Roadkill, page 10
Otto Meissner’s dog had appeared from behind the caravan. His head was held up high, sniffing the air. His eyes had a look of intense concentration. The knot in Aldridge’s gut ratcheted up several notches as the object of concentration came into mental view: the caravan itself. More specifically, something inside the caravan. To Aldridge’s fast mounting horror, Adolf reared up and pressed his muzzle into the door. There was no mistaking it: the stalactite of drool glistening in the late morning sun.
26
Ferdie Meyer placed his hand over the mouthpiece and waved the sales rep to the Addis chair opposite.
“Be with you in a sec, buddy.”
“No worries.”
“Like I said, Waynie, things this side are tighter than a nun’s twat; my customers can’t afford that type of money. That’s why I say, send me the five Dreamliners on consignment and we see how it goes. If they sell, I pay you cash and order another ten on the spot. If they don’t, you take them back … Ja, Standard Series is perfecto; nobody here’s gonna buy the Executive.” Meyer replaced the phone. “I tell you.”
“Problem?”
“Just another day in Africa. These fat cat importers sitting behind their desks in Joburg are clueless about business in the platteland. So, anyways, what can I do you for?”
The rep handed his business card across the desk. “Johnny Angel. Global Clean.”
Meyer studied it. “It doesn’t have to cost the earth. I like that. You some sort of cleaning products agent?
“Much bigger than that. Think of us as your first link in the wholesale chemical supply chain.”
“Where you based?”
“Head office, Durban, branches across Africa. You name it, no matter what the industry, Global’s there.”
“Like what exactly?”
The rep looked up at the ceiling. “Jissus, where do I start? Abattoirs are a big one. Hospitals, another biggie. Food factories, municipalities, old-age homes, and so on. That’s for our general cleaners, your Handy Andys and Jeyes Fluids, but I’m talking industrial scale – chemical super tanker scale. This is another biggie, especially in Nigeria.” He steered the photocopied catalogue across the desk. “Those are just some of the turnkey solutions we make for you guys.”
Angel watched Meyer flip through the catalogue.
“Take our Supergrade Ammonia Solvent at the top there. It was first designed for abattoirs, for the grease traps, but since this virus thing, it’s one of our best sellers with mortuaries and hospitals. Unbelievable stuff; cuts through fat and grease like a knife through butter.”
“And costs a fat whack, I bet.”
“That’s what people think. But because we import in bulk we can pass on the discount to the customer.”
“Now you’re talking my language.”
“Also don’t forget our product is super concentrated, not like the local junk. Same when you buy dishwasher liquid. Do you go for the Sunlight for twenty-three bucks or the no-name brand for fifteen?”
The rep had touched a raw spot. Meyer had been stung by this one, or rather, his wife had. The woman hadn’t let go until that poor manager at the Check-In swapped the open box of Supa-Brite for the OMO. He pulled at his ear.
“Even so, price still comes into it. You heard me on the phone, us small guys can’t afford these fancy imported products.”
“I hear you, but tell you what. How about you give me a walk-through your place, and I’ll give you a free needs analysis?”
Meyer hesitated. He had Henley and Glen Mitchell to sort out. On the other hand, he was looking for any excuse to tell those bullshitting sleazebags from Zenith Industrial Solutions to go to hell. He was still convinced they were diluting the embalming fluid. “What the hell, let’s do it; I’ll give you the grand tour.” He pushed his chair back. “One other thing. Do your prices include VAT?”
“VAT. Free delivery. Sixty-day payment terms,”
That sealed it for Meyer. Zenith could go to hell.
Meyer led the way into the showroom, past a row of coffins standing like sentries against the wall. He stroked the high-gloss finish. “Is this a beaut, or what? More specs than a Ferrari. Solid wood, triple-layer buttoned velvet, brass handles, the works. Bet you won’t believe I paid less than three grand each for these before the rand went down the toilet. I should have bought fifty.”
“Why so cheap?”
“Simple. Last year’s fashions aren’t good enough for the Americans. So, what happens? The manufacturers are left with a warehouse of V-4s. So, what do they do? They ship them to us Third World countries.” Meyer gave the rep a moment to ponder this absurdity of modern consumerism, before pulling back the curtain and unlocking the fire door leading to the mortuary. “You ready?”
“For sure.”
The mortuary was a converted walk-in fridge – a throwback to the early ’80s, when New Horizons served life as a butchery. A heap of charred corpses was stacked high in the corner. The centre of the room was taken up by two stainless steel trolleys draped in dirty sheets, from which two pairs of hairy feet protruded, each with a tightly-wound tag attached to a big toe. Meyer indicated to the tangled mess in the corner.
“We’re still sorting through that one,” he said, apologetically. “Taxi head-on.”
“No worries, friend. I saw worse in Angola.”
Meyer lifted a sheet. “In that case, check this one that just came in. The wife found him still staring at the TV when she got back from her bowls.”
The rep flipped the toe tag over: “Glen Mitchell. What happened?”
“Still waiting for the DS report, but I reckon asthma attack.” Meyer dropped the sheet. “Same with old Roger Henley here.”
The rep stepped in for a closer look. “Why they both so blue?”
“That’s nothing, pal. You should have seen them before we did our thing. Purple in the face and neck like I’ve never seen before.”
“Also asthma attack?”
“Could be. But that would be weird.”
“What would be?”
“If both of them pegged from asthma aanvals on the exact same day.” Meyer flicked open the brown folder lying on the table alongside. “At least their families won’t be going hungry.”
“What you mean?”
“Fat life policies, both of them. Talk about hitting the Lotto …”
“Why so?”
“Why so? Because Henley here only signed up on 4 May this year.”
“And the other one?”
Meyer bent over Mitchell’s file. “Ka-ching! Three Feb! The brokers must be laughing all the way to the bank.” Meyer tossed the folder to the side and anxiously eyed the wall clock above the fridges. “Don’t want to rush you, but I’ve got a funeral to organise. You want to sell me some cleaning chemicals, or not?”
27
“Don’t be a wuss, man – get in there with them. My babies don’t bite.”
Botes glanced nervously behind him, averting the eyes of the agitated white lioness pacing up and down the game fence. Lions had never been his thing, and Jakkals knew it.
“Ag, don’t worry about her. She’s just an overgrown kitten.”
“You sure the electricity is switched on? I swear that thing looks like she wants to jump the fence, Jakkie.”
Jakkals Venter cackled. “Nooit going to happen. Unless she wants fifty thousand volts to go through her poepol.” He was enjoying the moment. “Here, grab my mug. I’ll fetch one for you to hold.”
“Seriously, I don’t need to. Mustn’t we just leave them alone, before the mother gets even more pissed off?”
Jakkals stepped into the pen and waded into his pride and joy. “All right, all right, don’t get all excited now. Connie, check how happy they are to see me. It’s like they think I’m their mom. Hey, get off my leg! The claws on these little shits can slice you open like razor wire. I said, off!” Jakkals slapped the cub across the head. It released its grip and rolled across the sawdust, yelping.
“Jesus, Jakkie, that was a stywe klap,” laughed Botes, checking anxiously behind him that the cub’s mother was still behind the fence.
“You have to show them who is boss; it’s the law of the jungle, Connie. This little bliksem’s not even six months and he wants to take me out. Amazing, hey? Not like us pathetic humans.” Jakkals grabbed hold of another cub and lifted it into the air, squirming and hissing. “Check this power.” Without warning, he reached over the pen and thrust the cub into Botes’s unwilling arms. “Whatever you do, don’t drop him. The bitch mother will go befok if you do.”
Botes staggered back under the weight and writhing power of the cub, which was hissing in his face like a cornered Cape cobra. “Jesus, Jakkie, I can hardly hold onto him. Eina! The thing scratched me!”
“That’s because you’re hugging him to death,” laughed Jakkals. “Keep it away from you so he can’t reach with its claws.”
Botes was starting to panic. And so was the cub in his grip. Below, the earth rumbled with a bloodcurdling growl that cut straight to Botes’ primal fear centre. “Please, Jakkie, I can’t hold him any more. You take him. Shit, I’m gonna drop him!” The cub hit the ground with a heavy thud. Jakkals had stopped laughing. His eyes had turned icy.
“You fucking mad, or what? You want to kill him?”
“Sorry, man, I couldn’t hold him any more.” Botes lifted two bleeding arms in his defence.
“I don’t care a fuck, Connie. You don’t drop it from a height and tell me it’s fine. What if it broke a leg? You know what these things are worth?”
“I said I’m sorry, Jakkals.”
“Come on, tell me. Five grand? Ten grand?”
“I don’t know.”
“In that case, let me tell you what a fat American hunter will pay for a juvenile white lion. Twenty thousand US dollars, Conrad!” He spat out the words. “Multiply by thirteen. What’s that give you?”
Still in shock, Botes crunched through the maths. “Two hundred and sixty?”
“Exactly. Multiply again by kak exchange rate. We’re talking white gold here, boytjie.”
“I’m sorry, man. I thought you were keeping them as pets or something.”
Jakkals Venter slapped his comrade’s shoulder. “Pets? That’s a good one. Like old Jakkals needs a pack of white lions for pets. Come, let’s enjoy our dop under the lapa and talk business.”
Botes trailed his boss to the thatch lapa and the remains of a bottle of Scotch and two glasses set out on a tray.
“I want you to tell me what you think of this Glenfiddich; my daughter bought it for my birthday. Cost her a whack.” Jakkals poured. “Salute! To the future and all that.”
“Very nice. Very smooth.”
“Very nice. Very smooth,” echoed Jakkals in his best Queen’s English. “Don’t give me that stront. Why don’t you just be honest and say it tastes like charcoal?”
“No, seriously, it tastes different to the usual—”
“Blah, blah. No wonder I can’t ever get straight answers out of you lot.”
“No, really, Jakkie—”
“Relax, man, I’m pulling your chain. Of course it’s good stuff. You think I would give you horse piss?” Jakkals reached for the bottle and topped up his glass. “Enough funny games. How did it go with that last one?”
“All good, hey. No problems to report.”
Jakkals Venter gave his crotch a scratch. “Good to hear. You heard about the thing with Dippies?”
“Ja, Freddie told me. There must a logical explanation.”
“We can’t afford mistakes, Connie.”
“No mistakes my side, Jakkals,” said Botes, dabbing at the deep scratch on his arm with his hanky.
“You sure about that?”
“Hundred per cent. That latest batch we got from the agent is working like a dream. You can ask Dippies. We’re talking two minutes flat from start to finish.”
“Well, just make sure it carries on working like a dream. What about the side effects?”
“What side effects?”
“I don’t know, what if the guy’s on heavy antibiotics or something? What happens then? What if the two don’t mix and it stays in the system?”
“Co-variable studies have shown no significant change in detection levels—”
“Plain and simple English, please, Professor.”
“It will make no difference, Jakkie. This stuff is top-drawer. The Russians have spent years perfecting it.”
Venter gave his crotch a dig. “This stuff’s too high tech for my boer brain. But as long as it’s working like you say it’s working, then I’m happy.”
“Like a dream, Jakkie. I’m telling you, it’s the way of the future.”
“In that case, maybe we must start replacing some of our old methods with the new. Keep up with the times, and all that. This latest incident with Dippies is making me jumpy as a cricket.”
“You’re hundred per cent right, Jakkie. If we want to stay in the game, we have to go high tech. You won’t believe the pharmaceutical developments that are happening nowadays. American B-52 bombers have nothing on the new chemical cocktails coming out—”
Jakkals’s phone was vibrating on the lapa’s bar counter. “The old duiwel himself. He had better have good news … Freddie Ferreira! What you got for me?”
While Jakkals paced around the pool, giving Freddie an earful and scratching his crotch at the same time, Conrad Botes dipped the corner of his hanky into his whisky and dabbed gingerly at his wounds.
28
Hearing the crunch of approaching footsteps, Tarryn Aldridge parted the blind and peered through. Steve. She pulled the slider on the lock and opened the caravan door a crack.
“What the heck took you so long?” she whispered.
Aldridge hurriedly passed the bags of ice through to her. “You don’t know what it’s like out there; I had to go to three different places after they started giving me funny looks at the garage.”
“How many did you get?”
“Six.”
“Is that all?”
“Must I get more? I will if you want.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll see how it goes. Did you get the pruning shears?”
“Under the ice. It was the last pair left at the Agri. This is crazy—”
“And the black bags?”
“They’re together with the pruners. What must I do now?”
“Like we discussed, Steve, act as if you’re fixing something on the caravan. Whatever you do, don’t forget to bang on the side if someone comes. We’re dead if you don’t.”
“I can’t believe we’re doing this, Tarryn. It’s not moral.”
Tarryn eyed her husband through the gap. His face was paler than the time he caught tick bite fever at Hartebeespoort. “Yes, yes, you’ve already told me. How do you think I feel? I’m the one who has to do the job, not you. Anyway, we don’t have time any more for your grand Plan B. Did you get the car fixed? No! Did you find a car to hire? No! After the break-in last night and that horrible dog sniffing around, do we have a choice? No! We have to do what we have to do, Steve. And I’ll do it, with or without you.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Enough just saying.” With that, Tarryn shut the caravan door in his face and locked it.
It was forever and a day ago since she had last helped with a slaughter. Twenty years, maybe more – the last time must have been during the school holidays when she was in matric. But like riding a bike, it was something you never forgot. Especially the first time: a dry berg wind day before her tenth birthday, just a few weeks after her dad landed the farm manager job outside Estcourt. She could still see herself, perched on that empty oil drum, watching the whole thing from beginning to end, like it was some Disney movie. Then afterwards helping the maids in the kitchen cut up the meat and wrap it in Jiffy for the deep freeze, while her brother Jason stayed hidden under his bed.
After that first time she quickly lost track of all the cattle dragged in and killed on the concrete slab behind the workshop.
Tarryn took quick stock of her work space. It was just as well Steve had decided in the end to splurge on the 601, because the Jurgens Junior would have been a nightmare to work in. It didn’t even come with a foldaway table.
She reached into the stowaway above the bunk bed and brought out the camping tablecloth. The thick plastic would be perfect for the job. She spread it open on the Formica table, and moved the bunk seat cushions out of harm’s way.
Next, she slid open the cutlery drawer and selected her tools. The Samurai Chef Set from Verimark was a definite. For back-up, she added a paring and deboning knife and two steak knives, which she arranged in a neat row next to the tools Steve had bought. As an afterthought, she reached back into the drawer for the bread knife – one never knew what to expect.
It was way too big for her, but Steve’s Braai-Meester apron would have to do. To mop up any other mess, she added a three-pack dishcloth set, a roll of Carlton paper towel, and several black garbage bags to the prep table. She emptied most of the five-litre bottle of La Vie into the plastic basin and gave it a squirt of Sunlight. Her hands were shaking from the adrenalin, but not so badly that she couldn’t control them. Her dad would have actually been proud of her if he was still alive.
A female UFC cage fighter about to enter the ring, Tarryn sucked in a deep breath; it was now or never. Peeling away the duvet cover, she pulled him to the middle of the Formica table – he was stiffer than an ironing board. She hadn’t even started and the stare was already making her uncomfortable. She reached for one of the dish cloths and dropped it over the face. Problem sorted.
Biting into her lip, she quickly cut away the jogging shorts and the vest. Without the clothes he looked more skinned rabbit than human. Compared to a cow or sheep, there was hardly anything to him – which would make her job much easier. With the veggie cutting board wedged under his back, his bony chest protruded outwards and his arms pulled nicely to the back.
