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the clock like a huge unblinking eye—and all the buildings on my side of the road were unlighted and they were set back from the pavement and tall grass grew behind the low, broken walls. One of the places was missing a door and I could see someone had a fire going inside—thick smoke in the firelight, paraffin smell drifting out onto the street. A bit further down, a young couple were setting up camp for the night on a dry porch. Her back was to me but I could see she was holding something heavy and I remember thinking,
God, I hope that isn’t a kid
.
    A few hundred more metres down the road I saw the hotel. That guy at the juice place, Carl or Kris or whatever, he was right—you couldn’t miss it. It had a big piece of wall missing where the moon was shining through, and just in general, the way the walls looked shored up by a raft of seedy yellow light on the bottom floor, you just
knew
, it was obvious, it might as well’ve had a neon sign on the roof flashing DRUGS! DRUGS! DRUGS!
    I turned in through a rusty gate, up a little path and a wide, cracked staircase. The place had a big stoep and it was covered in bright light, like security light, giving everything sharp shadows and pluming my breath as soon as it came out my mouth. There was a barred gate in a wooden doorway and I went up to it and rang the bell. Inside smelled like bugs and wet carpets.
    I heard some floorboards creak and then two big guys appeared in the hallway. One of them had a piece of paper in his hand. Both of them were dressed in coats and scarves and beanies.
    “List?” one of them called.
    “I’m just looking for Bruno.”
    They came up to the gate.
    “He’s not here. On the list?”
    “Uh, maybe,” I said. “My name’s Carl.”
    “But on the list, what name?”
    “Kris.”
    He shook his head.
    “Pick one there for me,” I said.
    The guy who hadn’t said anything yet smiled. “Sorry, my brother,” he said. “Not tonight, nè?”
    “But, I mean, do you guys have?”
    “Maybe,” he said. “But you must organise. You must be on the list.”
    “I’ve got a pen here with me,” I said. “How much for you to fix the list? I’ll take anything.”
    The first guy who’d spoken to me—he was bigger than the other guy, and he had an awesome afro—walked up very close to the gate. He looked angry.
    He leaned with his hands on the metal and his mouth between the bars and he said, “There are cameras. He watches. If you don’t go now I have to chase you.”
    “If you chase me, can I buy something from you?” I said
    And I seriously didn’t even see him move
    But some of his knuckles came through the bars and got me right above the eye. While I was swearing and rubbing my forehead, I heard him say, “Sorry, sorry. Come tomorrow,” and then I heard him on the floorboards walking away.
    I went down the stairs and I was feeling so angry I just kicked the shit out of a little tree I saw planted in the lawn. It hurt my foot but it snapped so nicely, and I stood there with my hands on my knees and just breathed and breathed and I felt a bit better.
    But then I didn’t feel dizzy and vengeful anymore and I stood up and took my hands off my knees, and I looked at the tree, and I saw it’d been tied to some stakes and so the broken pieces were still floating there, sort of next to each other, not quite touching
    And I realised that was probably two years of work I’d just gone and cancelled forever
    And that probably made me more of a fuck-up than any- thing else that’d happened all day.
    I was in a mist the whole way back up the road—I mean in my mind, with feeling shit about myself, as well as the wet stuff that soaked through my hair onto my scalp, and made me puff water off my lips when I breathed and made it difficult to see anything except shadows and lights.
    I really wasn’t in the mood for a miracle.
    But sometimes life feels like that—like it’s only got two gears and if it’s not bloodless, it’s frenzied