He pulled the paper out and a key tinkled on the cracked tile floor. He peered down at the innocuous metal object lying between his once-white training shoes, before returning his attention to the paper held like gold leaf between his thumb and index finger. Wait – two pieces of paper.
Behind the hand-written letter was a newspaper clipping. Written in English but not from a South African paper. They had been disbanded many years ago. Early victims of the department for information control. Possession alone would guarantee arrest, detention without a jury, torture to find out where it had come from, and then, if he was lucky, death.
How long had it been since he had seen anything so white? The books on the shelves in his study were yellowing and dog-eared now, they had been read so often.
Keep the body active, keep the brain active. That had been Francina’s parting words.
Bitch.
No, he didn’t mean that. He loved her.
She had left him. Yes, he did mean it.
Bitch.
Where was she now? Probably dead. Forced labour in one of the government’s agricultural programmes. Or worse. Entertainment for the brave loyal military police. Passed round and shared like a bottle of tequila at a braai. She wouldn’t have been able to keep quiet. She would have stood up for people’s rights and she would have faced the consequences.
She was the past. Francina’s pretty face and athletic body was shunted back into a deep dark part of his memory. The split was rammed down underneath that.
“No!” Connor shouted at the world. “I will not think about that.”
He slowed his breathing and turned his attention to the contents of the envelope.
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