The bed where Ryland snored softly and where Sylvie slept propped up to avoid heartburn was a landscape of spotless white linen. Every night, after Sylvie showered, she removed the pink cushions and settled them on a low bench at the foot of the bed. Both she and Ryland had good bedside lamps. Her husband’s lit up a copy of the latest Wilbur Smith and his revolver, while on Sylvie’s side was a small pile of books that included Prayers for Women, Baking Without Sugar, and 1001 Suduko Challenges.

That night it had been warm and before going to bed they had both sprayed their ankles and necks with Peaceful Sleep so they could leave the window open for the breeze. The curtain fluttered now in a sudden gust and a dog in the compound barked.

Ryland opened his eyes.

Next to him Sylvie sighed and coughed but then her breathing evened out again and he knew she was still asleep. There were more dogs unsettled now and he wondered who was moving around at this time of night. He sat up and swung his legs out of bed and rubbed his rough hands over his face, then got up and went to the loo. A minute later he was back, and for a while he stood at the open window and listened.

He was alert now and he put on his gown, picked up the revolver, which was loaded, and, leaving his slippers off so he wouldn’t make a noise, he padded down the passage, stopping and cocking an ear in the doorway of every empty room.

When he came to lounge he heard a soft scraping at the window. Sylvie had drawn the heavy velvet curtains, which made the room pitch black, but he could hear whispering and he knew that whoever was there was working at the burglar bars.

Ryland was completely familiar with the room, which had had the same heavy wood furniture arranged the same way since he was a boy. All that had changed over the years were the colour of the cushions and the lounge suite, which had been reupholstered after the children left for university. He moved without hesitation in the dark to a straight-backed chair pushed up against the wall in the far corner. He was glad his gown and pyjamas were navy.

Two years in the army as a young man and then hunting on the farm had ingrained in Ryland the value of camouflage. He was composed and calm when the first intruder came through the window. The man opened the curtains and, as they handed their ropes and pangas through the window, he saw there were three of them. They wriggled through the tiny space, whispering to each other in Zulu.

“Mzwempi, you kill the farmer while we have time with his wife and take what we can before the workers come.”

Ryland lifted the revolver and, using every one of his senses, took aim so that each of the three shots he fired hit a different shadow, splattering blood and sinew on the fresh lounge chairs.

***

Tell us: What do you think has happened to Mzwempi since he was begging at the traffic lights?