Free The World Beneath by Janice Warman

too; they weren’t musty and damp. There was no peeling plaster and no smell of paraffin, no scratching of mice behind the walls.
    Oh, the mice. In his mother’s room, they had woken once and found the bag of sugar nibbled at the corner. All the white sugar had run out onto the floor, and there were little mouse tracks in it. And tiny strings of mouse poo, like black beads. After that, they got a tin for the sugar.
    They still had to use the maid’s bathroom, though. It was in the corner of the courtyard, behind the clotheslines. It was always freezing in there, and the hot water, piped across from the main house, was lukewarm by the time it dribbled into the rust-stained bath.
    It was the same bath that they washed Betsy in.
    The rain began, thrumming against the windows, rushing through the gutters, and to its comforting sound, he fell asleep.
    There was something wrong. He could feel it as soon as he woke. Beauty still breathed quietly beside him, hand under her cheek, her wide mouth curved up at the corners.
    The streetlight shone in. The rain had stopped, and the house was quiet.
    He held his breath. The kitchen was below them; he thought he could hear a chair leg shift on the linoleum. And then a murmur, a voice. No: two voices.
    He padded down the stairs. At the baize door, he hesitated: he was too short to see through its porthole. He crept into the dining room; it had a door into the back hall. This he opened a crack. Betsy woke and looked at him; he put his hand up, telling her to stay where she was. She put her head down on her paws again, looking up at him from her wrinkly, red-rimmed eyes.
    He strained to hear. The voices belonged to Mrs. Malherbe and, although it seemed incredible, to Tsumalo. What could he possibly say to her? What could she say to him? Why hadn’t she called the police? Then he heard a third voice. Of course. Robert.
    “I know it looks bad, Ma,” he said. “But it’s the safest place for him. Nobody is looking for him here. And it’s only till they come for him in a couple of days. Then he’ll be leaving the country, and you’ll never see him again.”
    “You know very well how I feel,” came Mrs. Malherbe’s dry voice. “You have your right to your beliefs. But what about me? If he’s discovered here — despite what you say . . . And what about Gordon? If Gordon —” Mrs. Malherbe had sounded weary to the core; now she sounded fearful. “Oh, Robert!”
    “I will leave.” Tsumalo’s deeper voice. “I will go. I do not mean to bring trouble to your house.”
    “No!” It was Robert. “It would be suicide. Ma, you don’t realize. If they get him, they’ll kill him. But not before they’ve tortured him. I can’t put it clearer than that.”
    Mrs. Malherbe sighed and was silent. “Well, then, he can’t go. Can he?” she said finally. “Mr. Ngenge, you may stay. But you must move into the house. It will be safer. We have a box room. It’s hardly luxurious, but Mr. Malherbe has never set foot in it.”
    “There is a bed.” Joshua could hear her push the chair back and get to her feet. “Robert will give you some sheets from the cupboard. Beauty can look after you.” She laughed shortly. “I’m sure she does already. So my big grocery bill isn’t just because the boy is growing so fast; it’s because of our extra guest.”
    There were footsteps toward the door, and Joshua shrank back. “Robert, I am going to bed. Good night, Mr. Ngenge. Please excuse me.”
    “Good night, Madam. Thank you, Madam.”
    Joshua shut the door as quietly as he could and crouched in the dark as Mrs. Malherbe went through the baize door, down the corridor, and slowly up the stairs.
    As soon as he heard her door close, he ran lightly up to the spare room, the brass carpet rods cold beneath his toes.
    Beauty stirred as he got back into the bed. He lay as still as he could, hardly breathing, thinking he would never sleep again.

I n the morning, the sky was clean and the clouds were