As I look around the waiting area with eyes that have been struck blind, one image resolves itself. The lawyer, Abigail Nkabinde, is getting two cans from a vending machine—one for her and one for my father. I get to my feet noisily, and she glances in my direction. Our eyes meet for a second before her gaze flicks away from me as if I am hot.

Pity and disgust. Disgust and pity.

She keeps her head down and bustles back to the interview room to resume her support of my father in the face of police interrogation.

There is nothing for me to do here. I will go home. Would a concerned friend warn me not to drive in this condition? Possibly. But there is no one here, and I don’t like myself enough to insist on taking a taxi.

It is dark now. The sun went away while we were in the police station. I must get back for supper. I know I am driving erratically, but I can’t seem to correct this. If a policeman pulls me over, perhaps he will take me back to Mowbray police station. I could join my father in jail.

The red light at Roodebloem Road catches me, as it always does.

The population of itinerants has changed over to the night shift. The panhandlers are gone. Now it is just beggars. It is a chilly night, but one man is dressed in rags only, with bare feet and limbs. He clutches at his thin arms and shivers. As cars arrive, he abases himself on the road in front of them. When they drive away, he stands up again.

It is theatre, yes. But there is truth behind the performance. He is poor and desperate, and we are well-heeled and comfortable. As I wait for the light to change, he stands up and starts moving up and down the line of cars, asking for money. He approaches my car and I wait for the fear to kick in.

It doesn’t.

He comes right up to my window. My usual reflex is to lock the door, but this time I don’t. Instead, I feel in my bag for some money and hand it to him through the window. He thanks me and moves on to the next car.

CHAPTER 15

Your father?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it.”

I have made Moira’s day. I can feel the glee coming off her in waves. And the fact that I told her about it before it was announced in the media is the icing on the cake

I don’t resent her attitude. It is very human. We are far enough removed from the incident for the horror of it to have lost its freshness. I’ve been living with it for a long time, and Moira has been living with it through me.