by Ian Martin
About two weeks ago Gilbert had come to him with a proposition. Being a go-getter entrepreneur he was always coming up with propositions. This time he was looking to expand his business by establishing a studio with state-of-the-art photographic equipment and lighting. He needed a venture capitalist to invest in the scheme as the big institutions would be reluctant to bankroll the kind of photography he had in mind.
Claude had put him off, saying that he was over-extended just at that point in time. Maybe in the future when he was more liquid. But now he thought he could see a way to help the young man much sooner. It was in a mutually beneficial way that he had in mind.
The term was drawing to a close. Soon he would be getting on that fucking Greyhound bus again. Maybe for the last time. It depended on them, whether they were prepared to confess, or not.
Journalism students were required, as part of the course, to conduct an interview with an interesting person, write it up and submit it to the lecturer. It could be an individual or joint effort, so Matt was more than happy to team up with Ed on this one. Otherwise he probably wouldn’t have bothered at all.
Ed chose the subject: a 55-year-old Sociology lecturer who was about to retire. ‘Interview with a Cynic’, he wrote at the top of a page in his notebook.
“What I like about this guy,” Ed told Matt, “is his uncompromising honesty. He tells it how it is, not how it’s supposed to be.”
They went to the lecturer’s house in a residential area overlooking the town. He was a tall, fit-looking man with thick curly hair that was going grey. Ed asked him about his academic career and his plans for the future, and he and Matt took notes. Some of his comments were to stick in Matt’s memory and come back to him later.
Q: Do you have children?
A: No. My wife and I decided not to obey the biological imperative to reproduce ourselves. It was a conscious choice because we believed there was no long-term future for humanity. As atheists we don’t believe that we were put here for a purpose, and we don’t believe in a supernatural power who has a plan for us. On the contrary, we feel sure that our species will be a short-lived one in the context of geological time. Nor do we adhere to the idea that we have evolved into a superior organism and now hold a privileged position in the universe.
Q: Are you interested in, or concerned about, what happens in the future once you’ve gone?
A: No, not at all. If I had had children, I would have been obliged, as a genetically programmed social animal, to pretend that I have a link to the future and that it’s important I care about what might happen to my offspring. While my intellect tells me this is absurd. Not having offspring though, I don’t have to pretend.
Q: I see you drive a large SUV. Don’t you care about global warming and the impact you have on the environment?
A: No, for two reasons. Firstly, I think it’s far too late to have any influence on climate change. And secondly, not being an admirer of the human race, I feel it would be better for all other organisms if humans were to disappear from the planet. Climate change might help to bring that about rather sooner than later.
*
A few days before he was due to get on the fucking Greyhound bus and go back to Constantia to confront the pigs, he received a call. He didn’t recognise the number.
“Yah?” he said.
“Matt, darling.” He knew her voice immediately. “How’s the boy next door?”
A part of him was excited. This was so unexpected. He had always desired her but the dark side of her nature frightened him. He had assumed he would never have the courage to venture into the shadowy realm where she sometimes strayed.
“Matt, Gilbert and I are going to be in PE on business. Your mother said you’re coming home. Would you like a lift?”
17
Time for another recap. Just so as not to lose the dof types who have trouble sussing out who’s who and what’s what. Right, so Claude organised the death of his brother in order to take control of the family business empire. With Bruce out of the way, he conveniently married the widow, who he had been pomping for yonks anyway. But the widow had a pesky little brat called Matt. And Matt smelt a rat. Also, Matt was kopbefokt, and took it upon himself to hold his mother and his uncle to account. When Uncle Claude got wind of this vengeful intention he promptly set about dealing with the irritation. That’s the plot so far. Matt vs. Claude and Trudy.
As for the yudder, yudder, yudder concerning heavy subjects like moral decadence and the failure of social, political and economic systems – don’t strain your brains with that crap. That was just to give a bit of background; some context for the arty-farty intellectual types who insist on over analysing everything. No, don’t worry, from here on it’s leave-your-brain-behind action all the way.
Rose really was pretty. Her dark hair was held up with two silver clasps. Some long ringlets had escaped this arrangement and dangled to below her earlobes. Matt thought this made her look kind of French. Like Marie Antoinette. In the Reign of Terror were women required to expose their necks for the guillotine? Probably.
Her forest-green shirt was long-sleeved and close-fitting. Clearly she wasn’t wearing a bra. Stretch jeans and running shoes. There was something susceptible about her femininity. Something fine and fragile about the soft delicacy of her whiteness. And yet when she laughed and swore without restraint he became aware of the feral side to her nature, and he sensed danger.
Gilbert was as dour as ever. Maybe he was different with Rose, when they were alone.
They came for him in the afternoon. The car was an almost new Lexus, dark blue in colour, close to black. Just like the car his father had been driving. Where the hell had they got this rich man’s piece of shit?
Gilbert said something vague about having borrowed it.
They had some business to attend to in Jeffreys Bay. It wouldn’t take long but the day was well advanced so they’d stay in Jeffreys overnight. Then they would head for Cape Town in the morning.
*
This is the point at which the two plots must be revealed.
Matt’s plan was to force a confession from his fat prick uncle and vicious bitch mother, and then hand them over to the cops. In the past two weeks he had used the Journalism media lab to put together a video which he would show the murderous couple. The video was ostensibly about Rhodes and student life on campus. But suddenly, without warning, it switched to the TV re-enactment of Bruce Dreyer’s hijack and murder. Their nerves, roughened up by the anonymous SMSs, would snap. There’d be an outbreak of verbal warfare, they would admit to the dastardly deed, and he’d record it on hidden equipment. So fucking simple.
Claude’s scheme was equally inane. For 100 000 bucks down, and 400 000 on delivery, Gilbert and Rose were to persuade / ‘persuade’ the useless fuckup to commit suicide / ‘suicide’. This they’d be able to do by spiking his food and drink with a cocktail of stuff like Tamiflu and Rohypnol. In combination with the meds he was supposed to be on, he’d be thrown into a heavily depressive state. (Hence the need to stop overnight and get him to ingest the shit.) Then it’d be dead (ha, ha) easy to get him to leap from a choice of several bridges on the way home to Constantia. Yah, man. Already miscalculated, because the fucker ain’t been taking his medication.
*
They stayed at a self-catering establishment at the Kabeljauws River end of Jeffreys. It was a double storey house and they had the upstairs flat. There was a good view over the river to the yellow beach and the sea, and they could watch the sunlight fading.
“Time for sundowners,” said Rose. “Everyone for Klippies?” It was hardly a question.
In the kitchenette she got busy with the brandy and coke and three tall glasses.
Jesus, thought Matt, when she’d brought the drinks, how much brandy has she put in this? Oh well.
“I’m just going to take a shower,” Rose said.
Then there was a knock at the door. It was the old toppie owner who lived in the house next door. He had
a bandage round his head and his face was badly bruised and there were burn marks on his cheeks and neck, as if someone had been torturing him with a cigarette.
He advised Gilbert to get his car into the lockup for the night, as the car thieves were on the prowl in Jeffreys Bay. As they were all over the country.
Matt sipped his brandy and coke. The cellphone on the coffee table rang. He glanced at it. Must be Gilbert’s or Rose’s. He reached out for it and saw the number. Jesus fucking Christ! That hateful number again! What the fuck was going on?
Instead of answering it he pressed NO and killed the call. Two minutes later the phone beeped. SMS.
HAVE YOU GIVEN HIM THE STUFF YET? ANY PROBLEMS LET ME KNOW. CLAUDE.
Matt sniffed his drink; tasted it. It didn’t taste right. The shock he had felt on realising he was a victim being set up for something was now replaced by mounting anger.
Rose was moving about in the bedroom. He replaced the phone on the table and switched his glass with Gilbert’s.
“Gilbert’s taking his time,” said Rose. Her eyes looked very dark and shiny. She had just finished rolling a fat zol. “He’s probably gone to get some supper before putting the car away.”
She was right. Gilbert had found a KFC and returned with four cardboard containers: one for Rose, one for Matt, and two for himself.
When Matt drained his glass she immediately offered to refill it. So bloody transparent.
“Only if you’re joining me,” he said.
He had to drink half a glass of the stuff before an opportunity presented itself and he was able to switch drinks, this time with Rose.
The sun had long gone when Gilbert sighed and stood up. He could see his sister was through with her hostess duties. He heated the chicken in the microwave and they ate off their laps in front of the TV, which was flickering but the sound was turned down. There was little conversation.
“Nice chicken,” said Matt.
Gilbert opened his second box. Rose looked at Matt for a while and then giggled.
“Mmm. It’s oh so cunt-licking good,” she said, and winked at him suggestively. Then she began to laugh in her wild, otherworld way.
In the morning all three of them woke up feeling a bit babalas and lacking in a sense of purpose. After two cups of coffee Gilbert went to get the car out. The old toppie was pottering about in his garden, surrounded by a collection of disgusting Disney-style gnomes made of concrete and painted in bright colours with alkali-resistant acrylic.
“You know,” said the old toppie, “there was a surfer got washed up on the beach in the night. Had his leg and his head bitten off by the sharks. Now that’s a sign of the times.”
“Yah?” said Gilbert, wondering what the old cunt meant by this stupid statement, and wishing he didn’t have to engage in this pointless social ritual.
“Yah,” said the old toppie. “All the fish in the sea has been fished out and now the sharks are hungry. They got to eat something, you know.”
They got on the road later than they had intended and headed for PE. The weather was mild. Not that it mattered much when you could control the climate with the tips of your fingers. Gilbert drove, Rose sat up front and Matt lounged in sumptuous black leather in the back.
“Feeling alright, Matt?”
For fuck’s sake, that was the second time she’d asked him. How was he supposed to be feeling? Were they trying to poison him, or what?
“Actually,” he said, “I’m feeling a bit down. I think we must look out for a bottle store. How are you feeling?”
She didn’t reply but she seemed dispirited and nervous. And Gilbert was more morose than usual.
It was nearly 11AM when they hit the long flat straight stretch approaching PE. There was a wall of dolosse on their left between them and the sea. Then they took an off-ramp in search of a liquor outlet.
Gilbert spotted a Solly Kramer’s sandwiched between some other stores in a seedy little shopping complex just off the highway. The wind was blowing rubbish across the parking lot. There was a news placard tied to a lamppost. THREE MEN RAPE 5 YEAR OLD.
Matt came back with four six-packs: two Brutal Fruits (litchi and strawberry), a Bacardi Breezer, and a Smirnoff Twist. This was easy-to-drink beverage, cooldrink with a kick.
“I can’t look,” Rose was saying. “It’s too horrible.” She was bent forward, covering her face with her hands.
The car was facing the freeway and she and Gilbert had just witnessed a dog being knocked down in the middle of the slow lane. Now it was being flattened at the rate of 450 vehicles per hour. A big car carrier went over it and bits of dog flew in all directions. Gilbert reversed out and got them on their way.
On the other side of PE Matt broke open the cooldrink and Gilbert fiddled with the car’s main feature, it’s surround-sound system. There were four CDs, which they had chosen as mood music specially for Matt. Two by Leonard Cohen and two by Tom Waits. Rose lit up a joint and handed it round.
Gilbert turned off at Humansdorp to fill up with petrol. Engen. The human at the pump was short and stumpy and had a cleft palate.
“How much?”
“Fee hunnin fiffy fee hund han’ shikky shen.”
“Ask him how much again,” said Matt in the back.
“How much?” repeated Gilbert.
“Fee hunnin fiffy fee hund han’ shikky shen.”
“Fee hunnin fiffy fee,” said Matt as they drove off.
“Han’ shikky shen,” said Gilbert.
“Oh my God,” said Rose, crying and laughing at the same time. “This world is so cruel I can’t stand it.” And she washed down a couple of pills with some strawberry Brutal Fruit.
The car covered the kilometres quietly, the big engine barely audible above the low swish of tyres on tar. Gilbert seemed to prefer Tom Waits to Leonard Cohen. He particularly liked ‘In the cold, cold ground’, and kept playing it over. The lugubrious tune and the doleful lyrics made Matt think of Ophabia entombed in the claustrophobic confines of her coffin beneath the six foot thick plug of earth. No point feeling guilty about her death. What good would that do? If she was still alive he would still call her a slut.
The road had been gently ascending for some time. Now they were travelling along at the base of the Tsitsikama Mountains, heading into the forests.
They crossed the Paul Sauer Bridge over Storms River and Gilbert pulled into the Total Petroport on the other side. He parked near the edge of the car park.
“Shall we go and check out the bridge?” he asked, not looking at Rose or Matt.
“Alright,” said Matt. “But first I must take a leak.”
In the restroom there were empty expanses of shining tiles. Chromeware gleamed and mirrors sparkled. No other travellers. They stood emptying their bladders, three urinals separating them, and became aware of a rhythmic knocking sound. And they could hear a voice whispering hoarsely.
“Oh my God. Oh my God it’s big. Oh it’s so big, so big, so big. Oh my God, baby, I’m going to give it to you baby. Just you wait my baby. Oh, oh, oh.”
Just then the main door opened and the attendant marched in. He stopped in his tracks, listened for a moment, and then hurried over to one of the toilet cubicles and hammered on the door.
“Hey you!” he shouted. “Stop that! Hou op met daai fokken draadtrek! Only shitting, only shitting!” He turned away muttering, a look of disgust contorting his face. “I’m the one who has to clean up. Fokken animal.”
Stealth, cunning, furtiveness, guilt and shame all mingled together to produce a suffocating silence.
They waited for Rose at the car, and when she joined them they took the footpath leading to the bridge.
It spanned about 200 metres and in the middle they stopped and leaned against the railing and looked down. The gorge formed a steep V and below them was the red-black river and jumbled rocks.
“A long way to fall,” commented Matt.
“A hundred and thirty metres,” said Gilbert. “Nothing compared to
Bloukranz. That’s nearly twice as high. Bloukranz is the serious one.”
18
They were onto the toll road with its smooth surface and concrete ditches on either side. Also on either side was the forest, sullen and resentful.
The trees fell away and they could see the top of the chasm running right to left from mountain to sea. Bungee jumping ahead.
Gilbert pulled into the car park. It was almost empty: a bus with luggage trailer; three cars. He parked well away from them and switched off.
Matt lowered his window. It was cool and quiet except for the occasional traffic on the highway. When a big truck crossed the bridge there was a rumbling sound, telling them about the abysmal space that lay there.
He took an empty bottle and tossed it out. It hit the tar, started to roll, changed direction, and lay still. He threw another one after it. The third hit the first and both smashed into pieces, their brand new edges glinting viciously, thirsty for blood.
Rose turned right around in her seat and stared into his face, her eyes wide with surprise. Charcoal eyes. Was it in one of the songs? Her dark eyes were charcoal grey.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, as if it was of the utmost importance that she know his motive. This was uncharacteristic of him and it meant something.
“Because I felt like it,” he said flatly. “Maybe it’s because I no longer care about the future.” He thought of what the Sociology lecturer had told him and Ed. “It’s like I don’t feel any link to what’s going to happen down the line. I just don’t care.”
She had turned away, understanding exactly what it was he was saying. Gilbert opened his window and chucked out a couple of bottles, a coke can and some chip packets. Rose began to giggle and she too jettisoned whatever junk she could lay her hands on. It was kind of liberating.