leans forward. “If you had to speak without thinking, what would your heart say?”
“I don’t know. I’m getting older, the clock is ticking. But the home I grew up in … it wasn’t easy. Don’t we get most of our bad habits from our parents?”
“Some, perhaps, but not all of them. Some are entirely our own. Our own fault as well.”
“You’re probably right.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. What should I do? I certainly don’t want to continue the discussion. “Are you sure you don’t know anyone called Adriana?”
“You said her last name was De Klerk?”
“Yes.”
A voice at the window makes me jump. I search for the weapon behind my back.
“Goodbye, Dominee,” says the old man who was mowing the lawn a moment ago. “See you the day after tomorrow.”
Liesbet turns so he can read her lips. “Bye, Oom Freddie. Take care now.”
When she sits back in her chair I know I didn’t let go of the Glock in time.
She hesitates a moment. “What’s that behind your back?”’
“Nothing.”
“A gun? We don’t allow weapons in the church.”
I keep silent. What can I say?
“Ranna … Are you really here to talk?”
I shake my head slowly. “No.”
The gate slides open, then closes. Probably Oom Freddie leaving on his bike.
“Who are you?”
“Police.”
“Show me your ID.”
I hold up my hands “Okay, wait. Adriana de Klerk sent me.”
“So you’re not from the police?”
“No.”
In the ensuing silence I hear a door open. Did Oom Freddie leave something behind?
Instantly I am on my feet.
Suddenly I know what has been bothering me: Liesbet neglected to lock the door when we came in.
She lowers her right hand to the side of her chair, her eyes never leaving me. She searches in her handbag, takes out a cellphone. But she doesn’t use it, just gazes at me calmly.
“There’s no money in the building. I promise.”
I shake my head. “I’m not looking for money. Adriana …”
The approaching footsteps are cautious, but heavy enough to make the floorboards creak. I make out three pairs. Six feet.
It can’t be the flowers Liesbet is expecting. It doesn’t take three men to deliver a wreath.
Liesbet’s eyes tell me she also heard the footsteps.
I take two steps to the office door, open it, cross the floor to the vestry door and turn the key in the lock. Turn back to Liesbet.
My phone rings. I grab it from my pocket. “Adriana?”
“Get Liesbet and go. At once!” She sounds breathless.
“What’s going … Are you okay?”
“Liesbet. Hurry!” The phone dies.
I draw the Glock out of the holster behind my back. Motion to Liesbet: Come with me.
The calm expression vanishes from her face. “Wait, I …”
“Shh!” I whisper urgently. “The footsteps you heard … Those men have come to hurt you.”
“It might be the flowers …”
“It’s not.” I pull her roughly to her feet. “Is there an outside door?”
She points at the opposite end of the vestry. “Behind the curtain. But I …”
“Come!”
She resists, her body heavy and unwilling.
I force myself to speak calmly. “Liesbet. Trust me. Please.”
She shakes her head, wrestles her hand from mine, makes for the vestry door, as if her salvation lies with the men outside.
“Reverend Fey?” The voice on the other side of the door is deep, impatient. “We must speak to you urgently.”
Liesbet freezes in her tracks.
“Come, in heaven’s name,” I hiss.
The brass doorknob turns.
“It’s locked. Break it down,” the same voice says.
A hard jolt makes the door shudder in its frame.
Liesbet comes to life. She whirls round, grabs her handbag, runs for the outside door behind the curtain, hunting for her keys.
The vestry door splinters in the centre.
Liesbet pushes a key into the lock. Wrong one.
I turn, my back against hers, pistol in my hand.
She keeps fumbling, her breathing shallow and fast.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I pray softly.
Another violent blow against the door. “Reverend Fey, come now. Don’t be difficult,” says the man on the other side.
At last the right key. Liesbet unlocks the door, then the security door.
Behind us the door of the vestry caves in.
We run. Liesbet heads for the Renault.
“My car!” I say.
She swerves to follow me to the Hilux, raises the remote control. The gate slides open.
“Shaquel! Stop them!” a voice calls behind us.
I dig in my jacket pocket for the bakkie’s keys.
I look up to see a man come running through the gate. A tough, wiry man, with a tough, wiry face. A rat with a pistol in his hand and bright-orange takkies on his feet.
My eyes search up and down the street. Where is everybody? All the cars that were there a while ago have gone. The pavement is empty, except for an old black BMW 3 Series with shiny rims.
I
