‘Always covering his bases, God and the Devil, votes for one party nationally, another party in the province. Have you watched him having a drink? Whisky in one hand, water in the other, yin and yang. What bushies know about Eastern philosophy is dangerous.’ Alec too was in mordant mood. Always had to go one better than Silas.

‘Listen, I have reason to be in a bad mood,’ Silas said. ‘But what's vreeting you up?’

‘Gracie wants to move.’

‘Where to?’

‘Out of the townships, anywhere, Berea, Observatory…’

‘No, man, not from one slum to another!’

‘Exactly. At least in my own slum, I'm familiar with the rats and the cockroaches.’

‘We don't have rats and cockroaches in the suburbs.’

‘Like hell. What do you have?’

‘Nigerians, Pakistanis, Taiwanese…’

‘Shit, I can see you're tired of being in government!’

‘Oh, don't you go losing your sense of humour as well.’

Alec turned in his chair, looked around at the dingy décor, flaking plaster, cheap pine tables polished to a dark oak, its fakery so endearingly transparent.

‘How did you find this fleapit?’ he asked.

‘One night on my way to you, looking for, you know, refuge from Lydia's fucken tears, I saw this place and decided to stop.’

‘So why didn't you come to us?’

‘I remembered that Gracie has the same kind of eyes as Lydia. Would have drilled holes in me.’

Alec waved to the waitress, a young woman with a ‘new South African’ mouth, he said, ivory teeth gleaming against her dark skin, ah, and those bright red lips. He ordered two whiskies on ice, water on the side, smiled at her, then turned to confide his desires to Silas.

‘God, I can see my penis in there.’

‘Her mouth?’

‘Where else? This is the Age of HIV/AIDS.’

‘So it's a penis now, is it? Not a piel any more.’

‘Listen, broer, you've got to keep up with the times, be politically correct and all that,’ Alec said, and moved his chair closer to Silas. ‘You know, they've been phoning each other like mad.’

‘Who?’

‘Martha and Lydia, Lydia and Gracie, Gracie and Martha, who the fok do you think?’

‘About Michael?’

‘Christ, you too! When did Mikey lose his name?’

‘He wants us to call him by his real name, Michael, not Mikey, like a fucken lightie.’

Alec took the drinks from the waitress, gave her a generous tip, flashed a grin of tarnished teeth, knew that she was recording him in her mind: seedy, dangerous, wealthy (relatively speaking). He turned his back to her, earnest now in his conversation with Silas.

‘Listen, Silas, that lightie of yours is doing some strange things.’

Silas glared at Alec over his glass, ready to tell him to mind his own business.

Alec raised a hand in defence. ‘Hey, I'm only trying to help. He's been seeing people in Newclare…’

‘Our Newclare, Maklera?’