The Afrika Reich

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HIS father had a special name for it: Hiobsbotschaft. From the Old Testament, Job’s news. The type of news you didn’t want to hear. News brought on the wind of shipwrecks. Or by breathless messengers arriving with the dawn.

In an instant Burton was awake. He had never slept well, not since he was a child. Outside he heard the sound again.

Whump.

He moved to the curtains, drew them open a sliver, and peered out – like an archer at the window of a besieged castle. The sun was pink and fresh on the horizon. It had rained again in the night.

Another whump: the sound of wheels as they hit potholes in the driveway. Burton had been meaning to fill them in for months, to make everything perfect for Madeleine. Except now maybe she wasn’t coming. Why else would someone be driving to his door at this hour unless to bring bad news?

The car was a Daimler, the latest model, its paintwork brighter than vinyl. As it approached Burton made out two figures inside: a chauffeur and passenger in the back. The passenger’s face was obscured by a newspaper. Or maybe a large, unfolded map.

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