Lying in the savannah grass, bleeding into the dry dust of the earth, a thought came to him as if it were a voice as clear as the bird that had woken him that day. You will rise, the voice said, and he knew that far from beating Rika out of him, these men had beaten her in, into him, and into the new future of his land. His head throbbed, there was blood in his eyes, his nose. His ribs sparked with pain each time he moved. His legs hurt. Everything hurt, even his teeth. But for the rest it was clear, there was no longer doubt and confusion. No more hiding. He hauled himself on hands and knees to the road, and when he heard the slow grind of a truck he moved to the verge, lay in the gravel, lifted his head into the arc of its headlights. The truck stopped, there was an exclamation and feet dropped lightly to the ground, the welcome sound of Tok Pisin. He laid his head on the road, surrendered to the dust and to the strong hands that lifted him, steadying him on the platform of the truck, which jolted on broken suspension and delivered him to the door of the hospital.

He was there, Laedi said, sedated against leaving, refusing a transfer to a white ward.

Again Rika asked, ‘How bad is he?’

‘Concussion. A split lip, a deep cut over one eye, stitches, a broken nose. His face is a mess, Rika. You must be prepared.’

‘That face,’ she said. That flesh, that beautiful man. ‘Who did it?’

‘We don’t know. They jumped him before he could see. White. Hooded. The words they said were foul.’

Rika was trembling as if she were cold. Mela squeezed lime into hot water. ‘How did you hear?’

‘He sent someone to find me,’ Laedi said. ‘Me or Martha.’

‘Why not me?’

‘He’s protecting you.’

‘What about Don?’

‘Too much rum with his lime.’ Laedi gave a small, sad smile. ‘Much too much. He’s snoring. Drunk. Spak,’ she said, as if to herself.

Aaron had multiple contusions and haematomas. Those were the words the doctor used when he met them at the entrance to the ward. A rib was cracked, he warned Rika, and a shoulder dislocated. He led them down the long line of beds. It was the early hours, yet the ward was alert, only the illest of patients asleep. Despite screens hastily brought from somewhere, Aaron’s bed was visible to everyone – orderlies, patients, the families that slept around their beds – and already a small crowd had gathered to look at this man whose name was known across the town. His face was swollen, his lip was as large as a liver. His eyes were small slits, barely distinguishable. His words were slurred.

Rika knelt on the stained concrete floor beside the bed, laid her head beside him and, weeping without a sound, let her hand move across his battered body until she found a place where it could rest without hurting him. He moved a grazed and bloodied hand and rested it on her head.