Major Rudy van As had been in the old security police himself. His transformation into loyal guardian of the new order was complete, and fierce. Du Boise? The name did not sound familiar, he said. There had been thousands of foot soldiers, but he would see if he could get anything out of archives. Major Van As's smug voice, his neutral smile. He was living up to the cliché of the inscrutable old security policeman.

Afterwards, she regretted having asked him at all, bewildered by her own impulsiveness.

Draped in the loose gown she wore when there was no one home, she lay sprawled out by the pool, sipping a glass of wine. Her dogs, three huge German shepherds, clamoured for attention, pressing their noses against her. So much to be done, and here she was lazing about, breaking a house rule: no alcohol before five on a weekday. A gesture of restraint meant to impress Ferial. We lead by example. She quickly dismissed her guilt. She worked hard, put in many hours, this bit of indulgence was deserved.

Her thoughts drifted back to the morning's events. How had Mikey known that his mother was coming? There had been no warning, no phone call, no knock on the door, just this crazy kid standing at the window, sensing his mother's imminent arrival. Michael the Phenomenal. Always probing, lately, asking questions about the amnesty process, things he should ask his father, not someone he's just had sex with. Perhaps trying to demonstrate his intelligence, not just a young kid only good for fucking.

There was no doubting how bright he was. She saw the evidence of it all around him, the books on his shelf (without order, a random collection of truly intimidating titles), the music he listened to. Once, she'd glanced at some notes on his desk and was startled to read the beginnings of an analysis of the liberation struggle: there had never been an ‘armed struggle’, the movement had had more of an armed propaganda ability than any ‘real capacity to wage even a limited war’. He had removed the notepad abruptly, locked it in a drawer, his eyes telling her that he did not want to discuss what she had read.

He had all the hallmarks of a driven person. A quest for truth, or justice, that grand kind of thing. She'd seen that ruthless gleam in people's eyes before, the holy, malevolent clarity of someone obsessed.

15

Somehow, out of expediency, through collusion, because of the sheer need to re-establish the surface continuities of their lives, things returned to normal. From the moment that Silas opened the door, on the day Lydia had come home from the hospital without waiting for him, they established a code of silence, a set of mutual understandings – Silas and Lydia, Lydia and Mikey, Mikey and Silas – striking separate compacts with each other: whatever had happened on that day would not be spoken about or even hinted at. No matter how bitter their disputes. What had passed between mother and son, and whatever it was – instinct, premonition, intuition – that had kept Silas out of the house for those crucial hours, was to remain buried. All families have secrets that they conceal for ever.