‘Yes … yes. You will do quite nicely,’ the white one said before turning to the black one and saying, ‘I must say, great idea of yours, this. Great idea.’

It was the black one’s turn to lean closer. ‘Even I didn’t know how great an idea it was until this very moment. He looks almost exactly like him.’

There was that ‘almost’ again.

‘That madala … I mean, that man over at the Western Commonage stitched us up good and proper,’ the white one said. ‘Made it impossible for us to put our plan into motion, and what a beautiful plan it was. “Golide Gumede lures Emil Coetzee into the bush.” I could already see the headline … the uproar.’

‘Yes, it was the perfect plan,’ the black one said.

‘But now there is this,’ the white one said, looking at Tom. ‘And this is pure gold. Pure gold.’

Tom had no idea what they were talking about, and began to despair that they would not and could not explain his situation to him. For his part, he felt so out of it that he could not be sure that any of it was really happening. Jesus! He must have drunk as much as an elephant at a watering hole the night before.

‘Where are our manners?’ the white one said. ‘Introductions are necessary, I think.’ But before he could introduce himself, the man had a severe attack of the giggles.

Were they … drunk?

The black one started laughing too, if you could call a reluctant chuckle a laugh.

‘My name is Clement Rutherford,’ the white one said. ‘But everyone calls me Rutherford, and so should you, because we are going to become really good friends. And this is my colleague—’

‘Joseth Maraire,’ the black one said.

Did he just say … Joseth? Yes, they were definitely drunk. With dismay, Tom realised that the only authority these two men possessed was the deepness of their voices.

‘No need to introduce yourself,’ the white one, Rutherford, said. ‘We know who you are. You’re the famous Tom Fortenoy.’ He made flattery seem like something that was used to grate the skin.

Rutherford and Joseph exchanged a look before Rutherford said, ‘Look here, Fortenoy, I am not a man who beats about the bush … except when it is nestled between a woman’s thighs.’

Apparently this was something that they both found highly amusing, and so nothing else was said for quite some time as one giggled and the other reluctantly chuckled. Dear God. He was in the presence of fools.

‘How would you like to do this – be Emil Coetzee – for a while longer?’ Rutherford eventually asked.

‘Don’t worry. Not too much longer,’ the black one – Joseph – said.

‘About a day, maybe two – maybe a little more,’ Rutherford expounded, after exchanging another glance with Joseph.

Tom had many questions. But his voice still failed him.