Out of Shadows by Jason Wallace

their side, He’d protect them. So they stayed: Klompie, his mum and dad and baby sister, a priest, and the nuns. Plus theblack workers. They thought they were good blacks, but just goes to show you can’t trust a Kaffir because this lot didn’t just steal food for the terrorists, they opened up the door to them. The gooks slaughtered everyone, even the blacks who’d let them in.”
    â€œWhy?” I asked. There was nothing else to say.
    â€œGooks don’t need a reason. They shoved everyone in a storeroom and just opened fire.”
    Ivan’s voice stayed flat and even, his eyes training on something unseen.
    â€œBut De Klomp—Klompie—survived,” I said.
    â€œOf course. Only because they wanted him to, though. Africans are born cruel, it’s the way they are, but not all of them are stupid. They often made sure someone was left to tell of what they’d seen. That’s what terrorists do. As it happens Klompie didn’t speak for a full year after that. He lives with his aunt and uncle now in Berg, and he won’t step foot on a farm or anywhere too rural, so God knows why they sent him to a school out in the sticks with bastards like Greet.”
    â€œ
Ja
, he’s such a bastard,” I echoed.
    â€œIt’s not Greet’s fault,” Ivan surprised me. “He’s in his rights as a senior to beat us. It’s the Kaffirs’ fault really, they’re the ones who did this to Klompie. It was the Kaffirs. Don’t you see that? Don’t you get it?”
    I found myself nodding.
    â€œ
Ja
. I get it.”
    We were almost at the house.
    â€œHe’ll deal with it,” Ivan said, “because that’s what we all do. Deal with it and move on.”
    For how long, though? I wondered. “And what if he can’t?”
    But he didn’t answer that one.
    â€œYou showed big machendes jumping to save him,” he said instead. “
Huge
gonads, flying off the edge like you couldn’t give a shit. You think you’re Superman or someone?”
    He gripped my shoulder. There it was at last, what I’d been wishing for.
    â€œThat’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” I felt proud.
    â€œ
Ja
. But you’re sounding like a Pom again, don’t say things like that. As far as I’m concerned you’re one of us now. You belong here. With us.”
    That word:
belong
.
    And I thought,
Yes, I do
.
    â€œAnd if that’s the case”—Ivan’s grip tightened with meaning—“you don’t want to be hanging around that Nelson bloody Ndube. I just told you what his sort are capable of, you can’t trust him. Steer well clear. Don’t you see? Don’t you?”
    This time I said it. “Yes, I do.”
    â€œAnd what’s the deal with you and Prior the Wire? You and snake-boy have been hanging around like a couple of bum chums.”
    â€œI guess I feel sorry for him.”
    â€œWell don’t, the guy’s a wanker. You don’t want to stick with him, not if you’re going to get through this place. I swear he dreams of taking it up the arse.”
    I saw a way of affirming my position at the top of the ladder and took it.
    â€œI think he wets his bed.”
    Ivan turned keenly. “He does?”
    â€œOnce. I think. His PJs were wet and he hid them quickly after he got up.”
    â€œWe can’t have that. I think it’s time the Mess Police conducted a little experiment, to see if you’re right.”
    The Mess Police.
    More school folklore, another story of a time gone by when a whole dorm had apparently conspired to make some poor individual wet the bed.
    They’d pretended to sleep as normal, and when the one closest to the victim had signaled the All Clear, everyone had crept slowly around. They’d carefully put the guy’s hand into a bowl of cold water, and then, very gently, dripped a few drops right next to his ear. It took a