Absolution by Patrick Flanery

background checks, registration. I was unaware of it all. I did not know she had one,’ Clare protested. ‘Ihave since made her get rid of it. I believe she turned it over to the police, to have it destroyed. There are no guns in this house. I have very strong feelings about guns.’
    ‘Indeed.’ The woman curled her lip, as if to say, We all have strong feelings about guns .
    ‘Have you caught any of the intruders?’ Clare asked.
    The woman, who Clare thought of as Ms White, looked startled, as if it were a strange question, and jerked her head in silent answer, no .
    ‘Why would you wish for so long to live in such an insecure house?’ Ms White asked.
    ‘I don’t think I understand your question.’
    ‘Why did you choose to live so long on Canigou Avenue when your house was clearly no longer safe? You did not even have a proper gate or razor wire or an electric fence, as you do now. Any so-and-so could have got in. Why did you stay there so long when it was clear the neighbourhood was no longer safe for a woman such as yourself?’
    No longer safe because the neighbourhood was too mixed, not white enough any more, too near the crime of the Cape Flats, even if only psychologically so? Clare knew that her intruders had nothing to do with those places, nothing to do with poverty or material deprivation.
    ‘It was my house. It was where I raised my children, and where I spent the whole of my former married life,’ Clare said. ‘Is this relevant to the case? Could I see your identification?’
    The woman produced a badge, but Clare had no means of judging its authenticity.
    ‘You must have known it wasn’t safe to be there, without even an alarm, without the proper measures taken. You are a celebrity of sorts, madam, aren’t you? You are wealthy. People know you have money, even in this country.’
    ‘Even in this country, Ms White, where the government does not necessarily like what I have to say.’
    ‘I did not say that . I meant only that not quite so many people know in this country who you are, but that enough do that you must look after yourself.’
    ‘It is my country. You need not refer to it as “this country”, as if to suggest I am a visitor,’ Clare said, hoping she sounded authoritative.
    ‘Are you not a kind of visitor?’ the woman asked.
    ‘I was born here, as were my parents and grandparents. And while they may not have done so, I have made a point, a very conscious point, of washing myself in every culture of this country, of making myself a part of it entirely.’
    ‘And yet you remain unchanged by the experience, madam. You are still quite foreign. Like those settler ancestors of yours. They were visitors – or maybe not visitors, something not so nice as just visitors . I can think of another word. Yes, I think with ancestors like that you are still quite foreign.’
    ‘I am changed in ways you cannot see, Ms White, that are beneath the skin. We could, for instance, speak in your mother tongue if you wished, instead of mine, and then you would have an even greater advantage over me, but I would still be able to hold my own. I am not a stranger anywhere that I go. I can speak with everyone. How can you call me foreign? I have always been a citizen of this country. I have never been anything but a citizen of this country, no matter the history of my ancestors or the history of the country itself. This is my country. I have a birth certificate. I have a passport. I do not appreciate your tone.’
    ‘And now you live in this grand mansion, with your high walls. It is almost like a palace. Perhaps you think you are some kind of queen.’
    ‘I think no such thing. I am very humble.’ Perhaps not humble enough. Clare had caught the scent of the hunt, knew that she was not going to be accorded the rights and privileges of an innocent victim; she was a victim, perhaps, but not innocent.
    ‘You still employ the same personal assistant, Ms Marie de Wet,’ the woman continued.
    ‘You