Murderous David Hickson (best thriller novels of all time TXT) 📖

turned out to be a child full of sunshine, perhaps the only positive aspect of Nqobeni’s doomed existence.

The next blow for Nqobeni came on the Sunday evening that he had watched his father driving a tractor along the edge of a field; a field into which his father had poured most of his life. Nqobeni had seen his father’s head explode from the bullet of the long-range rifle held by the twitchy security guard whose recognition of the farm’s most trusted worker was confounded by the angle of the sun, the late hour, and the brandy consumed with his lunch.

The exploding of his father’s head was a turning point in Nqobeni’s life, but not his worst moment. There was the unfortunate business of the murder of the security guard who had shot his father. A messy affair because of Nqobeni’s choice of screwdriver as a weapon, and his difficulty in locating the jugular.

Things looked up briefly when a benefactor appeared in the guise of a media mogul who wanted to show the world what a good person he was and who chose Nqobeni as the vessel for this message.

But the damage had been done, suggested the writer of the article. The horrors would not be exorcised by the media mogul’s money, good intentions, or religion. The brother, Xolani, accepted Christ into his heart, but Nqobeni developed epilepsy.

And so it must have been the build-up of an unbearable racial resentment, claimed the writer, arriving at the climax of his piece, that caused Nqobeni to pick up an AK-47, walk for hours through the bush, along dusty roads leading to the town of Minhoop one Sunday morning, enter the church, and kill thirty-three white worshippers.

The culmination to the sad tale of Nqobeni Nyambawu’s life came when he failed to emerge from the cage in which he had been transported to court. A vast crowd had gathered on the pavement outside the courthouse where he was expected to confess his guilt. Their hateful chanting built to a climax as the prison guards opened the door of the vehicle, but it gradually petered out as the most hated man in the country failed to appear.

The pathologists said it had been something in his food. A slow-acting poison, one that would have caused him unimaginable pain and suffering in his final half hour. An investigation was launched and officials looked worried, but the nation breathed a deep sigh of relief.

The article concluded with an undertone of smug satisfaction. Several banal conclusions were drawn about the dangers of past wounds, and how we should all get together like the survivors of an epic accident and talk about the things that bothered us, and pay closer attention to those who mentioned their father’s heads exploding or similar worrying events. Those people should be reported to the authorities on the number provided by the newspaper editor. But it could be agreed that, as tragic as the story of Nqobeni’s life had been, it was a huge relief to everyone that the alleged Minhoop shooter was dead.

The police captain, Andile Dlamini, was not asked for his comment, although his tireless work in ‘uncovering the truth’ of the matter was mentioned and a haunting photograph was shown of Andile looking like the product of a sleep deprivation experiment.

They made no mention of the possibility of an even greater tragedy. That Nqobeni had died as he had lived. Protecting his brother.

Fourteen

The airstrip at Ukuthula Lodge was a thin line etched into the bush. Long enough for small jets, but not much leeway if a crosswind pushed you to the side. Our pilot crabbed the hired jet towards the runway and Chandler gave me that look he always did before we jumped. Like he was daring me to show my nerves. That we could see the thin strip of tar through our side windows was a little disconcerting, but Chandler reminded me it was safer to stay in the plane than jump out, which was the joke he liked to make whenever we flew together. But I noticed his hands gripping the leather armrests, and I knew he would rather have a pack strapped to his back and be coming down without the aid of engines.

Our pilot touched down on the right wheel and swung the body of the plane with a kick of the rudder to line it up with the runway which brought the left wheel down with a bump, and finally the nose-wheel dropped and he reversed the thrust on the engines. Chandler gave a tight laugh at my absurd nervousness, but his smile was more relief than scorn.

Fat-Boy gave a shuddering sigh.

“I think I pissed my pants,” he said. “Didn’t think we were going to make it. This is a small-ass airport.”

“Snap out of it,” said Chandler. “This is where it gets real.”

“Yes, colonel,” said Fat Boy.

“No more colonel. I told you that.”

“Colchester,” said Fat-Boy. “Get my bags for me, Colchester.”

“Of course, Mr Mabele,” said Colonel Colchester, and he opened the door, lowered the stairs and stepped out into the cold afternoon. Fat-Boy winked at me, which did not fill me with confidence. He was wearing a dark linen suit that had been tailored to his substantial bulk, and heavy gold chains to match the style of Piet van Rensburg. Chandler had insisted on that detail, hoping it would increase the chance of acceptance. “Dress like someone and they’ll take an instant liking to you,” he had said. But we were not sure that would be enough.

Robyn sat beside Fat-Boy, a stone maiden behind widescreen dark glasses. It was her job to keep Fat-Boy on point, keep him in the part. I looked at her and wondered if she would manage. I couldn’t see her eyes behind the glasses and couldn’t tell if she was looking back at me, or even if her eyes were open. Looking at her now, I wasn’t sure that she would be capable of playing any role.

Through my window, I could see