terrifying newspaper report she has ever read about the Cape Flats spins through Louise’s mind, and she knows that she is to share her brother’s fate, and that like his, the last minutes of her life will be a living hell.
The man pulls her to her feet and she can smell stale sweat on him and something burnt and toxic.
“Get out,” he says, shoving her toward the graveyard. “This is no place for a woman.”
She stands, staring at him.
“Go.” Waving her away with a tattooed hand.
“Who are you?” she asks.
He looks down at Lyndall. “I’m his father.”
Then he fixes those torn eyes on her. “And yours, too.”
Part 2
Winter
1
Michael Lane wakes to a deluge—water drumming on the roof, sluicing the gutters and surging down the pipes, the house clanging and groaning like an old ship on its way to the breaker’s yard. Rainwater taps like a blind man’s cane directly above Lane; a brown stain in the shape of Africa has appeared on the pressed metal ceiling over the past weeks.
But it isn’t the rain that rouses him, nor the sick feeling in his gut that has haunted him these last seven months—relegating the guilt and horror of that night on the road twenty years ago to the vaults of his memory—it’s an erection, an insistent, throbbing hard-on, the tip driven painfully into the mattress. He rolls onto his back and the unruly thing slaps his belly, an unwanted reminder of a part of his life that died with the girl in the pool house.
A vague recollection of the dream that had prompted it—young Beverley cramming him into her mouth—floats across Lane’s mind and for a moment he is overcome by loneliness.
Three nights after Lane exiled himself to this room his naked wife slipped in , sitting on the bed beside where he lay, her light frame barely disturbing the mattress. He was awake but feigned sleep, lying with his back to her, ignoring the soft caress of her fingers down his spine, his body immune to her touch.
Repulsed by it, in fact.
He was certain she knew he wasn’t asleep but she withdrew her hand and left the room, gently closing the door after her. She never returned.
Lane leaves the bed and pulls on a robe, belting it tight, the absurd erection trying to eel its way between the folds as he crosses to the window and opens the curtains onto the sodden winter dawn.
Summer in Cape Town unspools like a reel of overexposed celluloid, the relentless sun bleaching the parched landscape, the heat a poultice drawing out the tourist hordes and the listless locals; the beaches, streets and sidewalk bars filled with bare flesh sweating booze and summer-lust.
But in winter the city lies muffled beneath weeks of unrelenting rain, the mountain shrouded in mist and soggy low cloud, the kelp-strewn beaches deserted, the bars and bistros heavy with off-season melancholy.
Lane has always liked the winter and welcomes it even more this year, the hard edges of that mad week in December softened a little by the cold and damp.
He pans his eyes over to the pool house where Christopher, seemingly untroubled by memory or guilt, continues to live, and before Lane can suppress it an image of his son crouched atop the dead girl hits him with the force of a blow and the remnants of desire leak away with the blood in his penis.
He pads past the open door to the marital bedroom—Beverley ’s out doing circuits at the gym in Claremont—and locks himself in the bathroom where he empties his bladder and bowels. Afterward, as he lathers to shave, Lane inspects his face in the mirror. Aside from the haunted eyes he looks surprisingly good. He’s lost a few pounds in the last months, the skin stretched taut over the bones, making him appear strangely youthful.
As if to punish himself, Lane attacks his face with the razor, removing beard and shaving foam in brisk sweeps. Too brisk. He nicks his jaw and has to glue toilet paper to his mandible to staunch
The man pulls her to her feet and she can smell stale sweat on him and something burnt and toxic.
“Get out,” he says, shoving her toward the graveyard. “This is no place for a woman.”
She stands, staring at him.
“Go.” Waving her away with a tattooed hand.
“Who are you?” she asks.
He looks down at Lyndall. “I’m his father.”
Then he fixes those torn eyes on her. “And yours, too.”
Part 2
Winter
1
Michael Lane wakes to a deluge—water drumming on the roof, sluicing the gutters and surging down the pipes, the house clanging and groaning like an old ship on its way to the breaker’s yard. Rainwater taps like a blind man’s cane directly above Lane; a brown stain in the shape of Africa has appeared on the pressed metal ceiling over the past weeks.
But it isn’t the rain that rouses him, nor the sick feeling in his gut that has haunted him these last seven months—relegating the guilt and horror of that night on the road twenty years ago to the vaults of his memory—it’s an erection, an insistent, throbbing hard-on, the tip driven painfully into the mattress. He rolls onto his back and the unruly thing slaps his belly, an unwanted reminder of a part of his life that died with the girl in the pool house.
A vague recollection of the dream that had prompted it—young Beverley cramming him into her mouth—floats across Lane’s mind and for a moment he is overcome by loneliness.
Three nights after Lane exiled himself to this room his naked wife slipped in , sitting on the bed beside where he lay, her light frame barely disturbing the mattress. He was awake but feigned sleep, lying with his back to her, ignoring the soft caress of her fingers down his spine, his body immune to her touch.
Repulsed by it, in fact.
He was certain she knew he wasn’t asleep but she withdrew her hand and left the room, gently closing the door after her. She never returned.
Lane leaves the bed and pulls on a robe, belting it tight, the absurd erection trying to eel its way between the folds as he crosses to the window and opens the curtains onto the sodden winter dawn.
Summer in Cape Town unspools like a reel of overexposed celluloid, the relentless sun bleaching the parched landscape, the heat a poultice drawing out the tourist hordes and the listless locals; the beaches, streets and sidewalk bars filled with bare flesh sweating booze and summer-lust.
But in winter the city lies muffled beneath weeks of unrelenting rain, the mountain shrouded in mist and soggy low cloud, the kelp-strewn beaches deserted, the bars and bistros heavy with off-season melancholy.
Lane has always liked the winter and welcomes it even more this year, the hard edges of that mad week in December softened a little by the cold and damp.
He pans his eyes over to the pool house where Christopher, seemingly untroubled by memory or guilt, continues to live, and before Lane can suppress it an image of his son crouched atop the dead girl hits him with the force of a blow and the remnants of desire leak away with the blood in his penis.
He pads past the open door to the marital bedroom—Beverley ’s out doing circuits at the gym in Claremont—and locks himself in the bathroom where he empties his bladder and bowels. Afterward, as he lathers to shave, Lane inspects his face in the mirror. Aside from the haunted eyes he looks surprisingly good. He’s lost a few pounds in the last months, the skin stretched taut over the bones, making him appear strangely youthful.
As if to punish himself, Lane attacks his face with the razor, removing beard and shaving foam in brisk sweeps. Too brisk. He nicks his jaw and has to glue toilet paper to his mandible to staunch
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