The prison doctor, p.1
The Prison Doctor, page 1
The Prison Doctor
A Beloved Childe story: Book 2
by Wessel Ebersohn
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Prison Doctor (Beloved Childe Stories, #2)
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
SIGNATURE – the THIRD Beloved Childe Story
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wessel Ebersohn’s work:
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For Sheena and Tamara, bright lights in a gloomy world
The characters in this novel are all products of the writer’s imagination. They are not intended to resemble any person, living or dead. Some incidents have been inspired by actual events, but none are based on historical accounts.
Published in 2023 by Gold City Publishing
© Copyright Wessel Ebersohn (2023)
The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be preproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronically or digitally, including photocopying and recording or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the author. For permission, use the contact form on www.wesselebersohn.com.
ISBN 978-0-6397-8138-9 (e-pub)
Praise for Wessel Ebersohn's Work
“This is a tightly written thriller about the murder of the son of a prominent South African politician. . . The ending is, as it should be in all good thrillers, quite a surprise.” – The Star on A Lonely Place to Die
“There are strong overtones of Faulkner and American southern gothic as Ebersohn, brilliantly evoking South African plantation society, lays bare a family’s secret of incest, rape and haunting guilt.” - Washington Post on A Lonely Place to Die
“This is one of those rare books that can be read on two levels, either as a gripping suspense story set against an exotic background or as a powerful indictment of a repressive, fear-ridden society.” - San Diego Books on Divide the Night.
ONE
Finding the home address of the warden’s daughter had not been easy, but now he was there and retribution would be complete. His men had already dealt with the only security guard on duty in the estate and one of them was now in the guard’s uniform and occupying his chair in front of the banks of closed circuit television screens, the telephone switch board and the control panel for the front gate.
The night was warm and the estate lighting was good. The road that linked the five hundred dwellings in the estate curved to the left, and then right, skirting the small lake in its centre. Magnuson drove slowly. He knew that the house was on the far side, below the pine-covered bank. Above the pines a cloudy sky reflected the glow of the city’s lights.
He stopped in a gap between two houses that gave him a clear view across the water. The houses all had a narrow strip of lawn on the side facing the lake and flower beds down either side. Lights were on in the house next to the one he was aiming for. Two couples were out in front, the women seated at a table on the lawn and the men grilling meat over a barbecue fire. On either side of the little party the houses were in darkness.
This was exactly the way it had been planned. According to his intelligence she would be alone tonight. There were no visitors and her husband would be away for the next three days, trying to persuade manufacturers to buy his company’s industrial cleaning services. She would be relaxed, in bed or watching television, and imagining herself to be safe. If she had fears she would call the gate where his man was on duty.
In his mind Magnuson saw the warden. The image of the old bastard was never far from his thoughts. Whatever they told you about parole board hearings, in that prison the old dictator made all the decisions. While you were there your life depended on him. He alone decided how long they would hold you and how long you were kept in solitary. Magnuson saw the old man’s face, flushed red with liquor and high blood pressure, his eyes cold, flat and sceptical. He never believed anything you told him, even if you had witnesses. Magnuson had tried everything with him. His guys had tracked the old man to a bar, offering him girls in a way that he would never know who was behind it, and good money, cash that no one could trace. They had tried blackmail, but that had resulted in two more of his men being behind bars. Nothing had worked. What kind of man turned down a pretty girl and a cash bonus? This old bastard did not want the things other men wanted. All that interested him was that damned daughter of his and his absolute power in that prison.
Magnuson had never seen this chick, but he had heard that she was a skinny, pale-faced little thing no real man would look at twice. As for the prison, the old bastard controlled it and all his staff members. That was all he wanted. Some of his men may have been willing – no, they would have been willing – but they were all too scared of him. They knew what he could do to them and to their careers, and they knew he would not hesitate.
At one point, the old bastard had called for him, sent the guards out of the room and listened to what he had to say in private. All the time he watched through half-closed eyes, nodding as if he was interested, but when it was over he laughed and called in the guards. “Get this conman back to his cell,” he had said. He was still laughing as Magnuson was ushered out. Then at the parole hearing he advised them not to give him his freedom.
For eight years the old man had seen to it that parole hearings had gone against Magnuson. It was only in the ninth year because one of those fairies from the university was on the committee and the old man was in hospital, suffering from gout brought on by his boozing, that he got his parole. The fairy said every man deserved a second chance and that, as far as he could see, Mr Magnuson was a reformed person. As soon as he was out of the hearing Magnuson laughed at the idea that he deserved a second chance. How would that boy know what a man deserved? He was not a man, not the way Magnuson understood men to be.
Mr Magnuson, the boy from the university had called him. He doubted he had ever been addressed that way before. If he had, he could not remember it. He had rewarded the fairy by sending a kid to his apartment. The kid had been sent on the pretext of collecting for his school and had stayed the night. For Magnuson the visit had served the double purpose of paying back his debt and ensuring that future refusals for himself and his guys would be impossible.
But the warden was a different matter. He had no soft spot, no trace of humanity anywhere. Sending a kid, of either sex, to him would only result in the kid ending up in jail too. But now he was going to pay. And this was the best way to do it, Magnuson reasoned. If he killed the old bastard, there may be an instant in which he realised why he was dying. But this way, with the death of his daughter, he would spend the rest of his miserable life thinking about it and knowing who was responsible. It would fuck him up for keeps.
Magnuson drove slowly. At one point his man at the front gate came up on the radio to ask if everything was going all right and he answered, “Don’t worry about me, just look after your end.”
There would be no possibility of going ahead if the warden’s daughter was one of the women at the barbecue. The objective was not for her to be just one victim in a massacre. This was personal. The warden had to know who had selected her for death, and that he, himself, was the reason. And he had to know also that she had been fucked before she died. And there was not going to be any condom tonight.
As he passed house after house, he caught a fresh glimpse of the four people on the lawn, one of the few houses where the outside lights were switched on. As he drew closer his view became clearer, but the angle changed and the length of time in which he could see them became briefer. He switched off the headlights. The lighting in the complex was good enough without the car’s headlights and he did not want to draw attention to himself.
He tried counting the houses that lay ahead, but as he moved the angle kept changing and he lost count. He would have to be close, almost there, before he could be sure that the little party was being held at the house next to his target house. By the time he rounded the last curve, the barbecue was out of sight, hidden by overlapping houses that blocked his view.
He reached the number he was looking for, eased his foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to roll to a halt. He caught a glimpse of the barbecue between the house of the warden’s daughter and one where the party was in progress. The lawn was well-lit and he could hear the voices of the people at the barbecue. The sounds of music, a gentle jazz composition, issued from the same direction as the talking. If he eased the car forward a little he could see the two men, one almost completely bald and the other younger and brown-haired. The brown-haired one was turning over the meat. The other was pouring beer into two high glasses. Magnuson heard giggling from one of the women, but they were both out of sight hidden by the house on that side.
The property that was his target was in complete darkness. From what he had learnt, the warden’s daughter would be in bed by now. The alarm was disconnected and forcing the front door would be no problem. He would enter that way and turn right for the staircase. At the top of the stairs there were just two bedrooms. She would be in the one on the side of the lake. The door would be closed and it may be locked, but it was made of fairly light wood in a heavier frame. One quick jolt from the crowbar would do it. The couples on the lawn next door would probably hear nothing above their music. The suppressor on his gun would ensure they did not hear the shot.
Magnuson thought briefly about the warden and the superior face he showed to his inmates. Well, fuck him, no, not him, fuck her. His daughter was about to get fucked, then die, and the old sod would have to live with that for the rest of his life. That she took a sleeping pill every night would make it easier. With her sleeping deeply and the alarm system disconnected there could be no problem.
He reversed the car till it was out of sight of the party at the barbecue. He took the small crowbar with a curved end from under the passenger seat next to him where he kept it out of sight. He slipped it into his jacket. It was the ideal size for this kind of door where you needed a crowbar with a flat, sharp point and only limited force. Once he had secured the curved end where he wanted it, he expected that just a single shove would disable the lock and clear the way into the house. His gun, a nine millimetre, fitted into his belt just in front of his left hip.
Magnuson got out and closed the car door gently and soundlessly. He passed round the back of the car and moved along the path. It was no more than a few paces from sidewalk to door. At the door the house sheltered him from the people on the lawn. Nothing moved on the estate’s roadway.
The music from the barbecue stopped. So did the talking, but Magnuson was concentrating on the door and did not immediately notice either change. He took the crowbar from his jacket and brought it into position next to the lock. The door was a better fit than he expected and he struggled to find purchase for the crowbar. As far as he could see, the only thing to do was to force it. The wood of the doorframe had a broad grain that should splinter easily. A little hammering with the ball of his hand would make hardly any noise and should do the job.
He had positioned the crowbar for the first blow when he at last became aware of the silence that now surrounded him. He heard the sound of a motor vehicle, but too distant to be on his side of the lake. Even the talking from the little party next door had stopped. The faint lapping of lake water against the concrete blocks that fringed the gardens reached him, faded, then reached him again. Its soft sound seemed to add to the night’s silence.
He slipped the crowbar back into the inside pocket of his jacket. It felt awkward there, but it was out of sight. He took the gun from his belt. Beyond his range of vision, he heard something move on the narrow strip of garden between the houses. It sounded like the movement of a stone when someone stepped on it, or the foot of a man stumbling on an uneven surface.
Magnuson backed away from the door in the direction away from the barbecue and the sound. The expected music and chatter had not started again. It was probably just by chance, he thought. But, if not, that was going to be too bad for a set of nosy neighbours. If one of the men was coming down the channel between the two houses, he was going to be in for an unpleasant surprise.
The nearer corner of the house was not far from the door. Magnuson reached it and backed carefully round the corner, his eyes all the while searching the far corner for movement.
A man’s voice came from behind him. “Drop the gun, Magnuson. Drop it now.”
He turned, the gun still in his hand. It was the brown-haired one from the barbecue, the young one. The bastards had set a trap for him. He could barely see the Thirty-Eight special the young officer was pointing at him. The son-of-a-bitch looked well satisfied with himself. Magnuson fired to remove the look of victory from his face. The sound was no more than a loud plop, the sound of a rubber ball bouncing off a wall. The officer went down quickly, thrown against the house by the force of the impact. His left shoulder, then his head, struck the ground.
Magnuson moved closer. The officer had lost his gun. It lay within a long stride of him, and he was trying to reach it, but could not. Magnuson fired again. He could not see where the first bullet had struck, but the second took the officer in the left shoulder. The third found its target, near the centre of his forehead.
A shot came from behind Magnuson. The other officer’s bullet struck his right arm. His gun fell, landing suppressor first against concrete paving, toppling over and sliding away from him. “Down on your knees, you bastard,” the officer was shouting. It was the bald headed one. “Down.”
Magnuson was on his knees. Only later did he realise that he had automatically obeyed the command, just like the commands he had obeyed daily in prison. His gun and the young officer’s were both out of reach. The bald headed one was shouting again, but it took Magnuson a moment before he could understand the words. “Say goodbye to this world, you bastard.” He felt the muzzle of the officer’s gun against the back of his head.
“No, no, Eric. Don’t kill him.” It was the voice of one of the women.
“Did you see what the bastard did? The son of a bitch killed Arthur while he was helpless.” His voice had risen to a hysterical level. “Arthur was wounded and unarmed and this fucker killed him.”
“Don’t shoot him.” The woman’s voice too had risen. “Don’t shoot him. That will ruin everything.”
Magnuson was sure he was going to die, but the shot never came. He heard the woman’s voice again. “It’s okay, Eric. Take it easy. Just take it easy. We’ve got the lousy bastard.”
TWO
21 days to Magnuson’s execution date
Despite prison boredom, the years had passed quickly for Magnuson. The flesh wound he had suffered while trying to breaking into the house of the warden’s daughter had turned out to be superficial. In four days it had healed enough for him to be sent back from the infirmary into the prison’s general population.
Not only the years passed, so did his appeals. During those years media interviews had twice been granted. On both occasions he had told the interviewer that he was ready to die. They could go ahead with the execution right away if that was what they wanted. He did not give a fuck.
Those declarations had not stopped him and the anti-death-sentence lobby from exploring every possible avenue for avoiding his execution. But now every avenue had been exhausted and the date for his execution set. He was in the same prison as before and the warden, now nearing retirement, was still in charge. Magnuson had seen him only once in the last year and the purpose of that meeting had been to give him his date. Since the original trial when the prosecutor had told the court that his aim that night had been to kill the warden’s daughter not that cop, the warden’s attitude to him had changed. The slightly mocking, even humorous tone had turned to stone. Magnuson’s date was just three weeks away and he hated the thought of it. But more than the thought of them killing him he hated the knowledge that the old man would be there, gloating, mocking, delighted to see him die.
What the fuck was his case? Magnuson wondered. His daughter was still alive. What the hell did he have to be so twisted about? During the case Magnuson had told them again and again that he was trying to burgle the house and the fact that the place belonged to the warden’s daughter was purely by chance. How could he have known? The court had not believed him, the judge telling him that the chance of that happening were millions to one. The judge showed no reluctance in pronouncing the death sentence. Magnuson thought that he was probably a golf buddy of the old man.
Death row was the quietest part of the prison. All its inmates were in solitary. All exercised alone and ate alone, they rarely even caught a glimpse of each other and no one saw much of the guards. Magnuson hated it even more than he hated being in the general population.
They want to kill me, he thought. If they never execute me, this will kill me anyway. The bastards know how to do it, he thought, cutting me off from everyone, feeding me shit, giving me the Bible to read, taking away my Pamela Anderson posters. That old bastard wants me dead and he’ll try to kill me this way before they can do it the other way. It isn’t fair. They are supposed to be the law, but what they’ve done to me isn’t the law. They find me guilty of murder when all I was doing was defending myself. He was pointing his gun at me. I told them that in court. They even admitted it, but they still find me guilty of murder. The sons of bitches. And they bring in their shrink and he calls me a psychopath. What is this name you called me? I asked him. What is a psychopath? He tells me it’s somebody who takes what he wants and fuck the rest. Is that it? I asked. But that’s true of the entire humanity I told him. Everybody takes what they want and fuck the rest. There’s nothing unusual in that. If I’m a psychopath, so is the rest of the world, every last bastard.
