‘François du Boise was shot down in the parking lot of the Killarney Mall, in broad daylight, while thousands of shoppers thronged the centre, doing last-minute Christmas purchases. No one seems to have observed the incident, and no arrests have been made. Du Boise was this evening identified as a former security policeman who had applied to the TRC for amnesty. It is not clear which apartheid-era crimes he was seeking amnesty for.’

Lydia's heart goes cold. She turns the television off, sits in the chair, listens to the sounds outside, cars passing by at a leisurely pace, people talking, the hum of the air-conditioner. It can get really hot here, 25 degrees tonight.

She calls home, lets the phone ring for a while, and is about to replace the receiver when Silas answers.

‘Lydia!’

‘Hello, Silas.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, Silas. About Du Boise…’

‘I know.’

‘Mikey, where is Mikey?’

She listens to his sigh, pictures his weariness, the way he idly scratches his scalp, releasing tiny showers of dandruff that settle on his shoulders.

‘Gone, gone I think…’

‘Where, Silas?’

‘I have no idea.’ Something in him is stiffening.

‘Listen, Lydia, I don't know where you are or how you are, and I don't need to be interrogated…’

‘I'm sorry.’

‘It's okay. I'll start looking tomorrow.’

‘Are they looking for him?’

‘You mean the police? No, at least not yet. Look, it doesn't mean that he's involved, does it?’

She wants to tell him about the gun, about Shirley what's-her-name, about Priscilla Johnson and her voice of doom, she wants to warn him: they'll hear about Du Boise's death, listen to the vague descriptions of a young man seen hurrying away from the scene, they'll tell the police. That famous liberal conscience, tell the truth in the face of a crime, even if it means betraying your own guilty secret. But Silas has other, less dreadful concerns, God bless his selfish soul.

‘Look, Lydia, about the other night…’

‘What about it?’

‘I was there, I saw, perhaps Michael did as well.’

‘Oh my God, no.’

‘Lydia, we can sort it out. There are things I need to tell you too.’

No, no, she is not going to listen to his sordid confessions. He always goes into such detail. ‘Silas, it is over, it is better this way.’

She remains quiet, hopes that her silence will signal her determination to end their relationship, this marriage that had become a farce.

‘Where are you?’

‘I am safe, please tell Mam Agnes and Jackson.’

‘Okay.’

‘Silas, I'm sorry.’

‘That's okay, it is for the best, as you say.’

She fears his platitudes most of all. His clichés have a way of undermining her resolve, making him seem so human, so vulnerable.

‘Goodbye, Silas, I'll call.’