itself, as if he were walking through himself, through the rooms of his mind and the passages and hollows of his own arteries and glands and viscera. In this room Suzette and Linda had slept when they’d still lived at home, the two pretty blond girls he’d bathed and put to bed at night. Playing tortoise, playing horsey, telling stories, laughing at jokes, feeling their breath warm and confiding in his neck, their wet kisses on his face. Then the slow estrangement, slipping loose, until they’d gone off, each on her own remote course. Johan’s room, disordered and filled with strange smells: walls covered with posters of racing cars and pop singers and pinups; shelves and cupboards littered with model aeroplanes and dissembled machinery, radio carcasses, stones, bird skeletons, books and comics and Scopes, trophies, dirty handkerchiefs and socks, cricket bats and tennis racquets and diving goggles and God knows what else. A wilderness in which he felt an imposter. The master bedroom, his and Susan’s. The twin beds separated by small identical chests, where years before had been a double bed; photographs of the children; their wardrobes on the wall facing the beds, his, hers; the rigorous arrangement of Susan’s make-up on her dressing table, a patterned order disturbed only by a bra hanging limply over the back of a chair. Lounge, dining room, kitchen, bathroom. He felt like a visitor from a distant land arriving in a city where all the inhabitants had been overcome by the plague. All the symptoms of life had been preserved intact, but no living creature had survived the disaster. He was alone in an incomprehensible expanse. And it was only much later, when he returned to his study-and even that appeared foreign, not hisown, but belonging to a stranger, a room where he was not the master but an intruder – his thoughts began to flow again.
Tomorrow, he thought, Emily would come round to ask for advice or help. He would have to do something. But he felt blunted and had no idea of where to start. So he really was relieved when she did not turn up the following day. At the same time it made him feel excluded, as if something significant had been denied him – though he knew it was illogical: for what was there he could do? What claim did he have? What did he really know of Gordon’s private existence? All these years he’d been remote from it and it had never bothered him in the least. Why should it unsettle him now?
He telephoned Dan Levinson, but of course there was nothing the lawyer could do without instructions from the family. And when Ben rang off, he couldn’t help feeling just a bit idiotic. Above all, redundant.
He even telephoned the Special Branch: but the moment the voice replied on the other side he quietly put down the receiver again. There was an argument with Susan when she reproached him for being ill-tempered. He quarrelled with Johan for neglecting his homework. The uneasiness persisted.
Then came the night Stanley Makhaya visited him. Scared of opening the front door when he knocked, Susan sent him round the house to the study at the back, then went to the kitchen to tap on the window as she used to do to call Ben to the telephone or to attract his attention. When he looked up, Stanley was already standing on the threshold – it was a warm night, the door stood open – surprisingly soundless for such a big man. Ben was startled, and it took him a moment before he recognised his visitor. Even in the dark Stanley was wearing his dark glasses. But when he came in, he pushed them up across his forehead like a pilot’s goggles. Susan was still drumming on the kitchen window and calling: “Ben, are you all right?” Irritably he went to the door to reassure her; and for a minute he and Stanley stood looking at each other, uneasy and apprehensive.
“Didn’t Emily come with you?” he asked at last.
“No, she sent me.”
“How is she?”
Stanley shrugged his heavy bull-like shoulders.
“It’s a
Tomorrow, he thought, Emily would come round to ask for advice or help. He would have to do something. But he felt blunted and had no idea of where to start. So he really was relieved when she did not turn up the following day. At the same time it made him feel excluded, as if something significant had been denied him – though he knew it was illogical: for what was there he could do? What claim did he have? What did he really know of Gordon’s private existence? All these years he’d been remote from it and it had never bothered him in the least. Why should it unsettle him now?
He telephoned Dan Levinson, but of course there was nothing the lawyer could do without instructions from the family. And when Ben rang off, he couldn’t help feeling just a bit idiotic. Above all, redundant.
He even telephoned the Special Branch: but the moment the voice replied on the other side he quietly put down the receiver again. There was an argument with Susan when she reproached him for being ill-tempered. He quarrelled with Johan for neglecting his homework. The uneasiness persisted.
Then came the night Stanley Makhaya visited him. Scared of opening the front door when he knocked, Susan sent him round the house to the study at the back, then went to the kitchen to tap on the window as she used to do to call Ben to the telephone or to attract his attention. When he looked up, Stanley was already standing on the threshold – it was a warm night, the door stood open – surprisingly soundless for such a big man. Ben was startled, and it took him a moment before he recognised his visitor. Even in the dark Stanley was wearing his dark glasses. But when he came in, he pushed them up across his forehead like a pilot’s goggles. Susan was still drumming on the kitchen window and calling: “Ben, are you all right?” Irritably he went to the door to reassure her; and for a minute he and Stanley stood looking at each other, uneasy and apprehensive.
“Didn’t Emily come with you?” he asked at last.
“No, she sent me.”
“How is she?”
Stanley shrugged his heavy bull-like shoulders.
“It’s a
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