Smed raised an eyebrow. He went back over to the filing cabinet, and pulled out a file that was an inch and a half thick. ‘I suggest you take a read through this, Mr Flynn: it’s a psychologist’s report. I’ve got a couple of jobs I must go and do, which will take me about half an hour. We have to watch our backs the whole time in this country; we watch anyone we think is dangerous, or could one day become dangerous, very closely. We employ a team of psychologists, and their job is to alert us to any warning signs they see. Would you like some tea or coffee – or a drink?’

‘Coffee, please.’

‘I’ll have it sent up. Have a good read.’ Smed went out and I opened the file; it was not a cheerful read.

Ben Tsenong had been lucky enough to win one of only three science scholarships a year awarded to the whole of Namibia. After two years away at college, he had returned home for the summer holidays before commencing his third year. He had found his father very ill and his mother demented with worry. He then discovered Westondam’s doctor had lied to his father about his illness; he’d told him he had bronchitis. Not having sufficient money to go to a doctor on his own account, Ben’s father had accepted the Westondam doctor’s diagnosis. Ben paid for a specialist, and found out the truth. If there had been a chance of curing his father when the disease was first discovered, there certainly wasn’t now.

Ben Tsenong was eaten up with hatred – hatred against Westondam Mining Corporation, against the South African government, against Germany for beginning it all with their colonization. But the strongest hatred he had was for the country that he now knew best of all: England.

He hated England firstly for the way it took over where Germany left off. England could have done something to improve life for the Namibians, but instead did nothing. He hated England because he believed that it was England that was responsible for everything bad about South Africa and the way it ruled. He hated the fat cats of England who licked the cream its colonialism had raked off the world. He hated the fat people of England in their Jaguar cars most of all, but he hated them almost as much in their Fords or their Vauxhalls or in their Minis, or their imported Renaults or BMWs or Mercedes, or any of their cars.