‘Yes, man, our kasie. Silas, he's been talking to some bad people, guys involved in crazy things.’

Silas breathed in, his vague anxieties about Michael finding shape, looming shadows becoming precise, harrowing forms.

‘Who is he seeing?’ he asked at last.

‘An Imam, Imam Ismail.’

‘You mean like a real Imam, someone in a mosque?’

‘Yes…’

‘You have a “but” – what is it?’

‘Well, first of all, he is the Imam at the mosque where your father used to be, Griffith Street. Secondly, he is kind of cuckoo, befok, if you ask me. He has these Slamse seances, you know, where they pray and go wild and all.’

‘They are Sufis, mystics.’

‘I hear they are also involved with those Muslim vigilantes.’

‘Pagad?’

‘And worse. We hear things about Afghanistan … Libya.’

‘Who's “we”?’

‘Come on, Silas, you know I do work for some of the people at NIS…’

‘Still helping out there?’

‘Legal stuff, but sometimes they tell you things…’

Silas sipped his whisky in silence. The National Intelligence Service wanted him to know what his son was up to, so they told Alec, who told him. He looked around at the clientele. What traumas were they going through, he wondered, apart from agonizing continually over how they weren't white enough in the past, and how they're not black enough now? The existential dilemma of every bastard in the world.

‘Listen, broer, that Imam calls himself Sheg Konya,’ Alec said.

‘What?’

‘Ja, shows you he's crazy. They've given Mikey a name as well. After some avenger, you know, a crazy Arab who tried to kill off all of Christendom.’

‘Well, Alec, you certainly know what's going on in the townships.’

‘My livelihood, bra. Those people are my bread-and-butter clients. How do you say? – my “core business”. If I depended on the government, Gracie wouldn't have the luxury of being ashamed of the townships.’

They fell silent, each overtaken by his own preoccupations. Perhaps they wanted to offer support, advice, think back to the days when their companionship would have allowed them the freedom to confide in each other more fully. Silas smiled ruefully, raised his hand and summoned the waitress.

‘No, not the same. Pastis, you know, tastes of liquorice,’ he said, explaining to the waitress that it was a French drink, that it went white when you added water, only they didn't want water in it.

‘Something to celebrate?’ Alec asked.

‘Commiserate. My failure to get the post of Ambassador to France.’

‘What?’

‘My Minister refused to support my candidacy.’

‘Mean bastard. But why do you want to go to France?’

‘Well, because I need a change, the post is available – or was – and I thought I'd explore life a little, you know, meet new people.’

‘Christ, about time!’