Wes opened the door and dashed into the bathroom. He dumped the paper into the toilet before dropping his pants to piss sitting down. Experience had taught that after jerking off, he would spray all over the place if he stood.
‘Wesley, is that you?’
His mother. He felt his cock and balls tighten.
‘Yeah, who’d you expect? And call me Wes, not Wesley.’ How many times did he have to tell her?
‘Dinner’s ready.’
He sighed. He stood up, examined the evidence one last time and then flushed it with a single pull of the handle.
His parents were already sitting at the kitchen table. You would think that, after a day in the butcher shop, sausages and hamburgers were the last thing in the world they would crave, but no, his parents consumed meat by the kilo. Father Bracke tolerated bread, vegetables and potatoes at most as a garnish; a meal was not a meal if it did not include at least one juicy hunk of meat. Tonight, pork chops were on the menu.
Was this the right moment to inform them of his new lifestyle choice? His father did not look particularly good-humored. More like a corpse in a slasher film. But what did it matter? He was going to hit the roof anyway.
When his mother prepared to dish him up a pork chop, he raised his hand in a defensive gesture.
‘No chops for me, Ma.’
The slab of meat floated above the table. His mother hesitated, looked over at his father. A drop of grease fell onto the tablecloth.
‘Are you sick?’
Wes shook his head.
‘I’m a vegetarian.’
The curse his father let out made the glasses in the china cabinet jingle.
-
2 | Tuesday
The sheep bounded up the hillside. Herman panted after it, his eyes fixed on the dark ball of fleece. The liquid concrete that seemed to fill his lungs hampered his breathing, his veins could no longer handle the rush of boiling blood, his head could explode at any moment. He did not know what he would find beyond the hill, but from the sheep’s excited trotting he concluded that it must be a paradise.
The sheep turned its head. Herman recognized the face of Walter De Gryse. He reached the top on his hands and knees, tugging himself up on the rough grass that cut into his bleeding hands. His nails broke on the dry earth, and sharp-edged rocks burned through the tender skin on his knees.
At the crest of the hill Herman scrambled to his feet, while the sheep galloped down the other side. He let out a yell. Thousands of wind turbines flapped and whined. An army of lunatics. A swarm of irate bees. At their feet, sheep thronged in a sea of teeming wool. Their bleating had a mocking sound to it.
He screamed.
Everything went black. A black comprised of the darkest possible tints of purple, speckled with shimmering white flecks. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he recognized Claire in the vague lump next to him. She did not budge. She snored quietly. Perhaps he had only screamed in his dream.
The alarm clock showed 2:13 a.m. This was the first time he had slept this long, about three hours. He knew he could forget about falling back asleep, because as soon as he opened his eyes the humming penetrated his brain like a bad song you can’t get out of your head.
Herman swung his legs out of bed and tiptoed out of the room. The shop was closed today, but before he started on the bookkeeping he wanted to whip up a batch of Blaashoek Pâté. The advantage of insomnia was that you never ran out of working hours.
◆
‘Come in, Saskia.’
Saskia got up from the orange plastic chair and went into Dorien Chielens’s office. The small sign next to the door Saskia had spent the past half-hour staring at said SOCIAL WORKER. The office was spacious but stuffy. The white furniture was meant to establish an air of clinical neutrality. Most of all, the room reflected Dorien’s chaotic nature: the desktop was covered with dossiers, and the filing cabinets offered a view of hanging folders stuffed with dog-eared papers. A mild feminine perfume mixed with the delicious scent of freshly printed paper.
Dorien opened a window.
‘A hot morning like this means there’s a storm brewing,’ she said. ‘And since there’s no air conditioning we just have to put up with the street noise.’
She smiled at Saskia, who sat hunched forward with the rejection letter clamped in her hand. She dared not look at it, because then she would start sweating.
‘Where’d I put … your dossier … ah,’ Dorien whispered as she pulled a thin manila folder from the bottom of a stack, opened it and gave it a cursory going-through. She had the expression of a doctor who had discovered a horrible disease.
‘Did you get here easily?’
‘Yes, fine, I caught the seven-thirty bus.’
Dorien looked at her watch and furrowed her forehead.
‘I’m sorry we didn’t have a place for you in the city. You live in, uh, what is Blaashoek, actually? A kind of subdivision?’
‘No idea, sorry.’ An awkward giggle escaped from Saskia’s throat, but she added quickly: ‘I like it there, you know. I’m happy in my apartment.’
Dorien smiled.
‘We’ll try to find something else for you, but I can’t promise anything. It’s awfully tight at the moment.’
‘It’s really not necessary. The people are nice. I enjoy living there.’
Dorien looked at her as though she had just said she liked living in a sewer. Then she slapped her hand on the dossier, like a judge about to pronounce a verdict.
‘Well, okay then, all the better. And can you get along with … who’s upstairs again? Freddy … ?’
‘Bienvenue.’
‘Ah, that’s right, Freddy was before him. M’yeah … the Senegalese guy. I don’t know anything about him, my colleague’s handling his dossier. But he’s all right, neighborly and all?’
Saskia nodded. ‘He’s awfully sweet. He helped me put my living-room furniture together. And it’s cute how he says bonjour when we meet.’
But when he talked, on the phone or when he had friends over, she was scared. Not of him, but of his deep voice. His bellowing laugh made her nearly jump out of her skin. In her experience, a raised voice always preceded a beating, just as thunder followed lighting.
Dorien fanned herself with a sheet of paper.
‘And how’s your dog? Do you take him for walks?’
‘Oh, yes, every day. Zeppos is a darling, he hardly ever barks.’
‘Okay, good. Remember to give him plenty of water, we don’t want him to dehydrate in this heatwave.’
Dorien smiled and puffed.
‘I take really good care of him. I even took him to the vet. He has to have his shots.’
‘And could you afford it?’ Dorien’s question felt swift and hard.
Saskia flushed. An itch on her back began to spread, just like her allergic reaction to Grandma’s cheap soap.
‘Yes, I had … I put money aside, I still have …’
She stuttered from the nerves. Dorien raised her palms in the air.
‘Relax, Saskia. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. I phrased my question a bit roughly. You know we …’
‘I’ve brought my bank statements.’ Saskia bent over to reach into her bag, a cloth