The hairs on my arms stood on end at the flatness in his voice, and I looked down at Martha’s wrist, still clutched between my fingers. ‘When did she start using heroin?’

‘Kiki Preston introduced her to it years ago.’ There was silence for a moment, then Freddie laughed dryly. ‘What did you think the medicine was?’

I felt sick. ‘You knew?’

‘Don’t torture yourself too much – if you hadn’t helped, someone else would have.’

‘Why didn’t you try to stop her?’

He shrugged. ‘She’s an adult.’

I felt shame, then fury that he’d been able to trick me so easily into helping him. I gripped Martha tighter.

‘Do you know why you’re doing this to yourself?’ I asked her.

She looked at me with blurry eyes.

‘You’re doing it because of him. He’s cold and he uses people. He’s killing you, Martha.’

‘Let me go,’ she said quietly.

‘He’s probably sleeping with Sylvie again, and he won’t look after her either.’

‘For God’s sake,’ Freddie said to me. ‘I thought you’d got over your little obsession.’

I dropped Martha and kicked at a panel in the bar. There was a sharp crack and the wood splintered underneath my foot. Martha shrieked.

‘I don’t want to see you again,’ I said to Freddie.

He raised his eyebrow. ‘In that case you might have to leave Kenya,’ he said.

‘Or you might.’

He looked at me for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s be friends again. I’m sorry I humiliated you. I won’t do it again.’

‘No, you won’t,’ I said, and walked away.

‘Theo,’ he called after me. I heard him push back his bar stool.

‘Freddie, don’t leave me,’ Martha screamed.

‘Theo,’ he called again. ‘Don’t be childish.’

I pushed through the Muthaiga doors and started walking down the drive; I didn’t look back.

Chapter Twenty-Three

My father’s railway plans were put on hold in order to channel the money towards refrigeration plants. He retired quietly, and MacDonald took over the directorship. I was busier than ever at work, although it had lost all satisfaction for me. Now I had no one to share my success with, it didn’t seem to matter. I felt foolish for ever thinking Freddie and Sylvie had even cared in the first place.

Maud wrote to me to say Scotty had died in his sleep; she’d buried him in the garden. I read out a poem, and Father said a few words, she wrote. Come home soon and see us. It’s so quiet without him here.

It was a warm night when I left Nairobi and the crickets were out, blaring. I had an overwhelming urge to find them all and drive over them, hear the crack of their bodies being crushed, and the blessed silence afterwards.