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I promise myself that I will shower after my run in the morning.

She orders a drink and lights a cigarette and then lights another and another and then orders a second drink and lights a cigarette. Nathan is so emotionally dead that it’s hard to accept that he was acting out of misguided empathy for Madge, and further violence only makes him more repulsive. I go with them to make sure they don’t drop her or something on the way. After taking steps to concoct an alibi and frame an innocent store customer of hers, he strangles Madge with her scarf.But Madge is dying slowly of cancer, and when she asks Nathan to end her pain, she sets off a shocking string of events. A modern-day answer to Crime and Punishment, My Name Is Nathan Lucius is a taut and unforgiving exploration of the intersection of violence, trauma, social responsibility, and memory. Or else he’ll draw wizards or witches who look like they’ll hex you right off the page. He gives his witches and wizards to drinking dads to give to their kids. He runs marathons and climbs rocks and cycles up mountains. Sometimes he’ll join us at Eric’s and have an orange juice. If I’m busy with Sonia and Dino appears I’ll find a reason to go back to my desk. The weirdness of pumping away at some strange woman’s chest and then putting my mouth over hers makes me break a sweat. If it’s quiet he’ll draw with a pencil on a large white pad while we chat. He’ll draw kitschy Bavarian alpine scenes if he’s feeling uninspired. With the same mountain and the same trees and the same small-windowed house. Like it’s trying to push the house into the ground. I suppose that life might add up by way of an extra hundred and fifty kilograms. It’s gone yellow over time and the corners have curled up. He is proud of the fact that he does only hard news. He splays his legs and puts his hands behind his head and generally inhabits the whole of Sonia’s cubicle. Demons that threaten to drag you into the paper with them. Long ago he pinned one of his alpine scenes to the edge of a shelf. As usual he’d started with an outline of the mountain. Sometimes Sonia’s boyfriend comes up from the newsroom to visit her. He has no problem with filling the spaces between ads. He is bilingual and we all know that he writes for the local Afrikaans daily on the side. Once some old greybeard took his face out of his whisky glass and tried to give Dino a hard time about the juice. He takes over the chair I’ve been sitting on and kind of lies on it. You measure the spaces in centimetres up and by columns across. It’s like measuring something in so many cubits high by so many wombats wide. Double pages used to cost as much as a small house back then. Now we have to “add value” by “bundling” sales in the print edition with online sales. The bosses say we have to keep the print edition going. She has a great wild bush of blonde hair and little blue Renée Zellweger eyes. She tells me, frequently, that her commission was so good back in the day that she didn’t know what to do with her money. Something in her face tells me she has a smile waiting. Often the news in the morning edition doesn’t get much past page twelve. Sometimes you’ll find that page twelve is already in the business supplement. It worries me that the journos can only find enough stories to fill twelve pages. Maybe it’s enough to put them off writing past page twelve, the knowledge that you’re just writing around ads for cars or margarine. In the three years I’ve been here it’s become harder and harder to sell ad space even though the spaces have got smaller. Everyone is reading the news on their phones or their tablets or whatever. In summer Sonia wears no bra and cotton tops that don’t hide her long nipples. When she was straight she was very good at her job. She keeps looking at me as if she is trying to catch my eye.

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