“You’re born, you shit
yourself a few times, and then you die.”
This was the note we
found on Tuesday morning in the fridge, wrapped around a bottle of Becks.
Chris hadn’t been sighted
in two days. We’d considered putting up a poster in the local burger joint on
Sonnanallee where he ate most nights. I’d even crafted it in Powerpoint:
“Missing:
(picture of Chris)
Last seen with BBQ
Burger and Becks.
Comes to the name of ‘Chris’.
Red hair.
Reasonable Reward
(my phone number). ”
The day before he went
missing there was something noticeably different to Chris. His gate had
slackened, his conversation had become laboured, his text messages almost
indecipherable. At band practice he refused to sing. Clapping in bridges,
howling during verses and not participating at all in the chorus.
To be fair, the night
before Chris went missing he’d had his first altercation with a Turkish
drug-dealer. His shins blackened by kicks, visible bruising on his neck where
the brut had held him to a wall, threatening worse if he ever openly used the
word ‘coke’ in a text again. The following morning the chain on his bike had come off a few times,
and he’d been short changed at the local supermarket.
Not to mention that, on that same morning, on the day he went missing, his girlfriend had called from Australia and told Chris she didn’t
really love him. That she’d never loved him, and that she in fact loved someone
else.
I only say this so
matter-of-factly, as this is how Chris had told it to us. Outside Laidak,
cigarette in hand, two days ago.
