Boston’s stories were of no consequence. The time he did this, where he did it and how and with whom…

A hawker with a pushcart trundles past in the street outside. They see the shadow long after the man has disappeared.

Or the time this happened and why it did and how that happening started off a lot of other things that unfold one after the interminable other in the effortless drone of Boston’s voice.

A window of the house across the street, which they can see clearly through their open door, the window burns fiercely with the reflected light of the sun. It must be low. Not long now.

Or that man. That strange man of a time back who went there and never returned.

The old woman is shaking her tin of scolding words in the backyard. A child cries.

Butcher shifts with a sudden spasm of impatience.

Why? Why? Die Aap is asking a question. Boston laughs. ‘Because…’ Another bottle comes up from under the table. They fill their glasses. ‘Because,’ Boston continues, ‘because of this cherry. Ja man. Buggered him up she did.’

This then being the pause, and then more than the pause because it was also the end of the story and no one had any more words, and they sat silent a long time until the youngest of the four, the one they called Tsotsi, until suddenly his hands were together and the other three looking at him and waiting.

Boston smiled, Butcher twisted in another spasm of impatience and hate for the silent man, Die Aap waited impassively.

Tsotsi saw it all. The smile that hid fear, the eyes that hid hate, the face that hid nothing. You I can trust, he said to himself, looking at Die Aap. You I must never turn my back on, and it was Butcher he looked at. And you, Boston. You smile at me and your smile hides fear.

‘What’s it Tsotsi?’ Boston asked. He held Tsotsi’s gaze for a few seconds, but when the muscles at the end of his mouth began to stiffen he looked down into his empty glass.

‘Ja. What’s it man?’ Butcher asked.

Die Aap remained silent.

‘It’s Friday night,’ Tsotsi said, and looked out of the door. The shadows were long enough. It would soon be dark.

‘The trains,’ he said. ‘Let’s take one on the trains.’

Butcher was the first to react. He smiled and then laughed, a cold sound, sharp as a knife blade. ‘Ja man. One on the trains,’ he said.

But it was Boston that Tsotsi was watching, and Boston knew it and he kept his eyes down, no longer seeing the glass in his hands. But even like that Tsotsi could see his forehead and that was enough because very soon the first film of sweat was shining there.

Die Aap needed time. He repeated what Tsotsi had said. ‘The trains. Let’s take one on the trains.’ He thought about it, framed the picture, his part in it. It was simple. He knew it all. He nodded. ‘Ja.’ That was all he had to say.