He described the tension, the intrigue, told her which of those who pontificated in public about truth and justice actually believed in ‘the principle of the thing’, and which were the expedient ones. ‘They'd sell their mothers for a Cabinet post under the future …’ He stopped in mid-flow, brought to a halt by his observation of her cold face, composed and expectant. She knew that he was turning something over in his mind, some fearful revelation he did not know how to slip off his tongue, despite all his glibness, his smooth gift for unsayable things.

‘Lyd, the TRC hearings are over, but the amnesty process continues.’

‘So, it is not over?’

‘For a lot of people, it will never be over. For many, it will go on, for a while yet…’

He was reading a speech he had prepared in his mind, she thought. How long had he delayed before driving home, before getting out of the car, thinking about what to say to her?

‘Come to the point, Silas.’

‘Du Boise has applied for amnesty, he and three, four others, for rape, assault, on women mostly. He has named you as one of the cases he is asking amnesty for.’

She remained silent.

He leaned forward. ‘I saw the brief, someone involved in the TRC's investigation recognized your name. The hearings will be in public, some time next year.’

‘Stop them, Silas.’

‘I can't, not even the President…’

Her hand trembled. He reached out and took the half-consumed sleeping draught from her, held her hand in his. Beneath her limpness, a tension concealed with brutal effort, her pulse was racing, the minuscule throb sensual against his finger. He caressed her hand, tracing long, blue-veined lines along her slender wrist, those arms with their incongruous, golden down of hair. He was on his knees before her, kissing her face, running his hands down her body, over her breasts.

‘No, no,’ she said, and pushed him away.

He fell back onto his buttocks, stared up at her, his humiliation fuelled by regret. ‘I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I just felt overcome…’

‘It's all right, you are my husband … you have every right.’

Silas shook his head. ‘God, that's not what I meant…’

‘You are my husband.’

He got up. His dignity reasserting itself, his damn manly pride, he would later say to himself, recognizing the opportunity missed, the tender gesture some part of him wanted to make, to cradle her head, let her weep, wrest back her affections.

‘And that is what it has come down to? All there is between us are my rights?’