Ritual

'Do you like it?'

She jumped. Mabuza stood next to her, holding a tray with cups and a coffee pot. His eyes were going from the cross to her face and back again. 'Very nice wood, do you think?'

'Yes,' she said, holding her face very still. 'Very nice.'

'I will leave the house in twenty minutes.' He set the tray down, then bent to pour coffee into thin rosebud-patterned china cups. Flea sat down on the sofa and Mabuza put a cup in front of her. Tig sat in a leather armchair, his head back, his hands on the chair's arms. 'My wife and I will go to a meeting at our church,' said Mabuza, 'so, my friends, I am sorry, we cannot talk all night.'

'We understand.' Tig pinched up the knees of his combats and sat forward, elbows on his knees. 'We'll try not to keep you.'

'And I should tell you now,' said Mabuza, 'I don't know why you are here, but I am very afraid you will be disappointed by our meeting, my friend. Today of all days I fear for my business.' He put his hands together, as if in prayer, and pointed the fingers at Tig. 'With the best will in the world my work for charities will become limited.'

Flea sat in silence while the men talked about business, the charity. She fiddled with the spoon in the saucer, letting her eyes flit round, first to the crucifix, then to the cupboards, the walls, trying to decide what it was about this room that bothered her. There was a painting of a cat washing its face under a picture light in the alcove. It was on nailed-together boards and seemed out of place. She studied it for a while, wondering if that was what worried her. Or maybe it was the bay window, with its heavy curtains that would stop any light getting in or out. Or the wallpaper — striped up to the waist-height dado rail, with a plain dark ochre base that might have been washable. She thought there was a faint sheen to it and tried to pick out areas that had been cleaned, where the colour was paler. And then it struck her. It wasn't the walls or the curtains that were setting off alarms. It was the carpet.

She stared at it, her pulse thudding. Slightly dusty-looking, its pile was too deep to be fashionable, but otherwise it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Except for one thing. The colour. It was a dark, slightly pinkish purple. The same colour as the fibres on the hands.

'Flea,' Tig said sharply, next to her, making her jolt upright. She looked up to find Mabuza in front of her, offering her a plate of biscuits.

'I'm sorry,' she said, her mouth dry. 'I'm…'

'Miles away,' Mabuza said. 'That's the expression, isn't it?'

She looked at the biscuits, then back at his face.

Was this the face of a man who had cut another human being to pieces — here in this room? 'I don't know much about charity work, the voluntary sector. It's not my thing.'

'Don't apologize. Did you want a biscuit?' He smiled and pointed at the plate. 'My wife made these ones. The others, I'm afraid, are from the shop.'

'Thank you.' She leaned forward, her cup and saucer balanced in one hand. Hesitating — thinking of the carpet, the heavy curtains — she put her finger on the edge of the plate and applied just enough pressure to pull the rim down. Mabuza tried to catch it but it fell out of his hands, landing face down on the carpet, scattering the biscuits.

She put her cup down with a clatter. 'Damn, I'm- Here, let me.' Before Mabuza could do anything she had pushed back the coffee-table and was on her hands and knees, collecting up the biscuits, piling them back on the plate, raking through the carpet for crumbs. 'Clumsy.' She lifted her face to the two men, giving them the blankest of smiles. 'Clumsy and stupid.'

When the floor was almost clear she took a deep breath. With her left hand she picked up the last couple of biscuits, the right she closed round a chunk of the carpet. She pulled. There was a faint, ripping sound, but she kept her eyes pinned on the men, still smiling. In one movement she tipped back on her heels, putting the biscuit on the plate, picking up her cup and sitting back on the sofa, her right hand folded round the clump of carpet and tucked under her left arm.

The two men didn't say anything but looked at her silently. She found herself speaking, saying anything to cover the silence. 'Where are you from, Mr Mabuza?' It was out of her mouth before she'd even thought what to say. She forced herself to hold his eyes and keep the smile there. 'Tig'll tell you,' she said, trying to make her voice calm. 'I'm about as nosy as they get. Sorry.'

'Don't be sorry.' Mabuza inclined his head with a polite smile. 'No apologies necessary in this house. I'm from South Africa — thank you for asking.'

'South Africa?'

'Do you know it?'

A picture came into her head. A picture of dark, freezing water, a picture of human screams echoing into the desert air. 'No,' she said quietly. 'Not really.'

'I know what you're thinking.' His eyes were slightly yellow round the pupils as if he was jaundiced.

'Do you? What am I thinking, then?'

Mabuza laughed. 'You're thinking I'm black.

You're thinking the only South Africans you meet are white, and here I am sitting in front of you, large as life, and I'm black.'

'That's right,' she said, not moving her eyes from his. 'That's exactly what I was thinking.'

'I'm one lucky South African black, believe me.'

He went on holding her gaze in a way that made her uncomfortable. It was just as if he'd seen her grab the carpet and was trying to spook her into saying something. Slowly he began to talk, his eyes not leaving hers as if he wanted every word to sink in. At first the words meant nothing to her, drowned by her pulse pounding, but slowly she realized he was telling her his story — how he'd been born in Johannesburg, how when the white-owned drilling company he worked for had wanted to look good and fill their quotas, as if they belonged to the new South Africa, they'd gone hunting down the company's ranks and taken a long-standing black forklift driver, moving him quickly and artificially up the ranks until he was appointed CEO and taken to Cape Town. Gift Mabuza had never made a decision in his three years as CEO. He'd spent the days in his oak-panelled office in the shadow of Table Mountain, playing Internet poker and signing cheques until the whole scam was cracked apart by the press. Then he had taken the pay-off, come to the UK and, with what he'd learned, had opened the Moat.

'And so,' he said, 'my new friend, Flea. Tell me, what do you know about my country?'

'Very little.'

'You see, what's on my mind is what on earth the police in England think of my country.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'There has been a terrible business at my restaurant — I'm sure you've followed it on the news. The police, you see, interviewing my staff, keeping my business closed. Even I'm not allowed inside, they tell me. Now, I don't know, my friend, what beast or inhuman brought this terrible ungodly thing to my door, but I have lived long enough to know that it is a slur — an attempt to sabotage me.' He opened his hands and held them out. 'You see the colour of my skin. You hear my voice. I'm an African, Flea, and the African will always be the leper of the world.'

Flea sniffed. She patted her jeans, pretending to feel for a tissue. She pushed her left hand into the front pocket and, with a surreptitious flick of the finger, released the chunk of carpet. Then she rested her hand on her thigh. Mabuza's eyes followed the movement.

'You see,' he said, after a while, letting his eyes linger on her hand. 'I am not wanted in this society — so someone…' He slowed down and repeated the word, '… someone has taken the most appalling risk to discredit me. But…' He gave her an unexpected smile. His teeth were white. One was missing, next to his right canine. 'My enemies have taken a wrong turn here. That is the joke. No one can point a finger at me — I am not a savage.'