Emmanuel bent over to retrieve the scattered contents of Joe Flowers's pockets and the yard tilted. He sat cross-legged and waited for the fog to clear. Susannah tiptoed to his side and kneeled on the cracked cement. The baby doll had evidently fallen asleep and she held it still. Emmanuel collected the rolling tobacco and the ripped Bioscope ticket stamped with today's date. Joe had spent the afternoon in the dark, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and watching Joan Crawford chew the scenery as a scarred Swedish beauty with revenge on her mind.

Emmanuel examined the tobacco. It was rough-cut and cheap with not a hint of chocolate or honey. There never had been much sense to be found in the idea that Joe was the killer or the shooter on the Bluff, but the possibility had been something, like a lucky rabbit's foot.

'Did you ever see Joe drive a car?' he asked Susannah.

'No, he doesn't have a car. Not even a bicycle. He runs good though.'

'That he does,' Emmanuel said.

Joe's stable of sisters was down to one so even a bicycle would be luxury transport. And there was the little matter of a lack of a driver's licence, which was no bar to Joe actually driving but added another layer of improbability. Three days on the run and Joe's main concern had been his sick mother.

'Is Joe going to eat the stew Anne made for him?'

'Not tonight,' Emmanuel said.

'Has Joe gone back to jail?' 'Yes, he has.'

'That's where my pa is,' Susannah said. 'Do you have a ma and pa?'

'No.'

'A sister?'

'Yes, but she's not here in Durban.'

'Has she gone away like Jolly?'

'Something like that.'