In the taxi, Lomba discovers that his hands are shaking. His shirt sticks to his back, wet and dripping with sweat. He feels like a cardboard James Bond as he alights from the taxi and heads for James’s house. The two men are still in the Peugeot; he forces himself to ignore them as he rings the doorbell. There are flowerpots outside the house with roses blooming in them; when he looks closer, he sees that the petals have started to dry and curl at the edges. The curtain parts and eyes peer at him behind the glass door. He lifts his face and meets the eyes, he forces himself to smile. The curtain falls back and the door opens.

‘Mrs James Fiki?’ he asks, trying not to turn and look at the parked car. He feels eyes boring into his back like drill points. The woman nods; her eyes dart past him to the parked car. She knows.

‘I am Lomba. Your husband sent me,’ he says, and is gratified to see the relief flood her face.

‘Come in, please,’ she says, stepping back. She is a tall woman, taller than Lomba, as tall as her husband, perhaps. She is slim, but not pretty. Her gaze is steady and direct, her posture is sure but unaffected: all in all, the kind of woman one would expect James to marry. She is in a housedress, a flower-patterned gown reaching to mid-calf.

‘James sent you?’ she begins as they sit, then, as if remembering her manners, puts in hastily, ‘I’ve heard your name from James, Mr Lomba. And I read the arts pages. You are welcome, what can I offer you?’

‘Thanks, Mrs Fiki. I don’t need anything. And I really can’t stay long. I left James not far from here. We were coming here when we saw the car outside – have they been here long?’

‘All day.’

‘You’ve heard about the fire, of course?’ he asks.

She hasn’t. ‘What fire?’

‘At the office. James thinks it is arson.’

She is doing her best to remain calm; she smoothes a fold of cloth on her thigh. ‘Was… was it bad?’

He nods. ‘There’s a warrant out for his arrest.’

She catches the bitterness in Lomba’s voice. Her agitation shows as she gets up and goes to the window; she parts the curtain and peers out at the car.

‘This morning Dele Giwa was killed. What is happening?’

There is a picture of the family on top of the TV: father, mother, and two children – a boy and a girl. Where are the children? Lomba wonders. Away at school, perhaps. For them, all will seem normal. They don’t know that for their parents the universe is slowly breaking to pieces.

‘What is he going to do now?’ she asks, returning to her seat. How will she take it, that her husband is contemplating leaving the country, as an exile, a refugee?