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

Roelof sat up as if he’d remembered something. He flipped the tablet over and activated the screen. I could see now that the two seated people were strapped to their chairs, their hands bound behind them. Roelof was relieved to see them.

“Wi-fi cameras,” he said. “Hendrik bought a bunch of them, wanted security on his stash of guns. I helped him install them in his storeroom and the corridors around it, even put one in the Railway Bar so we can watch his buddies getting pissed.”

He looked down at the screen and swiped his finger across it. The image changed to show a wide corridor, Roelof swiped again and the interior of a bar appeared. A motley collection of young men in khaki sat at the bar tables with tankards of beer.

“Or we can watch them getting killed,” said Roelof.

“They’ll have security cameras,” I said. “How are you planning on getting into the bar?”

“That’s the whole point.” Roelof smiled again. “Remember the bombings in Sri Lanka? The videos they showed afterwards, the black guys with the rucksacks carrying the bombs.”

“You expect my friend to carry a bag of explosives for you?”

Roelof shook his head. “Not carry it. They are strapped to him. And to Hendrik. I’m not making any mistakes this time. The black guy with the bag is how the media will explain it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. The police aren’t as stupid as you think.”

“Oh, but it’s not about the police,” said Roelof. “It’s about the media. It’s always about the media. It’s what Piet’s little journalists say that counts.”

“What will they say?”

“It’s genocide, isn’t it? They’re killing us. Every day a farmer dies. Not just any farmer – a white farmer. And the world ignores it.”

“But it isn’t genocide. You killed those people in the church. You locked the door, killed them all and then slipped out the back. Did you help break down the front door to show the world what you’d done?”

“The world is full of stupid people. They need to be told the truth: it is genocide.”

“And Piet van Rensburg will tell them?”

“Piet controls the media. When Hendrik dies, he will tell them. He puts up this big act of being disappointed by poor little Hennie, but the only person who means anything to Piet is that nasty little snivelling piece of shit. Thirty-three people – he didn’t care. A hundred people, fifty thousand … Piet won’t care. But one beloved son. Believe me: he will sit up and take notice.”

“That must be hard for you,” I said. “To see how he dotes on his son.”

Roelof’s eyes were dancing a little from the mounting tension.

“As his nephew,” I added.

“Nephew?” Roelof was not able to hide his surprise.

“You are Piet’s nephew, aren’t you, Roelof? Piet’s sister’s son. It was you who survived the attack on the farm. Did you break out of the mental home they put you in? Or did your uncle come and get you?”

“They locked me away.”

“I know they did, but then your uncle gave you freedom. A new start, a new name, a new life. And now you reward him by killing his son.”

“I saved his son the last time. I made sure he wasn’t in the church. And what thanks did I get?”

“But today? You plan to kill Hendrik today?”

“Piet didn’t understand what happened in the church. Still didn’t see it. He will understand when Hendrik dies.”

“Hendrik must die so that Piet starts a crusade and spreads the myth of white genocide?”

“What myth?” Roelof’s face hardened and his eyes glinted. “There’s no myth, only ignorance.”

I said nothing.

“There’s no myth,” said Roelof again, and his voice was rising with anger. “They are killing us in our homes, on our farms, in our beds. They are killing us!” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh as emotion finally cracked the shell. “Don’t tell me it’s a myth. I’ve seen it. I know all about it. I was ten years old. My mother was holding me when their gunshots took her life from her. She was looking at me, lying beside me where she had fallen when their bullets tripped her up. She was trying to hold me closer, and then it was only her eyes and her blood. She was gone forever, and they did it because she was white. Don’t talk to me about myth. I’ve seen it.”

Roelof stood abruptly and took his tablet up to the wall of glass. He looked out over the neat green field, the empty stands, and dark looming clouds. He held up the device like he was raising a glass for a toast. He lifted his thumb to hear the clicking sound again.

“Piet will see it,” he said. “He won’t see it close-to, but it will make an impression. And I’ll be standing right beside him. It won’t be a small bang. There’s enough explosive strapped to Hendrik and your fat friend to put on quite the show. It’s going to be impressive. Won’t be much left of them.”

“It won’t be put down to genocide, though. It’s a mixed crowd.”

“Not over there.” Roelof indicated the western stand. “That bar in the Railway stand is where Hendrik goes before the game. Him and all his little buddies. It’s their thing, meeting here every week, and everyone knows it. The darkies stay clear.”

I said nothing.

“Martyrs to the cause,” he said. “They’ll achieve far more dead than alive. Have you seen the ‘White Africans’ press releases? They’re embarrassing.”

He turned to me. “Who are you?” he asked suddenly. “Malcolm – the pilot – said you were snooping around after the church thing. Before Kruger, before you hooked onto Melissa and she brought you in like a lost puppy dog. What are you? Police?”

I gave no answer. We stood in silence for a moment, then Roelof made a scoffing sound.

“No, not police; your friends aren’t police, that’s for sure. Who cares, it will all be over soon. Piet’s little journalists can figure