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Take your average young working man from his familiar surroundings in England's industrial north and drop him into Paradise.
But Paradise has its dark side: it's called Apartheid. How will Ed Stranton cope with a society which cossets him, looks after his every material need, as long as he does, says and thinks only what is expected of him? Is Ed ready for South Africa in the Apartheid Era? How can he cope with the break-up of his young family; what will he do with his new freedom in the aftermath? A freedom which drives him across the colour bar and against the servants of the brutal regime. All he wants is love, he thinks. What he gets is something much more. Get inside the head of a young man wrestling with waywardness, guilt, insecurity, and love in its many guises, all wrapped up in the rutting lust of a healthy young animal. The male reader will squirm with its home truths, and every woman will see her man in a new light. Contains some bad language and explicit sex scenes.
Excerpt
(In the club.)
‘Ever had a black girl, Ed?’
Bar talk.
I laughed. ‘Sure, Rob, I’m gonna admit it, and blow my chances with our own women. Not to mention the cops — some bugger would shop me for sure.’ The words came out slurred; I was too far gone to care.
‘There are ways round it. You just gotta be careful.’
That from my mate, Acker — all mouth and beer gut. ‘Anyway, we’re not living in the fifties. Things are changing.’
‘Not so as you’d notice,’ said Rob. ‘You still get jailed for poking a black girl. Christ, what a place.’
‘Look,’ I insisted, ‘we may not agree with apartheid, but we have to live with it, or get the hell out of South Africa. I’ll stick with my own kind. It’s safer.’ And the thought stabbed through my booze-soaked brain: God, you’re a hypocrite, Ed. Be a man — tell them!
(Stolen moments.)
‘You smell lovely,’ I said, and kissed her neck, drinking in the sweet aroma as we shuffled round the spare bedroom. Jim Reeves was setting the mood nicely, his soft voice floating in from the lounge through two open doors. I had chosen this room for its isolation: at the rear of the house and away from the back stoep.
The girls’ beds had long since been dismantled. The pieces leaned against one wall, reminders of earlier days. I didn’t come into this room much any more.
Tinie’s bedside cabinet served as our bar. A half-jack of Bols brandy, ten empty Lion bottles, and a half-full beer glass crowded its top, with a litre bottle of Coke standing sentry duty at its base. Anna’s brandy glass lay on its side in a corner; its dregs had trickled out and stained the plastic floor tiles.
Anna’s scent was familiar: Coty Lamont. Elaine’s favourite. Anna must have been sampling the bottles in the bathroom. I didn’t mind; she could take the lot — Elaine wasn’t coming back for it. Anna snuggled up close as we danced. She was still warm and moist from her bath, and my shirt had soaked up as much dampness as the towel she was draped in. Her clinging nearness registered all along my body, and Charlie reacted stiffly to the heat; Anna could not fail to notice the change.
She smiled up at me. ‘One more drink, master, and then —.’
‘No, pet, you’ve had enough brandy for tonight. We don’t want you getting sick, do we?’
‘No drink? Okay. I am going to bed. Goodnight, my master.’
She pushed herself away from me and flitted through the door, coming to a stop in the hall. She couldn’t leave the house dressed like that: her bathtowel had slipped so often she’d settled for wearing it like a skirt. Which way would she go? Straight on, to the lounge and out to her khaya; or left into the master’s bedroom? She giggled and turned left. I laughed and ran after her.
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