s illegal.”
“Alesandro, please humor me. Mental challenge only. You know I’d never get involved in snuff.”
“OK, fine. But even watching people die is sick, man. Do you really want to watch someone die in front of you? Intentionally set out to watch that?”
Richard laughed nervously again. “I tried to watch that US journalist, whatshisname, Daniel Pearl, getting beheaded on the net,” he said, pointing at his computer. “Couldn’t do it. And those other guys in Iraq. I’ve downloaded about five of those clips, never actually been able to press play.”
“You’re so pathetic.” Johnny on the attack again. “I’ve watched them. It’s pixels on a screen, the guy dies. How’s it different to a movie?”
“These are real people!”
“Real people die every day, thousands of them. It’s the way of the world, so what? What does it matter if you watch it?”
“Look,” said Alistair, keen to end the discussion, “that’s just one point. The ethics of legitimately filming a victim, even by coincidence, is questionable. If you staged it, you’d go to jail.”
“You’d go to jail for what you did to Terri Phillips, golden boy,” replied Johnny with a relish. He tapped his pack of cigarettes rhythmically against the table.
“What I did?” Alistair blinked twice.
“Forget about this fuck, Devon. Take us through the plan,” continued Johnny, pleased to have silenced both Alistair and Richard. He replaced the cigarette pack and squashed his fist into a ball, clenching and unclenching, unconsciously examining his blunt, nicotine-stained fingernails. “We identify a willing candidate. What do we tell him?”
“Well, we have the equipment and ability to film. Our challenge is to find the right candidate; if he declines then we’ve got a risk. We have to abandon the project until he passes on. The negotiation process is key: select the right prospect, win their trust, create a situation where the target is propositioning us, and not vice versa.”
“They need to trust we’ll pay the money,” said Richard.
“Contractual. We’ll get ourselves a tame lawyer. Legal confidentiality and all that.”
“Surely he’s going to tell his family, though?”
“No. He cannot. No one can know about the transaction except us and him.”
“A brainwave, a brainwave,” Richard injected, waving his arms around. “We get a dead guy. Two people in the water, one swimming, and one already dead. Dressed identically. We shoot on the live swimmer and when the shark nears we hoist him out.”
Alistair tensed his legs. He should have left already. Or missed the meeting entirely.
“Sounds workable,” said Johnny.
Devon shook his head. “It’s got to be real. If we scam Carlos…” He drew his finger across his throat. “We agreed before. It’s a rule. We’ll never deceive Dark Video. Rather walk away. The money’s not wor
th it.” He paused. “Do you think we should ask for more, Alesandro?”
Alistair shrugged.
“Come on Alistair. Apply your mind. You’re not being asked to commit, I promise.”
Alistair reluctant, spoke quietly, desperate to get up and leave. “Even if you had a willing candidate, like we’ve said, sharks don’t naturally eat people.”
“That’s what the experts say,” smiled Devon. “Find me someone to test the theory and our problem is solved.”
“What the fuck—I’ll test it,” said Johnny. “I believe it. If the sharks wanted to munch us, there’d be a bloodbath at Muizenberg every day of the year.”
“The water’s shallow just offshore,” said Richard. “I read that it’s not their natural feeding ground. If there was a surfing break at Seal Island, you’d see the body count rise.”
“That’s a thought, though,” said Devon pondering Johnny’s input. “We give the guy a choice. He goes in. If the shark takes him, we win. If it doesn’t, we lose. We could cover the cost of a losing bet by asking Carlos for a deal on filming the gamble. Wouldn’t that be better?”
“Freak out,” said Richard shaking his head. “I can’t get my mind around this.”
“I’ll volunteer,” repeated Johnny. “One million and I’m in.”
Alistair shot a sideways glance at Devon. Devon’s lip twitched.
“You’re insane, Johnny,” said Richard, laughing.
“Keep laughing, asshole! You’re just a pussy. Swim aggressively at a shark and it swims away. It’s all about confidence. Four people killed last year. Worldwide! I’ll take those odds”
“But if the odds of attack are so low, Carlos won’t go for the bet,” Devon replied. Alistair stared at him. He was amazed that Devon was even entertaining the idea.
“Yeah, Johnny,” taunted Richard. “We choose the parameters. Early morning, virgins’ blood in the water, low visibility, vibrations of dying fish…”
“Bring it on,” said Johnny.
“Big freaking talk! You’d bail,” countered Richard. “The waters churning and the beasts are going wild. We say, ‘In you go, Johnny. No way. No way!’” Richard hugged a pillow to his chest.
“OK, OK,” said Devon. “This wasn’t what I had in mind. I think I’ll just Skype Carlos tonight and tell him we’ll pass.”
“What’s the problem here?” asked Devon a few minutes later. Alistair had been making his way out but was cornered by Johnny.
“This rich prick has taken a video of mine.”
“Really, Johnny. What sort of video?”
“Personal.” Johnny hid his cigarette hand behind his back and stepped away from Alistair.
“Personal?”
“My girlfriend and me.”
“A bestiality sequence obviously,” taunted Alistair. With Devon present, Johnny would never swing.
“You’re a fucking stupid cunt,” said Johnny, his face flushed scarlet, eyes wide.
“Johnny, why are you smoking in the house?” Richard said, making his way past.
“Fuck off!” Johnny lifted the cigarette to his mouth and sucked in.
“Hey! Cool it!” said Devon calmly, then to Johnny: “You made a video of you and your girlfriend. Who’s the girlfriend?”
“Come on, Dev. One of the chicks I’m seeing,” Johnny blew the smoke out the corner of his mouth, toward the open door, waved a hand after to make sure.
“The skinny one?”
“They’re all skinny.” A smile returned to his face.
“Why’d you make it?”
“For a turn on. You know what it’s like.”
“And what sort of camera?”
“Uh. Hers. A real cranky home-movie job. Nothing special. But Morgan swiped the disc. He was here the day it went missing.”
Silence, as they weighed each other up. In the background, Richard retreated into the living room.
“I took it,” said Devon eventually.
Johnny’s face flushed. “Uh. OK. Can I have it back?”
“No.”
Johnny scratched his head.
“I destroyed it.”
“What!” Johnny expelled a deep breath and sat down, suddenly unsure of himself.
“You want to know why?” Devon continued. Johnny buried his head in his hand, the cigarette hanging limply from the other. He looked up, hangdog expression; stared miserably at the wall, through murky eyes that looked resigned to disappointment. Devon lowered his tone, menacing, cold. “Because I watched it and it’s a piece of perverted crap.”
Johnny mumbled inaudibly.
“Look at me!”
Johnny shifted his gaze.
“What you did is…twisted. What about the girl?”
Ash from Johnny’s cigarette fell to the floor. Johnny covered it with his bare foot.
“She doesn’t know a thing. I swear, Devon. She was out of it.” Johnny’s eyes darted about shiftily. “Jeff drugged her.”
“And Jeff?”
“I told him nothing. He was completely spaced out, too. Look, Dev. I swear. It was just for fun.”
“You did it for fun?”
“I promise, Devon.” The pitch of Johnny’s voice lifted.
“Fun?” said Devon softly, as if to convince himself that this was the word used.
Alistair sensed an imminent explosion. He wanted to intervene, to somehow distract them. If only he’d left earlier.
“Look me in the eye, Johnny.” Devon pointed to his own eyes. “If you do it again, I’ll kill you. Got that?”
Kill, thought Alistair. As in…kill, dead, bang, slash! A vision of a smoking gun appeared in his mind—then a shark’s gaping mouth. He looked at Devon, waiting for a smile. None came. The black eyes bored into Johnny.
Johnny swallowed. “I understand,” he said meekly. “It won’t happen again.”
Devon spun around and walked out, leaving Alistair alone with Johnny. He hastened for the door.
“Oh. Happy Birthday, Johnny,” he said over his shoulder.
“What? It’s not my birthday, you asshole.”
“Well, it should be. It’s animal rights day.”
He sprinted for the Audi.
Alistair lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Devon had just phoned.
“Alesandro. I could see you were uncomfortable with today’s discussion. Don’t worry. I am too. I would never commit to anything that could get us into trouble.”
There was so much Alistair had wanted to say. Johnny’s threat—“You’d go to jail for what you did to Terri Phillips”—had unnerved him, even if he didn’t really believe it. He felt trapped.
“I’m sorry you had to witness my outburst at Johnny. But I needed to warn him,” Devon had told him.
Outburst? Devon had been as cool as liquid nitrogen.
“Alesandro. I hate to ask this but I have to. Have you seen Terri?”
“No, of course not! We agreed.”
“She hasn’t tried to see you.”
Alistair had hesitated for a second.
“No.”
“Good. I’m worried about Johnny’s girlfriend, Sasha. She’s a risk. Don’t make Terri one too.”
He’d been about to send Terri a text.
He deleted the message.
Silverman’s hovel provided a break from reality. Alistair found him on his hands and knees, jabbing messages onto his cellphone. Clothes were strewn across the floor, noxious smells of old socks and cigarettes repulsed him.
“Have you got the video?” Silverman said, without looking up to see who had entered.
“I’m working on it. What’re you doing?” Alistair looked toward the windows for fresh air; they were shut.
“I’m in a Mxit chat room. I’m Candy, a sixteen-year-old cocktease. I’m trying to recruit some kindred spirits to a tickle party.”
“Anyone keen?” He squeezed his nose between thumb and index fingers, took a deep breath.
“Three little vixens!” He held up three fingers. �
�Catholic girls. I’ve organized to meet them at Cavendish.”
“Won’t they get a fright when they see who you really are?”
Alistair exhaled loudly and Silverman looked up. He straightened his back and made a face.
“What’s so wrong with me?” asked Silverman.
“I won’t start. How about some coffee?” Alistair threw open the windows and took a deep breath. Under a tree in the courtyard a couple reposed on a grey blanket, legs intertwined, locked into one another.
“Give me a second.”
Silverman tapped away on his phone, Cheshire cat grin on his face.
“You should be careful, Silver. You can get into trouble for that sort of thing.”
“Trouble?” retorted Silverman. “This is fun. Sin is trouble.” He looked up with a worried expression. “Problem being, sometimes sin and fun look the same. At the outset anyway.” He threw his phone on the bed.
“Coffee?”
Incredibly, Silverman managed to produce two mugs of drinkable coffee. “So! You’re asking me to believe it wasn’t the princess on the video. I can make some enquiries. She’s an icon amongst the loose wrists on Green Second, you know.”
Alistair’s expression changed. “I’m being deadly serious. It wasn’t her.”
Silverman leaned forward, spilling coffee on the floor in the process. He unlaced his shoes and stepped into the spillage with his socks. “Socks are good for soaking up stuff,” he said.
Alistair shook his head. He noticed Silverman’s bellbottoms, too short, half-mast between knee and ankle.
“Pity about the princess then. I thought we’d use your cinema as the theme for the Belsen Brand video.”
“Dare I ask what the Belsen Brand video is?”
“The Belsen Brand is our approach to varsity. Chicks, dope, partying. All the cool stuff. You eliminate the hassle factor, the work, and the exams.”
“Great idea, Silverman. You expecting a large increase in applications?”
“Ten fold.”
“Commission a study.”
“Are you serious? Perhaps when I meet the three chicks at Cavendish. I’ll rope them in.”
Alistair stood up. Ten minutes connected to Silverman’s cerebellum could frazzle anyone. He hoped he’d got the message across about the video.