‘Where are we going?’ Gabe asked. ‘I’ve got my phone – we should stop and call Mum.’

‘We’ll clear out first.’

It was the oldest part of the city. Rusty satellite dishes and sewage trickling along the gutter. The apartment buildings were old. Crude breeze-block extensions added two or three storeys to the original structures, blotting all but the most persistent sunlight.

Julius eyed the strands of laundry hung over and between balconies and stopped suddenly when he saw what he wanted.

‘Piggyback,’ Julius told Gabe, as he pointed up. ‘Grab shirts and shorts, the big and small.’

Gabe looked baffled. ‘Why?’

‘You see anyone else in St Gilda’s uniform around here?’

The washing was out of reach, unless you were an exceptionally tall boy balancing a surprisingly heavy ten-year-old brother on your shoulders. Gabe ripped down boys’ and men’s shorts, a Pokémon singlet and a fake Manchester City football shirt. As this happened, Julius spotted a bloody lump just below Gabe’s knee. Wounded skin blistered over a shard of Mercedes cabin trim, but Gabe was so shocked he’d not mentioned pain.

After lowering Gabe and glancing at the balconies to make sure they hadn’t been spotted, the brothers raced another hundred metres. They crossed a stretch of lightly trafficked highway that should have been gridlocked at this time of morning. Then Julius led the way down a muddy embankment behind an aluminium-sided warehouse building.

The parking lot was empty. After sploshing through a couple of deep puddles, Julius placed his gun down on the concrete. He loosened his tie and top shirt button, grabbed a handful of his undershirt and pulled everything off in a single movement.

As Gabe did the same, Julius took phone, wallet and rolled-up bills from his grey St Gilda’s shorts and put them next to the gun.

‘You’ve got another phone!’ Gabe gasped as Julius pulled up his stolen shorts.

The shorts belonged to someone with a hell of a gut and Julius had to yank and knot a great length of drawstring to keep them up.

‘Is my phone all you care about?’ Julius said furiously. ‘They shot at us. Taiwo’s probably dead. I’m trying to get away and you’re on about snitching on me again …’

‘No,’ Gabe said, looking wounded. ‘I just …’

‘I wish you’d grow up,’ Julius told Gabe angrily, peeling off shoes and socks as Gabe pulled up his stolen shorts.

‘It’s nasty around here,’ Gabe said, looking at Julius’s bare feet.

‘Not as nasty as a bullet through your head when they spot the rich brat’s shiny school shoes. If we pass a store, I’ll buy us sandals.’

‘Shall I call Mum?’