Song shouts in the background. "Hey! Hey, p.r.i.c.k for b.a.l.l.s! That's my phone."

"She's lost it completely," Arno whispers into the phone. "She's actually worse worse than before. And S'bu's just s.p.a.cey. He's on meds too, now." than before. And S'bu's just s.p.a.cey. He's on meds too, now."

"Get a pen. Take down my new number. I want you to phone me if anything weird happens."

"Weird like how?"

"Like any kind of weird. Phone me first, okay? Not Odi. And then phone the cops."

"You're freaking me out here."

"I'm just worried about you guys with Mrs Luthuli not being there. Tell you what, I'll call in every day to check up on you. And I'm going to speak to a social worker, okay?"

"Okay."

"You got the name of that medication for me?"

"Uh, hang on. Mi-da-zol-am. What is is that?" that?"

"Hang on, let me check." I do a quick search on my laptop. "Okay, it's cool, just a sleeping pill," I say. With one h.e.l.l of a kick. "See if you can get her to lie down and actually sleep. And let me know if you run into any kind of weird. Anything at all."

"Does Song being a freak count?"

"Not unless she's being especially freaky."

The house has actually deteriorated since my last visit. It seems darker, dingier, and that smell of old people and vase-water has gotten worse. Carmen looks skinny and pale in a lime-green sixties-style handkerchief bikini. When she serves a tray of that disgusting tea, I notice that her fingernails are dirty, like she's been digging in the carrot patch all morning. Her Rabbit lies sprawled listlessly under her deckchair.

But the real shock is Huron. He is looking particularly odious in a faded Oppikoppi '99 Oppikoppi '99 t-shirt that rides up to reveal his hairy belly. There is an old scar that hugs the curve of where his hip would be if his stomach wasn't in the way. Or rather a series of scars, slightly curved like surgical staples. Or teeth marks. His cheeks have sunken to flaccid jowls and, most telling of all, there is a drip on a wheelie-stand hooked up next to his ironwork chair. Above his head, the black tumour of sawn-off tentacles is thicker and squirmier than ever. t-shirt that rides up to reveal his hairy belly. There is an old scar that hugs the curve of where his hip would be if his stomach wasn't in the way. Or rather a series of scars, slightly curved like surgical staples. Or teeth marks. His cheeks have sunken to flaccid jowls and, most telling of all, there is a drip on a wheelie-stand hooked up next to his ironwork chair. Above his head, the black tumour of sawn-off tentacles is thicker and squirmier than ever.

"I don't know why you felt you needed to see me," he says, antagonistic behind his oversized sungla.s.ses.

"I actually wanted to see Songweza. Check that she's okay."

"After you c.o.c.ked up the job, you mean. Check that you're still getting your full payout. So nice of you to care."

"Nice of you to pay me so well to do a job you were perfectly capable of doing on your own."

"What can I tell you? I hire good people. They got there first. Don't worry, you'll still get your fee."

"That's very generous. I take it it's more of a shut-yourface pay-off than anything I really earned."

"Take it however you want," he says and slurps his tea noisily.

I lean forward across the table. "I'd ask if we could talk privately, but I think Carmen might want to hear this."

"Carmen's a big girl," he says.

"This is what I think. You've been sleeping with Song. And Carmen and anyone else within reach. Song ran away, maybe planning to blackmail you, maybe spill the story to the press, which would have been extra juicy considering you're also moving drugs through your club. It's a guess, but I figure the Marabou and the Maltese facilitate that. It's a kind of procurement, right? And you've got them doing a lot of international travel. Does that include drug smuggling? 'Cos I've sampled some of the wares coming through Counter Rev, and it was good s.h.i.t, let me tell you. Wasn't that what got you into trouble with Ba.s.s Station?"

Huron opens his mouth to retaliate and I hold up a finger to silence him. "I'm not finished. Song's rehab boyfriend Jabu was probably helping her, maybe even instigated the whole thing, but you scared him off, so she turned to Ronaldo, the bouncer, in desperation. You had him beaten up already. I reckon the Maltese and the Marabou went back for round two and this time they got Song's whereabouts out of him. Might have even killed him. But hey, what's a missing Moroccan bouncer in the grand scheme of things? And I reckon you'll do the same to anyone else who gets in the way."

There is a long pause. Then Carmen says, "Excuse me," in a strangled voice. Her cheeks are bright pink. She picks up her Bunny and clip-clops into the house.

"You've gone and upset her," Huron says, not looking particularly bothered.

"It's upsetting stuff."

"This notion of yours," he says, pinching his thick bottom lip. "What should we call it the Polanski-Sopranos Theory? It's original. Not bright. Not true. But original. Aren't you worried I'm going to put out a hit on you?"

"Believe me when I say I haven't got anything left to lose."

"So, what's next? You go to the police?"

"With what evidence? One half-baked Polanski-Sopranos Theory? No, I'm just letting you know that if anything happens to Songweza Radebe anything else else I should say then I I should say then I will will go to the police. Inspector Lindiwe Tshabalala is an old friend. She'll listen to what I have to say." By "friend" I mean "one-time interrogator" of course, but I figure I can afford to be a little liberal with the truth. go to the police. Inspector Lindiwe Tshabalala is an old friend. She'll listen to what I have to say." By "friend" I mean "one-time interrogator" of course, but I figure I can afford to be a little liberal with the truth.

"These are wild accusations. I might have to take this to my lawyer."

"Do what you have to."

"Do you have a physical address I can have the restraining order sent to?"

"Your people know where to find me. But so long as Songweza stays singing fit and healthy, I won't trouble you with the slightest, littlest thing, Mr Huron."

"You a.s.sume I don't have my own insurance policy on you."

"Like the 1.5 million you've taken out on each twin?"

"You've been doing some research, little girl."

"I'd like my money now, please."

I hand over the cash to Vuyo in the lobby of the Michelangelo. It's the most upmarket hotel I can think of that's still vaguely accessible. I've dressed accordingly in a sundress and dark sungla.s.ses with a red faux snakeskin briefcase I purchased from the Sandton City luggage shop for the occasion, together with a brand-new phone. I can afford it. And for some moments in your life, it's worth making a scene. Especially the kiss-off.

I sit beside Vuyo on one of the couches in the sumptuous flash of the lobby and flick open the briefcase on my lap, not caring who sees. I'm feeling reckless.

"All here plus the fee for the recent extras. Do you want to count it?"

"I trust you," says Vuyo, calmly flipping the briefcase shut. "We're rehearsing for a movie," he says smoothly to an overweight man in a Cape Town t-shirt goggling at us.

"You shouldn't," I reply.

"Can I say that I am sad?"

"You could. It won't make a difference."

"I am sad. We worked well together."

"I worked. You ambushed."

"Ah. But I knew you would rise to the occasion. You are a hard-headed woman, Zinzi December. Sometimes you need a push." He still hasn't reached for the briefcase. "This isn't a sting, I hope. No cops about to swoop down?"

"I thought about it," I confess. "But I'm too busy trying to dig myself out of the plague pit that's my life right now."