Murderous

by David Hickson

  “I thought it would be you,” she said. “When Hendrik said it was a business dinner, and they would talk about guns, I knew it would be you.”

  “We’re talking about guns?” I said. “I had no idea.”

  Melissa smiled and even without the Photoshop sparkles, her teeth twinkled brightly.

  “I know, it’s not my place to discuss these things. I told him he had enough guns. Hendrik is mad with me. He tells me it is none of my business. It’s only for the men.”

  “I’m sure he’ll forgive you when he sees that dress. It would be hard not to.”

  Melissa laughed like she was ringing crystal bells, and she dropped her face a little to shift into coy mode.

  “Don’t be so sure,” she said. “He is really mad with me.”

  “Is he?”

  “It’s all your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “He saw the way you looked at me. The other night.”

  “He shouldn’t have chosen to marry such a beautiful woman if he didn’t want others looking at her.”

  “We’re only engaged,” said Melissa. “Not married yet. Besides, what made him really mad was the way I looked back.”

  “That’s just the brand of deodorant I wear. You can tell him it happens to me all the time.”

  Melissa sounded the bells again. “You are funny,” she said, and looked at me from under her dark eyebrows as she took a sip of her drink. It didn’t look like sparkling mineral water. There was the faint purple tinge of tonic.

  “You’ll give me a complex,” I said. “The first time we met, you called me strange.”

  Melissa sipped at her drink and looked at me as if she was reassessing my strangeness.

  “I’d like to give you a complex,” she said. “Anyway, Hendrik thinks any man I meet is a threat.”

  “Is that why he tried to roll the car with me and my boss in it on the way here?”

  She laughed and tossed her hair. “He always drives like that. He’s a monster.”

  A man in a colourful patchwork shirt appeared beside me.

  “The lady is having a gin and tonic,” he said, as if warning me not to hold her responsible for her actions. “Can I give you something?”

  “I’ll have the same,” I said, and he bowed in an oriental fashion, although his roots were entirely African, and he walked over to a lavish bar built of bamboo at the far end of the terrace. The sight of Melissa had prevented me from noticing the terrace until now. It stretched across the entire front of the building and seemed large enough to play a game of football. The thatched roof rose above us to form a peak like the prow of an upended ship. A large banqueting table was laid with bowls of fruit and salad, several glasses for each seat, and a row of flaming torches down the centre. Beside the bar another quilt-shirted man was standing at a large grill from which flames were leaping, the smoke sucked up and kept away from the thatch by a floating aluminium extractor fan like a hovering space ship.

  “He’s been worse recently,” said Melissa, her thoughts still on Hendrik. “It’s been all this business with the church.”

  “That man they accused was on the farm, wasn’t he?”

  Melissa nodded. “He was. In the village. He was always crazy. He did crazy things.”

  “What kind of crazy things?”

  “He came here one night and started shouting and tried setting fire to the place. In the middle of the night.”

  “Must have been frightening. This place would go up like a Chinese firework.”

  “It’s treated. For fire. You could light a fire under it and it won’t burn.”

  “Nevertheless, it must have shaken you.”

  “Roelof dealt with it,” said Melissa, and she shivered as the sun melted away and dropped below the horizon.

  “I’m not Dicky,” said Fat-Boy as he held Piet van Rensburg’s hand in both of his. “Dicky is my older brother.”

  There was an awkward silence. Piet’s smile faded into a question mark as he turned to Colonel Colchester.

  “Dicky is having a little trouble that has kept him out of the country,” said the colonel. “Nothing to worry about. He trusts William without reserve, though. William speaks for Dicky, and what William says, Dicky honours.”

  “Our mother liked the stories of the English kings,” said William Mabele, his hands still clasping Piet’s hand. “Richard the Lionheart, and William the Conqueror, although sometimes I am William the Bastard.” He opened his mouth wide and laughed in a way that I had never seen Fat-Boy laugh. The stone-faced Robyn beside him allowed herself a tight smile. “Did you know they called him that? The Bastard.” Another guffawing laugh. Piet looked as if he would like to retrieve his hand, but William held it tight. “Billy,” he said. “You can call me Billy.”

  “Piet,” said Piet, and he smiled. It struck me as a fairly historic moment. The two men, of matching size, similar clothes, with the same taste in heavy gold jewellery, held hands and smiled at each other across the divide of race. It was an absurd thought because William Mabele was a fabrication. The story about the mother who liked the English kings was a true one, although there had never been any mention of a brother called William.

  Billy introduced Robyn as “my girl Bobby” and then he held Hendrik’s hand for an uncomfortable minute. Hendrik was awkward and glum. He watched Robyn as Billy held his hand as if he was trying to work out what was wrong with her. Not, I suspected, because she was pale and leaning on Billy for support, but because she was a variety of female that confused Hendrik. A diametric contrast to Melissa, she was hard where Melissa was soft, challenging where Melissa was submissive.

  Roelof was next, dressed this evening in another of his pale grey suits, everything about him well-manicured, polished and perfect. I recalled Piet’s comment about the sibling rivalry between Roelof and Hendrik and couldn’t help wondering whether everything Roelof did, including the way he dressed, was calculated to contrast with Hendrik, who was tonight wearing shorts and a casual shirt.

  “You brought samples of everything?” asked Roelof.

  “Did you see how big that box is?” said Billy.

  Roelof’s suspicion of Billy Mabele radiated from him, but Billy seemed oblivious to it. He turned back to Piet.

  “Looking forward to doing business with you good people,” he said.

  Piet smiled. “As are we. But first,” he declared, and his voice stepped up to broadcast this across the entire terrace, so that the servants would get the message, “we eat. No business on an empty stomach. What the hell’s going on here? Where is the food?”

  The final question was little short of a bellow, and there was a scurry of quilted servants as we moved over to the banqueting table.

  “The problem with this new generation,” said Piet van Rensburg, waving a pig’s rib in the air, “is that they have no understanding of the history they have inherited.” He gnawed at the rib and then washed it down with some Boschendal Special Reserve Merlot.

  “What inheritance?” said Hendrik without waiting to swallow his mouthful of ostrich steak. We were seated about the banqueting table, and a constant stream of freshly grilled meat was being supplied by the team of quilted staff.

  Piet was leading the conversation, and the purchase of two tons of heavy armaments had not yet been mentioned. I assumed that would happen after Melissa had retired for the night. Which was not likely to be very late, as she was looking a little wobbly after her fourth gin and tonic. She gazed now at Hendrik, and it looked as if she was struggling to focus.

  “The history,” she said. “Your Pa said the history.”

  Hendrik looked as if he was wondering whether to reach across the table and discipline her.

  “My point,” said Piet, who had been growing increasingly irritated with his son but was doing his best not to show it, “is that the young people seem to think they have inherited a history of recrimination. All they see nowadays is blame for the old and retribution for the new. They blame someone else
for everything that is wrong, but their limited understanding causes polarisation, engendering hatred between the extreme edges of our population.” He took another sip of the wine. Hendrik chewed with his mouth open, Billy started on another beer, and Roelof took a forkful of salad. “This lack of understanding, the constant blaming of someone else breeds violence. Wouldn’t you agree, Billy?”

  Billy was caught in the act of taking a large measure of his beer. He held up an enormous hand as he drank. This was the situation that Chandler had wanted to avoid, and I noticed him shifting anxiously in his seat. Fat-Boy was a man of strong opinions, and they were contrasting opinions to those of Piet van Rensburg. I looked at Robyn who sat beside Fat-Boy and had been instructed to keep him in character, but she seemed oblivious to everything around her, pushing her food around the plate listlessly. Fat-Boy finished the glass of beer and placed it down on the table.

  “I cannot agree with you, Piet,” he said. “We must lay blame at the door of those who deserve it. Your people have oppressed my people throughout our history. The blame is all yours.”

  Piet looked as if he had stopped breathing. I doubted many spoke to him in that way. Colonel Colchester shifted again in his seat, planning reparative action.

  “But you are right,” said Billy. Although the words were those of Fat-Boy, the delivery was all Billy Mabele. “It is the blame that breeds the violence. And I encourage the blame. Violence is good for business.”

  He smiled around the table at us. A servant poured him another beer.

  “It has been suggested,” said Roelof suddenly, “that this country is engaged in what they call a ‘slow war’. Not a series of quick battles, but a slow and steady elimination of the minority population.”

  “Perhaps,” said Billy. “But the battles will come. And they will be fought over the land.”

  “Over our land,” said Hendrik. “This land here. My land.”

  “Now Hendrik,” warned Piet, raising a hand to stop him from saying anything further, but Hendrik would not be stopped.

  “It’s my land because my Pa bought it. With money he earned. And now we work on it. Every day we work on it. We have made it what it is. Why must I give back something my father bought with his own money?”

  “It’s more complex than that son,” said Piet. “We have a problem in this country, and it needs to be solved.”

  “You father bought stolen property, Hendrik,” said Billy. “The land was taken from my people.”

  There was another moment of silence, but then Piet showed his teeth again and raised a glass in Billy’s direction.

  “Now there you’ve hit a nerve,” he said. “But think back to those days before the white man ‘took the land’.” His fingers provided the quote marks. “The white man had big plans for working the land: farming it, mining it. What were the aspirations of your forebears?”

  “My forebears were one with the land,” said Billy. “The land is a part of us.”

  “The nomadic tribes whose cattle grazed the land had no intentions of working it,” said Piet. “It is the bane of our culture that we want to seize an opportunity when we see it, want to make more of what we have.”

  “Which is why it has come to this,” said Billy. “You buying weapons from me to kill my people.”

  “To defend ourselves,” said Piet. “We need the weapons for our protection.”

  The two men stared across the table at each other. An uncomfortable silence descended.

  “Fat-Boy is winding you up, Mr Van Rensburg,” said Robyn suddenly. “He doesn’t believe any of this nonsense. Do you, baby?” Robyn smiled at Billy and reached out a hand to stroke his cheek.

  “Did you call me fat?” said Billy, and I saw the realisation of her mistake suddenly hit Robyn. She closed her eyes for a moment. Then opened them and turned to Piet.

  “I like my men with a bit of flesh on their bones, Mr Van Rensburg,” she said coyly.

  Piet van Rensburg cleared his throat, held by Robyn’s entrancing gaze. “Piet,” he said. “Please call me Piet.”

  “Piet,” said Robyn, and she smiled at him. She avoided looking at Chandler or me.

  Billy produced a blinding smile. Then he laughed and lifted his beer in a toast.

  “Easy game, Piet,” he said and laughed again. We all drank in unison and Piet chuckled.

  “Well played,” he said and produced his own rumbling laugh. He turned to Roelof. “I love this man, you know that? He speaks with honesty.”

  Roelof nodded but looked unconvinced.

  “You not going to sell us the guns?” said Hendrik.

  Billy turned to him.

  “I’m throwing in a few extra just for you, Hendrik,” he said.

  “’Cos the war has started,” said Hendrik. “We need them now.”

  “That’s bullshit, son,” said Piet. “The war hasn’t started. The only war we’re fighting now is with the elements. Breaking our bodies out there day after day to make this little patch of Africa into something worthwhile.”

  “Out there in the sun,” said Melissa, who had been gazing blankly into a candle for some time.

  “Rain or shine,” agreed Piet.

  “If I spent that much time out there in the sun,” said Melissa, “I’d start looking like a zot.”

  The silence returned. ‘Zot’ was a term for describing a dark-skinned African. Not the sort of word to use in polite conversation.

  “I am sure Melissa must be tired,” said Piet to Hendrik.

  “Don’t think so,” said Hendrik, who had used the break provided by Melissa’s comment to fill his mouth again. “She hasn’t done fuck-all all day.” He looked at her with detached interest, as if he might spot an energy leak.

  Melissa stood uncertainly with a scraping of her ebony chair, wavered a little, and grasped the table with both hands to steady herself.

  “I am a little tired actually, Oom Piet,” said Melissa, and then could think of nothing further to say. She smiled apologetically and pressed her lips together like someone feeling nauseous.

  “I’m sure our guests wouldn’t mind if you retired early,” said Piet.

  Colonel Colchester pushed his chair back and stood abruptly. “It shall be our sad loss to be deprived of your company,” he said. “But we understand such beauty requires a good night’s rest.”

  “Freddy should escort me,” said Melissa, struggling to focus on me as I too rose to my feet.

  “Like fuck Freddy escorts you,” said Hendrik, and he raised an arm and clicked his fingers in the air. A moment later the barman appeared at his side, armed with a bottle of beer. “Take my fiancée to her room,” said Hendrik and he took a large gulp of the beer then glared menacingly at Melissa.

  Robyn rose to her feet. “I might excuse myself as well,” she said, with only a slight slur.

  The barman offered them each an arm and gently guided them away from the table and across the terrace.

  Piet van Rensburg and Billy ‘the Conqueror’ Mabele both indulged in cigars with their coffees. Piet spent several minutes lighting matches and puffing like a steam engine to get his one going. I offered Hendrik a cigarette, but he preferred his own brand, and Roelof folded his napkin, clasped his hands before him and seemed content to inhale our smoke. The barman brought a tray with brandy glasses and thirty-year-old port. Roelof poured us each a measure.

  “I’ll get straight to the point,” said Piet, and he puffed again at his cigar. “We are bringing two cats down from the Kruger, Billy. Special crates, transport organised.”

  “Cats?” said Billy Mabele.

  “Lions.”

  Billy Mabele nodded and swallowed a large portion of his port.

  “Assuming we like what you have in that big box of yours, we’ll need you to load the goods into those crates.”

  “You can provide dimensions?” asked the colonel.

  “Roelof can do all that,” said Piet.

  “And we need to do the loading in Maputo,” said the colonel. “I
sn’t that right, Freddy?”

  “Maputo,” I confirmed.

  “Maputo?” said Piet. “Surely not. That’s out of the country. I’m not sure we can get our lions to Maputo. Can we, Rudi?”

  Roelof was staring at his untouched glass of port as if trying to conduct a mind experiment with it. He looked up at Piet.

  “We can,” he said. He turned to me, his glasses shining with suspicion. “But it means crossing the border. Why not ship from Richards Bay?”

  “Richards Bay is six hundred kilometres by road. Maputo is less than half that.”

  “We’d have to get them out of the country, then back in again.”

  “Paperwork,” I said, and sipped at my port. “If you provide the white paper, we’ll provide a bit of the green paper. That way your furry friends will have papers good enough to get to Maputo. Plentiful rubber stamps and smiles and good feelings. We like that kind of situation, and Dicky will like it too. Maputo is the only route Dicky trusts these days, isn’t that so, Billy?”

  Billy nodded and finished his port. “It is,” he said. “My brother Dicky is difficult in that way.”

  “Sounds like a plan then,” said Piet, and he drank his port in one gulp.

  “We would like to be there,” said Roelof abruptly. “When they load the crates.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “Very sensible. We will arrange for that, won’t we, colonel?”

  “Of course we will,” agreed the colonel, and he watched Roelof warily. “You’re rushing things, Freddy. Don’t insult our hosts in your haste.”

  I showed my regret and Piet gave a hearty laugh to indicate he didn’t mind being rushed. Hendrik gave a mirthless smile. Roelof’s glasses glinted.

  “Sounds as if we have a deal,” said the colonel, and he raised his glass of port towards Piet. Piet and Billy raised their glasses, and Roelof obligingly poured a little more port into them so that the deal could be made.