‘It’s a risk you’ll – we’ll have to take. The alternative is that he turns up with some of those thugs.’

‘God, what is going on, Kagiso?’

‘Time’s running out. I promise you one thing. I’m with the good guys.’ Silence. ‘Lindi, if you want to change your mind I’ll understand. This isn’t your fight.’

‘I’m already packing. I’m coming.’

‘And, Lindi, just turn your phone off. At least till we decide what’s happening.’

‘Kagiso, you’re wrong about one thing. This is my fight, too.’

‘See you.’

17

Anton Chetty hadn’t heard from Lindi since she’d sent a brief email describing a ‘horrendous’ journey to Nelspruit, giving details of her meeting with the Bishop of Mpumalanga and the introduction to a priest who was going to take her to meet some Mozambican farm workers. Rather cryptically, she’d added that the priest – apparently a great champion of the Mozambican community – seemed to have some ‘inside’ knowledge about Lesedi’s murder. Anton had expected a fuller account in the evening, as had been the case on every other night she’d been away. But last night there had been no email.

He was, as usual, in Saleh’s café, sitting at his favoured spot by the window. He pulled at his silver goatee, the uncharacteristically groomed beard that sprouted from his ebony skin, as he flicked through the British newspapers on his iPad. He checked his phone yet again. No missed calls. No reply to the email he’d fired off early that morning either.

Anton browsed his ‘favourites’ list and found the Land Collective web page. There hadn’t been a new entry since the day after Lesedi’s murder when he, she, whoever, had defended the Mozambicans. Still nothing. Why would they fall silent at the very point when their words might galvanise supporters into action? But what supporters and what action? Anton realised he’d taken quite a lot for granted. He’d infused the Land Collective with motives and ideals that were his own inventions. He’d taken a vicarious interest in whoever wrote the statements, finding in this nameless, faceless individual someone who might actually complete the mission he had so conspicuously failed to finish.

But what if this person was a charlatan whose only purpose was to cause chaos for its own sake? He’d met a few of those in his time. Not for them the heavy weight of responsibility, the obligation to create something better. It’s enough to destroy. He now imagined whoever it was sitting back, watching the beloved country devour itself. Anton had been pinning his hopes on finding whoever was behind the Land Collective’s statements, assuming he, or she, would hold the key to ending the violence, and realised he’d put his faith in an apparition, a product of his own imagination.