Red Ink , livre ebook

Pan Macmillan South Africa - Angela Makholwa

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136 pages

English

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Contains the first chapter of the sequel to RED INK

‘… gritty and shocking, yet tender at the core …’ – FRED KHUMALO

When public relations consultant and ex-journalist Lucy Khambule – young, beautiful and ambitious – receives an unexpected call from Napoleon Dingiswayo – a convicted serial killer, nicknamed The Butcher by the media – her life takes a dramatic turn. Dingiswayo wants Lucy to tell his story. Intrigued by Dingiswayo’s approach, Lucy decides to take this opportunity to fulfil her life-long dream of writing a book, but it comes at a cost she could never have imagined.

After their initial contact, Dingiswayo becomes an all-too-obliging subject and Lucy soon discovers that her choice of topic is not for the faint-hearted. Soon after meeting him in Pretoria’s notorious C-Max Prison, Lucy’s world is turned upside down by a series of violent and disturbing events.

Dingiswayo is behind bars, but Lucy begins to suspect that the brutal attacks may have something to do with him. Who is this frightening man, and what motivates him? As Lucy learns that there is more to Dingiswayo’s story than the police have uncovered, she is forced to decide what price she is willing to pay to pursue her dream.

Red Ink is a gripping thriller. Set in Johannesburg, it has a distinctly local flavour and brings the city to life through all its contrasts and contradictions.

Sujets

Policier & Thriller

Policier

Thrillers

Republic of South Africa

South Africa

Crime

Thriller

Fiction

Afrique du Sud

Informations

Publié par	Pan Macmillan South Africa
Date de parution	01 septembre 2022
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781770108165
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0478€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

‘The edgy, jagged process of interviewing Moses Sithole, one of South Africa’s most notorious serial killers, did not lead to a “tell-all biography” but to the first of a successful string of humorous, on-poin t novels by this journalist-turned-author … There are many reasons you should read Makholwa: key among them is her skill for using humour as a device for dealing with complex social issues such as violence against women and our obsession with arriving at a place in life where we can get drunk on consumerist values.’
– JOY WATSON, DM168
‘With Red Ink , Makholwa has taken the South African urban novel to new heights. By turns gritty and shocking, yet tender at the core, Red Ink is an important addition to the canon of modern fiction in this country.’
– FRED KHUMALO
‘With the gritty streets of Joburg as a backdrop, Angela Makholwa delves with assurance into that most deadly of South African preoccupations: serial murder. Her protagonist is chillingly at home in the ocrridors of C-Max in a psychological thriller you might prefer to read with the lights on.’
– JENNY CRWYS-WILLIAMS

Also by Angela Makholwa
Critical But, Stable (2020)
‘An excellent read with cracking and sparklingly witty dialogue, funny, sexy, fast, Makholwa covers the lives of the contemporary rich black middle class, with career challenges, sexual challenges and politics.’
– BARBARA SPAANDERMAN, CAPE ARGUS
‘This is a gripping murder mystery that takes an unflinching look at the dark secrets that lie beneath the alluring veneer of affluence and success.’
– YOU MAGAZINE
‘Makholwa’s latest [book] is fun and delicious.’
– PEARL BOSHOMANE TSOTETSI, SUNDAY TIMES
The Blessed Girl (2017)
‘In The Blessed Girl , Angela Makholwa has yet again given us a deceptively simple yet layered narrative, in which the plot is as memorable as the characters are unforgettable. Bravo.’
– ZUKISWA WANNER
Black Widow Society (2013)
‘ Black Widow Society possesses all the elements of a great thriller – sex, suspense, violence and murder. It’s a riveting read!’
– ZINHLE MAPUMULO
The 30th Candle (2009)
‘From an author who has a wicked sense of humour comes a skilfully written must-read for any woman who winces at the idea of celebrating the “big 3-0” – or for any man who still seeks the answer to the eternal question: What do women really want?’
– FUTHI NTSHINGILA

First published in 2007 and republished in 2013
This edition published in 2022 by Pan Macmillan South Africa
Private Bag X19
Northlands
Johannesburg
2116
www.panmacmillan.co.za
ISBN 978-1-77010-815-8
e-ISBN 978-1-77010-816-5
© Angela Makholwa 2007, 2013, 2022
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Design and typesetting by Triple M Design
Cover design by publicide
Author photograph by Nicolise Harding

Prologue
Johannesburg, 1995
Busisiwe was nervous. She took out her favourite crimson skirt and matching top and a pair of simple flat sandals, and looked at them critically. Would Sipho approve? Maybe the skirt was too short. The mysterious stranger she had met two days before at the noisy taxi rank did not look like the usual type who wanted to get right to business before the first date – if there even was a first date. No, Sipho was not like that.
He drove a car. Already this placed him in a different league from the township layabouts she was used to attracting. A green, slightly battered Ford Cortina. It was not flashy, but it would be able to take them from A to B. Most of the people she knew didn’t even own a bicycle, let alone a car. And he had asked her out on a real date, like they did in the movies.
Recalling their first encounter, she smiled at the thought of the two of them as a prospective item. Busisiwe had been delayed at the Shoprite Checkers in downtown Johannesburg; her mother had sent her to buy groceries. As she rushed through the throng of people headed for the taxi rank, she looked anxiously at the time on her wristwatch. Five o’clock already. Her mother would kill her. The family supper had not yet been prepared – all the ingredients were in the plastic bags she was carrying. Her mother always insisted that supper be prepared by five and served at six pm sharp. As she struggled with the packed yellow plastic bags, one of them split open, spilling all its contents onto the burning-hot tar on the street. What a mess. Tins of beans, pilchards and beef rolled onto the busy street, as did the paper bag of mealie meal, which she noticed had a hole at the bottom already. She had felt like crying.
At that moment, the green car had pulled up next to her and an attractive young man in a navy blue T-shirt and blue jeans jumped out. He looked to be in his mid to early twenties.
‘Can I help you, sisi? You seem to be having some difficulty,’ he had offered.
Fighting off the tears, Busisiwe had replied, ‘Nobody can help. I’m going to be in so much trouble. I’m so late, and now I’ve spoilt everything. My mother’s not going to be happy about this,’ she said, her shoulders slumping.
‘Where do you live?’
‘In Soweto … Mapetla,’ she had replied absent-mindedly, still staring at the mess of goods lying in the street.
The intense heat of the afternoon sun was melting her and, as she watched the masses of people passing through the rank, looking at her as if she were crazy, she had hoped the stranger would offer her a lift home. People always claimed this was risky in a city like Johannesburg, but the young man standing next to her had looked reliable, not to mention handsome. Best of all, he was concerned.
‘Would you mind if I gave you a lift home? You look like you could use the help.’
She had nodded immediately, happy to be saved from the sweltering heat and the long queues at the rank.
The drive home had sped by. The young man had introduced himself as Sipho. He was a school teacher, originally from KwaZulu-Natal. He taught at a school in Boksburg and had only recently arrived in Johannesburg. He lived with his brother in a rented room in one of those government-issue four-roomed square houses that littered South Africa’s townships.
He had gently poked fun at her about the spilt mealie meal, and as the journey had progressed she began to feel more relaxed about her predicament.
‘Eish, your family is going to starve my dear. You decided to feed Noord Street instead of them, ne? I must say, it did look a bit hungry to me too,’ he had joked.
Busisiwe had found herself taken in by his good looks and charm, and she could not help laughing.
But when he had stopped at a spaza shop in Soweto to buy a bag of mealie meal, she was really impressed.
He had asked to see her again on Sunday and Busisiwe had readily agreed. Out of respect for her parents, she preferred to meet him in town, at the taxi rank, instead of having him park his car outside the house. Her mother was a strict Jehovah’s Witness who disapproved of everything Busisiwe did. She could not wait to get married and move out of her parents’ home. After all, she was already twenty-four years old.
She continued to rummage through her wardrobe, mixing and matching outfits for the big date, but she settled on her first choice, the crimson skirt and matching top. It complemented her voluptuous figure and as she gazed at herself admiringly in the mirror, she noted how the dress hugged her ample breasts, showing her sexy cleavage.
A deep red lipstick that showed off her full mouth completed the look. Placing her hands on her hips, Busisiwe smiled at the reflection in the mirror.
‘Sipho, Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome, you are going to be knocked out.’
In Marula township near Boksburg, about eighty-five kilometres from Busisiwe’s modest home, the man who had introduced himself to Busisiwe as Sipho was also getting ready for their date. As she tossed aside the red outfit she had initially planned to wear, Sipho decided to take the new hunting knife, which had been brought to him from the Congo, instead of his usual butcher’s knife. At the moment that Busisiwe put on her lipstick, Sipho packed the gloves he wore on these outings as a safety precaution. While she applied red nail polish to her toes, Sipho took out the leather pouch he used to stock his other weapons, a small axe, a nine-millimetre pistol, some masking tape and a collection of smaller knives.
Busisiwe pursed her lips one last time before she went outside to catch a taxi to their appointed meeting place. At that very moment, Sipho took one last look in the cracked mirror and adjusted the extra knife he had safely tucked into a thick strap around his ankle. The cluttered rented room was strewn with his brother’s dirty clothes; some newspaper cuttings and various boxes stashed with everything from blood-stained lingerie to underground ANC material and thick wads of cash. He straightened his jacket and tucked in his shirt. In his grey suit and white shirt, he was a presentable young man trying to make the best impression on a first date.
The Ford Cortina pulled up at the Noord Street taxi rank, opposite the Chicken Licken where they had agreed to meet. The pungent smell of fried chicken mixed with the odour of human beings in a rush filled the hot summer air. Busisiwe tried to absorb every smell and sound, certain tha