They cut the mirror straight away. Sixteen by twenty-five. Ten rand fifty.
And then they just came back home again.
Poor Pop. She watched him from behind as he walked over the loose blocks to go pee, with the mirror in his arms. The house stank terribly of smoke. And there was soot all over the walls. It looked like there’d been a war. Pieces of burnt, black paper were flying about everywhere, inside and outside. Pop waved his arms, trying to catch the stuff. But when he did catch a piece, it was like catching nothing. When he opened his hand, there was no more than a black smear on his palm. He showed it to her, as if she knew the answer. But what could she say? All she could do was wipe his hand with her own, and then she got the soot on her hand too.
When he finished peeing, he pulled the last piece of mirror off the cabinet and began fitting the new one. But it was too big. A hair’s breadth too big. Not even. So Pop put the little mirror down in the bath. He’d in any case forgotten to buy glue. He’d make a plan later. Or Lambert would.
So then they came out and sat down here in front. She tried to talk to Pop, to keep his mind occupied. About mattresses, how they should get a new one for Lambert, or pass theirs on to him and buy themselves a new one, ’cause they were two to a bed. And they were old. But Pop didn’t want to talk. He looked like he didn’t even want to live any more. His chin just kept sagging lower and lower on his chest. She was still talking when she saw he was fast asleep.
Now she looks at Pop, here next to her. He’s kicked off his shoes in front of him. He’s still wearing the same socks he had on this morning, when they were sliding and slipping around in the passage. It’s his only pair. Worn right through at the heels. All his toes stick out in front. The toes look like fingers. Black from soot. Shame, poor Pop.
As he sits there, she stares at all the bits of his body. He looks like his joints are too thin, like all the places where his hands and feet and head should be fixed to his body are joined by nothing more than the power of mercy. Mercy. Suddenly she feels she dare not look away, ’cause if she does, the mercy won’t hold any longer. And then Pop will break apart, right here next to her, all along his joints. And she would’ve been the only one who could’ve kept him together, just by looking. So she looks and looks. Her eyes get heavy. She must just not fall asleep now. Everything depends on her. The joints in Pop’s body. And what would she amount to, without him?
Suddenly the front gate creaks. It’s Treppie. Thank God, he’s back from the Chinese. Now there’ll be some life in this place. She fingers her bun at the back and pins the loose pieces back into place.
HAPPY GUY FAWKES 
‘Happy Guy Fawkes,’ Treppie says loudly as he walks in through the front door. Mol indicates he must shush, Pop’s sleeping.
‘Happy fuck-up,’ says Treppie, even louder. He pulls a handful of Tom Thumb crackers out of his trouser pocket. ‘Here, Mol, I got these from the Chinese. I thought maybe you’d want to salute the day. Twenty-one shots into the sky. For the heroes who died. And for the one who had a fit.’
She takes the crackers from Treppie and puts them into her housecoat pocket.
‘Has that fucker come to yet?’
She shakes her head.
‘Maybe you should put the crackers into a golden syrup tin and throw some matches in as well. Right next to his head. Shock treatment. Maybe then he’ll wake up. Off with a bang, on with a bang. Bang! Bang!’ says Treppie, pretending to shoot a pistol into the sky.
‘They say there’s no harm in trying your best shot,’ he says, ‘or do you really want a little melon in the house? Sorry, kaffir-watermelon!’ Treppie sits down on a crate. He takes out his pocket-knife and slaps it, ‘ka-thwack’, on to the palm of his hand. He looks at the knife. Then he looks at Mol. Slowly, he pulls out the smallest blade.
‘Frog-killer,’ he says softly, ‘a man’s best friend. Frog-skins, mole-skins, mole-necks, mole-tails!’
He looks at Mol again.
Mol’s looking hard at Pop. She wants him to wake up now. She leans forward, out of her chair, towards him. ‘Pop, Pop, wake up. Treppie’s here.’
‘Here I am again, with a pocket-knife to your brain.’ Treppie kicks Pop’s feet.
Pop wakes up. ‘Treppie.’ He swallows hard.
‘What you think, Pop? I was saying to Mol, she must stuff that, er, buster of yours full of crackers and bang him awake. Then she can get even with him for that time when he locked her into the fridge with the Peking Ducks. Then they’ll be quits, after all these years. Then they can start with a clean slate, all over again.’
Treppie gets up quickly. He pulls Mol out of her chair, holding the knife against her throat. ‘March!’ he shouts into her face, turning her towards the passage.
‘Come, Pop, it’s time for fireworks!’ Treppie laughs. Mol can’t work out if he’s serious or not. She tries to wriggle herself loose.
‘Let her go!’ Pop says.
But Treppie won’t let go. He pushes her down the passage, holding the knife to her throat. She hears Pop coming after them. Is there no end to this day’s evil?
Once in the den, Treppie pushes her backwards, against Pop. She and Pop almost fall over. But Pop holds steady. Mol pulls Pop so he’s standing next to her. Treppie looks at Lambert. First look, then kick. One, two, three kicks. There goes the blanket. Lambert doesn’t come to, he just groans. He looks like a sea-creature, floating belly-up. A white belly.
Treppie shifts the Tedelex. They must look, he says, he’s going to show them MOLE II’S younger sister. And then he shows them, piece by piece, what those scratches on the wall are. Terrible. Pop looks the other way. Treppie sings:
‘Head in the ice-box
Cracker in the twat
Belly all pink
Mole I can smell the rot …’
Sis.
‘Enough!’ says Pop. He pushes her towards the door. He wants her out of here. He looks like he wants to talk to Treppie, alone. But she stays right there, in the doorway. She watches Pop as he tries to get his sentences lined up, but his mouth just opens and closes. Treppie’s one up on him again.
‘Shut your mouth, Pop, or you’ll start catching flies,’ says Treppie.
Pop shuts his mouth.
‘There’s nothing you can say to me, brother,’ Treppie shouts, ‘’cause I’m fully educated in suffering, so to speak. Let me tell you my latest insight. The worst two feelings you can have at the same time are to be hopping mad and to be bored out of your skull.’ Treppie’s shouting so hard into Pop’s face that Pop takes a step backwards. He stumbles over the rubbish on the floor and almost falls over again. Mol pushes him up, from behind.
Has Pop heard of the word implode? Treppie asks. That’s the way big buildings explode, from the inside, when they’ve got dynamite in their seams. And has Pop seen how those buildings collapse neatly in a heap. In a heap, ready for taking away. Without even disturbing the traffic.
Pop shakes his head. He can’t say he’s seen that.
No, he doesn’t expect Pop will understand. So, instead he’ll talk a language they both understand. As for her, she must stop hiding away there, behind Pop. She must come out from behind that door and open her eyes. It’s meant for her too, this insight of his. ’Cause it’s connected to a wish, and after all she’s an expert in wishful thinking.
Pop holds her hand. Treppie’s shoulders are twitching. ‘I wish I could cut my own fucken neck off, but for that a person needs a chainsaw. One that cuts on its own. Then all you have to do is get the angle right. Hold it nice and tight until it gets a good grip on the meat of your throat.’
Treppie shows them how. He pretends he’s got the saw in his hands. His whole body shudders, and when the shuddering stops, his shoulders twitch.