some things, about being spoiled and always taking the easy route, and now I realize that she was—”
“Stop right there.” Nya sets the glasses on the table. “You’ve got no idea how hard my life has been. Absolutely none. So don’t you dare judge me for how I’ve—”
“Wait,” Liyana protests, “I wasn’t—I didn’t—”
“No,” her aunt snaps. “You wait. You’ve been raised wanting for nothing. I gave your mother everything she needed to give you all that and more. And, after she died, I gave you even more. You’ve never had to compromise, you’ve never had to do things that twist up your soul in order to survive—so don’t tell me about being spoiled.”
Nyasha stops, knocks a wineglass off the table. It shatters on the stone floor. Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen. Liyana slumps back in her chair.
On the table the white wine in the bottle begins to turn red.
Liyana is pulling herself up from the table when the doorbell rings. Her first thought is of Mazmo, since he hadn’t received the news terminating their acquaintance with particular enthusiasm, so she hesitates. When it rings again, Liyana masters her reluctance and goes to answer it. Better now than later.
“Hello?” Liyana regards the two men—one short and fat, the other taller and fatter—standing on the steps below. Jehovah’s Witnesses, is her second thought. “How can I—?”
The taller man holds a letter up, then retracts it before she can read it. She’s never encountered such aggressive missionaries of God and wonders—
“This is a warrant of execution.” The short one speaks in a monotone. “It says we’re authorized to enter your property and seize all nonrented goods for the purpose of sale in order to pursue and settle your debts.”
“What?” Liyana stares at them. “What? I don’t—”
“Step aside, young lady,” the tall, fat one says. “We prefer a peaceful entry to an enforced one.”
“But we won’t hesitate to employ the latter if we must,” the short, fat one says.
The tall one steps up so he’s standing level with Liyana, looking down at her. She stumbles back into the hallway as he pushes past her, quickly followed by his colleague. They’ve stomped into the kitchen before Liyana’s caught up.
She stares at the men—already unplugging the espresso machine—feeling as if the water is rising too quickly, the waves crashing down.
“Stop that!” Nya stands in the doorway, poised and immovable. “This instant!”
The men turn to face her. The tall man doesn’t move, nor does he put down the red chrome Magimix. The short man steps over to Nya.
“The lady of the house, I presume?”
“You have no right to be here.” Nya’s voice freezes the waters in which Liyana feels herself drowning. “Get out, immediately.”
“Oh, but we have every right, lady,” the short man sneers. “You were sent a notice of enforcement seven days ago. You didn’t appeal it. So now we’re—”
“You’re not allowed to enter my premises without permission,” Nya snaps. “You will leave. Now.”
“You’re not wrong there, lady. But your daughter let us in, of her own free will, enabling us to carry out our duties to the fullest reaches of the law.” He nods back at the tall, fat man, who recommences his removal of the Magimix.
Nya glances at Liyana. “Did you let them in?”
Liyana nods.
“Jesus, Ana! Why would you do that? Now they can do whatever the hell they want, whenever—”
“I didn’t,” Liyana mumbles. “I didn’t . . .”
“You’ve got seventy-two hours to vacate the premises.” The short, fat man smirks. “An extra seventy-two if you appeal it. Either way, you’d better be out by Friday.”
Liyana spins round to face her aunt. “That’s not right, is it? They can’t do that—this house is still ours. We own it, we . . .”
Nya says nothing, but her look of pure sorrow and guilt is answer enough.
10:37 p.m.—Scarlet
To its credit, the insurance company doesn’t make her wait for the news. The email had arrived that morning. It’d taken Scarlet an hour to find the courage to open it. Its various sentences were the funereal soundtrack to her day. “I write in relation to your claim made for the ceiling repairs to the No. 33 Café. I am afraid that, following the report of our surveyor . . .” She shouldn’t have read on after that second sentence, but she’d had to twist the knife, to cut out the last growth of hope. “Given that you didn’t maintain the building in accordance with the landlord’s instructions, we are unable to meet the costs