The line was dead. The call had lasted less than thirty seconds. The elation he’d felt just a few moments ago dissipated as rapidly as it had come. He was angry. As much as he tried to tell himself that Kagiso was right to be circumspect in their conversation, he couldn’t help feeling he was being taken for granted. Christ! This wasn’t the army. Do as you’re told and don’t ask any questions. He thought about getting a drink. Just a quickie. A couple of places he knew were open even at this hour. He could be back in the office in less than half an hour. Two-Boy hesitated but then went back into the building.

By the time he reached the lifts he’d decided where he’d start. He remembered a feature the weekly magazine programme, Out and About, had run on Priscilla Motlantshe. ‘Married to the Struggle’ – that was what it was called. It was about the wives of that first generation of activists and how they’d coped while their husbands fought the good fight. SABC had broadcast the report just before the last election, an unsubtle reminder of how the ruling party had delivered freedom. All he had to do was find out who the reporter was and the rest would be easy.

Anton Chetty was nursing a second bottle of red when the call came. What was the time? Late. He must have fallen asleep.

‘Before you say anything, I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch.’

It took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts.

‘Anton?’ Lindi snapped.

‘Yes, yes, I’m here.’

‘Are you on your own? Who’s that with you?’

‘It’s just the TV,’ he replied, reaching for the remote.

‘Where are you?’ she pressed.

‘I’m at home. Never mind where I am, where the fuck are you? What you playing at, girl? Your phone’s dead, no answers to emails. Meanwhile I’m sitting here reading about houses getting torched and people getting hacked up. All I know is you were going to see a priest and then that very day a priest gets killed.’

‘You mean Father Petro? What do you know about him?’

‘It’s on all the websites. Anyway, it’s pretty bloody obvious. Apparently he was protecting Mozambican families.’

‘Look, Anton, I can’t talk for long. I’m—’

‘Two days of nothing and you can’t talk for long!’

‘Stop it! Shut up – just listen to me for once.’

Anton was dumbstruck. He felt like he’d been slapped by his own child.

‘I’m sorry,’ Lindi said, picturing him for the first time as a vulnerable and ageing – yes, ageing – man. ‘I want to explain everything but I can’t do it now. First, I’m in touch with the Land Collective. I’m with the one who writes the group’s statements.’