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

out who you are when they list the dead. I’ll read all about it then. Come on, it’s getting late, let’s go see the boys.”

Twenty-Six

We emerged into the plush corridor with the antique photographs and Roelof scanned up and down to make sure we were alone. At the far end of the corridor was a service access door, which Roelof expected me to push open. It revealed a staircase of raw concrete. Roelof asked me to wait and pointed his small Ruger at me.

“Raise your hands,” he said, and the hand with the Ruger shook.

I raised my hands. The Ruger is not a very impressive gun, but at close range it’s a good enough reason to do what the bearer asks.

“I guessed that black gun was yours,” he said. “The fat guy didn’t know what to do with it. You know what was funny?” Roelof placed his Ruger against my chest and leaned in towards me. His eyes were dancing with the tension. “Do you know what was funny?” he repeated.

I shook my head. It occurred to me I could end the charade now, with Roelof teetering out of control. But I had no idea where he was holding Fat-Boy and Hendrik, and turning the tables on him would only jeopardise them. From what I knew of Roelof, he would have something up his sleeve in case anything went wrong. Roelof saw something in my eyes, and backed away to safety.

“Don’t try anything stupid. You need me alive; and conscious. If I die, they die too. You understand?”

I understood.

“What’s funny,” he said, “is that Hendrik helped me bring the fat guy in. He said to me: ‘What the fuck are we bringing this kaffir for?’” Roelof gave a barking laugh. “You know what I said? ‘He’s injured,’ I said, ‘we need to help him.’”

Roelof tried to laugh again, but it got stuck in his throat. Disappointed that I wasn’t showing any hilarity, he gave me a push, and I stumbled down the stairs. Roelof was so overexcited he didn’t realise he still hadn’t checked me for weapons.

Hendrik and Fat-Boy were strapped to broken metal chairs, and had strips of towel bound through their mouths so they couldn’t call out for help. They were sitting side by side facing the door of a narrow room, the sides of which were lined with cupboards and piles of boxes.

“Welcome to Hennie’s little stash,” said Roelof. One of the cupboard doors was slightly ajar, revealing racks of automatic weapons.

It looked as if all the air had been let out of both Hendrik and Fat-Boy in the way they both slumped low in their seats. Exhaustion and pain were written all over Fat-Boy’s face, but when he looked up and saw me, his eyes filled up. Hendrik’s reaction was less emotional but made up for that in confusion.

“Look who stopped by,” said Roelof, as he locked the door carefully behind him. “Mossie’s joining in, so we must take some of your sweeties away, Hendrik.”

Hendrik was not wearing his shirt. His broad chest had been plastered with layer upon layer of grey duct tape. Beneath the tape were rectangular shapes and linking them were a series of red and black wires.

“So, I’ll go over the rules again,” said Roelof. “We don’t want any mistakes, do we? I’ll do this in English or do you want it in Afrikaans, Hennie?”

Hendrik was staring at the floor. Roelof tired of his unresponsive audience, and gave a small sigh. As the tension in him built, his madness grew and the opaque shell of personality he had created for himself started cracking. What was emerging was a very different Roelof. Whereas the shell had been cold, reserved, but palatable, the new Roelof was mean, conniving and somewhat resembled the slimy translucent larva of a subterranean worm. He placed his Ruger back into a holster beneath his arm, went behind Hendrik and untied the strip of towel.

Hendrik took a gasping breath, looked at me and said, “Fuck.”

“Rule number one,” announced Roelof as he ripped a strip of the duct tape off Hendrik’s back. “No deviation from the route. Deviate and you die. It’s simple. Because I see everything, remember? Everything. We’ve got cameras in the corridors, and if you step off the route, I press the button, and you die sooner. You get it?”

Roelof held up the piece of duct tape he had ripped from Hendrik’s back and stared at it in horror.

“You’re disgusting, Hennie. You know that? Look at all this hair!” He held up the duct tape for me to see the swathes of hair that had stuck to it, then waved the tape in Hendrik’s face. Hendrik closed his eyes and said “Fuck” again.

“Oh forget it,” said Roelof. “I’ll just shoot Mossie. I won’t deal with your hygiene issues now, Hennie. Not now, so close to the end.” Roelof threw the offending strip of duct tape to the floor and tore another length off the roll.

“What the fuck you doing?” he shouted suddenly and fumbled his Ruger out of its holster to point it at me. I was kneeling in front of Fat-Boy and was lifting the blood-soaked shirt off his belly. Fat-Boy’s big eyes watched me fearfully. His overalls had been pulled down to the waist and the top half hung behind him like the skin of a moulting reptile. The bulletproof vest had been taken off and lay on the floor beside him with a bag full of explosives taped to it, an improvised suicide vest.

“I need to stop the bleeding,” I said.

“You’ll do nothing.” Roelof’s voice had pitched up, and he waved the Ruger at me.

“I thought that you wanted him to carry a bag into that bar? At this rate, he’ll be unconscious before he gets to the door. We need to take the towel out of his mouth so he can breathe.”

The Ruger wobbled as a fresh wave of anger washed over Roelof. “You can carry the bag, Mossie, and he