Thirteen Hours

'That's fantastic,' said Griessel.

'I know. A professional musician doesn't need Matric, Dad, I mean, what for, why must I know about the sex life of the snail? Dad, you and Ma must sign this letter, because I'm only eighteen in December.'

'Bring me the letter, then, Fritz.'

'Really, Dad?'

'Sure. A guy doesn't need more than six thousand a month. Let's see, your flat will cost you about two thousand a month ...'

'No, Dad, I'll still stay at home, so ...'

'But you will pay your mother rent, won't you? For laundry and cleaning and the food?'

'You think I should?'

'I don't know, Fritz - what do you think is the right thing to do?'

'Sure, Dad, that sounds right.'

'And you will need a car. Let's say a payment of about two thousand, plus insurance and petrol and services, three, three and a half...'

'No, Dad, Rohan picked up a Ford Bantam for thirty-two. A guy doesn't need a grand car to start with.'

'Where did he get the thirty-two?'

'From his father.'

'And where are you going to get thirty-two from?'

'I... er ...'

'Well, let's say you save two thousand a month for a car, then that's only fifteen months, a year and a half, then you'll have your Bantam, but we are already at expenses of four thousand, and you haven't bought any clothes, or airtime for your phone, strings for your guitar, razor blades, aftershave, deodorant, or taken a chick out for dinner ...'

'We don't call them 'chicks' any more, Dad.' But the first signs of understanding crept into his son's voice and the enthusiasm had begun to wane.

'What do you call them?'

'Girls, Dad.'

'When the tour is over, Fritz, where will the next six thousand a month come from?'

'Something will come up.'

'And if it doesn't?'

'Why do you always have to be so negative, Dad? You don't want me to be happy.'

'How can you be happy if you don't have an income?'

'We're going to make a CD. We're going to take the money from the tour and make a CD and then ...'

'But if you use the money from the tour for a CD, what are you going to live on?'

Silence. 'You never let me do anything. A dude can't even dream.'

'I want you to have everything, my son. That's why I am asking these questions.'

No reaction.

'Will you think it over a little, Fritz?'

'Why do I have to know about the sex life of the snail, Dad?'

'That's a whole other argument. Will you think about it?'

A slow and reluctant 'Yeeeaah, sure.'

'OK, we'll talk again.'

'OK, Dad.'

He smiled to himself in the car on the N1. His boy. Just like he was. Lots of plans.

Then he thought ahead. To Anna. His smile faded. A feeling of anxiety descended on him.

She was sitting outside where she could see the water. A good sign, he thought. He paused a moment in the door of Primi and looked at her. His Anna. Forty-two, but looking good. In the past months she seemed to have thrown off the yoke of her husband's alcoholism, and there was a youthfulness about her again. The white blouse, blue jeans, the little cardigan thrown over her shoulders.

Then she spotted him. He watched her face carefully as he approached her. She smiled but not broadly.

'Hello, Anna.'

'Hello, Benny.'

He kissed her on the cheek. She didn't turn her head away. Good sign.

He pulled out a chair. 'You must excuse the way I look, it's been a crazy day.'

Her eyes went to the hole in his breast pocket. 'What happened?'

'They shot me.' He sat down.

'Lord, Benny.'

Good sign.

'Luckiest break of my life. Only an hour before, I put a Leatherman in my pocket, you know, one of those plier thingies.'

'You could have been killed.'

He shrugged. 'If it's your time, it's your time.' She looked at him, running her gaze over his face. He ached for that moment when she would put out her hand, like in the old days, smooth his ruffled hair, say, 'Benny, this bush ...'

He saw her hand move. She put it down again. 'Benny ...' she said.

'I'm sober,' he said. 'It's been nearly six months.'

'I know. I am very proud of you.'

Good sign. He grinned at her in expectation.

She took a deep breath. 'Benny ... there's only one way to say this. There's someone else, Benny.'

Chapter 50

In his car, Fransman Dekker took out the list of names and telephone numbers. Natasha Abader's was first on the list.

What woman can look at you and not think of sex?

Time to see if she was a bullshitter.

He entered the number in his cell phone.

It's a drug for the soul. I think they have an emptiness inside here, a hole that is never filled, it might help for a little while, then in a day or two it starts all over again. I think there's a reason, I think they don't like themselves.

His own words, to Alexa Barnard.

He had a wife at home. A good, beautiful, sexy, smart woman. Crystal. Waiting for him.

He looked at the small green button on his phone.

He thought about Natasha Abader's legs. That bottom. Her breasts. Small and pert, he knew what they would look like, he could picture the nipples, particularly. She would be a handful. In every meaning of the word.

There was something broken inside him. A hurt that had come a long way with him, that never went away completely; every time it came back, worse, but the medicine helped less and less.

Some time or other he would have to stop this nonsense. He loved his wife, for fuck's sake, he couldn't live without Crystal, she was everything to him. And if she found out...

How would she find out?

The fever was in him. He pressed the button.

'Hello, Natasha.'

'This is Vusi Ndabeni. The detective from this morning, at the church.'

'Oh, hi,' said Tiffany October, the pathologist. She sounded tired.

'You must have had a busy day.'