Emil Coetzee’s untimely and tragic end allowed many to share not only their adoration but their anger, frustration and other baser emotions too; as Emil Coetzee was glorified, Golide Gumede was vilified with equal measure. Whatever his war-time fortunes had been, Golide Gumede became something to fear in peace time: a coward who had ruthlessly killed a defenceless man; a terrorist who did not appreciate that the war was over; a sociopath who cared nothing for the lives of others; a continued threat to the state because he was still at large and suspected to be roaming the countryside. Politicians of all stripes weighed in on the issue, and because the future was not a certain thing, they seemed happy to come together to condemn Golide Gumede based on very little evidence. They basked in the freedom of the amnesty that had chosen to overlook their wartime activities, but refused Golide Gumede that same freedom because it was more convenient to brand him a rogue agent.

Spokes had to accept that Clement Rutherford and Joseth Maraire had been right about malleable truths after all. It really was that disturbingly easy to shape people’s reality. For years, he had been doggedly investigating crimes without realising that the war was not only decimating the majority of the people but also qualitatively changing who they were. Years of propaganda and heavy censorship, coupled with the constant fear of death and loss, had made them afraid to question anything openly, which was something the Secret Intelligence boys understood very well. Battered and wearied by the protracted war, the people’s eyes were no longer for beauty to see, and here they were all marching towards independence together.

Every day that Spokes read through the condolences section of the newspaper, he became afraid of a future where reality could be so easily manipulated, truth so easily distorted and lies so easily believed. He knew there was only one way the future would be golden for him, and so he had made Chief Superintendent Griffiths promise – on the mounted trophy of his ’79 bream – that Spokes’s request for retirement would be granted soon after the elections in April.

But Spokes needed to be doing something in the meantime; he was not one to sit and wait. He needed to be saved from the futility that came with thinking too deeply about things over which one had no power. It took him a long moment to see his salvation. It was squeezed into the bottom right-hand corner of the page, along with the condolences; just as he was about to turn the page, he saw it – firmly standing its ground and refusing to be pushed off the page. The notice read: LOOKING FOR TOM FORTENOY. 50s. TALL. MEDIUM BUILT. GREYING BLOND HAIR. LAST SEEN AT THE DILETTANTE CLUB. NEW YEAR’S EVE. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CONTACT MRS T FORTENOY ON 53470.

There it was. Exactly what Spokes needed. A silver lining. Something unmalleable.