Read Online Payback - A Cape Town thriller by Mike Nicol - Free Book Online
Authors: Mike Nicol
Ads: Link
behind.
At supper Christa said, ‘Papa, do kittens go to heaven?’
Oumou reached out to stroke her daughter’s hair, her eyes fixed on Mace.
‘When kittens die, they die just like us,’ he said.
Christa looked at him. ‘We go to heaven.’
Mace shook his head. ‘We die, sweetheart. That’s it. Nothing happens afterwards.’
Puzzled she turned to her mother. ‘Oui, ma puce,’ said Oumou softly.
Christa’s face crumpled. The tears came, big slow ones.
Mace left once Christa was asleep. At the door into the garage Oumou stopped him.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she said. ‘They are not good men.’
‘You’re right. But I owe him. I told you.’
‘For something from the past. This is stupid, Mace.’ She took his right hand and brought him round to face her. He winced as they embraced, and she stepped back. Her arms dropped. Eventually she said, ‘Why are you leaving me?’
His arm ached but he couldn’t see the point in telling her now about the mugging. He took her hand. ‘I’m not. You’re wrong.’ It was an echo of what he’d told Pylon.
‘Then why are you so strange? So cold.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
Her expression brought a heaviness to his chest. Such desolation . Such aloneness. He went quickly, before the hurt could stop him.
11
Sheemina February, in her right hand a glass of wine, stood barefoot before the picture window looking out at the darkness. Nothing visible. Black sky, black sea. She smiled at her reflection: the woman in the trousers and loose shirt smiling back at her.
That in a single day so much could change.
She raised the glass and sipped, leaving a plum imprint of lipstick on the rim.
To recognise but not be recognised. To be seen yet remain hidden . The thought angered her that in the life of Mace Bishop her life had barely registered.
Below, a wave broke against the shore rocks. She glanced down, saw blue phosphorescence run through the white water like lightning.
Earlier, at sundown, a yacht had been anchored there inshore, pretty people lounging on the decks, the women topless. She’d watched their playfulness. A blonde boy draping his girlfriend’s breasts in seagrass.
The blonde boy hard-muscled. Broad shoulders, a swimmer’s figure with strong thighs. Reminded her of Mace Bishop.
What to do about Mace Bishop?
To wait.
Waiting was the trick. Drawing out the situation, setting up the moves.
He was attractive. So much the better. Cocky. Sitting there behind the desk, cool and confident. Looking at her cleavage. Shifting for a glance of her breasts when she’d leant forward. Not caring that she’d noticed. A man pleased with himself and his world. Pleased with his wife, his daughter, his sexy red sports car.
‘Enjoy them, Mr Bishop,’ Sheemina February said aloud.
She turned away from the window to the file on her dining room table. How quickly a man’s life could be compiled. She had it all in an afternoon: the girl’s name, the girl’s crèche, the wife’s name, the home street address, the car registrations, land-line numbers, cellphone numbers, his latest tax return, a bank statement, the work address. A photograph of the woman. Another of the child. Two of the man himself: one coming out of the swimming pool, rising up on his arms, the water sluicing off his body; the other full frontal in a black Speedo. She studied his face: the sharp line of the jaw, the flat planes of the cheeks. The dark eyebrows. The nose flaring softly at the nostrils. A face she had not expected to see again.
Her cellphone rang and she flipped the photograph onto the pile of documents. Thumbed on Abdul Abdul. Before he could speak, said, ‘I told you not to phone me. I am your lawyer. Your legal advisor, not your playmate’ - and disconnected. In two paces she was across at the marble kitchen countertop, filling her glass from the bottle.
‘Prost, Mr Bishop.’ Raising her glass to the room: large open-plan
At supper Christa said, ‘Papa, do kittens go to heaven?’
Oumou reached out to stroke her daughter’s hair, her eyes fixed on Mace.
‘When kittens die, they die just like us,’ he said.
Christa looked at him. ‘We go to heaven.’
Mace shook his head. ‘We die, sweetheart. That’s it. Nothing happens afterwards.’
Puzzled she turned to her mother. ‘Oui, ma puce,’ said Oumou softly.
Christa’s face crumpled. The tears came, big slow ones.
Mace left once Christa was asleep. At the door into the garage Oumou stopped him.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she said. ‘They are not good men.’
‘You’re right. But I owe him. I told you.’
‘For something from the past. This is stupid, Mace.’ She took his right hand and brought him round to face her. He winced as they embraced, and she stepped back. Her arms dropped. Eventually she said, ‘Why are you leaving me?’
His arm ached but he couldn’t see the point in telling her now about the mugging. He took her hand. ‘I’m not. You’re wrong.’ It was an echo of what he’d told Pylon.
‘Then why are you so strange? So cold.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
Her expression brought a heaviness to his chest. Such desolation . Such aloneness. He went quickly, before the hurt could stop him.
11
Sheemina February, in her right hand a glass of wine, stood barefoot before the picture window looking out at the darkness. Nothing visible. Black sky, black sea. She smiled at her reflection: the woman in the trousers and loose shirt smiling back at her.
That in a single day so much could change.
She raised the glass and sipped, leaving a plum imprint of lipstick on the rim.
To recognise but not be recognised. To be seen yet remain hidden . The thought angered her that in the life of Mace Bishop her life had barely registered.
Below, a wave broke against the shore rocks. She glanced down, saw blue phosphorescence run through the white water like lightning.
Earlier, at sundown, a yacht had been anchored there inshore, pretty people lounging on the decks, the women topless. She’d watched their playfulness. A blonde boy draping his girlfriend’s breasts in seagrass.
The blonde boy hard-muscled. Broad shoulders, a swimmer’s figure with strong thighs. Reminded her of Mace Bishop.
What to do about Mace Bishop?
To wait.
Waiting was the trick. Drawing out the situation, setting up the moves.
He was attractive. So much the better. Cocky. Sitting there behind the desk, cool and confident. Looking at her cleavage. Shifting for a glance of her breasts when she’d leant forward. Not caring that she’d noticed. A man pleased with himself and his world. Pleased with his wife, his daughter, his sexy red sports car.
‘Enjoy them, Mr Bishop,’ Sheemina February said aloud.
She turned away from the window to the file on her dining room table. How quickly a man’s life could be compiled. She had it all in an afternoon: the girl’s name, the girl’s crèche, the wife’s name, the home street address, the car registrations, land-line numbers, cellphone numbers, his latest tax return, a bank statement, the work address. A photograph of the woman. Another of the child. Two of the man himself: one coming out of the swimming pool, rising up on his arms, the water sluicing off his body; the other full frontal in a black Speedo. She studied his face: the sharp line of the jaw, the flat planes of the cheeks. The dark eyebrows. The nose flaring softly at the nostrils. A face she had not expected to see again.
Her cellphone rang and she flipped the photograph onto the pile of documents. Thumbed on Abdul Abdul. Before he could speak, said, ‘I told you not to phone me. I am your lawyer. Your legal advisor, not your playmate’ - and disconnected. In two paces she was across at the marble kitchen countertop, filling her glass from the bottle.
‘Prost, Mr Bishop.’ Raising her glass to the room: large open-plan
Similar Books
