DisinfectantBy Jessica Liebenberg
THE BLACK man in the garden stumbled along the wall, leaning on it as if he were drunk. The brick tore the sleeve of his shirt, and his right arm dragged behind him as if broken. With his soiled clothing and emaciated frame, he could have been mistaken for a beggar, if you still saw any around. But you rarely did.
K watched from inside his lounge with the lights off. He had been perfectly still, watching the stumbling figure for a number of minutes. It must have followed him in by the gate when he arrived home.
He could call Greg, but Greg would panic. And after he panicked, it would be a fight. “Move into the estate with me.” And all his rebuttals—that the suburbs were still safe, that his house was out of danger—were now void.
There was a number, a c
