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

remove the metal splinters from his shoulder had been successful, and the evidence of his body’s ability to recover from previous more severe injuries had encouraged the earnest, young doctor caring for him to speed up the process.

His eyes opened, and he stared at the ceiling for a full minute.

“Our boy make it?” he asked.

“The infection was severe, but they say he’ll pull through. He’s still sleeping.”

I went to stand by the bed. He couldn’t turn, but his eyes moved onto my face.

“We fucked it up, didn’t we, corporal?”

“A little.”

Chandler closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

“We’re alive, that’s what counts.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“We lost the gold,” said Chandler, “but that’s all.”

“Our lives are worth more than all the gold,” I agreed.

He opened his eyes and looked at me. “It was never really about the gold, was it?”

“Fat-Boy might disagree.”

“Be there when he comes around,” he said. “Explain it to him gently. He’ll be fine.”

I turned to leave. When I had the door open, Chandler called out: “Corporal Gabriel.”

I looked back at him.

“Good job, corporal.”

Fat-Boy groaned when he woke and called out something in anger. His eyes took some time to focus, and when they did, he showed no pleasure at the sight of me. When I had broken the news to him gently, as Chandler had suggested, tears rolled down his cheeks and he sobbed.

“Why the fuck did you come after me? You shoulda gone back for the gold. I’m gonna tell the colonel when I see him.”

When he had settled down, he told me he remembered very little of his ordeal. He did remember that the white prick had helped him off the truck and into a car. After that, everything became a blur.

“You lost a lot of blood,” I said. “It’s no surprise you don’t remember.”

“Those things I said,” said Fat-Boy. “In that room … that room we were in … I didn’t mean them.”

“Of course not, Fat-Boy. I knew that.”

Robyn opened her eyes the next morning, and for a moment her face was blissfully relaxed. She focused and smiled, so beautiful with her dark eyes and fine features against the sunflower pillow. But it was only a moment, and then the weight of the world returned. She propped her head up on an elbow, unconcerned that she was not wearing anything.

“It’s a good thing,” she said to me. “That gold was cursed, I’m sure of it. We’re better without it.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “Poorer, but better.”

“It gives us a chance to start anew.”

“I suppose so.”

“That gold got in the way of everything, Ben. It confused us.”

I nodded.

“We’ll start again. From the beginning.”

Robyn’s eyes held mine.

“The beginning was a long time ago.”

“All the way back,” she said. “No gold. No Brian. No false promises. Just you and me.”

“That sounds like a better way of doing things,” I said.

Robyn smiled, and I realised she might be right. Perhaps the gold was cursed.

Twenty-Nine

Fehrson turned the final page of the report and was surprised to find there wasn’t more. He picked up the sheaf of papers, held it by the paper clip in the corner and shook it as if hoping something more might fall out. He tossed it back onto the table with a heavy sigh.

“It does not mention all those medical costs,” he complained, and looked up at me. “I am being charged for the treatment of a platoon of complete strangers. I see no mention of that.”

“I thought it best to keep some details out of the report,” I said. “Given the sensitivity of the situation.”

Fehrson sniffed, then leaned back in his chair and turned longingly towards the window as if it was calling to him. “Don’t know what you mean,” he said, but he avoided my eyes.

“We did agree, Father,” said Khanyi in her early morning silky voice, “that it would be better if Mr Van Rensburg remained unaware of the Department’s involvement.”

“The Department!” he scoffed. “These people are not employed by the Department.” He reached for a page bearing the crest of Groote Schuur Hospital.

“Black man, name unknown, treated for severe infection and loss of blood from a bullet wound to the abdomen. I am being charged for that. And I can tell you it was not an economical infection. When I queried it, they referred me to a Miss Gabuza.”

Fehrson tossed the page back onto the table and glared at Khanyi.

“A Miss Khanyisile Gabuza.”

Khanyisile Gabuza smiled and cleared her throat. “That man was found unconscious at the stadium, Father. He had collapsed from his injuries. A bag of explosives was strapped to him.”

“Which is another thing I do not understand. The bomb attached to an unknown man was defused and safely removed, but the one that actually detonated happened to be the one strapped to Van Rensburg’s son. Do we care about the man carrying the bomb that did not explode? No, we do not! But I must pay for the medical charges of the people who collapsed under the weight of their unexploded bombs. And the bomb that we really care about, that we did not want to explode, did! Not only did it explode, the detonation was caught on camera, and has been going infectious.”

“Viral,” said Khanyi.

“Hendrik van Rensburg saved many lives by going onto the field,” I said.

“Hmmph,” said Fehrson.

“Piet van Rensburg has admitted to bribing doctors to allow the release of his nephew,” said Khanyisile.

“Well, as the conclusion to an operation it can hardly be described as a success,” said Fehrson. “Which is what makes these medical bills particularly unpalatable. Who is this joker, who wandered into the hospital five hours after everyone else … three broken fingers, two broken ribs and a gunshot wound in the leg?”

Fehrson took a moment to study the brace fitted around my three broken fingers and then raised his eyes to glare at me.

“The whole thing is an incomprehensible debacle,” he concluded. “Wounded people popping up everywhere and expecting me to pay for them. And the one person who should