Rich Kill Poor Kill by Neil Humphreys

Author:Neil Humphreys
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Marshall Cavendish Editions

Chapter 32

AT the front door of Maxwell’s apartment, a young Malay man pulled off his motorcycle helmet and tapped on the door with a gloved knuckle.

“Just coming.”

The courier took the pizzas from his heatproof satchel and waited expectantly. The girl in the office had said the double cheese pizza delivery was a mat salleh. Mat sallehs usually gave a tip.

Maxwell opened the door. He was wearing only boxer shorts. His stomach flopped over his waistband like a loose tarpaulin flapping in a storm. “How much was it again?”

“Er, $34 with the garlic bread, sir.”

Maxwell went through the notes in his wallet. His TV played loudly in the background, catching the delivery guy’s attention. He rubbernecked over the fat white guy’s shoulder.

“You watching my TV, there?”

“No, no, sir.”

“It’s OK. What do you think of it? Sixty-five inch, curved, 4K.”

“Damn shiok, boss.”

“Yeah, she always liked that TV. Anyway, what was it, $34, right? Hey, let’s make it an even 40.”

“Wah, thanks man.”

“No problem, have a good night.”

The delivery guy felt like he owed the generous tipper something. “Terrible ah, on TV.”

“What’s that?”

“The two mat sallehs. Sorry, I mean the two, er, Caucasians on the news. Very sad.”

“Yes, it was. I heard it’s four people altogether.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Anyway, thanks for the pizza.”

Maxwell closed the door. He didn’t want to say or do something the delivery guy might regret and he had found the cigarette smell nauseating.

But his mood had improved in recent days. The media’s hypocrisy had entertained him. The Penny Black pub had been packed with potential eyewitnesses so he knew it was only a matter of time. He was determined to enjoy himself.

After a couple of slices of pizza, he returned to his repair job in the kitchen. Earlier in the day, he had bought a new plug socket plate to replace the blackened, scarred one. He worked quickly with his yellow Phillips screwdriver. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, or even clean it properly. There were still traces of what he had lost. The first two screws went in easily, but the third proved trickier, requiring real force in the wrist to drive through the incomplete thread.

Whistling his favourite Britpop tunes from the 90s, Maxwell was about to start on the fourth when an unattractive, sweaty Chinese guy filled the screen. The harsh camera light did the guy no favours on Maxwell’s 65-inch TV. Ugly people didn’t belong in high definition. Maxwell read the crawler beneath the man’s perspiring armpits:

Breaking news—Anti-foreigner rally planned for Speakers Corner.

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