S onder ripped off his tie, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt. What a fucking mess the day had been. He poured a glass of whiskey and lit one of his most expensive cigars. Sitting in a chair his mother would have skinned him for smoking in, he took a puff, exhaled, let the smoke envelop him as he looked at the sculpture Atta was so enamoured with.

He heard the sound of gravel crunching beneath tyres and looked at the clock. It was half past eleven. Setting his cigar and whiskey down, he went to the door, opening it to find Atta standing there, a box under one arm and an old carpetbag in the other.

“I’m sorry,” she hiccuped. “I didn’t know where else to go.”