‘Michael belongs to someone else. Mikey is my son,’ she answered, then got out of the car, and, without waiting for him, went in to join the other guests. She had restored the distance between them.

Silas continued drinking whisky deep into the night, listening to the eager chatter of people who no longer saw much of each other. Freedom had loosened bonds forged in the ghettos. Most of the guests were friends of Jackson and Agnes, their children, and grandchildren. People with good clothes, cars, homes, gardens. The black middle class that everybody said was the future of the country. You need people with vested interests, prepared to fight for what they've got. Forget about God, about sovereignty, about justice and all that kak, they'll die for their impoverished space. Well, some of them have huge homes now, dogs with shiny coats, kids in the best schools. Viva the buying classes!

Silas took a jug of water from a table, emptied his whisky on the lawn and went to sit by himself in a garden chair. He sipped the cold water, trying to cool down the heat in his head. He should have stopped drinking earlier that day, no, a long time ago. He wondered what it would be like to give it all up, not just the food, the drink, but all of this, family, friends. Yes, give up belonging, that was the only way to free yourself.

He heard Alec, loud, hoarse, telling one of his stories somewhere in the house. Alec had been avoiding him all night, protecting himself behind a barricade of banter and raucous laughter. Silas wanted to talk to him, simply to tell him that it didn't matter that he had worked for the cops during the struggle days, he would be surprised by the kind of people who had worked for the boere, some had even believed at the time that it was the right thing to do. Stop the Commies, better the devil you know. But Silas was curious as well: had Alec really been there the night they raped Lydia? That was the only thing he would interrogate him about, given the chance.

He saw Alec approaching, leading a throng of people out into his rather fussily groomed garden. History's vaudeville procession, flowing around the stone fountain. God, what had possessed him to build a thing like that? Silas shook his head, once more, at the sight of the water spewing from the mouth of a roaring stone lion. The poor animal, doomed to vomit perpetually. So this was how Alec hid his guilt, in ostentatious stone. A true monument builder. He should be in politics.