DONKER WEB: ENGLISH EDITION
PROLOOG
<html>
<body>
<h><b>Reboot</b></h>
<p> Disconnecting all device drivers, closing all programs, and restarting a computer's operating system. It can be
done for normal computer use or to help solve a problem. </p>
</body>
</html>
He steps into the dark hallway. It's like that evening when he found his dad in the
study. Before his eyes, he still sees his dad's large body bent over the desk when the
door opens. He sees the yellow envelope. Sees the 9mm pistol. His dad folds it into a
cloth and puts it away in the drawer. "You mustn't tell your mom. Okay? It's our
secret," says his dad. His face is tear-stained. "Go to sleep now."
Within him echoes his dad's voice as he stands there trying to make sense of what he
saw. He didn't even know there was a gun in the house. What is his dad doing with
one?
Finally, he turns around, walks to his room with his dad's words following him. "Night.
Sleep well…"
His dad says his name, but he doesn't hear it. It's as if the darkness picks it up and
hides it in the folds of his clothes. Now the darkness knows about him and will call
him. Call him by his name as if he belongs to the darkness. His real name, not just an
echo of it.
"Xander, is that you?" asks a voice now in the study. It's six months after he found his
dad there with the gun. He was eleven then. Now twelve. He had his birthday last
month.
"Yes, Dad?"
"Come in, boy."
Xander pushes the door handle down. The metal is still cold. The door that he pushes
open still smells of polish, just like last time.
"Everything okay?" asks his dad. He sits in a deep armchair by the fireplace. Papers
are scattered around him. In his hands, a Montblanc pen and an open book.
Xander's eyes glance over the large bookshelf, immediately noticing the spot where
the book was pulled out. It leaves a black hole between the green book spines.
"There's someone at the door for Dad," he says as he turns his head back.
"Did your mom let them in?"
Xander shrugs.
,"Do you know who it is?"
"Two uncles." He doesn't remember much. Sometimes his dad's work brings people
home. Mostly in suits. Crisp white shirts. Ties. These men were dressed differently. Just
jeans and black T-shirts that hugged their arms.
His dad puts the pen down and slowly closes the book. Frowns. "I'm not expecting
anyone. I'm rather busy, Xander."
"The one uncle said it's urgent."
"Didn't he give his name?"
Xander thinks a bit. "No, but he said Tok sent him. It's a strange name."
"Doc?"
"Yes!"
His dad gets up from the chair, suddenly in a hurry, as if he only now realizes what's
going on. His hand trembles as he touches his son. "Xander, find a place to hide.
Don't come out until I call you. Quickly! Hurry!"
Somewhere in the house, a woman screams. It shakes within Xander. He exhales
sharply. "Dad, what's going on? Was it Mom?"
His dad is beside him. Grabs his shoulders. "I love you, Xander. Remember that.
Always. No matter what happens." His dad quickly kisses him on the forehead.
There's a terrifying urgency to the kiss, to his words. "Think smart, okay, son? Go now,
hide. Immediately! Just go. Go!"
It's as if the darkness's cloak folds around him suddenly. As if it tightens around him,
and the more he tries to figure out what's going on, the tighter the grip becomes.
Still, his breath comes in short, stuttering gasps, and fear tears through his body.
Doc.
It has something to do with that.
"Judge Gericke…" he hears the visitor say.
Xander looks over his shoulder as he runs down the hallway. He sees the man's
shadows slide over the wall in the hallway.
It's like monsters have entered the house.
The fear wells up higher within him. Pulse through his brain. His mouth dry.
"Good evening, can I help you?" his dad asks from the foyer, where the light glows
softly. His voice is tense, dull, as if he's speaking from a bottomless depth.
Then Xander hears the punch, sees in the jerking shadow against the wall how his
dad collapses.
That's how fear feels: Fire flashes through your body, every nerve wakes up,
adrenaline throws your thoughts into overdrive, your eyes widen, your breath stops,
and your chest tightens. And you hear it – your own heart. Beat. Beat. Beat.
,CHAPTER 1: SKREE
<html>
<body>
<h><b>Herstelaandrywing</b></h>
<p> Any media, such as a flash drive, containing a backup of the original factory setup of a computer. It is used to
restore an operating system after a computer crash or data corruption or deletion. </p>
</body>
</html>
Greg Owen is deceased. A team of divers retrieved his body from the Canale
Grande in Venice yesterday.
That's what the newspapers in the Turret Media group report about me.
Greg Owen is dead.
Can it be true, after everything that has happened? Perhaps there is more to the
story.
Yes, I was in Venice, where the main canal winds through the city like a giant snake,
and yes, someone was pulled from the dark water. But other people were there with
me. There were five of us.
One of them is dead.
This is our story.
This is how it begins.
Our house in Sandhurst has become a shadowy place, mostly silent, except for an
occasional ringing of a cellphone, the sound of a car in the street, a chef cooking in
the kitchen, or when I deliberately blast music loudly to dispel the silence.
When you enter the house, walk down the hallway, or sit in the sunroom, there is
always this heavy feeling lying within you, like a coiled snake.
It started feeling like that the evening we arrived home after I left halfway through
matric at Lawson College, now a year and a half ago. Something like that. Time itself
has acquired a different meaning in this gloom.
Days sometimes passed while you struggled through it, numbed, only to wonder at
the end of such a day in court or wherever how you got through it. It was almost like
when your thoughts start to wander while driving, and later you wonder how on
earth you made it home because you can't remember any of the journey.
Business associates and people who were once good friends with my dad barely
kept themselves around. Always busy. It was as if they were afraid some stain would
rub off on them. One unlikely guy, however, showed up at our house one day,
holding a bouquet of flowers. "Let me know if there is anything you need, Mrs. Owen.
Anything at all."
Thomas Lawson. TJ, who was in matric with me, his grandfather.
, As if he owes my dad something.
And now that everything is over – school, Doc, and my dad's trial, the media frenzy –
the oppressive feeling in our house is still there. I realized this the last night lying in my
bed. Tomorrow is time for a fresh start, or so I tell myself. At some point, one must
move on. That's life.
I let my breath out slowly, my eyes fixed on the wall across the bed where a Conrad
Botes painting hangs. It's from his "The Temptation to Exist" series. A self-portrait that I
don't understand but can stare at for hours. Wonder about. My mom bought it for
me because she knows I like his gritty art. In my closet, there's a stack of Bitterkomix
comic strips with Botes, Anton Kannemeyer, and other art rebels' work in them.
From the painting, my eyes move to the boxes by the door. The bags and other
random stuff that need to go to Stellenbosch tomorrow. That's where I'm going to
live now. Stellies.
I try to distract myself for a moment because I know I need to sleep. It's past
midnight.
With my eyes closed, I lie and listen to my own breathing. Again intensely aware of
the betrayal within me: the guy who fed his own dad to the wolves. It stings in my
chest. You can run from the house, Greg, but no one gets away so easily from the
weakness within them. Nor from the shadow of the past.
I roll over. No matter how hard I try, sleep won't come.
Eventually, I throw the bedding aside, get out of bed, and walk to the bathroom.
The light glows brighter as I step into the room. I gulp down a glass of water. Catch
another stream of water in the hollow of my hands, splash it over my face, and
watch the water gleam on my skin, how it runs in streams down my neck, over my
bare torso.
My face has changed. The thought hits me unexpectedly. I'm no longer the same
high school kid I was at Lawson College. There's something stronger about the way
the corners of my face cut. Something sadder in my eyes. A bitterness in the way my
lips curl.
Do rugby matches teach you that life is unfair? I wonder bitterly. Where I am now,
and how I got here – this isn't how my life was supposed to be.
With that thought swirling in my head, I walk back to my room. My fingers sweep
over the boxes by the door as I open my bedroom door. The hallway carpet is soft
under my feet.
I stop at my brother John's room. For a moment, I want to knock, and there's a faint
hope that he'll answer. "Come in if you're wearing pants." That's how he always
answered. I get a slight chuckle, open the door, and step in. The light dims softly
over the room as I flip the switch on the wall.
More memories flood through me, dizzying my head.
PROLOOG
<html>
<body>
<h><b>Reboot</b></h>
<p> Disconnecting all device drivers, closing all programs, and restarting a computer's operating system. It can be
done for normal computer use or to help solve a problem. </p>
</body>
</html>
He steps into the dark hallway. It's like that evening when he found his dad in the
study. Before his eyes, he still sees his dad's large body bent over the desk when the
door opens. He sees the yellow envelope. Sees the 9mm pistol. His dad folds it into a
cloth and puts it away in the drawer. "You mustn't tell your mom. Okay? It's our
secret," says his dad. His face is tear-stained. "Go to sleep now."
Within him echoes his dad's voice as he stands there trying to make sense of what he
saw. He didn't even know there was a gun in the house. What is his dad doing with
one?
Finally, he turns around, walks to his room with his dad's words following him. "Night.
Sleep well…"
His dad says his name, but he doesn't hear it. It's as if the darkness picks it up and
hides it in the folds of his clothes. Now the darkness knows about him and will call
him. Call him by his name as if he belongs to the darkness. His real name, not just an
echo of it.
"Xander, is that you?" asks a voice now in the study. It's six months after he found his
dad there with the gun. He was eleven then. Now twelve. He had his birthday last
month.
"Yes, Dad?"
"Come in, boy."
Xander pushes the door handle down. The metal is still cold. The door that he pushes
open still smells of polish, just like last time.
"Everything okay?" asks his dad. He sits in a deep armchair by the fireplace. Papers
are scattered around him. In his hands, a Montblanc pen and an open book.
Xander's eyes glance over the large bookshelf, immediately noticing the spot where
the book was pulled out. It leaves a black hole between the green book spines.
"There's someone at the door for Dad," he says as he turns his head back.
"Did your mom let them in?"
Xander shrugs.
,"Do you know who it is?"
"Two uncles." He doesn't remember much. Sometimes his dad's work brings people
home. Mostly in suits. Crisp white shirts. Ties. These men were dressed differently. Just
jeans and black T-shirts that hugged their arms.
His dad puts the pen down and slowly closes the book. Frowns. "I'm not expecting
anyone. I'm rather busy, Xander."
"The one uncle said it's urgent."
"Didn't he give his name?"
Xander thinks a bit. "No, but he said Tok sent him. It's a strange name."
"Doc?"
"Yes!"
His dad gets up from the chair, suddenly in a hurry, as if he only now realizes what's
going on. His hand trembles as he touches his son. "Xander, find a place to hide.
Don't come out until I call you. Quickly! Hurry!"
Somewhere in the house, a woman screams. It shakes within Xander. He exhales
sharply. "Dad, what's going on? Was it Mom?"
His dad is beside him. Grabs his shoulders. "I love you, Xander. Remember that.
Always. No matter what happens." His dad quickly kisses him on the forehead.
There's a terrifying urgency to the kiss, to his words. "Think smart, okay, son? Go now,
hide. Immediately! Just go. Go!"
It's as if the darkness's cloak folds around him suddenly. As if it tightens around him,
and the more he tries to figure out what's going on, the tighter the grip becomes.
Still, his breath comes in short, stuttering gasps, and fear tears through his body.
Doc.
It has something to do with that.
"Judge Gericke…" he hears the visitor say.
Xander looks over his shoulder as he runs down the hallway. He sees the man's
shadows slide over the wall in the hallway.
It's like monsters have entered the house.
The fear wells up higher within him. Pulse through his brain. His mouth dry.
"Good evening, can I help you?" his dad asks from the foyer, where the light glows
softly. His voice is tense, dull, as if he's speaking from a bottomless depth.
Then Xander hears the punch, sees in the jerking shadow against the wall how his
dad collapses.
That's how fear feels: Fire flashes through your body, every nerve wakes up,
adrenaline throws your thoughts into overdrive, your eyes widen, your breath stops,
and your chest tightens. And you hear it – your own heart. Beat. Beat. Beat.
,CHAPTER 1: SKREE
<html>
<body>
<h><b>Herstelaandrywing</b></h>
<p> Any media, such as a flash drive, containing a backup of the original factory setup of a computer. It is used to
restore an operating system after a computer crash or data corruption or deletion. </p>
</body>
</html>
Greg Owen is deceased. A team of divers retrieved his body from the Canale
Grande in Venice yesterday.
That's what the newspapers in the Turret Media group report about me.
Greg Owen is dead.
Can it be true, after everything that has happened? Perhaps there is more to the
story.
Yes, I was in Venice, where the main canal winds through the city like a giant snake,
and yes, someone was pulled from the dark water. But other people were there with
me. There were five of us.
One of them is dead.
This is our story.
This is how it begins.
Our house in Sandhurst has become a shadowy place, mostly silent, except for an
occasional ringing of a cellphone, the sound of a car in the street, a chef cooking in
the kitchen, or when I deliberately blast music loudly to dispel the silence.
When you enter the house, walk down the hallway, or sit in the sunroom, there is
always this heavy feeling lying within you, like a coiled snake.
It started feeling like that the evening we arrived home after I left halfway through
matric at Lawson College, now a year and a half ago. Something like that. Time itself
has acquired a different meaning in this gloom.
Days sometimes passed while you struggled through it, numbed, only to wonder at
the end of such a day in court or wherever how you got through it. It was almost like
when your thoughts start to wander while driving, and later you wonder how on
earth you made it home because you can't remember any of the journey.
Business associates and people who were once good friends with my dad barely
kept themselves around. Always busy. It was as if they were afraid some stain would
rub off on them. One unlikely guy, however, showed up at our house one day,
holding a bouquet of flowers. "Let me know if there is anything you need, Mrs. Owen.
Anything at all."
Thomas Lawson. TJ, who was in matric with me, his grandfather.
, As if he owes my dad something.
And now that everything is over – school, Doc, and my dad's trial, the media frenzy –
the oppressive feeling in our house is still there. I realized this the last night lying in my
bed. Tomorrow is time for a fresh start, or so I tell myself. At some point, one must
move on. That's life.
I let my breath out slowly, my eyes fixed on the wall across the bed where a Conrad
Botes painting hangs. It's from his "The Temptation to Exist" series. A self-portrait that I
don't understand but can stare at for hours. Wonder about. My mom bought it for
me because she knows I like his gritty art. In my closet, there's a stack of Bitterkomix
comic strips with Botes, Anton Kannemeyer, and other art rebels' work in them.
From the painting, my eyes move to the boxes by the door. The bags and other
random stuff that need to go to Stellenbosch tomorrow. That's where I'm going to
live now. Stellies.
I try to distract myself for a moment because I know I need to sleep. It's past
midnight.
With my eyes closed, I lie and listen to my own breathing. Again intensely aware of
the betrayal within me: the guy who fed his own dad to the wolves. It stings in my
chest. You can run from the house, Greg, but no one gets away so easily from the
weakness within them. Nor from the shadow of the past.
I roll over. No matter how hard I try, sleep won't come.
Eventually, I throw the bedding aside, get out of bed, and walk to the bathroom.
The light glows brighter as I step into the room. I gulp down a glass of water. Catch
another stream of water in the hollow of my hands, splash it over my face, and
watch the water gleam on my skin, how it runs in streams down my neck, over my
bare torso.
My face has changed. The thought hits me unexpectedly. I'm no longer the same
high school kid I was at Lawson College. There's something stronger about the way
the corners of my face cut. Something sadder in my eyes. A bitterness in the way my
lips curl.
Do rugby matches teach you that life is unfair? I wonder bitterly. Where I am now,
and how I got here – this isn't how my life was supposed to be.
With that thought swirling in my head, I walk back to my room. My fingers sweep
over the boxes by the door as I open my bedroom door. The hallway carpet is soft
under my feet.
I stop at my brother John's room. For a moment, I want to knock, and there's a faint
hope that he'll answer. "Come in if you're wearing pants." That's how he always
answered. I get a slight chuckle, open the door, and step in. The light dims softly
over the room as I flip the switch on the wall.
More memories flood through me, dizzying my head.
