Donker_Web_Book_English[1] PDF

Reboot Disconnecting device drives, closing programs, and restarting a computer's operating system. This can be done for normal computer use or to help solve a problem. 6 He walks down the dark corridor. It's like that night when he found his fath...

Reboot Disconnecting device drives, closing programs, and restarting a computer's operating system. This can be done for normal computer use or to help solve a problem. 6 He walks down the dark corridor. It's like that night when he found his father in the study. Before his eyes, he still saw his father's large body half bent over the desk when the door opened. He sees the yellow envelope. Sees the 9 mm pistol. His father wrapped it in a cloth and put it away in the drawer. "You don't have to tell your mother. Okay? It's our secret," said his father. His face was wet with tears. "Go to sleep now." Inside him, his father's voice echoed as he tried to make sense of what he saw. There is a pistol in the house? What does his father do with one? Finally he turned, walking into the room with his father's words following him. "Goodnight, sleep well..." His father says his name, but he doesn't hear it. It's as if the darkness picks it up and hides it in the folds of his robe. Now the dark knows about him and will call him by name as if he belonged to the dark. His real name, not just an echo of it. "Xander, is that you?" asked a voice now in the study. It's six months after he found his father there with the pistol that night. Then he was eleven. Twelve now. He had a birthday last month. "Yes, Dad?" "Come in, young one." Xander pushed the door handle down. The metal is still cold. The door he pushed open still smelled of polish, just like that last time. "Everything okay?" asked his father from a leather chair by the fireplace. Papers are scattered all around him. In his hands, a Montblanc pen and a book. Xander's eye slid over the bookshelf, immediately seeing the place where the book is taken out..  7 "There's someone at the door for Dad," he said as he turned his head back" "Did your mother let them in?" "Do you know who it is?" "Two uncles." His father's work sometimes brings people home. Mostly in suits. Off-white shirts. Ties. These men were dressed differently. Just jeans and black T-shirts that tighten around their upper arms. His father put down the pen and closed the book in time. Frown. "I'm not expecting people. I'm quite busy, Xander." "The one uncle said it was urgent." "Didn't he give his name?" "No, but he said Tok sent him. It's a funny name." "Dok?" "Yes!" His father rose from the chair, suddenly in a hurry, as if he was only now realizing what was going on. His hand trembled as he touched his son. "Xander, go find a place to hide. You're not coming out until I call you. Hurry! Hurry!" Somewhere in the house a woman screams. It knocked the breath out of Xander's chest. "Was it Mom?" His father is with him. Grab his shoulders. "I love you, Xander. Remember that. Always. No matter what happens." His father quickly kissed him on the forehead. There is a terrifying urgency to the kiss, to his words. "Think smart, okay, boy? Now go, hide. Right away! Just go. Go!" It's as if the darkness's cloak tightens around him, and the more he tries to work out what's going on, the tighter the grip tightens. Still his breath comes in short bursts and fear rips through his body. Dok. It has something to do with it. "Judge Gericke..." he heard the visitor say. Xander looked over his shoulder as he ran down the hall. He saw the men's shadows move across the wall in the portal. 8 It's like monsters that have entered the house. The anxiety pulsed through his brain. His mouth is dry. "Evening, can I help you?" asked his father from the lobby, where the light glows softly. His voice is strained, dull, as if speaking from a bottomless depth.  Then Xander hears the punch, sees in the twitching shadow against the wall as his father collapses. That's what fear feels like: Fire flashes through your body, every nerve jolts awake, adrenaline throws your thoughts into high gear, your eyes snap open, your breathing stops and your chest cavity squeezes. And you hear it - your own heart. Knock. Knock. Knock. 9 Recovery drive Any media, such as a memory stick, that contains a backup of the original factory configuration of a computer. It is used to restore an operating system after a computer crash or the corruption or deletion of data. 10 Scream Greg Owen passed away. A team of divers retrieved his body from the Grand Canal in Venice yesterday. That's what the newspapers in the Turret Media group are about my report. Greg Owen is dead. Could it be true, after everything that happened? Maybe there is more to the story. Yes, I was in Venice, where the main canal snakes through the city like a giant snake, and yes, someone was pulled from the dark water. But other people were there with me. There were five of us. One of them is dead. This is our story. That's how it starts. Our house in Sandhurst has become a twilight place, mostly without sound, except for a ringing mobile phone, a car in the street, a chef cooking in the kitchen, or when I deliberately turn up music to dispel the silence. When you enter the house, there is always this heavy feeling that lies inside you, like a coiled snake. That's how it started to feel the night we arrived home after I left Lawson College in the middle of matric, a year and a half ago now. Something like that. Time also took on a different meaning in this gloom. Days have gone by as you numbly struggle through it, only to wonder at the end of such a day in court how you got through it. Business partners who used to be good friends with my father, 11 barely held their own. Always busy, as if they were afraid that a stain would rub off on them. However, one unlikely guy turned up at the house one day, flowers in hand. "Let me know if there is anything you need, Mrs Owen. Anything at all." Thomas Lawson. TJ, who was in matric with me, said his grandfather. As if he owed my father something. And now that everything is over - school, Dok and my father's court case, the media feast - the depressing feeling in our house is still there. I realized this when I lay in my bed for the last time that night. Tomorrow it is time for a new beginning. At some point one has to move on. That's life. I exhale slowly, my eyes fixed on the wall where a Conrad Botes painting hangs. It's from his The Temptation to Exist series. A self-portrait that I don't understand, but that I can look at for hours. My mom bought it because she knows I like his hard brush art. Further away, by the door, are the boxes, suitcases and other things that have to go with them to Stellenbosch tomorrow. That's where I'm going to stay now. Stellies. I have to sleep. It's already after twelve. With my eyes closed, however, I again become intensely aware of the betrayal in me: the guy who fed his own father to the wolves. It hurts in my chest. You can run away from home, Greg, but no one gets away from your own weakness that easily. Nor from the shadow of the past. I roll over. Still the sleep does not want to come. Finally I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. The light glowed brighter as I walked into the room. I catch a stream of water in my hands, splash it over my face and watch it glisten over my skin. My face changed. I am no longer the same matric drawer that I was in Lawson College. There is something more forceful about the way the corners of my face cut. Something sadder in my eyes. A bitterness in the way my lips draw. You also learn from the games you lose, I remember a rugby coach saying. 12  Does a rugby match teach you that life is unfair? Where I am now, and how I got here - that's not how my life should have been. With that nagging thought, I walked to my brother John's room. For a moment I want to knock and there is the vague hope that he will answer. "Come in if you're wearing pants!" That's how he always called. I got a slight chuckle as I walked in, turned on the light. A soft glow lay over the room. More memories swirl in my head. The bed is made. Close the curtains. All of John's things are just as they were when he was still alive. My mother likes it that way. I'm quite happy about that. Although tragic, almost a memorial altar to my brother. To keep his memory alive in me, I try hard to cling to the times we were together. Like the time we went bungee jumping at the Orlando Towers in Soweto. Later we were at Bloukrans and then at the giant rope swing at the Moses Mabhida stadium in Durban. John lived for that adrenaline rush. "Why are we doing this?" I asked him as we stood on the stadium platform and looked down. John was already attached to the jump rope's harness. The sea wind picked at our hair and pressed our T-shirts against our bodies. "For the fall. For the fear," John replied, smiling defiantly. Then he jumped. The rack connected itself like an umbilical cord to the massive arch that spanned the stadium. John threw his arms open and let out a guttural scream. For the fall. For the fear. He dragged me along on every adventure. Bungee, white-water rafting on the Orange River. Rock climbing in Cape Town. With all these adrenaline injections, he wanted to test the limits of life. He got that limit. Not in any of the dangerous sports. In a bottle of pills. So my brother is gone. "My God! John!" my mother shouted when we found him. It wouldn't bring him back, no matter how hard Mom pleaded in the car 13 on the way to the hospital. The slow opening of the emergency ambulance doors brought the news. It was over. Mother got out of the car like a stray and walked towards the ambulance. My father and I sat quietly in the car for a while. Then Dad said something that shocked me so much that I have never been able to tell anyone about it. Not even my mother. Now it's years later and I'm standing in John's room.  The image of the strong guy with his blond hair, ocean blue eyes and smile that enchanted girls had already begun to fade in places where I wanted to remember him. It became a shadow between longed and forgotten. The Mexicans say that every person dies three times: the first death is when you close your eyes for the last time, the second when you are buried, and the third the day when no one remembers you. "So, you have one more death left, my brother," I said softly, sitting down on the bed where we found him that day, the empty pill bottle on the bedside table. "Aren't you sleeping?" The voice makes me look up at my mother in the room- by. She is wearing a silk gown. Barefoot. No makeup for the tired hiding the look on her face. "Probably my sins keeping me awake," I try to joke. A muscle twitched at Mom's mouth. Slowly she entered the room, almost as if she were walking on sacred ground. Here she touches a photo frame, there a sports medal or the autographed rugby ball that was once in Lawson College's memorial museum. "Sometimes it's as if I can still feel John in the room, she says frailly. "Like I felt him in my body before he was born. A mother does not forget how each of her children felt inside her. John was the restless one. Probably already made plans for that dangerous sport in which he would participate. You were calmer, Greg. A thinker or a dreamer, I thought at the time. At times your foot stuck here under my heart. As if you had enough 14 of the distress and wanted to break out. No, I decided then, this one is going to be a rebel." My mother tilts her head as if she is listening searchingly for John's voice which does not come. Then she wraps her arms around her body as if suddenly cold. "When you lose a child, it's like you end up in the deepest mysteries of the sea, where you drown on your own. No one can come and save you there. Strange, you don't want anyone to come and save you either. not. You're just looking for your child. That's all." I don't know what to tell my mother, just like I don't know what it feels like to lose a child, and she doesn't know what it feels like to lose a brother. Aren't we all drowning in the silence? "What will Mom do when I'm gone?" "Sure just get on with my life." There is a vulnerability in the hollow of her shoulders, a rawness in her voice. "Do you know what I did sometimes after John's death? When you were there at Lawson College, your father who-knows-where on his business trips, and I trapped in this house?" I shake my head. "I waited until all the workers left in the late afternoon. Then I closed the doors and windows. And I screamed. And screamed. And screamed." The confession shook me.  The corner of her mouth curled up nervously. Then comes another confession to underline the desperation of her quiet existence. "Everyone I love is taken away from me." It seems as if she can hardly stay upright against the emotions. "Mom?" I ask cautiously. Afraid. I stand up, put my arms around her and hold her tightly against me. "Is Mom okay?" No answer. I put my hands on either side of her face. Urgently look into her. "Mom?" The corner of her mouth twitched. She kisses my hand. In shocked silence I watch her walk away, seeing in my mind 15 my petite mother in the living room, or the kitchen, or her bedroom. Her hands balled into fists. Eyes squinted. Mouth agape. Inside me I hear her scream. And the raw cries echoing through the empty house. 16 Departure With a cap on and comfortable clothes on, I carry the first boxes to the car in the driveway the next morning. A new BMW 118i sports model, bought from my trust account Two bags follow. Then a lot of loose stuff, and of course my laptop backpack. Everything fits nicely in the back of the car. As an afterthought, I jogged back to the room and took the Conrad Botes painting off the wall. It will look good in my new place. On the way out, my eye falls on the photo of John in the entrance hall. I put the painting down and get my cell phone, take a picture of it. To ward off the third death. "Cheers, Greg, I hear a voice from the top of the stairs. Clear and distinct. John's voice. I jerk my head up, but no one is there. While I was still wondering about this, my mother came out of the study. This morning she is stylishly dressed, make-up perfect. The touchy-feely woman, not the woman who dispels the silences with a scream. That's probably how we all hide something from ourselves. Mom looks at the photo on my cell phone. "Everything that lies before you now, Greg, was not meant for your brother." Like last night, her words stop me. "I'll do the swottings for both of us, Mom."  "I'm not just talking about college, Greg." Her eyes rest heavily on me. "You're going to walk the paths your brother couldn't reach. How bitterly lucky for you. How bitterly unfortunate for him." Inside me, the sadness unexpectedly rose. Where is that 17 bulletproof vest when you need it? I look away because it's still hard to show my emotions in front of people. "The road is long, Mom. I have to go." "Do you have everything?" she asked as she walked outside with me. I motioned to the overcrowded car. "Hope so." "Remember, the things you pack are the things you have to carry with you." I nod. Then quickly stand closer and kiss my mother. "Take a good look at Mom-self, and if Mom sees Dad..." I don't finish the sentence. "Anyway, I'll send a message when I get there." "You don't rush." "I must be a devil of a chase," I tease and jump into the car. Close the door. Get good music for the road on my cell phone. It's a chapter of my life that I'm closing. In a way it makes me sad again, so I turn up the music and let out a scream that echoes through the open window, like John when he did the rack swing in Durban. Why are you doing this, Greg? Why are you leaving home? off? For the fall. For the fear. When I later turned the car in the direction of the highway, I slid the window up, set the aircon and slid comfortably into the seat. Stellenbosch, here I come! The long way is made to clear your head. I realize this as the towns and cities along the N1 fly by. As I approach the small Karoo town of Hanover, the ghosts of the past overtake me. I once again experienced the crushing moment when I found out about Eckardt Wilken's betrayal. How he pretended to be my friend during our matric year at Lawson College, but that it was all just pretend. How he, as a sleepy hacker, actually launched a massive social engineering attack on our family. His motive? To avenge the death of his father, a judge, after a corrupt mess about insider trading with shares. The judge then "disappeared". He is believed to have been murdered. 18 It was the work of Doctor Alec Pienaar, Lawson's headmaster - if I can believe my father. But my father was involved in the insider trading and the bribery of the judge that led to his possible death. Eckardt, the devil himself, taught me how to hack computers and then used me for his revenge attack. Not only did I thereby expose Doctor Pienaar's next scandal, Project Nursery Rhyme, I also unknowingly implicated my own father in the terror by which countless people died after receiving virally engineered flu shots. The day the skeletons fell out of the closet was decisive for our family. With money safely tucked away in trust funds, it hasn't hit us as hard financially. But it shattered our family. I can still see it in my mind's eye. How we get back home that evening after driving away from Clarens. My father sitting alone in his study and making calls to his lawyer and other people. Me and Mom wandering around the house. Afraid to talk to each other about what exactly happened because we ourselves cannot yet account for it emotionally. Fear of what is inevitably coming: the humiliation of court cases, prison cases. Another reminder: Mom and I drive back to Lawson to pack up all my stuff in the dorm. A nervous Joan Gibbs, the school secretary, was waiting for us in the parking lot. "The principal wants to see you, Greg. Madam is welcome too." "We're actually in a bit of a hurry." "It will only be a moment." We followed her to the main building. The chilly atmosphere has makes my neck tingle. "The Owens have arrived, sir," Joan announced at Dok's old office door. "Show them in, thank you, Joan." The man behind the large wooden desk turned in his chair as we walked in. Thomas Jean Lawson, the founder of Lawson College. Again my neck tingled. The man looked at us with ice blue eyes. 19 Thin lips. His skin pulled as tight as a rugby ball. Face lift? And hair implants, definitely. Silver gray. Almost like a Godfather. Back in the chief's chair around the reins to take what Doc Pienaar dropped. He said hello as I tried to sum him up. I have him yet only seen a few times at an award function. Maybe once or so two talked to him. Shaken his hand the day I became head boy. "Discipline is key at this school," het hy gesê, his clenched fingers pointed in front of his mouth. "When rules are broken, one is forced to take rigorous action. Mrs Owen, Greg, I'm sorry that you and your family were caught up in the unfortunate set of circumstances. I hope you harbour no ill feelings toward me or the school. Chris Owen is a formidable man who made a bad - a very bad - call of judgement. One tries to protect one's friends and allies. But... protection can only go so far." My mother cowered beside me.  "Mrs Owen? Is everything all right?" Sy het geknik. "We need to be on our way, Mr Lawson." He rose from his chair. Godfather, I thought again. "Despite all this tumult, I hope we could still have some sort of affiliation, albeit outside of the school context. Future business ventures, perhaps? I have some ideas you might be interested in." Mom nodded absently. "I'll call you. Or come by the house one day," het Lawson gesê. "No need," I snapped. His hand landed on my shoulder. I wanted to shake it off, but his grip tightened. "A final business lesson before you leave, Greg: Never burn a bridge to find your way in the dark. Yes, bridges burn... but so do people and their dreams." Later, on the school grounds and in House Da Vinci, my old residence, 's corridors the guys stood and watched us. Some have sneaky photos taken. "How the mighty have fallen," said one. "Way to go for the trust fund baby," another quipped. "Loser." 20 I tried to ignore them. Then TJ appeared before me. The new principal's grandchild, and the guy who went to tell the police I was a hacker. My traitor. That morning, in the dorm hallway, TJ looked at me intently. Her chin lifted slightly. Proud, as if to say: You got what you deserved, Greg Owen. I thought we were friends, but you get to know your friends when trouble descends upon you. In my old dorm room, Mom and I packed my things in a suitcase. My eye fell on the school motto as I folded my school jacket. Lux hominum vita things, I thought wryly. I put the blindfold and flashlight I got as a Trapper in eighth grade during the Tunnel initiation ritual in my bedside table drawer. Pushed the drawer. What's over is over. Kwanele, who was head boy in my place, came to greet me. His shoulders heave like a guy who would go far in life. "Sorry it had to all turn out like this, Greg," he said, shaking my hand. Lawson College's secret handshake, I noted in surprise, as if I were another one of them. That Friday afternoon I carried my bag out, got into the car climbed and looked up at my old residence one last time. Longing for everything that could have been. On the way out of the school grounds, my eye caught someone in the side mirror. Plank came running after our car. My old pal with the constant naughty boy smile. A strong rugby forward and surprisingly smart. "Stop, Mom, stop!" I jumped out of the car. "Hey, you nice hacker!" called Plank. He grabbed me by the shoulders. "Dude, I don't think I'll ever see you again." I smiled. "You weren't in the hostel. I was looking for you."  His forest green eyes swam slightly in their sockets. He ran his fingers through his short hair. "I went to smoke something behind the stables." "I thought you already left it, Plank." 21 "Never. Hey, want some weed?" I shook my head. "Are you already studying for the matric exam, Plank?" "Well, that fool. How are you going to write?" "My mother arranged something. I write with the home schooling guys." "Ah, it's a bath, isn't it?" I shrugged. I would have liked to write my matric at Lawson College and to visit the memorial museum for the last time, but they removed everything from our family from the museum. Also John's photos, his school jacket, the autographed rugby ball. "We should hang out, dude. End of the year." Plank grabbed me by the shoulders again. "Oh yes, I'm going to swot next year. Can you believe me? Maties, dude! Apparently they have the most beautiful girls." “The poor girls,” I remarked. "No, man, I'm a nice guy," he joked. And now, a little more than a year later, I also go to Maties. Plank can't wait for me to arrive. He is a sophomore this year; me freshman, but for a guy like Plank it won't matter. Beyond Hanover the road stretches almost endlessly through the landscape. Plank has already sent three cell phone messages, but I won't see him until tomorrow. Tonight I'm going to look for a place to sleep in Beaufort West. As I drive, another image from the past looms before me: my father in the dock of the High Court in Pretoria. Neat in a suit and tie. Surrounded by his legal team. Doc Pienaar is also there, with his team of lawyers. They fight hard against the main charges of murder and terrorism. Then, in a moment when my attention wandered away from the circus, my eye caught someone in the public gallery. Black shoulder length hair. Dark frame glasses. Strict mouth. A journalist? There are many of them in court, but they sit and tweet the proceedings to a hungry Twitter audience. The woman in black somehow does not fit into the picture. Only one day I see her sitting there and never again. I still think of her when I drive into Beaufort West later. 22  I check in at a guest house in town and then go find something to eat. The town teems with trucks on their way to the Cape, or back to the North. Girls hang around at the truck stops to maybe a earn a few bucks. Some of them are children. Ten years old, I guess youngest one walking around with an older man. The dark web of poverty 23 Welcome to Matieland Were you in Huisgenoot and in the newspapers?" asked a woman at the breakfast table the next morning. One of the B&B's guests. An aunt with a pout and curious eyes. Frowning, she pats me. I ignore her. Hastily took a few bites of breakfast. Yogurt and muesli. "It's your father who killed those people," the woman continues. "Butcher, Baker, whatever. Good thing they caught him. Today, rich people get away with things like that." I grit my teeth. Just shut up, Greg. "Buying themselves out of everything while innocent people are dead. Death." She still doesn't take her meddlesome eyes off me. "Yes, it is you." "Aunt doesn't know me!" I jump up. The chair tilts behind me about. I pick it up. Push it back onto its paws. "But the paper-" "The newspaper's things." "Unfit! I just ask you a question." "Do not!" Her gaze followed me out of the dining room. "Are you going to arrest that other guy too? The Baker?" she called after me. I don't answer. My blood was still boiling when I sat in the car later. The music is pumping. Past Leeu-Gamka, Laingsburg, Matjies-fontein. Hours later the Hex River Mountains wrap around me. Fynbos where ever you look. Finally the sign to Stellenbosch appears on the side of the road. That's where I turn off. More mountains in the distance: Stellenbosch Mountain, 24 Papegaaiberg, Jonkershoek, Groot-Drakenstein - I just can't get away from the dragons.  That's probably the one thing that is steadfast in my life: mountains. Their- hardly changes. Lay and watch and wait. See everything. Your anger, your sadness, your longing. And hopefully in Stellenbosch: your peace. That's what I need. I open the window and steer the car past wine country- dere, breathe the fresh air. Before me lies the Eikestad, my new place of residence for at least the next three years. The roads are busy. Many people on the street. At Birdstraat I turn off and head past Die Braak to Van Riebeeckstraat, where many older houses have been restored and converted into guesthouses. The branches of the old oak trees hang over the road. Along the road, a calm stream of water glistens in the stone culvert. I drive up Van Riebeeckstraat to the studio apartment I found on the internet. More guesthouses and student apartments flash past. Then I see it: neat, white walls, prime property, parking at the back. That's where I stop. I dig in the panel box for the key the estate agent has sent me. Three girls walked by as I slung my laptop bag over my shoulder and took a box out of the trunk. They laugh in my direction, one of them later turns and looks at me. "Are you first year too?" asked the one with the dark brown hair tied in a cloudy bun behind her head. Loose T-shirt and skinny jeans. "Yip." "What number?" "Which number what?" "Where are you moving in, dude? Jeez." "Number seven." "Cool. I'm at five. Chloe. Chloe Adams. And those are my friends. Kiana and Lizmari." I nod. 25 "And you? Do you have a name, or is your mother still thinking of one for you?" "Greg." "Greg who?" "Greg Never mind." "Are you always so weird, huh?" Chloe asked. She wrinkled her nose and take off her sunglasses. I don't answer. Kiana and Lizmari laugh. “You're bothering the guy,” Kiana said. "I'm just a good neighbor." Chloe pulled a face on- guilty. "Shame. He might come from the farm." "I don't come from a farm," I snap back. "Do you hear, Chloe? He's not coming from the farm, leave him now," said Lizmari, pulling Chloe away by her arm. "Do you have a girlfriend, Greg Nevermind?" Chloe asked casually- disturbed. "No."  "Okay, then I'll be your girlfriend," she called from the compound down the gate. Her friends laugh and push her to the sidewalk. "Come drink coffee." "No thank you." "Oh, what's wrong with you? Come on." "No." Moments later I greet the guy at security. "New tenant." I show the key. "Upstairs," he replied with little to no interest. Up the stairs to the second floor. Number seven. "My new happy place, finally," I said to myself as the door swung open. The pungent smell burns in my nose. Immediately I put down my suitcase and went to open the sliding door to the balcony. Then I walk through the place. It's bigger than it looked in the picture. Fully furnished. Dark kitchen cabinets, marble top. Smeg kitchen appliances. The double bed is new. I brought my own bedding for it. A desk, also of dark wood. Comfortable chair. Flat screen TV. I make sure it can connect to the internet for Netflix. 26 The bathroom is simple, but stylish: bath, shower, wooden roller blinds in front of the window. Back in the room I see a note with the Wi-Fi code. I shall probably not used. It's not safe, I have my own data. A loud knock on the door sent me flying. Chloe? No. "Is it Hackers for Hire?" Plank asked just as loudly. "Shut up, dude!" I quickly silence him. "Come in." With a swag, Plank stepped closer. It's good to see him again. He is wearing patches, shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt that says Give me a beer and nobody gets hurt. His hair is longer than at school. Two day old beard. A stallion's smile. His Lawson handshake catches me off guard, as does Kwanele's "Nice free space." He whistled through his teeth as he looked around. "I'm here to study , Plank" He pulled his face. "Really? What about the girls? Oh no, wait... are you still messing with that Nicole girl child?" Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time. "No, it's out. When her dad heard about the hacking, they forbade me to see her. But things weren't good between us anyway. It was really just a school crush." Plank falls on the sofa. Hop around a bit to test it out. "She was a user. And didn't she still flirt with Eckardt?" I shrug and pull the desk chair closer. Only then do I see the blood mark on Plank's lip. "And this?" I ask "Girls. I'm telling you. I bumped into one in De Lapa last night. She bit my freakin' lip open when I kissed her." He rolled his eyes with delight. "Anyway, welcome to Matieland, bro! Let me take you for a pizza."  27 The loser who gave away his father Thus begins the student life. Plank and I went to get our prescribed books in the Neelsie - a student center with everything from benches to places to eat, and who knows what else. I am automatically a member of a larger cluster and a smaller PSO-Private Students organization for students who do not live in residences. Together with them, I attend the O-week for first-year orientation at the end of January. Mentors help with the adjustment to student life. We get academic information and sit through the umpteenth speech during the official opening at the Danie Craven Stadium. I receive my student card. The photo looks terrible. On the Thursday before orientation week ends, there is early morning already a knock on my door. "Greg Nevermind, are you awake yet?" Oh, mercy. It's Chloe. "No!" I call "Nice try, eh? Open the door. I'm not going to scream in the hall like a pram pusher." Finally I sail out of bed. Open up. "Chloe, what about you?" Kiana and Lizmari are also with her. "Oh, just look at the man's suffering, girls, sighed Chloe. She coldly waved herself mockingly with her fingers. I folded my arms in front of my chest. "What are you looking for?" "You have to come, boyfriend. We are going to practice for Vensters. Did you not get the message? "I'm not your boyfriend, and I don't know how you train for a venster. Not interested either. Cheers." I push the door shut, but Chloe pushes it open again. "You have to 28 put your aside your wany, boyfriend. I'll get my other boyfriends to pick you up. Some are quite mean. And I don't mean gym-bunny- mean. Gangster mean. Guys with knives and prison tattoos." "Tell him, Chloe." Kiana laughs. "I just did!" Chloe knows just about everyone at practice. And everyone knows her. She also just wants to take over from the HC with the Vensters thing. Street theater, I find out. Residences team up for the big occasion on Friday night. Each group of first years is responsible for a short performance of music, dance and drama. Then they practice it day and night. Have a party, get to know each other.  And now I'm into the thing. Plank wants to laugh himself weakly. "Get it, last year I did it," he said when I called him distressed during the eating disorder. I grit my teeth. You're here now, Greg, you might as well enjoy it. But no matter how I try to motivate myself, it feels like I've moved on from frivolities. Singing silly songs. Bow around the neck. One, two, three, hop. One, two, three, turn. Still, I train with the group for two days. I even paint with Chloe on the giant backdrop for the performance. That's how I find out that Chloe is an art student. Apparently quite good too. She darts around among everyone. Share ideas, give advice. "You don't spell 'community' like that. Heavens, how did you end up at university? Someone bribed you with a box of crayons?" she chops a girl. "Paint that and try again. Two ms, one n." I help hoist the canvas up the street stage's framework. Some of the HK guys do the lighting, test the sound. Miraculously, I start to enjoy it later. As if something inside me wants to come alive again. Gone are the mementos of my father and mother and brother. The dark days. Plank and some of his Wilgenhof hostel buddies come to make ir A visit on Friday afternoon. He gave the Lawson handshake again. "Do you know that woman?" he asked as he lifted his cap. He gestured with his head et to someone standing some distance away. She has a stern face. Her hair is 29 tied up and tucked under a hat. Eyes hidden behind sunglasses. When she saw me turn to her, she nodded her head. A small smile tugged at her bright red lips. “She's asking questions about you,” Plank says. "What questions?" "Whether I know you." "Is that all?" "She wants to know where you live." "I hope you didn't tell her. It's probably a journalist again" I looked again, but suddenly she was gone. The thought of her stayed with me as I walked to the apartment in the afternoon to get ready for the evening's performance. Something about the woman was familiar. Where have I seen her before? It will keep gnawing at me until I get the answer. Friday evening Stellenbosch is shaking with energy. Lights hang from trees. Triangular flags span sidewalks. Some streets were blocked off for the thousands of people. I didn't realize the story was so big. In Victoria Street, packed with festival stalls, a guy stops with a weird pants and an accordion people to play them a song. I find Plank at his residence. We eat and drink and laugh. He introduces me to some of his pals. Somewhere in the harwar of people I lose him again. I try to call him, but he doesn't answer. In an unguarded moment I wonder what John thinks of this street party would think. The thought makes me smile. I would love that, I heard an imagined voice say. "I know you would, bro. Miss you, huh?" Suddenly I get a lump in my throat. Deep in my thoughts, I walk past Metademia's street stage. Light spin on the dancing freshmen. Music thumps in my chest, but it's as if every step takes me further away from the festivities. Finally I stand among the people waiting for our performance to begin. HK-members and freshmen mill around backstage. I should be there too, but something is holding me back. After all the practicing I can't bring myself to join them. What is it, Greg? what's up with you? 30 Around me the energy vibrates higher. People clap. Flute. The music pulse. Lights glow across the stage. I realize I have to get on stage. But I can't. I can't be part of the group. I can't go singing and dancing and being silly. That's not who I am anymore. The thought shocks me. I just stand there. Motionless in the crowd, until someone bumps into me and spills his beer over my shirt. "Watch what you're doing, dude!" I snap at him. The first year has a yellow helmet with flags on his head and wears a green tutu over his jeans. It doesn't even seem to register. However, his eyes remain fixed on me. A frown appeared on his forehead as if announcing a bewildered thought. "You... you're that guy. You put your father in jail." "Oh, you're drunk, man," I replied, trying to dry my shirt- twist "No, it's true. My ex had a crush on you – all those photos in Huisgenoot and on the internet." I suppress a curse. "You totally got the wrong guy." He shook his head, "What flippant loser is giving his father away?" Before I realize what I'm doing, I bump into him. He lands on the ground at a girl's feet, but is apparently too drunk to care. Just smile defiantly. "So, my bro, are you going to catch the cookie man too?" He means the Baker, I know at once. Some of the other people suddenly stand further away from me. Everyone recognizes what me. For I am the candlestick maker's son. The loser betrayed his father. I'm Greg Owen. And I am alone among all these people. I turned into that outsider who at the time made me into the underworld. 31 The man with Google in his head My classes start the Monday after the O-week. Most of them are in the Sports Science Building at the foot of a hospital. Apart from lecture rooms, there is a sports physiology laboratory, biokinetics centre, movement laboratory, two swimming pools and more in the building. Sport can create hope where once there was only despair, reads a quote from Nelson Mandela on one of the walls at the student lounge - a place that reminds me of Huis Da Vinci's Hangout. Here you can drink coffee or eat something, use computers and make photocopies. Sports science is not exactly what my father would choose for me as a field of study. Doc Pienaar probably not either. In his Lawson opening speech, he presented the college founder's dream to us every year. "Thomas Lawson had a dream: to create a breeding ground in which the business leaders of the future could be cultivated." But stuff Thomas Lawson and Doc Pienaar. My father wanted me to go into business, but it's not for me. This is my decision. There are different fields within Sports Science that you can choose from. I'm taking the one with psychology. It also includes compulsory modules, including physiology, information skills and sociology. How I am going to get the tower of prescribed books into my head is still a mystery. In the first few weeks of class run, the culture shock of student life hits me. Not only are there masses of learning, but the 32 way the lecturers set test questions is from another world. By the end of February, Chloe had probably asked me out ten times. "No, sorry, I'm learning," is my excuse every time. She doesn't believe me. But look into my eyes, Chloe: do I look worried? I occasionally find her in the apartment hallway when she is struggling with a wet painting. She also asked where I was the night with Windows. She doesn't need to know. But she knows something. Of that I am sure. Someone must have told her about my father. And that's okay too. Sports experience is the practical part of my course. Swimming, athletics and football are compulsory, but you can also choose from tennis or cricket, and hockey or rugby. Rugby remains top, even though things at school did not end well with my rebellion against the principal. Class attendance for the practical is compulsory, but I don't mind. It means I don't have to be trapped between four walls. Especially in a small class like the anatomy lab, I feel an oppressive distress. That's when I focus my attention on the models of the human body: the detailed torso, foot bones, knee... Conrad Botes's The Temptation to Exist painting always comes to mind and I wonder about the existence of the human. The being that must breathe and dream and exist. Every time I think about myself, the path my life is taking and the things that are still ahead. Do I see a chance for that? Is there meaning in what I do, in who I am? One afternoon, back at my apartment, I took off my workout clothes and put them in a laundry bag. Like all uniforms, the mandatory black shorts and maroon and gray T-shirt help me stand out among the other students. There is a cozy camaraderie between the guys, but I keep them at a distance. It's only Plank that I allow close to me. After a quick shower, I call my mom. Tell her how it goes. How well I adapt to student life. Am I imagining it or is there more light in her voice these days? Late afternoon I try to swot, but Plank comes crashing into my 33 apartment and watches YouTube videos of Jason Silva on my TV. Smoked again, that's why he nods in agreement with Jason's ramblings about life and artificial intelligence. "So, I think that the singularity is a meme that reflects the sort of acceleration of the human design process to the point of achieving a kind of infinite velocity where everything becomes linked with everything else, and matter becomes mind, where we impregnate the universe with intelligence, as Erik Davis has writ- ten. You know, today technologists are these ecstatic technicians of the sacred. They are figuring out how awareness works, how the self emerges. Can we create non-biological intelligence? Can we create sentients in a different sub-strength that is not bound by the limits of biology?" I try to understand, but I'm either as dumb as mud, or Jason is on an existential trip himself. Suddenly Plank lowered the volume. "I have to tell you something." "Yes?" His eyes become mysterious. "I met a girl." "You meet a lot of girls." "Yeah, but I think this one is the one." "See you next week, eh? Then another one is 'the one.' "Aren't you happy for me?" "Okay, Plank, I am. Who is she? Where did you meet her?" "Her name is Lisa." He shows me a photo on his cell phone. A beautiful girl with an elf face, black hair, blue eyes. "She swot BCom. And I didn't catch her drinking." "Okay then. When do I meet her?" "You still will." He kisses the screen. For a while I remain silent. Intertwining my fingers before looking at him again. "I'm happy for you, Plank. I wish I could meet someone too." "If you get out more, you will. But now you're sitting in here like a rabbit a hole." The next day, as I'm sitting in psychology class, arrives Plank’s  34 cell phone message. I stick you to one of those organic charms at Kauai. Friday afternoon after class. Lisa is going to be there. Friday afternoon I wander around the De Wet Square centre while I wait for Plank-them. There is little to see. But suddenly my eye catches a granite bench in front of the SMAC art gallery. It's not just a seat, it's a work of art by Willem Boshoff. The word TRUST is neatly engraved on it, but a crack runs through the U. Broken Trust, the title of the artwork. An unexpected memory of the guy I once trusted comes to mind. No, I force my attention away from him. You are in Stellenbosch to clear your head. Every pluck on the spider's thread of memories makes the whole web tremble. A Hilux stops in the street and happily forces my thoughts back to the present. Plank jumps out with a girl. I step closer. Greet him. And for her. Lisa is beautiful. Her hair is tucked behind her ears. Pale skin with pale pink cheeks. She wears a vintage Nirva na T-shirt and jeans. "Afternoon, young man," called the man behind the wheel of the Hilux. Lisa said father, I conclude. "Afternoon, uncle." "Are you the Greg guy Plank was talking about?" "That's right, uncle." He frowned. Lean sideways to see me better. "Do I know you?" I scroll through my memory. A big guy. Gray beard, red in the face like someone who drinks. "He's not one of Dad's criminals," said Lisa, laughing. Criminals? Is the man in the police? He keeps looking me straight in the eyes, as if he's googling me in his head. "You're not originally from Stellenbosch, are you?" I shake my head. "Dad, leave the poor dude. Just drive," said Lisa again. "Sorry," she said to me quickly. I nod. But then her father jumps out of the Hilux. Cars behind him honked as he held up traffic. The man doesn't seem to give a damn. He walks right in front of me. 35 "If okay, uncle?" Plank asked nervously. "No, Plank, als is not okay." A soft growl rumbled in his chest. "Lisa, get back in the car." Here is big mistake. His eyes bore through me. "I never forget a face." His voice is dangerous. "Now I know who you are, Greg. You stay away from my girl. Do we have each other?"  Lisa looked distressed as she got back into the van. Shelves are standing next to me. When Lisa's father drove away, I turned back to the gallery where the granite bench stood. It's like I hear that guy from the past laughing at me. Broken trust. And now also a broken life. 36 The things you carry with you I feel like a dog. Genuine, Plank." We are sitting in the Neelsie on Saturday afternoon. There is a rugby match on the big screen television Plank snacking listlessly on his hamburger. "Lisa doesn't have me yet not contacted again. She doesn't answer my messages either." "I messed everything up for you. Seems to me I'm never going to escape from my father. It's that thing about the sins of the fathers, or something something." The thought has been haunting me since last night. I know who you are, Greg. You stay away from my girl. Do we have each other? The man's words kept grinding through my head. Before him this year there was that woman at the guest house, the drunk guy at the street festival. These are just a few of the people who show how they hate our family. What about the crowd who judge me in silence for my father's crime, or those who make jokes behind their hands or on social media. I take a sip of soda, forcing my attention back to Plank. "The things you pack are the things you carry with you,' says my mother. They're the things you can't escape from, even if you move a thousand kilometers away from home." I don't know if Plank is still listening. He sat motionless across from me. "I am not my father, but I carry the label." "So it is with all of us," says Plank. "Why do you think I'm in Wilgenhof?" "Because your father was there?" "Yep. And now I'm there because I have to get my label." "We become clones of ourselves," I repeat the words in my mind 37 from that guy from the past. Why do I drag his shadows with me? Plank takes a deep breath. "Look, man, here's the truth bomb: You unknowingly exposed your father's shenanigans. Now the whole blerri world knows it. But so what? Can you change it? No. Can you out your father get jailed? No." "There is a chance that the appeal may succeed-"  "Dude, you smoked, huh?" times Plank. "It's not going to happen. Forget about it. Sorry, but your father is sitting down. What can you do about it? You're on Maties. You have your own life. Flippenwil lives it." Plank is right. I won't let anyone else talk to me like that, but I know you can always count on him to give you a reality check, without him wanting to hurt you. “You're a better person than me, Plank,” I say guiltily. "No I'm not." "Believe me this time. If someone bombed my relationship so spectacularly, wouldn't I ever make it up to you?" A flicker of the old Plank flickered through his slight smile. "Let's just say you owe me one." Sorry, but your father is sitting down. What can you do about it? Later, on the way to my apartment, I think about it. Isn't there something I can do about it? Maybe just one thing. The woman in the guest house and the student at Windows may have already planted the seed in me. As I walk upside down through the streets of Stellenbosch, the decision takes shape: I can ensure that the Baker drives the pin. After all, he is just as guilty of terrorism and murder with the deadly virus. The police have not yet been able to locate him. My father and Doc refuse to reveal his identity. But if I know who he is... If I can find out... It will be like penance, so that my father doesn't spend the rest of his life in prison while a guy who is just as guilty, don't get away 38 Later, back in my room, the idea began to form in my head. Like a fine web's first thread being stretched. All cobwebs begin with that first silver thread. Seemingly harmless. I set the aircon colder and then move in front of the laptop. Suddenly I get a sense of déjà vu. I've been here before; busy with this stuff. Rub a dub dub, Three men in a tub; And who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, The candlestick-maker; Turn 'em out, knaves all three! The rhyme from Project Nursery Rhyme. The Butcher - Doc Pienaar: Lawson headmaster. The Candlestick maker - my father, Chris Owen: powerful media mogul. But the Baker... The one who got away. who is he where is he What is he doing now? What does he have to lose? How does he keep my dad-them quiet? That's what I'm going to find out.  39 Time Machine What do you know about the Baker? I type in a note on my cell phone. He is part of Project Nursery Rhyme's unholy trinity. He made the virus that they spread in flu shots - so he must have knowledge of pharmacology, diseases, virology. Close to my father's age? Male? Apart from a few e-mails in which his pseudonym was mentioned in the info I got at the time, there were no personal details. His email address was also just a temporary fictitious address. He disappeared like a pin. Definitely intelligent. I read through my list again. The bottom line: I don't know much. How does one start looking for an unknown figure from the underworld? Maybe with a few Google searches. First Netwerk24's newspaper reports. I read all the reports about my father, especially those that appeared before the news of his involvement in Project Nursery Rhyme broke. I look at pictures. Maybe there is someone somewhere next to him in a group photo who is involved in pharmacology or the medical world. After Netwerk24, I search further on other news websites: News24, Daily Maverick, Times LIVE, all the newspapers in the Turret Media group which belongs to my father. That's where I finally locate a photo of my father with a doctor. They were involved in a community project that provides clinic services to needy people. Seemingly for a good cause, but I don't let that blind me. 40 I enlarge the photo. Doctor Rian Trollip. A man with an open smile. Light hair. Soft eyes. I looked at the photo for a long time. Is this the image of a monster? I get up to take a walk, but then something calls me back to Doctor Trollip's picture. A vague memory willy-nilly unfolds in me. There is something familiar about him. I search deep in the files and folders in my head. Then I know: the doctor and his wife were already at our house. There were other people too. My father liked to hang out and my mother had to deal with the arrangements. The house was full of light, life, music. The doctor and his wife stood out to me because late at night they danced with each other. Made graceful turns across the floor. It was great to see because my father and mother never danced.  If I remember correctly, the party was shortly before they were due to leave on an overseas holiday, somewhere in Europe, maybe that's why they looked so happy. My mother went on and on about their itinerary. Paris, Rome, Venice. They would meet someone there. Doctor Trollip's brother, or another relative or friend. Doctor Trollip, I remember now... Was there something else about him? John saw it too. On the surface, the doctor seemed like a nice guy. His gentle nature matched his gentle eyes. But something was strange about him. I dig even deeper into my memory to get to those primary school memories. "You're probably going to Lawson College next year, aren't you?" the doctor asked me at one point. "Yes, uncle. For the rugby. Like my little brother." "Where's your little brother?" "He's hiding from uncle." It just slipped out. John probably wasn't really hiding from the doctor. He was already in Lawson then - a teenager, not in the mood to make small talk with strange adults. “He gives me the creeps,” John said later. "Did you see his hands? Such lumps and blue veins like a web. I swear I could still smell the dead person he touched last time." 41 John was probably right. Not about the corpse smell, but about something about the doctor's nature that made one's skin crawl. Was it the slight vibration in his voice that made you feel so uncomfortable? The way he looked at you? The equally large teeth in perfect harmony behind his thin lips when he smiled? Was that creepy feeling a red flag? I type everything I can remember about him on my cell phone. Also save photo. Then I realize I've seen Dr. Trollip somewhere else too. Suddenly the blood rushes through my veins. I type in an address on Firefox: www.plusultramed.co.za It's the web page for Project Nursery Rhyme's front partnership. Apart from the usual stuff like their mission, vision and products, there was an organogram of the company at the time. Doc Pienaar's name and photo were at the very top. But a level or two down there was another picture... With a trembling finger I press Enter. Website is not available, is on the screen. I swear softly. Plus UltraMed's website has been taken down. Maybe because the company closed. I take a sip of Energade. Think, but do not get further. Disappointed, I saunter to the balcony to get some fresh air. The sun sets over Stellenbosch and colors the old buildings and the mountains pink and blue. Somewhere a church bell rings. Some students saunter down the street. There is also a girl on a bicycle, a police car and a man jogging by in the street. I listen to the slap of his feet on the tar and suddenly think - No. I immediately stop that thought and walk in from the balcony. With a sigh I flop down on the bed, grab my Sport Psychology book and flip to the section on the psychology of sports education. My concentration sharpened. Occasionally I consult my class notes. Make more notes. Draw mind maps. My cell phone beeps every now and then with Plank's messages. There is also one of my mother. I'm going away for a week. There may not be cell phone reception. Back next Sunday night. 42 OK, I reply. Then after a while: Is Mom going alone? She didn't answer. The only message comes from the PSO about some function, but stuff it, I'm not going. Chloe says they're going to call me a "sneaker" if I don't participate in their little things. Ha! I've been called worse things. Back to the books. But it didn't take long, then sleep overtook me. Die Wayback Machine. On Monday morning I woke up with the words in my head. It's like my brain found a solution to the PlusUltra-Med web page problem overnight. I turn on the Nespresso coffee maker and sit down in front of the laptop. I quickly search and find the Wayback Machine's web page. It's an internet archive of old web pages. More than three hundred billion of them. I read about this a long time ago. At the top of the screen, I type in PlusUltraMed's web page address. A next page appears. It shows that the pharmacological partnership's web page has been saved 240 times. A graph and a calendar also show exactly when it was saved. I move to a random date. The pop-up shows that two snapshots of the web page were made that day. I select one and within moments Plus UltraMed's lost appears webpage. Unbelievable! On the left of the web page are the links to Mission statement, Products, Orders, About, Contact us. As before, I get the page with the organogram. It takes a while to dig through the old photos from the archives, but finally the organogram lies before me. And there he is: Doctor Rian Trollip. I make a screenshot of the organogram. Save it in the cloud. My eye catches the time on my laptop. I have half an hour before I have to blow. A few students chatter in the hallway in front of the Sports Science building's lecture hall A. I nod in their direction, but  43 keep my distance. By this time they had found out all about my father As I wait to one side, I google Dr. Rian Trollip's name on my cell phone. Just a quick scroll through the hits hits me with an iron between the eyes. I open one of the newspaper articles anyway. Doctor caught with child pornography. My blood runs cold. Over and over my eyes jump to the headline before I read on. The doctor appeared in court after police raided his practice and came across child pornography. Doctor Trollip pleaded not guilty. Another report confirms the doctor's court appearance. Now I know why John got that creepy feeling at the time. It was not the dead man's smell on the doctor's hands. John instinctively sensed something about the guy's nature. His dark side. The lecture room doors swing open. The other students move to class, but I quickly read another report: Doctor Trollip's wife sue him for a divorce. Another report: Doctor Rian Trollip was found dead in a communal cell. He hanged himself. A picture of the torn blanket on the cement floor makes me shudder. In a further report, family members stand at Dr. Trollip's grave. His brother in front, with sunglasses and umbrella: Gloomy, like the woman next to him. My father is there too. Doc Pienaar behind him. It takes a moment for the information to sink in, then I look at the date. It all happened in my matric year. The time of Project Nursery Rhyme. Could Doctor Rian Trollip be the Baker too I thought when I walked into the class. Maybe I'm looking for a dead man 44 Dark patterns That evening, Chloe and her friends come up the stairs noisily. "In ten years you'll be able to build your baby like a puzzle," says one. "Not in ten years. Already," says a friend. "What? I can't even build a pizza." "And the weirdest thing of all - if you want to make your baby the good old-fashioned way, people are going to say you're abusing children, because you could have stopped them from getting sick." "Oh shit, man!" Chloe's laugh echoed in the hallway.  I listen disgustedly to their jumbled chatter. Since my concentration is now interrupted, I put down my book. Later, on the balcony, I close my eyes and let the fresh evening air wrap around me. All the talk about children... The newspaper reports I read this morning play in the back of my mind. It forces my computer. I'm going to read about Dr. Trollip's death again, and like a spider that continues to spin its web, I start looking for reports about Mrs. Trollip, the doctor's wife. There isn't much. Just something about the divorce, a dispute with her brother-in-law about the estate, and somewhere a little message about some fund-raising in aid of breast cancer. My eyes are fixed on the mobile phone number and contact person in the cancer report. I grab my cell phone. Call the number. The cell phone rings a few times on the other end. A voicemail reply. I listen to the woman's clear voice, but do not leave a message; just kill the call. Thoughtful, I sit down and wonder if I should call again. Will she be able to help? Would it be insensitive to ask her about her husband 45 Its association with Plus UltraMed. His bond with Doc and my father. His death? About an hour later, while I was sitting on the balcony, books scattered around me, the call came. "Hello, it's Mrs. Trollip." "Mrs. Trollip?" "You called me? Can I help?" Her tongue drags slightly. is she drunk "Dis... dis Greg Owen. My pa is Chris Owen." "The media mogul?" "Y-yeah," I stammered. "I was wondering if aunt... if you could help me. I'm looking for information." Flippit, maybe I should have followed a different strategy. Did the social engineering attack of the time teach me nothing? You become someone else for a moment. You can lie and cheat. Manipulate your target to get information out of them. "Where are you?" she asked. "In Stellenbosch. I... um... work here." "At a newspaper?" "No." "What 'information' are you looking for?" She is definitely drunk. Her tongue tugged lazily at the words. "I'm looking for information about someone with knowledge of pharmacology. Maybe a doctor. A chemist. Someone who knew my father?" "You mean my late husband?" "Yes, maybe." I hear her pour another drink. "He was a devil who played with children." "That's what the newspaper archives say. But is it possible that he was also… that he was involved in other things as well?" She didn't answer.  "Mrs. Trollip?" "Other stuff... like what?" she asked after a while. "Project Nursery Rhyme?" Deep breath. Determined. "I'm looking for the Baker." 46 Immediately the line goes dead. I look at my cell phone in surprise. "Okay, that didn't go well," I said to myself and tried to call again, but she didn't answer. Again and again I call. Then she blocks my number. Is it because she knows something? During the week I contact one person after another who knows Mrs Trollip or her late husband. I am working on the names at the bottom of photos, companies that may have done business with them. Almost no one wants to help, but sometimes I find someone who refers me to someone else, and they refer me to yet another person. Despite all my efforts, all my inquiries end in a dead end. Afterwards it feels like I got into a really dark pattern. Many web pages have such things: dark patterns that trick you through sly web page design to, for example, cancel your registration. Amazon uses it too. To close your account with them, you will search from one web page to another to another, from one hyperlink to another and another, and even then, when you finally choose the option Delete account get, you have to talk to an agent first and they will close your account from their end. Other web pages will lighten the font color so you don't see the links they don't want you to use. Finally, the dark patterns throw you into a cyber maze of links from which you will find it difficult to get out until you finally give up and just keep the registration. That's how it feels to me now. That's where I am: trapped in a maze in which there are only questions, but no answers 47 One of us On a morning before a class test, one of the guys who sat in the chair next to me with me swot approaches. Sports science shirt, sneakers and a cap on the head. He puts himself down on the lecture hall. Bumps his elbow lightly against mine. "At least you're a bucket full of sunshine, aren't you?"  "Skies?" "You know what I'm talking about. You sit here at the back of the class every day. Crazy smile on your face." I can see he's joking good-naturedly, but I don't answer. "Damn February." He bumped his fist against mine. "At your service." "Greg Owen." "I know. Everyone knows." "And?" "And, it doesn't matter to me. You're one of us." I smile "Yip." Later in the afternoon, after a tough workout, I get myself a Powerade and something to eat at the Workout Café in the gym. While I wait, I watch the guys train outside in the pool. Coaches walk back and forth in front of the window. "Owen!" said a deep voice suddenly beside me. A cold fright sent through my body. The man places himself uninvited at the table. Lisa's father. "What are we drinking?" he asked. Frowning, I point to the Powerade. "Cold drinks? No, fatherland, then I'll wait until home." He turned sideways in the chair 48 "Can I help uncle?" "What? No! Of course not. And my name is Dirk. Dirk Schutte. Not 'uncle'." "How did uncle know I was here?" I'm not going to call him Dirk not. "My wife said I should come looking for you. It wasn't hard to find you. A little man like you. People know you." "People might think they know me," I said a little harshly. Uncle Dirk leans back in the chair. He slowly rubbed his gray beard. Don't take his eyes off me for a moment. Sum me up, as Inspector Cele and Sergeant Botha questioned me two years ago. I still hear their voices now and sometimes have nightmares about them. "You're who I thought you were then, Owen. I've got more on you go read. Your... records." I swallow, wipe my hands on my pants. See that he notices and quickly fold my arms in front of my chest. This also probably means for something to him, because he tilts his head slightly. "Is uncle in the police?" "I'm asking the questions here, bro. Okay?" His calm voice sends a shiver through me. "Tell me about the hacker stuff you messed with has." "I cooperated with the police, I don't have to again-" "Tell me!" Loud. Some of the other students look around at our table. I clear my throat. "It's not because I really wanted to, uncle."  "Don't lie to me." I want to get up. He pushes me back. "Someone taught me. It was a challenge. I wanted to see if I could do it. Then everything got out of hand." "How so?" "Things have gone too far. I just never should have started it not." "Like drugs." "I don't do drugs." "I didn't say you were doing drugs. Concentrate." "Uncle?" 49 He ignores my stupidity. "The hacking - do you still do it?" I wring my hands together nervously. "Mmm." His eyes narrowed. "I'll take that as a yes." "I'm sorry about all the stuff that's happening at the time has. It's just.." "Sometimes you step on life's Lego blocks in the dark?" The uncle laughs at his own joke, then he suddenly becomes serious again. Her voice softened. Paternal? "After my wife spoke to me, I went to think. What I did to you, there in front of the gallery, was not fair. It was probably just a shock reaction to protect my daughter. That's how fathers are. Most fathers. They protect their children." He let the words hang in the air. "That's why I came looking for you, to tell you: I made a mistake. Sorry. I don't have the right to judge you based on your father's traits. And even though his blood runs in your veins, you deserve a fair chance. Your pal too. Plank. What's that called anyway? Mercy! I hope there aren't kids one day. What do I do with a bunch of little Planks? Build a doll's house?" His chest heaved as he laughed. "Tell that little man he can visit Lisa again. I'll talk to her, but—” “Thank you, uncle-”” "I'm still talking, Greg! - but if you or Plank show me you're two - little wetters, all hell will break loose. Right?" I nod. "Talk to me, Greg." "Right, uncle." "That hacking stuff you were working on - leave it." "I will, uncle." "You don't know what you're playing with. There's good in this world which is darker than dark. Dirty people doing dirty things." He rubbed his beard again. "I've seen things that will take your breath away, Greg. Yes, I was in the police. Not anymore. I'm boarded. Too much stress. That work makes you a different person. Someone you don't want to be." I also became a different person, I think, but I don't say it. He exhaled like a pressure valve releasing tension. "I'm glad uncle is okay now."  50 He tilts his head. Frown. "That's not what I said." For a while he remained silent. He seems to be getting teary. I don't know if I should say anything. I sat there petrified, too afraid to move. "Are you sure there's no beer here?" Uncle Dirk suddenly asked loudly. "No, uncle." He sighed. "Come on, the next day I'll take you on a decent date." And he laughs from his belly again 51 Courier Plank's voicemail came the next day when I was walking out of a class. "Thank you! Lisa called me. I hear uncle Dirk spoke to you. Hope it wasn't too bad. That uncle is angry! What's the matter with the boards and the dollhouse?" "That uncle is going to send you to jail if you mess with his daughter- kel," I replied. "Lucky me." He goes offline. I lock my screen. Dain greeted from the student lounge. "Shark!" I call back and take the stairs out of the faculty building, past the Maties Gym and Coetzenburg swimming pool back to my apartment. Music to my ears. There is a burning smell in the air this afternoon. There must be another fire somewhere in the mountain. At the apartment entrance, the security man stops me. "Mr. Owen, I have a package for you." I wait for him to take it out from under the counter. Sign for it. I was barely in my room when there was a knock at the door. Board. He throws his backpack down in the kitchen. "I've had a freaking rough day." I pull my shirt over my head and toss it to the bed. Uninvited, Plank gets himself a beer from my fridge. "What's bothering you?" I ask "Girls. Maties. And my belly?" He lifted his shirt. "Look how the thing looks. I'm getting a pot belly, Greg?" "Correction - a beer belly. That's because you don't play rugby anymore not." Plank rolls his stomach like a belly dancer's and takes a sip of beer. "I suppose the thing between you and Lisa was sorted out then?" "It was."  52 "But?" "Then she saw my Tinder profile just now. And now I'm back in the dog box." "Dude? Tinder? Are you crazy? You just got Lisa back then- got." "I think you're on my side, Greg!" Plank stood on the ball- could. "My life sucks!" he shouted towards the street. "Get yourself a shrink!" replied someone somewhere from another apartment. "Won't help!" Plank shouted back. I shook my head and just started typing on my laptop when Plank came back in. "Did you know someone is watching your location?" "What are you talking about, Plank?" "Come see." I walk to the balcony, just in time to see the man down the street: a guy with a black motorcycle. A leather jacket and Levi's T-shirt. Jeans. The helmet is still on his head. The face shield is darkened. He looks up at me one last time, then starts the engine and drives. "He's probably just looking for the road," I say. "While he's looking at your apartment?" "Plank, it's nothing, okay?" I persisted, but didn't sound too sure of myself. "Whatever." Plank walked back in, fell down on the bed. The cow- rierboks bounces next to him. "What's that?" "It was delivered today. I don't know myself." "Now look, dude." In the kitchen drawer I find a sharp vegetable knife. It slips through the brown tape on the top of the box. "So? Wassit?" "Just take it easy for me, Plank" Shaking my head, I opened the box. First touch an envelope inside. There is a letter in it. I take it out. Read the typed message. "Maybe it will help you track down the Baker." 53 "The Baker?" asked Plank. I can see the wheels in his head turning at a frantic speed. "Are you doing that Nursery Rhyme stuff again?" I nod. "My father is in prison and the Baker is out on the loose. The police could not find him. But I'm going." "You, Greg Owen, are bewitched in the head. Haven't you had enough yet?" "What's right is right." "And if he comes to kill you?" Plank jumped up from the bed. He cautiously peeks out beyond the curtain. "Flippit, then I was right about that dude in the street. It's surveillance." "You exaggerate."  "Tells every guy who's been screwed mafia-style." I just pull a face, then put my hand back into the courier box, curious to see what else is in it. Plank watches me with wide eyes. My fingers get hold of the thing. It feels rough, brittle. I pull it out. It's a notebook. Brown cover, yellow-white pages. "An old book," said Plank, disappointed. "Looks like the thing came from the war." "Or been in a fire." I point to the black rim and the scorched slabs. Slowly I open the book. Some of the pages are torn out or completely burned. Still, you can figure something out here and there. Formulas. Some of the pages have numbers on them. Cryptic notes. A vague diagram: LOOK IN BOOK AT DIAGRAM And on the last page a single word: Valkyrie. 54 Valkyrie I can not sleep. The strange book keeps me awake, so I slip out of bed and stand outside on the balcony. In the distance the burning mountain glistens in the dark. If it weren't so bad, one could say it's enchantingly beautiful. Suddenly I see something moving in the street. 'a human? Maybe just a stray dog? Or my imagination? Because now it is quiet and Van Riebeeckstraat lies undisturbed in the dark. Back in the apartment, I sat down at the computer. Valkyrie, I typed into Firefox's search engine. I click on one of the results: Valkyries were female spirits in Norse mythology. They decided during a battle who would live and who would die. Goddesses of War. The ominous creatures used dark magic to make sure their choices were carried out. In Afrikaans they are apparently called Walkures, I see now. According to the poem "The Saga of the Volsungs", seeing a Valkyrie... Walkure is like staring at a flame. Another Norwegian poem, "Darraðarljóð", describes them more graphically: twelve Walkures sitting in front of looms and weaving the tragic fate of warriors with intestines as loom, heads as weights, and arrows and swords as looms. Upset, I turned to the book in front of my bed. What sick stuff was the Baker up to? Thursday's classes drag by slowly. The fatigue is catching up with me. "Slept too little and studied too much last night?" Dain asked as he walked with me to the Social Sciences building. "Just put it that way," I answered evasively. He seems like a cool guy, but he doesn't need to know.  55 When we got to the front of the building, Dain's eyebrows shot up in mystery. "Take this, it will help," he said, pressing a small white pill into my hands. "What is it?" "Dollhouse Pills." "I don't do drugs." "It's Ritalin, man. Everyone does it. The breakfast of champions." He closed my fist around the pill. "Then just keep it. Just in case, you know? If you still want..." He winked. I shove the pill in my pocket. There is no way I would drink that. Finally the last class for the week is over. From there I walk to Maties Gym for a quick session. Tomorrow is Good Friday. Tonight I fly to Johannesburg for the long weekend. There is something I have to do tomorrow. A thing that already weighs heavily on my mind. The session in the gym lasts longer than I planned. Super sets that send the feel-good hormones coursing through my veins. Then who did need pills? On the way out I get a smoothie from the Workout Café and walk outside with it. The sun blinds me for a moment, but then I see me again the motorcyclist in the parking lot. Look in my direction. When he saw me, he started the engine. Hiding behind the helmet's dark visor, I know his gaze follows me as I walk past the Coetzenburg swimming pool, down the lane of trees. A long way off I look around. The guy and his motorcycle are gone. The Uber was already waiting for me outside the OR Tambo airport building when I stepped out. On the way to Sandhurst, the driver and I make slow talk about the weather, but avoid the sensitive conversation about politics in South Africa. Not that I'm interested in that. The bunch of corrupt clowns who fill our parliament and throw around buzzwords like "The Fourth Industrial Revolution" while pretending their mobile phones and Twitter accounts are regularly hacked, do not represent me or people of my generation 56 It was already late when I finally stopped in front of our house. I tip the driver with the Uber app and get my bag. I dig my house keys out of my pants pocket, press the remote control, and walk home up the driveway.  There is a light burning in my mother's room, also on the porch. That's where I finally put my bag down, unlock the door and get the shock of my life 57 The place of hope and despair “Greg?” asked the man standing in front of me in the door of the house. He was only wearing pajama bottoms. The light in the portal shone someone who could be a stockbroker. Or maybe a lawyer who has won more cases than lost Still, there was terror in his eyes. Stunned, I looked at him. He holds the door open for me to enter. I drag my bag into the portal, where I can see the man better. He is probably my father's age. And the pajama bottoms? Bare feet, bare torso? "Who are you?" I asked with a hint of ineptitude. "Andre." His hand shot out to greet me. I ignore it. "Where's my mother?" He suddenly looks embarrassed. "Still in the room." "What the hell is going on here?" "Didn't your mother tell you?" "Said what?" "From...us?" "We?" It's a sobering word. "I think I'm going to get sick." André put his hand on my shoulder. A bomb explodes in my head. shook his hand violently. I "Leave me alone!" "Who is it, André?" came my mother's voice from the top of the stairs. Then our eyes meet. "Greg, I wasn't expecting you." "I can see that, Mom." I point to André with my flat hand. "You met André?" she asked now nervously. "Yes, and I've seen more of him than I'd like." I turn to him again. "Where are your clothes?" 58 “I think we should talk,” he dodged my question. My mother is also coming down the stairs now. She is wearing a gown. Pajamas under the gown, I see. I have to control my temper, but the disillusionment is a mountain that burns in me "Great, Mom, is this what's going on here when Dad's in jail and I'm at college?"  "Have you eaten yet, Greg?" she asked, walking past me to the kitchen. "Give us a chance to talk," I heard her whisper to André. He kiss her on the cheek. His hand touched the curve of her back. My mother! "Come along, Greg." I follow her down the hall to the kitchen, where a light is on. On another night it would feel welcoming. Not now. I stand in the door. Memories of my childhood around this kitchen table suddenly come flooding back to me. Drinking chocolate milk with paper straws. Consuming cookie sheets - John suggested they look like ghosts, complete with raisin eyes. Here he and I also sneakily ate crayons. Any drawer would want to taste it with names like Jazzberry Jam and Atomic Tangerine. At this table we - me, him, Mother and sometimes Father - told stories. Laughter and conversation. When we were still a carefree family. How time does not take away from one's happiness! My mother takes food from the fridge. Wordlessly, she scoops me in: leg of lamb, fried potatoes, sweet potatoes. Everything she knows I like. While my mother warms it in the microwave, she also gets wine glasses. Two. A bottle of red wine from my father's collection in the wine cellar. The atmosphere is so charged that words are unnecessary. Under the warm light that glows over the kitchen table, I sit down. My index finger searches for the spot where John once scratched out a star with a compass point. It's still sitting there in the table top. My mother brings the food and cutlery and sits opposite me. Eat, show her eyes. Listlessly, I take a few bites and raise my eyes to my mother. "Tell me what's going on." "I was alone." She takes a sip of wine 59 "So Mom got him?" "Yes." "Who is he?" "André Symington. A chemical engineer." Then now not a broker or advocate. "How long has Mom known him?" She tapped her finger against the wine glass. "Long," she finally said. "A long time?" She nodded. The food thickens in my mouth. "You sleep together? Is that okay too? been on for a long time?" My mother looks away. "Mom? Talk to me." Her shoulders slumped as she exhaled. "There are more secrets in here- the family as you know of, Greg." Friday morning I got out of bed early. I don't know if André is still in the house. He might already be gone after our awkward encounter. The night before still haunts me when I drove out the gate in one of our cars. At McDonald's I get some hamburgers, then I navigate to my destination using Google Maps. The morning ahead makes a knot in my stomach. Finally, my destination looms before me: the Kgosi Mampuru II prison. People often still call it Pretoria Central. r my father and Doc are. In the underworld of the number gangs. Where The dreaded C-Max. My father is an A prisoner who is only allowed a total of two hours a month of visits, half an hour at a time. Tension trembled in every cell of my body as I passed through the security area move. Finally, I walk through a turnstile and a metal detector to a van. My eyes follow the lines of the scary buildings. This is a place where hope and despair are chained together. The van takes us deeper into the prison grounds. The tension becomes a web that suffocates me. In a twilight dark room I am thoroughly examined. I leave 60 the hamburgers in an office at the C-Max prison. It will now be felt, contained and broken in such a way that there will be almost nothing left but crumbs, but it's the thought that counts. Only later will the guards give it to my father. Finally, I walk out onto a lawn with visitor booths. The web is getting tighter and narrower and my chest shrinks further. I sat down at booth number five that the guards had assigned to me. The metal seat feels cold under me. My eye catches one of the guards'. Suddenly I realize that it is people like him who have to protect the public from my pá. It's people like that guard who also have to protect me from my father. It's a sobering thought. A barred gate opens beyond the glass window. Then my father enters the visitor's booth. His orange coverall, covered with the word "Corrections" in black circles, hangs baggy on him. His back, which had always been so straight, was now more arched. His hair is grayer. His skin is pale. There is a slight crack of the knee in his gait. He comes to sit, but the booth is so small that he has to turn diagonally. He looked at me from behind the glass. His eyes are like a room from which someone has run away. He bit his lip. He nodded his head slightly. "Hi, Dad," I greeted through the tube at the counter. "Greg, how are you?" His voice is weak. "Okay, sure. And Dad? What's wrong with Dad's knee?" He looked past me. “You look good,” my father said evasively. "It's the gym and the student life." Uncomfortably, I shift around on the hard seat. "How is life in the Cape?"  "Nice." "Do you have a girlfriend again?" I don't answer. "The studies?" he asked. "A lot of work, but I cope." The conversation stalls. Distanced from each other, but not only because there is glass between us. Careful. Afraid. Almost like strangers. Gone is the blue in my father's eyes. It's more gray now. Is it from sadness? 61 My once mighty father? Maybe it's the humiliation or the loss, or maybe it comes from the prison's terror. The tube through which we have to speak makes the conversation even more so unnatural. "Cope Dad still in here?" "What do you think? You think it's easy?" "That's not what I meant." "Trapped in a small cell, the color of death and filth?" my father hissed. "One little window up against the wall. A ceiling of iron bars that guards walk over and look down on you day and night. Zero privacy. The smell of bodies in your nose all day. Loudspeakers blaring football and mind-numbing music. People screaming. Doors and banging barred gates. Lice in your mattress. Flickering tube lights. The filthiest scum of mankind under one damned roof!" "Okay, Dad," I stop, as his voice grows more forceful. The guard comes threatening to take him back. My father nodded. "And the food?" I ask "Delicious French cuisine. With a glass of red wine." The guard frowned. Actually, I know about the food, I'm just trying to keep the conversation going. My mother has already told me: Breakfast is watery porridge with a spoonful of sugar in your cell, not even in a dining hall, because that's where the riots start. You get lunch and dinner together in your ice cream bowl at two o'clock in the afternoon. That porridge again. And boiled beef or chicken scraps - you shouldn't even be surprised if you find a cock's comb in it. And cabbage. Always cabbage, and a cat's head - a lump of bread - which should last you until the next day. "So, yes, Greg. Your father copes. Are you satisfied now? You did your duty. Visiting your father in prison. Is there anything else I can help you with?" "Dad, please. It's... it's hard for me too." He snorts. "You must tell me about difficult, old boy." I take a deep breath and wonder how it feels for the other visitors to be here. Was it wise to come here? My father is no longer my father. He talks about the filthy scum of humanity, but isn't that why he's here? So I think cautiously, because it feels like further betrayal  62 "How is your mother?" he asked more calmly. Another difficult issue. I can't tell him about that either. My mother was right when she spoke of our family's secrets. "Mom's okay." "She doesn't come to visit me. Has only been here twice. She says it upsets her." He cursed softly. "I probably can't force her." "Sorry, Dad." "Sorry asshole! You put me here." "It wasn't me. I didn't have those people-" The fiery glint in his eyes stops me before I can finish. "I'll do it for you," he hissed through gritted teeth. "You dragged our family's good name through the mud." The wall of hate coming at me makes me jump. I start walking away. Blind with rage. "Greg!" called my father after me. I pretend not to hear. "Greg! I'm sorry. Okay?" The words stop me in my tracks. "Come sit down, son." I'm considering it. In minutes I can be outside these walls. On my way back home, and he won't be able to do anything to me. But the guilt is tearing me apart. It was me that me father landed here. So I turned back and sat down with him again. In the unpleasant silence, Dad pressed his hand against the glass. His palm turns white. He probably thinks I should do it too, like in the movies. But this is not a movie. It's our lives. Finally he dropped her onto the small cement slab in front of him. I stare at his hands and suddenly realize how they have changed too. The manicured nails now look rough and dirty. The skin looser, with veins branching over the milk-pale upper side. "I want to help Dad," I said after a while. "Yes?" "The police still haven't been able to locate the Baker. He also has to come and sit here. It's not fair that he's running loose outside." 63 "Leave the Baker alone." "But Dad?" "Hear what I'm telling you, Greg." "Who is this?"  "It's not important." "This is for me. I want to try to make up for what I did to Dad." "I'm warning you, Greg. Leave it." My father's voice turns iron. Deadly seriousness on his face sight. "I'm not going to let it go, Dad. I've already started. Dad can you help me?" "I. Help. You. Not." "Dad!" Then visiting time is over. The guards come to get my father. "Tell me," I tried for the last time. "Is the guy dead? Am I looking for a dead man?" He doesn't answer. "And Valkyrie? Does Dad know anything about it?" I see the fear in his eyes. "I warned you, Greg. Don't. Please." That's all I get from him. When he stood up, his sore knee struggled again. I try to change the picture of my father etched in my memory for the umpteenth time; even wonder if he still smells like my father. No, probably not. Sweat and cheap soap. That might be what I would smell if I had a chance to hug him against me. As I mentally detach myself from the embrace, I wonder again if I should tell him about Mother and André. But then I let it go. "Take a good look at Dad-self, I greet. My mind is a jumble of emotions as I walk away. Suddenly my eye catches another familiar face, also behind glass in a visitor's booth. Doc Pienaar. Lawson College's former principal. The man who was charged with my father. I also had a part in that. Doc - the murderer, the con man, the con man. Still bald, but thinner than when I last saw him in court. He 64 glared at me with such hatred that an icy shiver sank down my body. I flee the visitor area to get away from him. Only outside the prison can I breathe freely. Grateful, I unlock the car to get away, still determined to track down the Baker 65 Broken There was a red car in front of our house when I arrived later in the afternoon. Immediately I recognized the occupant. Another challenge, as if the prison visit wasn't bad enough. I stop in the driveway. Nicole gets out of the other car. Her hair is not as well groomed as usual. No makeup. A shadow of weariness under her eyes. There is also a change in her posture, as if something has snapped inside her. As I walk closer, she opens the back door and takes out a bundle of blankets. Then the stories I heard are true. Nicole had a baby. With the body in her arm, she stood by the cart door and swallowed the tears. I put my hands in my pockets. "Hey, Nicole." "Greg," she greeted. "I didn't know you were coming." "Surprise!" she cried, pretending to be frivolous, but rather she looked like she wanted to cry. There is a palpable emotional distance between us. "Your baby?" I ask, even though I know it's hers. Nicole looked down at the bundle of people. "Do you want to hold her?" I nod uncertainly. "Her name is Colette." "That's pretty." "I always knew I would call my child that one day. I just didn't think it would be so soon-" She didn't finish her sentence. Careful I take the little person with her. Baby powder and a sweet cream scent in the air. "You must be a good mother?" "I'm trying, but I feel so stupid." Nicole wipes over the baby's 66 face "Sometimes she cries and then I don't even know why. Or is she hungry, or is she tired, or what..." "Her father is helping you, surely?" Nicole lowered her head. "She's not a father, Greg." The words are raw. "Sorry." We stand there for a while in the gap between the. "What happened?" "A party. And one night with a guy. I can't even remember his name, it's the silliest of all. I just know he's from the Cape." She looked at me despondently. "I screwed up everything, Greg." "That is not true." "I could have gone swot, like you and all my pals. Now I change nappies in the middle of the night. And whine." I want to put my arm around her, but I can't. There is no to cross the chasm. "You'll be okay," I say unconvincingly, but hoping that it will be. I can't imagine myself in her situation, even if I want to. We have become different people. Who we thought we were and who we are wanted to be, is gone in a dream.  "I don't really know what to do," she said, wrapping her arms protectively around her body. "My dad-they don't want me to see you again, but I was hoping we could... Oh, shut up." The sea seems to take her and draw her into its depths. But I can't save her. When Nicole took Colette from me, our hands touched for a moment. There was once a spark in such a touch, but not anymore. There on the sidewalk in front of our house, that Friday afternoon, I finally realized: the feeling I once had for Nicole, however rare, is a thing of the past. I fly back to the Cape on Sunday evening. It was a weekend that changed me. My mother with another guy. My father in prison. And Nicole with the baby. Emotionally I feel drained. At Cape Town airport I get my car and drive to Stellenbosch. I only realized when I drove past the Spier wine estate that I didn't know 67 how I got here My thoughts were elsewhere all the time, stuck in a bottomless depth. I was already there, in my matric year. It's like I can't escape from it. Or maybe the darkness can't escape me. At my apartment I park, see my mother has sent a message. Please don't be angry with me about André. Oh, Mom... is all I reply. Another thing: Thomas Lawson and his wife invited you to dinner. I'm done with him and that school. I know. But Lawson is an important man. Influential. You never know when you will need someone like him. Do you remember what he told you back then? He has business ideas that we might collaborate on. And? Don't burn your bridges so you can make light in the dark. I sigh. Okay, Mom, I type then. Send the pin drop and time. I get my bag and walk up the stairs to my place. Unlock and walk inside. It is dark here too. I turn on the light. Then comes the feeling: Something is not right. My eye catches the laptop. The screen is up. I definitely closed it. My desk drawer is also slightly open. Here was someone in my place. The thought hits me like a punch. Quickly I run to the Conrad Botes painting where I hid the burnt book. Lift it off the wall. The envelope with the book is still stuck on the back, I see with relief. All my clothes are still here, as is the TV and the money on my bedside table. It's strange. Nothing is gone. If there was someone in my place, then what did they come here to do? For a moment I consider contacting the police, but they won't take me seriously if nothing is gone.  Still restless, I try to figure it out. Then I notice something on the sliding door of the balcony. Are they words? Yes, someone wrote in dark brown on the inside of the glass: You and your hacker buddy must leave me alone 68 Carefully I stand up. Step closer. The brown letters - that's blood! I stagger, but don't take my eyes off it for a moment. Fear throbbed in me. Does it come from the Baker? Who is the "hacker buddy"? Me and...? Just one thing please, Greg, I hear a voice from the past echo again. It was a journalist's, on his way home the night my life changed irrevocably. The guy the police are looking for - I have two names here: Eckardt Wilken and Ekk-0. Is that his real name? It takes a moment to fully register. Eckhardt? No, that's not his real name. I found this out later when I wanted to find out more about his father, the judge,'s disappearance. The information on Google was scant. But a hacked medical record mentioned his son's name. Xander. Not Eckardt Wilken. Xander Gericke. That's who he is. Or was. Or whatever. If the Baker was in my apartment tonight, he probably thinks Xander and I are working together to get him. It's ridiculous. Or maybe not... I'm going to get a bucket of water and a scrub brush to clean up the blood. It's nasty. But it will take more to make me abandon my plan, I decide. Stubborn as always. As I scrub off the blood, a plan slowly takes shape. I haven't exactly been able to get the dog off the hook with my search for the Baker. What if I get Xander to help me? Oh no, that's as in completely flippant crazy. He ruined our family. Why would I ask him to help me? I will never be able to trust him. Broken Trust. The bench by the gallery, remember, Greg? What if he has further dark plans? No, I would never do that. I would never ask Xander. But one should never say "never". A week later, after countless phone calls, internet searches, and two hacking attempts, am i 69 still where I was that Sunday night. Exactly nowhere. Again the thought comes to me: There is only one person who will be able to help me, and that is Xander Gericke. After all, he first found out about Project Nursery Rhyme. Maybe he knows more about it. Maybe he even knows who the Baker is. But should I do it? i wonder Should I contact him again now, after everything that happened? Should I make a deal with the devil 70 Back in the underworld I give myself time to properly consider the decision while also paying attention to my swottings. Should I contact Eckardt... Xander? The question was still running through my mind when I set off for Clifton late one Frida