Murderous by David Hickson (best ereader for comics .txt) 📕

“Everyone was angry,” said Q again.

“Your brother spoke to him? Calmed him down?”

“Maybe,” said Q.

“Would you mind looking at a photograph?” I asked. “Tell us whether you recognise the friend of Hendrik van Rensburg?”

Q shrugged, and Khanyi reached into her bag and withdrew one of her buff folders. She slid the folder over the table to Q and opened it to reveal a photograph of a smiling Dirk. I watched Q. His face went still for a moment, then he looked up at me.

“That is the man,” he said simply, “the friend of Van Rensburg.” He turned away from me to face Khanyi instead. Considering that Dirk was one of the thirty-three people that he had confessed to gunning down it seemed an inadequate response, but then memory was selective, as I well knew.

“Which of you stepped forward to help him?” I asked. “You or your brother?”

Q shrugged.

“Xolani helped him. Xolani helps people like that. No matter what colour. He called Ayanda, the nurse, and she said we should take him somewhere safe, then I left him with Van Rensburg and took the man away.”

“Left him? Left who?”

“Xolani.”

“You left Xolani with Hendrik van Rensburg? I thought Hendrik van Rensburg drove away and left the friend there.”

“Xolani wanted to talk with Van Rensburg,” said Q.

“And did Xolani want to talk to the friend as well? The next morning perhaps?”

“Xolani left that night. He wasn’t there in the morning.”

“I thought he left on his pilgrimage in the morning.”

Q shook his head. “In the night,” he said.

There was a sudden banging noise from the door behind Q, and it swung open. Warden Noxolo appeared like a genie left behind after the puff of smoke. His face was still squeezed with the effort of managing his sphincter, but it contrived to show how much pleasure he took in announcing that our allocated time was going to be shortened because of the prisoner’s medical condition.

“Prisoner goes back to his cell,” he declared.

We all stood. The guards filed in and started fitting the chains back onto Q’s ankles and wrists. Q looked down at the floor again and started the silent retreat back into his cave.

“You have spoken to your brother?” I asked. “Since he left?”

Q looked up at me. He shook his head and said, “imiyalezo,” the Zulu word for ‘messages’. His eyes held mine, but he said no more. The guards finished fastening the chains and gave him a shove in the kidneys with a quirt, and they processed out of the room. As they formed up in the corridor, Q peered back at me between their shoulders and called out.

“Xolani didn’t do this. Leave him alone. He is a good man.”

Before I had a moment to respond, another quirt in the kidneys pushed him out of sight.

“Waste of time,” said Warden Noxolo as we walked back to the reception area. It wasn’t really a question, and he didn’t bother to conceal the smug glee.

“It was,” I said, “but thank you so much for your cooperation.”

“We know how to do things here,” said Warden Noxolo. “The right way. This new gentle, airy-fairy gay bullshit is always a waste of time.”

“And it was unprecedented,” I suggested.

“Keep the chains on and squeeze until the truth falls out,” said Warden Noxolo. “That’s what works.”

Thirteen

Roelof phoned as I was climbing into my Fiat and was starting to squeeze the water out of my trousers. The rain had built up some strength while I was with the most hated man in the country. The Pollsmoor guards possessed only one umbrella between five of them, and that umbrella was required to prevent Khanyi’s new braids from getting damp in the two metres she would be exposed to the deluge while walking between the covered walkway and her car door.

“Mister Van Rensburg would like to proceed,” said Roelof. “He is happy with the prices, and would like to discuss logistics.”

“Of course,” I said.

“We have an airstrip on the farm. If you could fly in, Mister Van Rensburg would be pleased to host you at your earliest convenience.”

“I will speak with the colonel and let you know.”

“We would like to see a sample of the products and discuss logistics directly,” said Roelof. “With Mr Mabele.”

“I’m not sure that will be possible.”

“Let us know when. I think that you will find our facilities some of the most comfortable this side of the Vaal River.”

He ended the call.

Chandler said it was all wrong.

“We need to do this on our terms, not on their farm, enjoying their hospitality. Keep them begging, Gabriel, for goodness’ sake,” he protested. “You don’t jump into bed on your first date. We’re not ready.”

“It’s our third date, and they’re getting hungry. It’s what we wanted.”

“We shouldn’t even be holding hands yet.”

“You want me to call back and say it’s not possible?”

Chandler gave a heavy sigh. He found it difficult working with amateurs.

“Tell him we’ll do our best for next week,” he said, and ended the call. Chandler, like Roelof, didn’t like saying goodbye.

“It was a disaster,” said Fehrson with the triumphant tone of a man laying the groundwork for the distribution of blame far away from himself. “Khanyisile has already told me all about it.” Fehrson paused as he took in my appearance. “My goodness, young man! What on earth happened to you?” He watched in horror as I dripped onto the floor of his office.

“I’m having a bad parking day,” I said.

“You should have taken an umbrella,” said Fehrson. “Khanyisile carries one in her car.”

“Khanyisile is extraordinarily forward thinking,” I said.

“You don’t need to be touchy about it,” said Fehrson. “And don’t you dare think of sitting on that 17th century Os Du Mouton. Not in your state. Take the Nun’s chair, can’t do much damage to that.”

The Nun’s chair was hiding beside a seven-foot-tall grandfather clock that I hadn’t seen in Fehrson’s office before.

“You bought the Georgian clock?” I asked as I dragged the solid wooden chair