“The whore and the baby never go out. They must be here.”

Jezebel barks in response to the voices.

Zodwa continues digging but when that drawer doesn’t yield anything, she quietly opens another. She’s about to give up on that one too when she feels the reassuring shape of the remote squashed into the side of it. She almost cries with relief. Instead, she pulls it out, pressing the button repeatedly. She expects an alarm to sound but nothing happens. No light blinks in response to her touch and she wonders if the battery is dead.

Please. Please. Please.

She presses it a few more times out of desperation.

“Where is that dog barking from?”

“Must be that room. It’s the only one closed.”

“She locks the security dog inside? What kind of idiot does that?”

They both laugh and Zodwa can hear them walking through the house checking in every room. Mandla remains blessedly quiet. He leans his head against Zodwa’s chest as though wanting to go back to sleep.

The telephone suddenly rings, startling her. It must be Ruth calling to check up on Mandla. The men ignore it. Zodwa counts seven rings before it stops. It feels like an eternity.

“Check that room.”

“No way, man. The dog is in there.”

The phone rings again but is silenced as it crashes to the floor. One of the men must have knocked it off the kitchen counter.

“I still can’t fucking believe she brought that disease into our town. We could all get it.”

“Mimi said it was the first case they’ve ever had at the hospital. Bad enough having to treat a filthy kaffir, but an AIDS-infested one at that?”

AIDS. The word is like a wasp buzzing around Zodwa’s head. AIDS. AIDS. AIDS. She has to shake it off to concentrate.

The handle is suddenly pushed down and Zodwa’s heart lurches. They’re right outside the door.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

Ruth

6 January 1996

Rustenburg Golf Club, South Africa

I’m going to go find a pay phone,” I lean over and whisper to Dee as the auction bidding starts for a weekend getaway to Hermanus.

“Why?” Dee whispers back.

“I told Zodwa I’d check in at half past eight.”

“She has the number to reach us here and she’ll call if Mandla doesn’t feel well. Besides,” Dee says, checking her watch, “it’s only just after eight.”

I wish for the dozenth time that I’d brought my own car. I don’t want to offend the fund-raisers by leaving early, especially since they’re doing all of this for Mandla’s orphanage, but I’m really not able to enjoy myself. Why didn’t I just send a check and be done with it?

“It doesn’t matter if I call a bit early,” I reply, rising from the table.