Age of Iron

I paused to let him speak, but he was silent. We turned the corner into Schoonder Street.

'Of course I am not telling you this dream innocently,' I said. 'Retailing a dream is always meant to achieve something. The question is, what?'

'The day I first saw you behind the garage was the day I had the bad news about myself, about my case. It was too much of a coincidence. I wondered whether you were not, if you will excuse the word, an angel come to show me the way. Of course you were not, are not, cannot be – I see that. But that is only half the story, isn't it? We half perceive but we also half create.

'So I have continued to tell myself stories in which you lead, I follow. And if you say not a word, that is, I tell myself, because the angel is wordless. The angel goes before, the woman, follows. His eyes are open, he sees; hers are shut, she is still sunk in the sleep of worldliness. That is why I keep turning to you for guidance, for help.'

The front door was locked but the gate to the courtyard swung open. The broken glass had not been, swept up, the door to Florence 's room hung askew. I cast my gaze down, treading carefully, not ready yet to look into the room, not strong enough.

The kitchen door was unlocked. They had not found the key.

'Come in,' I said to Vercueil.

The house was and was not as it had been. Things in the kitchen were out of place. My umbrella hung where it had never hung before. The sofa had been shifted, exposing an old stain on the carpet. And over all a strange smelclass="underline" not only cigarette smoke and sweat but something sharp and penetrating that I could not place. They have left their mark on everything, I thought: thorough workers. Then I remembered the file on my desk, the letter, all the pages thus far. That too! I thought: they will have been through that tool Soiled fingers turning the pages, eyes without love going aver the naked words. 'Help me upstairs,' I said to Vercueil.

The file, left open when I last wrote, was closed. The lock of the filing-cabinet was broken. There were gaps in the bookshelves.

The two unused rooms had had their locks forced.

They had been through the cupboard, the chest of drawers.

Nothing left untouched. Like the last visit the burglars paid. The search a mere pretext. The true purpose the touching, the fingering. The spirit malevolent. Like rape: a way of filthying a woman.

I turned to Vercueil, wordless, sick to the stomach.

'There's someone downstairs,' he said.

From the landing we could hear someone talking on the telephone.

The voice stopped. A young man in uniform emerged into the hallway and nodded to us.

'What are you doing in my house?' I called down.

'just checking,' he replied quite cheerfully. 'We didn't want strangers coming in.' He gathered up a cap, a coat, a rifle. Was it the rifle 1 had smelled? 'The detectives will be here at eight,' he said. 'I'll wait outside.' He smiled; he seemed to think he had dome me a service; he seemed to be expecting thanks.

'I must have a bath,' I said to Vercueil.

But I did not have a bath. I closed the bedroom door, took two of the red pills and lay down trembling all over. The trembling got worse till I was shaking like a leaf in a storm. I was cold but the trembling was not from the cold.

A minute at a time, I told myself: do not fall to pieces now: think only of the next minute.

The trembling began to subside.

Man, I thought: the only creature with a part of his existence in the unknown, in the future, like a shadow cast before him. Trying continually to catch up with that moving shadow, to inhabit: the image of his hope. But I, I cannot afford to be man. Must be something smaller, blinder, closer to the ground.

There was a knock and Vercueil came in, followed by the policeman who yesterday had worn the reindeer jersey and now wore a jacket and tie. The trembling began again. He motioned for Vercueil to leave the room. I sat up. 'Don't go, Mr Vercueil,' I said; and to him: 'What right have you to come into my house?'

'We have been worried about you.' He did not seem worried at all. 'Where were you last night?' And then, when I did not reply: 'Are you sure you are all right by yourself, Mrs Curren?'

Though I clenched my fists, the trembling grew worse till it convulsed me. T am not by myself!' I screamed at him: 'You are the one who is by himself!'

He was not taken aback. On the contrary, he seemed to be encouraging me to go on.

Hold yourself together, I thought! They will commit you, they will call you mad and take you away!

'What do you want here?' I asked more quietly.

'I just want to ask a few questions. How did you come across this boy Johannes?'

Johannes: was that his true name? Surely not.

'He was a friend of my domestic's son. A school-friend.'

Out of his pocket he brought a little cassette recorder and set it on the bed beside me.

'And where is your domestic's son?'

'He is dead and buried. Surely you know these things. '

'What happened to him?'

'He was shot out on the Flats.'

'And are there any more of them that you know of?'

'More of whom?'

'More friends. '

'Thousands. Millions, More than, you can count.'

'I mean, more from that cell. Are there any others who have used your premises?'

'No.'

'And do you know how these arms came into their hands?'

'What arms?'

'A pistol. Three detonators.'

'I know nothing about detonators. I don't know what a detonator is. The pistol was mine. '

'Did they take it from you?'

'I lent it to them. Not to them. To the boy, John.'

'You lent him the pistol? Was the pistol yours?'

'Yes.'

'Why did you lend him, the pistol?'

'To defend himself.'

'To defend himself against who, Mrs Curren?'

'To defend himself against attack.'

'And what kind of pistol was it, Mrs Curren? Can you show me the licence for it?'

'I know nothing about kinds of pistol. I have had it for a long time, from before all this fuss about licences.'

'Are you sure you gave it to him.? You know this is a chargeable offence we are talking about.'

The pills were beginning to take effect. The pain in my back grew more distant, my limbs relaxed, the horizon began to expand again.

'Do you really want to go on with this nonsense?' I said. I lay back on the pillow and closed my eyes. My head was spinning. 'These are dead people we are talking about. There is nothing more you can do to them. They are safe. You have had the execution. Why bother with a trial? Why not just close the case?'

He picked up the recorder, fiddled with it, put it back on the pillow. 'Just checking,' he said.

With a languorous arm I brushed the recorder away. He caught It before it hit the floor.

'You have been through my private papers,' I said. 'You have taken books that belong to me. I want them back. I want everything back. All my things. They are no business of yours.'

'We are not going to eat your books, Mrs Curren. You will get everything back in the end.'

'I don't want things back In the end. I want them, back now. They are mine. They are private. '

He shook his head. 'This is not private, Mrs Curren. You know that. Nothing is private any more.'

The languor was getting to my tongue now. 'Leave me,' I said thickly.

'just a few more questions. Where were you last night?'

'With Mr Vercueil.'

'Is this Mr Vercueil?'

It took too much of an effort to open my eyes. 'Yes,' I murmured.

'Who Is Mr Vercueil?' And then. In quite a different tone: 'Wie is jy?'