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

We took the quickest route to the highway, catching glimpses of the wounded truck across the golf course and lagoon. A few more early morning joggers had gathered at the police cordon.

“Singing like a bird,” said Andile when he called back a minute later. I heard the crackling sound of the end of his cigarette as he sucked the air through it.

“Where are they?”

“Southern suburbs.”

“That doesn’t sound right, why would they be in the suburbs? Can you move on them now?”

“Why would we do that? We’re waiting until they reach their concrete bunker.”

“I’m not sure they’re going to their concrete bunker.”

“What are you on about, Gabriel?”

“The friend of mine they have with them is a black man.”

“So?”

“What would white supremacists driving a car filled with weapons want with a black man?”

I heard the crackling of the cigarette again.

“I’ll call back,” he said again, and ended the call.

Robyn came to a junction and gunned the jeep away from the coast, into the desolate industrial zone that lay between us and the highway that ran down the Cape Peninsula like the gnarled spine of a crooked animal, all the way to the southern suburbs.

Andile called back ten minutes later.

“You were wrong about them not going to their concrete bunker,” he said. “They’ve reached it.”

“Where is it?”

“We’ve got a problem. It’s a big concrete bunker.”

“Where?”

“Newlands rugby stadium.”

“Are your men moving in?”

“They are, but that stadium’s about as big a concrete bunker as you can get.”

“I could be wrong about what they’re doing with my friend.”

Andile paused. More crackling and an exhalation.

“I don’t think you’re wrong, Gabriel. It’s the Currie Cup final today, Western Province against the Golden Lions.”

“So what?”

“The rugby grounds will be crowded. They’re expecting a capacity crowd. You know what the two bastions of the Afrikaner culture are?”

I didn’t answer that. I was thinking about the explosives Roelof had insisted should be added to their shopping list.

“Their church and their rugby,” said Andile. “The two religions of the Afrikaans people.”

“Why would white supremacists attack their own people?” I said.

“It will be a mixed crowd,” said Andile. “In any case, there’s no time to figure it out. I’ve got a stadium to go to.”

He ended the call. Robyn kept the accelerator pinned to the floor, and we drove in silence, aware of the ever-lengthening time it was taking us to catch up.

“Of all people,” said Chandler a few minutes later, “you should know the answer to why they are doing it.”

I turned to look at him. His face was pale, and his head was lolling back against the seat. “Sometimes,” he said, “the lives of a few must be sacrificed to save the lives of many.”

He closed his eyes. I turned back to Robyn.

“Drop me at the stadium,” I said, “and take him straight to that clinic. I’ll get Fat-Boy on my own.”

I found a dirty cloth in the glove compartment of the jeep, spat on it and cleaned the blood off my face and hands. I had a nasty feeling this day was going to get worse.

Twenty-Five

Newlands Rugby Stadium crouched like a robotic spider dropped from above into the tranquil suburb of Newlands, which sheltered on the damp slopes of Table Mountain. In Lower Newlands there was a small river with a mill that crushed hops for the country’s biggest brewery. Beside that brewery was the hulking stadium. The blue and white colours of the Western Province rugby team loomed out at us from the aluminium cladding of the stadium as Robyn ramped the speed humps in the small streets leading up to it. The police had closed off the roads, waiting with glowing batons to direct the traffic into the parking, so we approached through the brewery. The upper levels of the stadium thrust out beyond the concrete buttresses, so that as we drove towards it, the sky was obliterated, and I had the sense the entire building could come crashing down upon us.

“That’s just because you’ve not slept in twenty-eight hours,” said Robyn when I mentioned it. “You’d better watch yourself.”

We continued to the railroad shunting area between the stadium and the brewery, where men were working fast to finish their loading before the yard was closed ahead of the game. A man in an orange vest and matching helmet waved us off to the side, and Robyn brought the jeep to a skidding halt beside stacks of empty pallets. Chandler’s eyes fluttered open.

“This war the Van Rensburgs are fighting,” he said, “it’s not our war, Gabriel. It’s not Fat-Boy’s war. Get him out of here and let the police handle everything else.”

I said I would. Chandler handed me his Glock, and they drove off, spraying dust over my filthy overalls. I tucked the Glock into my empty harness and looked up at the towering concrete structure. Somewhere in there was a homicidal maniac with a man I called a friend, and boxes of explosives kindly provided by me.

The Northern stand of the Newlands Rugby stadium had been provided with glass-walled floating boxes in the early 1990s as the country prepared to host the World Cup. Over the years, those boxes had been expanded so that from the South stand one had the impression of witnessing an alien landing, with the reflective glass boxes hovering above the twenty thousand seats below them. The entrance foyer to the private suites in the Northern stand was full of people getting an early start on the day, greeting guests with loud voices and slapping each other on the back. I found a security guard and explained that I needed to perform some maintenance for the Van Rensburg family. He told me that only one member of the family had arrived, but I’d have to be quick as the warm-up matches were starting soon. The Media-Mark suite was on the top floor.

I took the stairs and arrived at a plush, crimson-carpeted corridor lined with antique photographs of the humble beginnings of the stadium. The doors