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

polished and perfect. I recalled Piet’s comment about the sibling rivalry between Roelof and Hendrik and couldn’t help wondering whether everything Roelof did, including the way he dressed, was calculated to contrast with Hendrik, who was tonight wearing shorts and a casual shirt.

“You brought samples of everything?” asked Roelof.

“Did you see how big that box is?” said Billy.

Roelof’s suspicion of Billy Mabele radiated from him, but Billy seemed oblivious to it. He turned back to Piet.

“Looking forward to doing business with you good people,” he said.

Piet smiled. “As are we. But first,” he declared, and his voice stepped up to broadcast this across the entire terrace, so that the servants would get the message, “we eat. No business on an empty stomach. What the hell’s going on here? Where is the food?”

The final question was little short of a bellow, and there was a scurry of quilted servants as we moved over to the banqueting table.

“The problem with this new generation,” said Piet van Rensburg, waving a pig’s rib in the air, “is that they have no understanding of the history they have inherited.” He gnawed at the rib and then washed it down with some Boschendal Special Reserve Merlot.

“What inheritance?” said Hendrik without waiting to swallow his mouthful of ostrich steak. We were seated about the banqueting table, and a constant stream of freshly grilled meat was being supplied by the team of quilted staff.

Piet was leading the conversation, and the purchase of two tons of heavy armaments had not yet been mentioned. I assumed that would happen after Melissa had retired for the night. Which was not likely to be very late, as she was looking a little wobbly after her fourth gin and tonic. She gazed now at Hendrik, and it looked as if she was struggling to focus.

“The history,” she said. “Your Pa said the history.”

Hendrik looked as if he was wondering whether to reach across the table and discipline her.

“My point,” said Piet, who had been growing increasingly irritated with his son but was doing his best not to show it, “is that the young people seem to think they have inherited a history of recrimination. All they see nowadays is blame for the old and retribution for the new. They blame someone else for everything that is wrong, but their limited understanding causes polarisation, engendering hatred between the extreme edges of our population.” He took another sip of the wine. Hendrik chewed with his mouth open, Billy started on another beer, and Roelof took a forkful of salad. “This lack of understanding, the constant blaming of someone else breeds violence. Wouldn’t you agree, Billy?”

Billy was caught in the act of taking a large measure of his beer. He held up an enormous hand as he drank. This was the situation that Chandler had wanted to avoid, and I noticed him shifting anxiously in his seat. Fat-Boy was a man of strong opinions, and they were contrasting opinions to those of Piet van Rensburg. I looked at Robyn who sat beside Fat-Boy and had been instructed to keep him in character, but she seemed oblivious to everything around her, pushing her food around the plate listlessly. Fat-Boy finished the glass of beer and placed it down on the table.

“I cannot agree with you, Piet,” he said. “We must lay blame at the door of those who deserve it. Your people have oppressed my people throughout our history. The blame is all yours.”

Piet looked as if he had stopped breathing. I doubted many spoke to him in that way. Colonel Colchester shifted again in his seat, planning reparative action.

“But you are right,” said Billy. Although the words were those of Fat-Boy, the delivery was all Billy Mabele. “It is the blame that breeds the violence. And I encourage the blame. Violence is good for business.”

He smiled around the table at us. A servant poured him another beer.

“It has been suggested,” said Roelof suddenly, “that this country is engaged in what they call a ‘slow war’. Not a series of quick battles, but a slow and steady elimination of the minority population.”

“Perhaps,” said Billy. “But the battles will come. And they will be fought over the land.”

“Over our land,” said Hendrik. “This land here. My land.”

“Now Hendrik,” warned Piet, raising a hand to stop him from saying anything further, but Hendrik would not be stopped.

“It’s my land because my Pa bought it. With money he earned. And now we work on it. Every day we work on it. We have made it what it is. Why must I give back something my father bought with his own money?”

“It’s more complex than that son,” said Piet. “We have a problem in this country, and it needs to be solved.”

“You father bought stolen property, Hendrik,” said Billy. “The land was taken from my people.”

There was another moment of silence, but then Piet showed his teeth again and raised a glass in Billy’s direction.

“Now there you’ve hit a nerve,” he said. “But think back to those days before the white man ‘took the land’.” His fingers provided the quote marks. “The white man had big plans for working the land: farming it, mining it. What were the aspirations of your forebears?”

“My forebears were one with the land,” said Billy. “The land is a part of us.”

“The nomadic tribes whose cattle grazed the land had no intentions of working it,” said Piet. “It is the bane of our culture that we want to seize an opportunity when we see it, want to make more of what we have.”

“Which is why it has come to this,” said Billy. “You buying weapons from me to kill my people.”

“To defend ourselves,” said Piet. “We need the weapons for our protection.”

The two men stared across the table at each other. An uncomfortable silence descended.

“Fat-Boy is winding you up, Mr Van Rensburg,” said Robyn suddenly. “He doesn’t believe any of this nonsense. Do you, baby?” Robyn smiled at Billy and reached out a hand