Chilli Bites

By Diane Van der Westhuizen

Dark humour spices these twisted tales of love, betrayal and revenge; where the innocent have the pleasure of watching Karma deliver the coup de grace to the unsuspecting guilty. There is an executor of deceased estates, or ‘the CSI of the lives of the recently interred and the crisply cremated’ as she calls herself; spouses who exact justice on their cheating partners and a dowager who has the last laugh while on her deathbed. The twists in the stories’ endings prove that Karma’s punishment always fits the crime to perfection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diane Van der Westhuizen
• Release date: Feb 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524287047

Diane Van der Westhuizen

Di van der Westhuizen is a South African-born author who took a quantum leap of faith and left office life to follow her passion: writing. She has drawn on her love of fantasy, humour and the perseverance of the human spirit to weave the story in this, her first book, Wild Avengers. But, more than anything else, it was her concern for the way we treat animals who cannot speak for themselves that was the driving force behind this book. A quotation from this book says it all: "Morbidius Ultimatum understands that damage is done one butterfly at a time, book one tree at a time, one bullet at a time". She has subsequently had articles published in South Africa's most widely-read family magazine as well as a self-published compilation of short stories, viz. Chilli Bites.

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Diane van der Westhuizen

CHILLI

BITES

Description:

A spicy

South African Cape Malay delicacy

Crammed with hot chillies

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That burn like these stinging tales

Of betrayal and revenge.

Till Death Us Do Part

Wickedness was like food:

Once you got started it was hard to stop.

The gut expanded to take in more and more.

~ John Updike

Sharon was dead. I knew it the instant I saw the doctor’s grim expression.

I’m very sorry, Mr Dixon Dr Philmore said quietly, we did all we could to save her. Your wife’s death was as unexpected for us as it must be for you. She was such a healthy woman...

This must be the shittest part of being a doctor I thought idly, especially when you have to admit you’re clueless as to why they died on your watch. Which was a good thing. For me anyway.

As is expected of the new widower I now was, I creased my face into a suitably mournful expression. Tears however, remained stubbornly unshed. I wiped away the phantom tears with my sleeve, hoping Dr Philmore wouldn’t notice their absence.

Please don’t apologise doctor I croaked, inwardly delighted at my surprisingly good acting skills. You did your best. That’s all I could ask for. At least she didn’t suffer for too long. I silently thanked Sharon for making me watch those cheesy chick flicks with her. They had provided me with a handy stash of suitable phrases for a time like this.

No, no she didn’t. Her condition deteriorated very rapidly.

I sniffed what I hoped was a pitiful sniff. "Nevertheless, it is very distressing. And over the Festive Season too. I sniffed again, emphasizing how distraught I was to have to spend Christmas alone. Have you any clue as to what killed her?" I quickly wiped another imaginary tear from my face; more to soak up the film of sweat on my top lip than to emulate a dramatic scene from Deaths of Our Lives. My, my, wasn’t I the witty widower.

I’m afraid not Dr Philmore replied. Her symptoms were typical of a patient having an anaphylactic attack – the nausea, vomiting, itchy skin and shortness of breath. We checked for any allergens, but we couldn’t find anything that could’ve sparked this episode. Nevertheless, we immediately administered adrenaline, but we were too late. Hopefully the post mortem examination will give us the answer we’re looking for. He glanced at a wall clock, clearly anxious to deal with another emergency.

Will you let me know the results when you receive them? I wasn’t in the clear just yet. Modern medicine may have an ace up its sleeve that could throw a hypodermic in the works, so to speak.

You will know as soon as I know, Mr Dixon. I could see from the faraway look in his eyes that his thoughts were already elsewhere.

May... may I see her? I asked softly, not caring whether he would allow me to or not. She was dead. That was all I cared about. But one must do what is expected of one.

Of course, of course, Mr Dixon. How thoughtless of me. Please... she’s still in the critical care ward. Ward D9. Down the passage and to your right. He waved in the general direction of the last stop for patients before the morgue.

Thanks again, doctor. I’ll say my goodbyes now if you don’t mind. I hung my head and placed my hand over my eyes. Blimey, I’m getting really good at this.

Please go ahead, Mr Dixon. If you need anything, just ask a nurse to page me. A fleeting look of relief swept over his features. His day could only get better from here on in.

I nodded silently and slowly made my way down the passage towards Ward D9, controlling my impulse to whistle The Sunny Side of the Street. Slowly does it Dixon. Don’t muck it up now.

CHAPTER TWO

I stared down at Sharon’s pale face and noticed a small fleck of vomit on her chin. A sheet had been drawn up to her pert chin, no doubt to hide the puncture wounds and bruising caused by the frantic attempts of the medical staff to save her life. I placed my hand on her arm. She was already cold. I thought it strange how dead bodies terrified most people. To my mind, people are far more of a bother when they’re alive than when whatever animates their bodies heads for greener pastures.

"You bitch! I snarled under my breath. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about you and that... that arsehole?" I tightly pursed my lips together. She was in a private ward but you’re never really alone in a hospital. There are always eyes and ears lurking behind drawn curtains and closed doors.

Unexpectedly, my suppressed anger suddenly gave way to an ache that caught hold of my throat and squeezed hard as our twenty years of happy marriage (clearly Sharon had thought otherwise) skittered across my brain. Vivid ‘Kodak moments’ began playing in my head: the first time I spotted her vibrant red curls at my local pub; our first passionate kiss that night on the street to the whistles of passersby; our wedding six months later on a beach in Santorini with the hot Grecian sun scalding our shoulders. I could still feel her body wracked with sobs those many years ago when she miscarried our only child, only to be told by her paediatrician that she would never be able to have more children. The memories kept on coming. I couldn’t stop them. I had loved her so very, very much. But the degree to which we love someone is in direct proportion to the suffering and pain when that love is taken away. And my suffering over the last few months had almost crushed me.

A tear rolled down my cheek and plopped onto Sharon’s once glossy red hair, now matted with sweat and God-knows-what.

"Why, Sharon? Was life with me so awful? I whispered. And why him, of all people for God’s sake?" Months of pent up pain swept over me. I dropped to my knees as deep sobs erupted in my core. I wailed like a wounded animal caught in a gin trap, spittle trailing from my lips to the floor as I gave myself over to that sweet release. First I had lost Sharon’s love, and now I had lost her too.

This cold cadaver, the remains of a life and a love, was the result of a chain of events that had begun about a year before.

CHAPTER THREE

I was the last to know, of course. The cuckolded usually are. And even when we’re faced with the foul truth, we still ‘look to find a reason to believe’ (thanks for that, Mr Rod Stewart). Oh God!  I thought, I’ve become a walking cliché spouting sad, silly songs of love gone bad. The most important relationship in my life