‘Sorry, boss, but why?’ Sonnyboy laughs. ‘I didn’t write that shit there, man! Just relax, my bra! Sonnyboy’s not into politics, man, I do the dumps, in my own way. That crap’s all over the place, man. Kill this, kill that, one this, one that, viva this, viva that, long live this, that and the other. I love the NP, I love Mandela, I love Biko, I love Amy. So much love in this place, it sounds like fucken paradise! I love all that stuff. I can’t be bothered with all that shit, my man. I just want to show you. This thing here works.’
Sonnyboy takes back his binoculars. He puts them in the bag and zips it closed.
Both of them stay quiet for a long time.
‘I don’t know,’ Lambert says. ‘What can I do with them, the binoculars? I’m not a spy!’
‘Well,’ says Sonnnyboy, ‘you can show your girl the city. From high places.’
‘Hmmm,’ he says, ‘and what do I do with the gun? I haven’t got a licence.’
‘What you need a licence for, man? Protect your girl with it. Jo’burg’s a dangerous place, right? She’ll feel safe and sound with you, man.’
Lambert sees the sun’s already down. Around the closed gates of the dumps the light’s looking grey, and here under the trees it’s already dark. He and Sonnyboy go round in circles, with long quiet periods inbetween, as they work out their deal. Then they’ve got it. Lambert pays the price: fifty rand, plus all six Spur tickets. He puts the gun into the binoculars’ plastic bag. He also gets a plastic bag full of cartridges. Sixty of them, says Sonnyboy. For the hot shot of Triumph Town.
What’s Sonnyboy feeling for now in his pink bag? He takes out something.
‘Free bonus,’ he says, and he ping-pings on the thing’s iron teeth.
‘What’s that?’ Lambert asks, taking the short piece of wood with its strips of iron from Sonnyboy.
‘You make music on it,’ says Sonnyboy. ‘You Boers call it a kaffir-harp. It’s like a Jew’s harp a little bit. You know?’ And Sonnyboy demonstrates with his mouth.
‘I see,’ Lambert says.
‘We call it a mbira,’ says Sonnyboy.
‘Umbiera,’ he says, ‘I’ll remember.’
‘You remember,’ says Sonnyboy. ‘If you practise you’ll get a tune out of it some day.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll practise.’
‘Okay,’ says Sonnyboy.
They both hold out their hands, and this time they shake all three grips smoothly, in time with each other.
‘Now we’re tuned,’ he says.
‘Greased and oiled!’ says Sonnyboy.
‘So long,’ he says, ‘and thanks again for saving my life, hey!’
‘Thanks for saving mine!’ says Sonnyboy.
What does he mean? Lambert thinks. But he’s already turned to go home. Sonnyboy too. He goes right, and this sharp, yellow kaffir goes left. There in front of the closed gates at the Martindale dumps. It’s almost completely dark now. Lambert turns round one last time to look. He sees from behind how Sonnyboy takes off the glasses. He won’t know him without those sunglasses, he thinks. But that’s okay, it’s against the law to buy stolen stuff and anyway it’s not good for a person to know a kaffir-thief too well.
When he walks past Triomf’s shopping centre on the way home, the AWBs and their red caravan are gone. He’s almost glad, ’cause he knows he would’ve been tempted to shove his new gun under their noses. Just to prove a point. But that would have caused big trouble again and now he’s in a hurry to get home.
At the house, he climbs softly over the fence so no one will hear the gate and come and ask where he’s been all day. He hasn’t worked out a story yet. He sneaks round the back to his den and puts on the light. Then he takes all the stuff out of his bag and arranges it on his bed. Before he sits down, he locks the inside door. Then he sits for a long time and looks at his lucky finds. Eventually, he leans backwards against his cushion, propped up against the wall. ‘Ping, ping, ping,’ he plays on the stiff teeth of his umbiera.
In front of him, he sees his list from this morning.
He smiles at his list and gets up. Underneath the last number he writes another three numbers: 25, 26 and 27. And next to them he writes: gun, binoculars, umbiera (Kaffir-harp). He makes little ticks next to each one. With a red ball-point.
14. FIFTH OF NOVEMBER
FROM DREAM TO DREAM 
Pop half wakes up. He smells fire. He can’t work out if he’s awake or asleep. In his dream everything was also full of white smoke. Now he keeps his eyes closed. He stays where he is. He’s trying to work out what’s burning and where. His skin feels dry and there’s a rustling noise in his ears. It feels like he’s lying inside a dry pod. He feels light, as if he’s tumbling about inside a shell as dry as the wind, a great big droning wind full of white smoke. He can’t tell what’s above and what’s below. His head spins. It’s as if many different hands are swinging him by his feet, letting him go and grabbing him again. As if each hand doesn’t know what the others are doing.
Pop struggles to get out of the dream, but just as he begins to get out, he lands up in another dream. His eyes burn when he tries to open them, and there’s a noise in his ears like the sound of crashing. He can hear voices shouting, louder and then softer, in a rush of sounds that blow over him in waves.
BLOW HIGH THE FLAME
Pop sits up on the mattress. The room’s full of smoke. He turns towards the window and pulls the curtains away so he can see outside. But he sees nothing outside, no grass and no wall. Just thick, white smoke. He hears big things falling, doors slamming, and the walls shaking.
It’s Lambert. Screaming. A terrible bellowing. The other voices are those of Mol and Treppie. Mol’s voice is low. It sounds like something simmering, like Jungle Oats cooking on a stove. Treppie’s voice is high. Pop also wants to scream, but he can’t get a sound out of his mouth. His throat has closed up from all the smoke.
Have they really forgotten about him here in the room as the world consumes itself outside? Did they think he should rather just fall asleep, finally, without his even realising he was crossing over? Maybe they thought it would be more merciful like this. And maybe they were right, too. But now he’s awake and he must get out of here, ’cause he can’t breathe. Pop gets up, still in his shirt. He feels for his pants, but his eyes burn when he opens them. He can’t find his pants. He’s looking for the door. He walks into the dressing table, catching sight of his face in the cracked, middle mirror. All he sees there are dark holes where his eyes should be, and the white point of his nose. His mouth and chin and cheeks are blotted out in the semi-dark of the room. He rubs his hand over the bottom half of his face. The stubble makes a scraping noise. So, at least his face is still there.
It feels to him like time’s dying, like the end of time itself is approaching. The last judgement, the judgement of fire, when the clock-faces melt in the towers and the seconds burn into the wrists one by one.
Pop turns away from the mirror. If the mirror’s here, then the door must be there. He takes a few steps across the floor. Behind him the window slips off its catch and blows open. He turns around. The curtain flaps up high and a wave of warm smoke-wind catches him full in the face. He loses his breath, stumbling backwards into a doorframe. Now he’s in the passage. There, far away in front of him, he sees a light. It must be the front door. But the back door’s closer. He hears sounds like shots. Things are exploding out there in the backyard. He feels hot and cold in his shirt. The smoke swirls more and more densely round his head.