by Ian Martin
*
For three weeks he’d been off the chemical shit and he was feeling a new man. Christ yes. His headaches were far less severe, his bouts of double vision had ceased, and as for his narcolepsy, he hadn’t nodded off in a lecture for ages. In general he felt far more healthy and vigorous.
Admittedly his nerves were still shot though, and he missed his Alzams, which he had popped all the time for anxiety. But he was making judicious use of alcohol as a less harmful substitute. And he’d taken to smoking again.
Dr Tshabalala’s miracle elixir tasted vile, so rather than taking it with water he had it with vodka and Sprite instead. The bitterness was almost entirely masked. And the 2L Coke bottle was almost empty.
Somewhat surprisingly, his drinking habits weren’t a problem, even when he stank of booze and slurred his words in tutorials. In fact, it seemed that drunkenness was actively encouraged on campus. He spoke to Ed about this.
“Yes,” said Ed, “it’s a cultural tradition at Rhodes, reinforced by the growing use of alcohol and drugs by schoolchildren. It’s a weird kind of conformity to inverted values. I hardly drank at all before I arrived here, and I don’t see why I should start if I don’t feel the need. But the warden has spoken to me on two occasions already, urging me to get pissed like the other students. He’s even threatened me with psychological counselling to help me with my problem. Incredible hey?”
Anyway, this dipsomaniacal policy worked in Matt’s favour and he was able to doctor himself with alcohol as he saw fit. And it was far more efficacious than all the expensive drugs that bitch psychiatrist had put him on. Yes, he felt much stronger and more in control of his life. Indeed, he was beginning to make plans for the future. A vague idea was forming in his head. It was an improbable scheme conceived by a tormented mind, the kind of plot you’d expect of one of those deplorably sordid and senseless soaps viewed by millions of mental defectives all over the world every day. Something in keeping with the tenor of a society where men rape toddlers, pigs drive million-rand cars, and youths kill for a cellphone.
Talking of cellphones, the initial stage of Matt’s plan involved the purchase of a second-hand cellphone from a street vendor. There was some black gunk on the back of it, which could have been dried blood. And he bought a starter pack and airtime from the local Pep Store. Then he started sending anonymous SMSs to his father’s murderer. Cryptic stuff like, ‘Truth will come to light’, and ‘It cannot be hid long’.
*
Ed October derived much ghoulish satisfaction from the evidence he gathered for his websites.
“We have been robbed of a future,” he told Matt one afternoon in Room 7. He was sitting in front of his laptop reeling off the facts and figures; Matt was lounging, beer in hand, in a fold-up Captain’s chair.
“Is there no hope?” he asked. “Surely there’s time to do something. Have you no faith in the scientists’ ability to find solutions?”
“Afraid not.” Ed shook his head. “The evidence is coming in thick and fast: the tipping points are just around the corner. No matter what we do now, global warming and its consequences are out of control. Listen to this.” He had come across some fresh information on the Internet. “‘A new study undertaken by NASA shows that the disintegration of the Western Antarctic ice sheet is already underway. Scientists agree that the melting of the ice sheet will result in a catastrophically rapid sea-level rise.’ That’s fucking nice, isn’t it?”
Matt was listening with interest and a sense of dismay. He knew the planet was in trouble but he hadn’t realised it was this bad. It also struck him how similar were the concerns raised by his new buddy and Horry Horowitz. Both of them were extremely bright, and they were passionate in their condemnation of the wanton idiocy of human behaviour.
Ed went on with his tale of woe. Processes were underway that, once they passed their tipping points, would result in an uncontrollable acceleration of global warming and greenhouse gas emissions. Vast areas of tundra were thawing, and dark, heat-absorbing forests were expanding toward the Arctic. And Arctic Sea ice and snow, whose reflecting surface helped to cool the planet by bouncing warm sunlight back into space, was steadily disappearing. More and more evidence was coming in of sea-level rise, increased frequency of droughts and floods, and increased stress on wildlife and plants due to shifting climate zones.
“The British government,” said Ed, “commissioned an economist, Nick Stern, to study the economic impact of climate change, and told him to make some recommendations. The Stern Review came out more than a year ago, and in it the author warned of the disastrous consequences if nothing is done to slow down the emission of greenhouse gasses. The cost to the world economy would be staggering. He suggested a range of drastic measures to be taken immediately, stressing that it would be far cheaper to act now. It’s at this point in the report that he loses it, though. He states, repeatedly, that climate change is manageable without altering the present growth and consumption ethos. It’s like diagnosing correctly but presenting the wrong medication. I’m afraid the man’s a quack.”
Matt was impressed by the amount of research Ed must be doing. He wondered how he found time to get through his academic studies.
“Now,” said Ed, “nearly two years after the release of the Stern Review, it’s clear that the recommendations haven’t been taken seriously. Virtually nothing has been done on a government or international level. And anyway, most of the target limits Stern set have already been exceeded.”
“It doesn’t sound as if this Stern oke is all that sharp,” said Matt, opening another Black Label. “How come he didn’t say anything critical about neo-liberal capitalism and excessive consumption, which any idiot knows is what’s behind the delusion that an economy can keep growing forever?”
“Because he’s a mainstream economist,” said Ed. “And he probably doesn’t like the thought of having to change his own profligate lifestyle. But what the fuck, his report is now irrelevant: we’ve already entered the apocalypse and there’s no way back.”
He then proceeded with a long list of facts to confirm his prognosis: Nothing was being done about the root cause of the problem, population growth. By 2050 world population was predicted to grow from the present 6.7 billion to 9.3 billion. Humans were already struggling to feed themselves. Desertification was increasing. Water tables were dropping and conflict over scarce water resources was on the increase. The oceans’ fish stocks were being wiped out. Human impact was resulting in the extinction of thousands of species of fauna and flora. As the gap between rich and poor widened, there was evidence of increasing discontent, which was bound to lead to civil unrest within countries, and violent conflict between nations. Finite natural resources were dwindling, yet the populations of India and China were already set on the path to consumption that the West held up to them as the goal of all humankind.
Ed would have extended this list further if Matt hadn’t interrupted him.
“Jesus, Ed,” he said, “you’re painting a horribly bleak picture. No wonder you say we’ve been robbed of a future. I suppose we can only blame human nature for this. I mean, if we’re atheists we can’t even blame God or the Devil.”
“No,” said Ed, grinning. “But we can blame previous generations; especially our parents’ generation.” A cold, ruthless look came into his eyes. “We might be rather fond of Mummy and Daddy, but they’ve got a lot to answer for. They’ve been very greedy and selfish. They’ve recklessly and negligently gone and fucked up their children’s future. Let’s just hope they don’t expect us to pamper them in their old age. No, I’m afraid we’re going to have to euthanize whole multitudes of them in order to gain some breathing space.”
*
It was around this time that Matt heard about the Rifle Club. He was talking to a laid-back Indian student in the dining hall. He seemed an unlikely type to be a gun enthusiast, with his long black hair streaked with blue and silver glitter, a pink silk shirt, and some heavy gold jewellery.
“No man,” he told Matt, “I just love the sensation of lying there concentrating on the target, putting everything else out of my mind and taking aim. And when I pull the trigger it’s as if the nervous tension in me snaps and disappears for a brief moment. It’s very relaxing.”
The clubhouse and range were situated in a disused quarry higher up the hill. It was a ten-minute walk from Graham House. He joined up and began going to practice twice a week. And like the Indian student had said, it was a calming experience.
From the moment he walked through the gates in the razor wire fence he could feel his load of anxiety grow lighter. Lying on his stomach behind the concrete parapet he would take aim at his target and forget about the rest of the world. His hands and arms were steady. He was in a perfectly controlled environment and there were very few variables. What could go wrong?
And back in his room he could reap the benefits of this new discipline. He was able to raise his pistol and take unwavering aim. Although the snickering and the taunts were still faintly audible, he was able to take aim and fire, and know with certainty that he had settled the score with one of them.
16
When Matt did some research on the Internet he discovered that his father hadn’t fooled around when it came to choosing a handgun for his son. No crappy generic, made in China, that would jam just when you needed to stop a knife-wielding attacker coming at you with murderous intent. No, the Glock 17 was the most reliable 9mm pistol on the market. Made in Austria, and bloody expensive.
He decided it was time to send another SMS. What should it be this time? How about JUSTICE WILL BE DONE? A bit lame, but what the fuck. He must just make sure he was using the right phone. Jesus, what an arsehole! Last time he had been a bit pissed and was on the very point of sending off MURDER BREEDS MURDER when he realised he had typed it into his own phone, not the second-hand one. That would have been a right royal fuckup!
Matt sent the message and felt the satisfaction of being another step closer to his goal. Which was to confront the murderer and force a confession from him. What would happen at that point, he was unsure. But whatever it was, his father’s death would be avenged; and he suspected that this piece of finely crafted weaponry would play a major part.
However, Matt was thinking like a rather inexperienced, naïve young man. For at that moment Claude Dreyer was on the phone to his good friend the Chief of Police.
Ed October’s other site was called 2010bigcon.co.za.
“Basically,” he told Matt, “this is an exercise in investigative journalism. I put up the core information on the structure of FIFA, its executives and their salaries and perks, the contracts with the media groups, the process of awarding the World Cup, and analysis of previous World Cups, World Cup franchises and contracts, the budget for 2010, and the projected benefits for South Africa during and after the main event. Then I’ll start asking probing questions and I’ll call for contributions from journalists and other muckrakers.”
“What kind of questions?” asked Matt. He had a pretty good idea of what the guy was up to. “I take it you’re dead against South Africa staging the World Cup.”
“It’s too late to turn back now,” said Ed. “But at least this is an opportunity to expose a confidence trick the likes of which gets played all over the world all the time. I hope to show how certain power groups con the general population of a country into agreeing to donate huge sums of taxpayers’ money to this elite grouping.”
“And how does it work?” asked Matt. “I mean, you must have an idea, or you wouldn’t be doing this.”
“In the case of 2010,” said Ed, “it’s all about…”
There was a knock at the door.
“Ah fuck it, man,” said Ed. “Just because it’s Friday night these numbskull pisscats are desperate to round up everyone to come and join in the mindless activity at the pub. COME IN, YOU CUNT!”
The door opened and one of the sub-wardens stood there. He was well over six foot tall. This fellow spent a lot of his life running up and down and working out, and it showed. He was dressed in casual student attire – t-shirt and board shorts – but rather bizarrely, he was wearing long rugby socks. The significance of these socks was entirely lost on Ed, who didn’t follow rugby.
“Hey, Butch man, howzit my bru?” Ed had adopted a slurred manner of speech, and was holding a half-empty Red Heart bottle. It was half full of water, which was indistinguishable from rum when viewed through the smoked glass. “You wanna dop, man? Me and my buddy here, we getting lekker pished. Then we gonna come and puke on the pool table. Ha, ha, ha.”
Butch gave an approving grin and withdrew. Ed turned to Matt, shaking his head in wonder.
“It really is strange,” he said. “This is supposed to be a fucking university, and yet ninety percent of the students have a phobia-like aversion to anything remotely intellectual. Rather than discuss or even contemplate a mental abstraction, they prefer to dwell vicariously on stuff like sport, Hollywood movies, cars, trendy gadgets, and other people’s sex lives. But to hell with them; what were we saying before that oaf knocked on the door?”
“2010,” said Matt. “You were about to explain how the elite are able to rake off the cream for themselves.”
“Ah yes,” said Ed. “Antonio Gramsci’s concept of ideological hegemony. Remember, we touched on it in Sociology?” Matt looked blank. “Anyway, it’s about how the dominant class gains consent from the majority by manipulating political, economic and cultural norms and institutions.”
“Sounds good,” said Matt. “But what does it mean in terms of 2010?”
“Well,” explained Ed, “by using the media, which is almost entirely business friendly, the ruling class tells the people that staging the World Cup will be good for the country. But in order to host such an extravagant event huge sums of public money will have to be spent on stadiums and infrastructure. They appeal to patriotism and national pride in order to get the populace behind the project. Then they go about awarding the contracts and handing out the billions. And guess who’s on the board of this company and that company? In this way the country’s resources get handed over to a dominant elite and no proper analysis is made – remember, the media are controlled by this self-same clique. Nobody asks the obvious question: wouldn’t it have been better for the majority if all this money had been spent on education, health care, social services and projects aimed at uplifting the poor? No one will question the long-term value of this huge investment.”
“Jesus Ed,” said Matt. “You really make it sound like the ANC has sold out to the capitalists and turned its back on socialism.”
“Well,” said Ed, “it’s pretty bloody obvious, isn’t it? Whenever the President flies anywhere – and he’s hardly ever in the country – he’s accompanied by a business delegation. He’s constantly under pressure to promote commercial interests and foster a favourable climate for foreign investment. He and the rest of the ruling class have wholeheartedly embraced the hedonistic privileges of Western-style affluence. And they send their kids to the same private schools as the white elite does. So we know what type of values this new generation will be growing up with.”
For a few moments they sat in melancholy silence. From the Common Room next door came the sounds of conspicuous student frivolity: shouting, singing, unnaturally loud laughter and the banging of beer mugs.
“Ah shit,” said Ed. “Let’s not get too gloomy about it. This is the way of the world. Let’s enjoy exposing the rot and poking fun at the fatcats’ grotesque behaviour.”
Matt had never been what’s known as ‘a ray of sunshine’. But now he entered an introverted state of brooding sullenness. He began to miss lectures and spent more and more time lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Or sitting at his desk watching movies on his laptop, a bottle of gin and a litre of tonic to hand. Or aiming his firearm at the bastards on the wall.
His personal hygiene suffered, too. He would wear his clothes until they began to stink, then he w
ould change into dirty clothes that had been hanging on the back of a chair. He stopped shaving. Also, he took to pissing in the hand basin in the corner. Who was he trying to impress, anyway? Fuck the world. But he never neglected to go to rifle practice. That was what made him feel calm and strengthened his resolve.
It was time to put the second phase of his plan into action. He had sent enough cryptic SMSs to set the stage. Now the real drama must begin.
Back in Constantia, however, Claude had been devising his own aggressive scheme and was already setting things in motion.
The police chief had found it laughably easy to determine from what town the SMSs were being sent. Grahamstown. Now who did Claude know in Grahamstown? It was that easy.
“Sarah says it’s a matter of filling in a form,” Trudy told him after coming off the phone to Dr Bellum, the bitch psychiatrist.
“Well,” said her fat husband, “we’d better get him certified and out of the way as soon as possible, before he tries to do something really stupid.”
Claude had just poured some Napoleon brandy into a cognac glass. He’d been given a bottle of the stuff by one of his scumbag associates as a thank-you gesture. Thank you for greasing a cabinet minister’s arse prior to the scumbag making his advances.
“Do you think he might become violent towards us?” Trudy asked, her eyes going big and round at the thought. “To his own mother! Oh, madness is such a horrible thing: it makes me go cold when I think about it.”
Claude was standing in front of their latest art acquisition. It was a work executed in crayon, blood and acrylic, the blood and acrylic having been applied in bold strokes with a bread crust. It was kind of abstract, and might have depicted the entrails of some butchered animal viewed at close quarters. Some sort of ruminant, maybe. Claude appeared to be pondering the deeper message the artist had intended, but wasn’t really. He was thinking about Gilbert Sternkranz.