Death By Carbs Read Free

are you okay?’ S’bu shouted across the road.
    Zayne staggered to his feet, bent over and vomited his guts up in the middle of the road. This was not how he’d pictured his first night in his new job.
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THE HIJACKERS
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    Wednesday 4:19am
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    Papsak rifled through the cubbyhole in the ambulance as Thabo hurtled down the highway towards Epping Industria.
    â€˜Anything in there?’ Thabo asked.
    Papsak pulled out a wad of papers and paged through them, tossing the ones that didn’t interest him out the window, along with a few empty chip packets. He kept the manual and the ambulance’s papers to one side, then went back to fishing in the cubbyhole. He brought out a black peak cap embroidered with the SuperSport logo, dusted it off, turned it around, and put it on.
    â€˜Nuh-uh, Thabs,’ he said, as he fished around in the other pockets in the ambulance door, then felt under the seat. Finally he reached round into the spaces behind both their seats.
    â€˜Look properly, don’t miss anything . . . no gun, no knife? You sure?’ the driver asked.
    Papsak shook his head.
    â€˜Not bad, hey?’ said Thabo, patting the steering wheel. ‘Only ninety-seven thousand on the clock. Moe should give us more than five grand for this; it’s a major find. Five grand’s a rip-off.’
    Papsak paged through the vehicle’s manual. ‘Nxaa, slow down,’ he snapped. ‘If we get pulled over, Moe will kill us slowly.’
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    Thabo pulled the ambulance into the back of the workshop and waited for the garage door to close all the way before he turned off the engine, and they both climbed out.
    â€˜Check out the back,’ Thabo said.
    â€˜Why don’t you check out the back?’ Papsak spat.
    Thabo rolled his eyes at his friend, then went round to the back of the ambulance, Papsak close behind him. They hauled open the doors and both scrambled in.
    â€˜Fok!’ Thabo shouted.
    â€˜But . . . but . . . they weren’t driving with any sirens or lights on. How were we supposed to know there was anyone in here?’ Papsak asked.
    Thabo leaned over to get a closer look at the body. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘You’ d better go get Moe.’
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THE CO-AUTHORS
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    Wednesday 4:22am
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    Marco’s tummy had been gurgling and churning ever since he’d snuck in just after three that morning. He’d had a stingingly hot shower and crawled into bed as quietly as possible so as to not wake Chris. His nonna used to call those sounds tummy goblins.
    He lay watching his beautiful husband breathing evenly in the bed beside him. He was so lucky: he was with this phenomenal man, he was the co-author of a successful book, with another one on the way,
he had his own restaurant, and now the man standing between him
and household-name fame was dead. The body had only just been
found and the internet was already exploding with news and rumours. He should be happy. So then why couldn’t he sleep? Was it guilt? He owed so much to the dead man.
    The restaurant was half the problem. When he’d first opened the Banting Bistro, he thought it would be packed from morning till midnight. Hundreds of thousands of South Africans had embraced the Banting lifestyle, after all. But he’d learnt the hard way that it wasn’t always that simple, and running a niche restaurant was a fool’s errand. The way things were going, he had barely enough to keep the restaurant afloat for another couple of months – and only thanks to his share of the royalties from the Real Meal Revolution book – and then he was going to have to consider closing down. Unless of course, this new book of Mediterranean Banting recipes shot to the top of the bestseller lists, and him being the face of it helped turn the restaurant around. It was his only hope.
    His stomach gurgled again. He gave up on sleep, snuck out of bed and tiptoed