Michael observes Silas at his familiar post by the kitchen sink, drinking glass after glass of water, and staring myopically into the darkness. What does he see in that mirror of his own eyes? A life lived as best he can, and therefore wasted, by definition. Michael resists the surge of sympathy he feels for Silas, his father in name, his keeper, mentor of sorts. Every now and then, Silas gets this wild look in his eyes, a redeeming sense of yearning, a desire for something more than mere existence.

Almost chastely, Michael sips his tea. ‘How are you going to resolve your problem?’

‘My problem?’

‘With your father.’

Vinu has also refused the offer of a glass of wine, attracted by the ascetic ritual with which he was preparing the tea. She looks into her cup, takes a sip, swirls the liquid around in her mouth. ‘Only death – his death – can resolve that problem. I have no intention of taking my own life.’ She smiles. ‘I could get you to kill him for me. Michael the Avenger. That title suits you.’

A pact is made, unconsciously. Vinu watches Silas turn away from the kitchen window, remembers the suggestiveness with which he leaned towards her at the party. She had been flattered, but is repulsed now by the memory of his breath, hot, whisky-laden, slightly sour, like her father's. No, she does not wish Johan dead; punished, yes, but not dead. True justice would be to deprive someone of life without having to kill them. Perhaps the guilty should be put in limbo, made to live in some twilight zone, conscious of their sins for ever? Just the kind of punishment those daughter-fucking fathers deserve.

She wishes now that Michael would ask her to have sex with him, that they could lie together, their bodies wet with raw, youthful sweat. She gulps the last of her tea, the way desperate adults down the remnants of a strong and bitter drink, aware that all Michael will offer tonight is a puritan abstinence. He is beyond us now, she thinks, beyond all women. Even his mother. She shudders.

‘Someone's walking across my grave,’ she says.

‘It's up your spine they walk, that's the cliché.’

‘God, you are perverse!’

Part Three

Part Three

Retribution

Thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied.

William Shakespeare, Hamlet

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