QUOTE : Where is this?’ he asks. ‘Go. Walk. Go home,’ comes the answer. What was it that his mother used to say about such situations? Don’t spurn the goddess of wealth, waiting and ready at your hand, by pushing her away towards your feet. The thought of his mother brings a sudden constriction in his throat – have they robbed him of any kind of self-control, of masculinity? How will he ever find the words to ask her for forgiveness? He hobbles, stops, limps a bit more; no, he really cannot move. The policemen are watching him in silence. Should he crawl on all fours? He would be much faster if he did that. He tries walking on the sides of his feet; it is impossible after two steps. An axis of pain has brought together, in one rod, the discrete epicentres of where he has been worked upon – the right big toe, the soles of both feet, his raw, bloody left thigh – and is driving that into his entire body, from toe to head. He takes another couple of steps. ‘Run,’ comes an order. How can he run? He can hardly breathe. A shot rings out, then another. The first bullet gets him in the back of his skull, the second in his back, under his left shoulder blade. He falls to the ground face-down.