Predator (4 page)

However, they came at a price, his family life had come apart at the seams. His single-mindedness (his wife had called it bloody-mindedness) about his plantation and wines had held him together. Now, nothing seemed to matter – neither the death of his wife nor the estrangement of his offspring – his entire world was contained in a cask of vintage wine.

Jonathan Jones frowned as he replaced his cellphone. He hated it when Chris didn’t answer his calls. He was sitting in the porch of his log cabin with his long legs stretched out. It was another beautiful sunset, marred only by his thoughts about his recalcitrant offspring – both. He wondered when his dim-witted son, Chris, would turn into a real man and take over the wine business.

As he looked through the dusky pink wine in the glass, the sunset looked blood-soaked. ‘The fool needs to learn to toe the bloody line’, said Joe to himself as he appreciatively inhaled the aroma of the full-bodied vintage. ‘Dionysus is who he needs to become to step into my shoes.’

Joe’s vineyard was one of the very few wineries in the country. Their vineyards produced the entire range of red and white wines. He also imported and rebranded many foreign wines. Of all his brands, Shiraz was his prime favourite, and he liked to believe it kept him young.

On the wrong side of the fifties, he could still give young lads a run for their money when it came to appearance, energy, vigour and even libido because he religiously worked out.

Watching the sun as it sank into the horizon, Joe remembered what his wife had once said: ‘This is a cursed business. It has taken my family away. I’ve lost my children and you to those bloody grapes. I hate it. I’d burn it down to the ground if I could.’ He had slapped her then, open-handed and hard, across her face. He couldn’t care less for her opinions anymore. Anyway, what was he without Shiraz – his passion and the secret of his strength?

Joe hated his stupid wife’s mediocrity. Life was all about getting rich and famous. Broken family ties were no reason for sensational breakdowns. Joe considered himself a proud alpha male. No one had the right to tell him what was right or, for that matter, what was wrong. After all, wasn’t he God?

‘Thank God the bitch is dead! She was a nobody and knew nothing!’ Worse, he thought to himself, she had left him saddled with a rebellious daughter who refused to even speak to him, and a decadent, sullen son whose life was a completely pointless existence.

Joe’s priority, as he surveyed his kingdom of vines, was to take care of his wine. It involved both labour and commitment; however, his wife had steadfastly refused to understand this. She had called him an obsessive, pig-headed, misogynist who cared more for his vineyard than his woman. On some level, he knew she was right, but then he was God, Dionysus and Bacchus rolled into one, and couldn’t care less about the opinion of mere mortals, even his wife’s. Now she was gone for good. His daughter’s resentment was water off a duck’s back as far as he was concerned, and he ignored it. As for his damnable son, one day soon he’d wake up to find Wall Street wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be. He hoped it would be soon. He’d come running back to his father then, whining, and with his tail between his legs. Joe would magnanimously make him the new wine baron. And all would be well.

Joe had put a lot of thought into his wine cellar; it was more than a mere storage location. His buttery was a carefully crafted, sophisticated repository that showcased his unique taste and style – a connoisseur’s pride and joy. The arrangement of his priceless collection of wine was impeccable and tasteful. Nobody was allowed entry into this hallowed space without his permission or knowledge. Not even his wife. It was only because of her that he had invested so much time and money in his underground cellars to protect and age the nectar just right.

Joe smiled as he thought of his brainchild, the labyrinth of cellars that lay barely ten feet beneath the vineyard. ‘As above, so below, as within, so without’, he chuckled to himself. He had worked on the blueprint along with the architect and knew the all the twists and turns, the precise locations of the wine in bottles and casks, and where a very few in antiquated carboys and amphorae were stored for his assortment. He was probably one of the very few people who had knowledge of the secret trapdoors in this man-made rabbit warren. He had replicated the climatic conditions of the caves he had visited in France while learning the fine art of aging the wine with few gradual temperature swings between 7–18 °C (45–64 °F). He was God of the underworld now – he could control the climate underground.

Joe had learnt that Shiraz matured differently from other wines; more slowly and at a lower temperature. He’d started using this process for the connoisseur specials, stored in a secluded part of the wine cellars.

For commercial sale, he had the temperature swings controlled at a different level beyond 14 degrees, which caused the wine to breathe through the cork and helped speed up the aging process.

Of course, only a selected few of his coterie knew where the slow ageing wine was stored in the underground labyrinth. He had named this secret section the ‘buttery’, where the nectar was protected from sunlight and temperature fluctuations. He had a neurotic fixation on the dark-skinned grape known as Syrah or Shiraz. Over time, he turned his entire land to produce Shiraz and moved to creating powerful red wines with soul and character.

To his mind, he was the alchemist when it came to creating a wine with a soul. Unlike others, his wine had the best ingredients. It was ambrosia he created; and he was omniscient and all-powerful in his 35-acre world.

His loyal subjects, the gardeners, pickers, workers and caretakers of the vines, stayed in the vicinity of the precious grapes. They lived in the quarters provided by Joe close to the vineyard and were a community unto themselves. They ploughed, cover-planted and harvested the grapes until vinification; it was a celebration for everybody.

The fermentation process when the grape juice turned into wine required constant supervision. This was the crucial time when blood and toil turned into nectar beneath the hillocks. It was a tough job and Joe did this himself and monitored the temperatures with a few trusted henchmen.

Joe had ensured the secret trapdoors to his underground kingdom were built on an east sloping hill to allow maximum sunlight and encourage the roots to grow deep. It was just perfect for a slow ripening of the grapes and a gentle unveiling of the aromas and flavours of the Shiraz grapes.

If only his nitwit son had a nose for the aromatic flavour of candied apples instead of trouble. Joe quaffed a mouthful of the Shiraz. He could taste the relatively simple flavour of red apple skin, and then made a face. Something was missing.

The wine was smooth in the beginning and would have been pleasant enough had his team not worked into it a bitter acetone aftertaste. ‘Just like my marriage’, Joe thought, ‘smooth at the start and highly unpleasant at the end, and the soul was always missing,’ Something deep inside him snapped.

For Joe, wine was all about the soul, never the taste. Livid with fury, he smashed the wineglass on the floor and yelled, ‘Ram Singh! You bastard. What have you done to my beautiful Shiraz? Get your ugly, fat ass over here right now, you son-of-a-bitch!’

The next moment, the door to the porch swung open and Ram Singh rushed out looking distinctly alarmed. ‘My apologies, Master. I was in the kitchen, and couldn’t hear you. Is something the matter, Sir?’ said Ram Singh in a trembling voice. He was scared to see his Master angry; he knew what was to follow.

‘I’m talking about the wine, you imbecile’, thundered Joe. ‘Have you not been keeping an eye on the workers? The Shiraz lacks soul. You know what’s wrong, don’t you? Do you want me to skin you alive, you fool? Send for the supervisor right away and get the damn car out. Now!’

Ram Singh ran towards the winery.

Joe’s chef, driver, plumber and man Friday, Ram Singh was a sturdy man in his late-thirties. His balding head and potbelly had allowed the years to take their toll and embrace his soul. He had been an orphan when his Master had taken him under his wing. He trembled in fear every time his Master lost his temper. The whiplash scars on his back were proof of the man’s towering rages. Before the first set of lash wounds healed fully, his Master’s wrath would bestow a new crop to fester. He was loyal to his Master; he was his faithful dog who wouldn’t even whine when kicked. He would do what he was born to do. He was born to serve his God, his Master.

Ram Singh hurried back and poured wine into a new glass and handed it to his Master. Joe toyed with the glass while he scanned through his memory bank for any lapses or indiscretions, but there were none that he could call to mind. His underground kingdom was his best-kept secret. The buttery was a well-kept secret that he had managed to hide from his dead wife, although his nit-witted son and obnoxious daughter did know of its existence.

He placed his wineglass carefully on the exquisitely carved sandalwood footstool beside his dark green leather-upholstered rocking chair. He clenched his fists, infuriated as he remembered what his daughter had said before walking out of the door the night of her Mom’s funeral. ‘Screw you, asshole. I’m glad she is dead. I hope it won’t be so easy for you,’ she’d yelled, flicking her middle finger at him, tears streaming down her face. Perhaps she had found out something horribly insensitive that he had done. Ah well, just as long as she didn’t know anything about this secret.

Joe had always derived a perverse pleasure from watching a woman cry without feeling any remorse. He was unaware that his son was also treading the very same path.

Probably some years down the line, or who knows it could be sooner, Chris would become a proud father. Joe blamed his mother and wife for the way he was. His daughter had joined their milieu. It made him feel like God, for he had the power to bestow forgiveness upon her.

Joe had remained silent and watched Salmonella walk out of the house, violently slamming the door shut behind her. His wimpy son, Chris, had just stood there glaring at him. Anyway, that dimwit was too angry to think straight. Joe’s silence had enraged Chris no end that night.

Things between them had soured since then. Joe would have been quite okay with Chris knowing about his infidelity, indifference or cruelty. He liked to believe that his existing relationship with his son would eventually help him grow up into a man.

Next morning, the father and the son had met at the breakfast table. Both didn’t say anything for a while until Joe said, ‘It’s not you. You’re just being who you are. It’s me. Well, it’s my fault, anyway.’ Chris looked heavenwards and walked away. Henceforth, all conversations had ended this way.

For Joe, this was a good thing. He was single again. There would be no more women like his wife out to bugger him ever again – women who would start out being quite happy with a regular fuck, and then change their minds and decide that a quiet domesticated life was better than kinky sex and noisy orgasms.

Now he was free to find himself great sex, ego massages and fake love. The best part was that they’d leave him alone afterwards, alone with the secret love of his life – Shiraz. At fifty-five, that’s all he wanted.

Joe stroked his smooth, flat abdomen. He needed these women, the age didn’t matter. There were plenty of them out there. They kept him young. Just like his wine, he was ageing well with full-bodied women around him.

He was happy, yes, but in the most twisted sense of the word. At least he wasn’t a fake like so many men his age. And he was a good provider.

He’d even let Chris use the visitor’s gallery and the clearing in the vineyard for his college reunion tonight. Time and again, God needed a few virgin offerings to maintain the God-status. Or perhaps that was the devil.

After the death of his wife, he had been spending a lot of time reading about local, urban legends and devil worship. The small town had it all.

The belief in devil worship had wormed its way into the sleepy town that he now called home.

And tonight would be another night, a step closer to finding out. Like father, like son; only the dead knew it all.

Salmonella’s Web World

Salmonella absent-mindedly rubbed the scar on her right cheek. Thanks to Joe. It was a permanent reminder of his presence and she hated it. She was called Florence then, she was Salmonella now. In her mind, they were two different entities.

Florence had died along with her mother. She let her anger subside and tried to focus on the work piled up on her desk. The college reunion party had to be a grand success.

She was looking forward to the break. Although her job as a system administrator was tough, she knew she was very good at it, probably the best. So what if she was on her own at this age when most of her friends from college were either married or contemplating it?

Salmonella got up, stretched and glanced at her watch. It was past midnight and she was alone in the cold, dark room. All she could hear was the gentle humming of all the huge servers around her.

Not the stereotypical system administrator; Florence was tall, lean and athletic. The tight white tee accentuated the curve of her breasts and her jeans clung faithfully to her hips, highlighting her hourglass figure. She prided herself on her diet and exercise routines that kept her muscles firm, her body toned and her mind razor sharp.

‘Salmonella’ was the geeky genius, an anti-virus. She had the power to mess up anyone’s computer or mind. Folks who disliked her said she was from some country called
‘Lesbia’
because unlike the other women, she wasn’t into the regular dating scene with men.

Carefully lifting the styrofoam cup from her table, she realized the coffee had gone cold. She’d dozed off during her working hours. As a nightbird, she was at her best past midnight.

She looked around the dimly-lit server room and wondered why this place was home to her. The cold, dark server room was bereft of features, adornment or even proper lighting. It was as plain as it could get.

She looked at the brightly lit computer screens around her and wondered why she didn’t have a social life online way past midnight. Video downloads, online chats, messaging, geo-fencing, updates … the planet was a whole different place in the virtual world of computers, servers, unkempt wires and power cords.