So who is François du Boise? Does he have a character, a persona, is he more than a white man, a former security policeman, a rapist and torturer? The question about Du Boise comes to mind unexpectedly. Michael tries to fight it off. He must not allow himself to be distracted. The man is a rapist, my father, yes, the ‘sower of my seed’ , as the saying goes. But that is a mere biological detail. To dispel the growing image of a frail old man (slightly stooped, cancer-ravaged skin protected by clothes that are too heavy for this weather, an Andy Capp hat pulled low over his eyes), he ticks off Du Boise's biographical details, as if on a checklist of mundane facts.

Born April 1936 near Ficksburg, Orange Free State. The son of an impoverished farmer sub-letting a plot on the land he once owned. The predator not some foreign bank, some Jew or Englishman, but a fellow Afrikaner. A truly cannibalistic tribe. Educated in Ficksburg, then the family moved, first to Bloemfontein, then to Vereeniging in the Transvaal. His father found work in the steel mills, became a foreman. An ex-farmer making good progress in an unfamiliar trade, on the backs of the black workers he supervised.

François completed Standard Eight, went to work in the steel mills as well. Fathers opened doors for their sons. Those nepotistic dynasties that messed up this country. François completed his matric by correspondence. Showed some enterprise. Then joined the police in 1957, already twenty-one years old. Must have felt uncomfortable among his fellow trainees, pimply-faced eighteen-year-olds.

Two years’ training, uniformed constable for three years, then the detective squad for another three. Studied political criminology – whatever that is – part-time. Transferred to the security police in 1965. They knew the ‘war’ was coming, brought the most capable of their people into the security forces. Stationed at Vaal Headquarters until 1969, then transferred to the Soweto branch.

Took him another nine years – and how many rapes? – to reach my mother. He was forty-two years old, she only eighteen. He married into a good family, that opened even more doors. Two children, one works as an advocate at the Appeals Court in Bloemfontein. Not bad for the son of a security policeman. His daughter is a housewife, married to a businessman. Lives in Cape Town.

My half-brother and half-sister! Imagine that.

Michael leans up against a pillar at the entrance to the Mall. With a little imagination, the architect could have created a colonnade, cool and mysterious, not this ugly, pillared monstrosity. He sees Du Boise taking his stooped-walk shortcut through the filling station. Now he enters the car park, walks up the incline towards the lower part of the Mall. Michael steps out from the late afternoon shadow, Du Boise is still below him.

‘Du Boise.’