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wasn’t what I had wanted. Not really. That was just a little game. A silly teenage fantasy. I wanted to deny even to myself what I had been up to. And it was not too late to back off. No. He was still only guessing. I could say that there was nothing, absolutely nothing else bothering me. But then, I could also find out what he was thinking and then back off. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can, I can, can, can, can: ‘Sir, do you remember, last year, Sir?’
    He frowned. ‘What about last year?
    Silence. A drop of perspiration trickling down my back. I must speak. I must. But the possibility, the likelihood, of this thing turninghorrible now threatened to dumb me. I cannot do it. I knew, had all along; cannot go through with it. Speak, Mr Cilliers, you say something. I must get out. It’s all wrong and he’s going to cause endless shit. What am I doing! I must think up something now to make him think he’s misunderstood...
    ‘Have you been doing it again?’ he asked.
    Eyes, terrified on his.
    The face was open, even affectionate. Nothing there to say he would break this confidence. He won’t, he won’t: ‘No. No, Mr Cilliers. I’ve just . . . It’s just that I’ve started having dreams.’ I felt dizzy at the tension, the sight of the man in front of me, the fear, the lies. Lies: saves that came in the very instant of challenge. Not premeditated. Just there, ready to jump like frogs from my mouth. Talk, cunt. Please talk now before I turn and run.
    ‘What dreams, Karl?’
    ‘Dreams of those things, Sir.’
    ‘What sort of dreams?’
    ‘It’s not just the dreams, Sir. Sometimes when I wake up, it’s . . .’ A threshold; another I cannot cross.
    ‘Karl?’
    Yes, yes, yes: ‘Sticky, Sir.’ A faint smile again around his mouth and eyes. Now I dreaded him asking more about the dreams. Of those wet-affairs I knew nothing but for Dominic’s references and the vast little Lukas told, most of which I imagined was boast, anyway; I should have asked Dominic if it’s the same as just plain coming. Please let him not ask; please let him believe me.
    ‘Karl,’ he paused and stared from the window, ‘do you and the other boys still do what you did last year?’
    ‘No, never, Sir, I swear, please don’t tell Mr Mathison, Sir. You know how we were caned . . .’
    ‘Don’t worry. This is between us. I give you my word, Karl.’
    ‘Sir, something else .. .’Terrified, flushed and sweating, I rushed on. He rose from his chair, came round the desk towards me. Sat down on the edge of his desk, his feet a metre away from my sandals. He said nothing, waiting.
    ‘I’m afraid you may become angry at me, Sir. But I can’t help it.’
    ‘I won’t, Karl. I’ve promised you: this is confidential.’
    Again at my feet. Smelt horse from afternoon riding. Passed a hand swiftly beneath my nose. Then quickly, without looking up: ‘It’s you, Sir. In my dreams.’
    I sensed him rising from the desk. Saw his legs straighten and his shoes move off; heard him cross to the big glass doors and peer into the night. I gritted my teeth, too afraid to look at his back. A ridiculous mistake; going to backfire; if only he won’t tell, it’s still okay; if he talks; oh God, Bok; Jesus; the caning, no, never, the humiliation; so much burst through my mind; my hands contorted to fists and arms clasped to sides; what am I doing, what am I doing; going to piss myself; shaking; I want to vomit. Yes, I’ll—
    ‘You dream of me?’With his back turned. Still I could not lift my eyes from my feet. Lead weights balanced on my downturned eyelids. Could not blink, let alone move.
    ‘Please, Sir, I only told you because . . . because I thought maybe you could help me.’
    Only the crickets and the frogs. Fingers dug into my palms. If I had nails I could have made them bleed. Oh God, let my palms bleed; cannot stay here, must get out. Without thinking I was saying: ‘I must go, Sir. I should not have told you, Sir.