‘Yes?’ he said, and looked Silas up and down, his bewildered manner changing to one of annoyance. He sat down, uttering a weary sigh, trying to draw the attention of other shoppers. Look, here was a youngster bothering an old man, a pensioner.

‘Do you remember me?’ Silas asked.

Du Boise leaned back in his chair, his air of open-armed, I'm-being-put-upon vulnerability quickly bringing a security guard closer.

‘Should I?’ he asked quietly, caught the eye of the security guard, then raised himself from his chair and pushed his trolley towards the exit.

Silas watched Du Boise disappear into the bright sunlight, watched the security guard watching him, and then turned away. The rage he felt was in his stomach, an acidity that made him fart sourly, out loud, oblivious to the head-shaking group of shoppers who had gathered to witness a potential scene. The guard spoke into his radio, the café owner pointedly dragged the chair back to its neat place beneath the table. Silas's rage moved disconsolately into his heart.

He drove home and, without saying a word to Lydia, took a six-pack of beer from the fridge and walked up Tudhope Avenue towards the small park. He found a tiny island of green in the bristly grass. A couple of hoboes, smiling generously, moved over to make room for him to sit down, legs sprawled out. He smiled back, but ignored the obvious hint. He placed the opulent, still-sealed pack of beer between his legs, and leaned back on his elbows.

Silas remembered how Lydia had looked up from the paper, then put it aside to watch him as he collected the beer from the fridge, walked out through the door. Her eyes had followed him as he passed the window where she sat, and when he turned to close the gate, he had seen the wariness in her face, and the tiredness. What unspoken trauma had he brought home, she must have been wondering. He felt guilty for a moment, then opened a can and drank, long deep gulps. He paused, burped, heard one of the hoboes remark that ‘some people have it good in this new South Africa’. Silas turned and stared defiantly at them, then continued drinking, slow, slaking swallows, until his eyes swam and his face flushed warmly. The hoboes got up and walked away in disgust.