Afterwards, when the thieves had ridden away, a light rain began to fall. Krüger stood up and helped Mr Hendrik to his feet. The driver brushed the grass and dirt from his knees and swore. They were still miles from the next way-laying inn, and now they were horseless and stuck.

Wesley Lewis Jr watched Mr Hendrik. He waited for him to say something, but the Negro wouldn’t even look at him.

Finally, Wesley Lewis Jr said, ‘So where is it?’

Mr Hendrik began to pick up some of their things from the ground. He had to stick his lame leg out a little to the side, stiffly, each time he bent down.

‘You’ll not tell me?’

‘It’s safe,’ Mr Hendrik said.

The rain was still only a faint drizzle, but the clouds had darkened. The cool mist was sweet with the smell of trees, and rich, luxuriant soil.

‘You son of a bitch,’ Wesley Lewis Jr said again. ‘What if something happens to your black carcass? What then? I’m out with the beggars?’

Mr Hendrik ignored him.

‘We’ll have to spend the night,’ the driver said, draping a coat over his shoulders. ‘Unless somebody comes along and finds us.’

Wesley Lewis Jr stood there, didn’t move, didn’t speak, anger swelling in his chest and squeezing his throat.

‘I’ll try for the next village in the morning,’ the driver said.

Wesley Lewis Jr booted one of the empty trunks across the grass.

When the rain started properly, they sat in the carriage and listened to it pummel the roof. The floor inside was wet and muddy, and there were places where the carriage leaked and the water trickled down onto the seats and everybody had to sit slightly forward. Krüger balanced a few books on his lap, wiping them clean with a rag. One of the bandit’s horses had trampled them into the ground.

There was Kritik der reinen Vernunft and Maria Stuart and Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre. There was Hilde’s copy of Hyperion; oder, Der Eremit in Griechenland, too, and he also had Mr Hendrik’s Bible in his lap, a leather-bound copy in Dutch that Captain Willem van der Velde had given him for the journey (‘So they won’t think you’re a dirty black heathen,’ he’d said).

The rain drummed the carriage and it was cold now and getting darker and each man had a blanket over his shoulders.

Wesley Lewis Jr pointed at the books in Krüger’s lap. ‘If we had a candle, you could read us all a fucking bedtime story.’

LOVE IS UNPREDICTABLE