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

to the boxes were all fitted with discreet intercoms for requesting access. I pressed the button for the Media-Mark box, and a man with a tea towel over his shoulder and a handful of brandy glasses opened the door. He took in my blood-stained dockworker’s overalls and stepped back with surprise. I followed him in.

The Media-Mark suite was all chrome and glass and near enough to the field it felt as if you could reach out and catch the ball as it came between the H-frame posts. The glass wall went from floor to ceiling and when play was on the far side of the field, there was a wide screen television suspended from the ceiling, close enough that you didn’t spill your drink as you turned to it. The television showed a well-known sports presenter smiling at camera and promising to be back soon. Beside him a retired rugby star with cauliflower ears filled what space was left in the studio, staring angrily at the wrong camera. There was a momentary jingle and then Melissa appeared in a bikini running along a deserted beach.

Roelof tried to conceal his surprise at seeing me. He turned casually at first, expecting to see Piet perhaps. But his upper body jerked forward with surprise, and his glasses glinted. His pale eyes blinked as he took in my appearance. He was sitting on one of the plush leather couches, spinning what looked like Hendrik’s arm-sling with a lazy hand, his feet up on the low table in an uncharacteristic breach of convention. Although his pose was relaxed, there was something stiff and uncomfortable about him, as if he knew that this was how the cool people did it, but mimicking their actions was failing to induce the relaxed, confident mood that he was trying to achieve. His legs were bouncing slightly with impatience and his eyes were dancing with excitement, or perhaps madness.

He turned back to the television to cover his surprise and watched Melissa on the beach.

“It’s a violent game,” he said. “That’s why they love it so much. Like football, but with blood and the risk of serious injury.”

“They?” I said. “You’re not a fan?”

On Roelof’s lap was a tablet computer that showed an image of what looked like security camera footage of a storeroom. Concrete walls with metal cupboards. There were two people sitting on chairs in the middle of the room, both facing the same way, like students waiting for a teacher. Roelof turned and noticed me looking at the tablet; he flipped it face down on the couch.

“I’ve never liked the game,” said Roelof. He gave a curt order to the man with the tea towel, who bowed to us formally and left the room. “No,” said Roelof. “Just a bunch of over-muscled, under-brained thugs chasing after a ball. When one of them gets the ball, the others all jump on top of him.” His nose twitched with disdain. “It’s idiotic.”

“You had me fooled,” I said. “I thought you were a big fan.”

“I’m an Afrikaner. You don’t understand. You will never understand what it means to be an Afrikaner. You’re a tourist here.”

“My mother was an Afrikaner. Does that help?”

Roelof’s eyes held me in their glare as he tried to decide whether I was mocking him.

The TV ad reached its denouement and Melissa was glowing in the candlelight, stripped down to her lacy underwear and preparing to be taken by the shadowy man who had fallen prey to her scent. Her mouth opened with a little surprise, her blue eyes glistened and a small orgasmic gasp dissolved into the picture of a perfume bottle.

“Have you come for the fat guy?” Roelof asked, silencing the television with a remote. “You’re too late if you have.”

“He needs medical attention,” I said.

“Yes, he does, but there’s no point now. Hendrik’s dumb as shit. He didn’t understand why I wanted the fat guy.” Roelof gave a short laugh that held no amusement. “He’s figured it out now.”

He cocked his head to the side as if that angle might reveal something about me he hadn’t noticed before.

“I don’t get it,” he said and pulled a small Ruger out of the holster under his arm. He pointed it at me. “I thought you guys would be better than this. I really did. I realised you were just a bunch of grifters. Is that the word? Con men, tricksters, common criminals. Didn’t you realise the boss has the warehouse foreman on the payroll? He told us about the old guy and the girl hanging around, pretending to be customs officials.”

I didn’t respond.

“Why have you come in here alone?” he demanded. “I can just kill you and be done with it.”

“Would you want to do that here? Won’t your boss be arriving soon?”

Roelof consulted a wristwatch and nodded. The muscles round his mouth tightened. The result was more of a grimace than a smile.

“That’s right. We don’t have long, and then …” he looked at his shoes on the low table and gestured with his hand, “… boom,” he said.

Beside his shoes there was a rough-hewn wooden bowl with a collection of brightly polished, export-quality apples. Nestling among the apples was something that looked like the handle of a joystick used for playing computer games. Roelof turned back to me to see whether I had understood its significance.

“It’s latched,” he said, and removed his feet from the table and reached for the joystick device, which was moulded like a pistol grip to be held in the hand with the thumb on top, where it could press down upon a red button. The button was being held down at the moment by a swivelling latch. Roelof moved the latch to the side with his thumb and held the red button down. Then he lifted his thumb, and the button popped up with a small clicking sound. Roelof looked up at me.

“Boom,” he said again, and his mouth tightened. “Dead man’s trigger … Anything happens to me