There were alternatives in life. He’d had an inkling of this earlier in the afternoon with Butcher and Die Aap in his room and his inability to choose their job for that night. What he had since learned was that the alternatives were even greater than he had imagined. It was not just the sort of job, a choice of the ways and victims—killing itself was a choice.

A question shot with the impact of a bullet into his mind. When had he made that choice? Trembling with a confusion of anger and excitement he stood up and looked around desperately. When and how had he made the choice in the first place?

Then, as if he had stood up only to take the full weight of the past day on his shoulders, his knees buckled and he sank back to the ground. It was more than he could carry. The outburst of emotion ebbed away, and with it the last reserve of his strength. He curled up on the ground and slept.

An engine whistle blew out like a white ribbon in the wind.

8

The bell of the Church of Christ the Redeemer is tolling. It has a double stroke.

Ding-dong-ong-ong. Ding-dong-ong-ong.

In the pauses, the echo of the last note floats away from the belfry, low over the rooftops, circling the township like a heavy and grey bird. The shadow of its passing is Sunday.

Ding-dong-ong-ong. Ding-dong-ong-ong.

It is heard in the streets. Stepping staid and correct in the first response of their worship, a few move to the top of the hill where a few more are standing around the church door, waiting for organ sounds and the singing of the first hymn. The rest stay behind in the streets, sitting on steps or just standing, but all of them in the sun. They also hear and respond faithfully with the litany of their te deum.

‘Sunday again.’

‘Once a week and always on time.’

‘Saturday and Sunday.’

‘Half-brother days.’

‘Me? Don’t even think they’re cousins.’

‘They always come together, like a woman and a baby. Take one and you also get the other.’

Ding-dong-ong-ong. Ding-dong-ong-ong.

It is heard in the rooms. There are many still asleep, in beds, on sleeping mats, with blankets or without, coupled or alone. They stir and mumble, caught clumsily between dream and drab reality. The church bells belong to both. It is the late and lazy day. The sound settles in the room, and they nestle deep in its feathered melancholy and drift off to another sleep.

Somewhere Boston hears it. It is a soft sound so he listens, letting it wrap around the fragile splinter of his consciousness. He is looking at a small piece of naked skin with one eye. The other is closed. He notices that hairs grow out of tiny, pinhead depressions. He doesn’t know where he is, what time it is or what is going to happen next. He doesn’t recognize his own arm. He hears the bell and minutely studies the skin and the hair. Nothing else exists and he doesn’t dare move for fear of pain or shame. A door slams somewhere and he hears footsteps. The feet are bare and are walking on wood. He hears his terror. It is a thin screaming note in his ears that magnifies the footfall and silences the bell. Don’t come near me, he thinks hysterically, don’t touch me or talk to me.