“Where are we?”

“We call it Kassra,” the girl said.

Beatrix translated. “Broken?”

“Yes. The village next to it is Attashis.”

“Thirsty. Broken and Thirsty.”

“Yes.”

The child led her through a maze of jumbled streets to a medium-sized hut with an orange tarp hauled over the frame to serve as a roof. The place was in poor condition. The ditch that ran at the back of the property was littered with packing crates and plastic bottles. Sewage ran along a trench in the middle of the road. The walls were constructed from wooden panels and sheets of corrugated metal. The windows had been smashed, and the apertures were covered with plastic bags. Part of the tarpaulin roof was missing, and the front door had been separated from the hinges. Mysha pulled it aside so that they could enter, and once they were inside, she pulled it back into place.

Beatrix looked around the shack. It had been built right onto the ground, with no floor, and the sand was cold and yielding underfoot. Blankets and rugs were spread out to try and make things look more homely, but they only emphasised the spaces that were left uncovered. Blankets that had been hung from the ceiling broke the space into two distinct areas: one for sleeping and the other for cooking and eating. The walls were made of ill-fitted planks of wood, the gaps between them letting in shafts of light. There was a jerrycan of fresh water that must have been collected from a well, a small gas stove, a paraffin lamp, some sticks of furniture and a line that had been strung from one corner of the room to the other, bowing with the weight of damp clothing. There was a bucket in the corner. Beatrix guessed that was the toilet.

“Is this your home?”

“Yes,” the girl said. “Your head,” she added, as if keen to change the subject, embarrassed perhaps. She reached a cautious hand in the direction of the bloody wound on Beatrix’s temple.

Beatrix caught her hand and smiled. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll just have a nice bruise to remind me what happened.”

“You are bleeding. Here.” She went to the sink, took a dishcloth and soaked it in water. Beatrix lowered herself to her haunches so that Mysha could dab the blood away. “Are you sure you are alright?”

“It’s just a scratch. Thank you.”

The girl rinsed the blood from the cloth and hung it out to dry. “Would you like something to drink?”

“That would be nice.”

The girl went to a cupboard and filled a saucepan with cold water. She placed it on the small stove and set it to boil while she prepared the tea leaves and cardamom. Beatrix sensed that something was unsaid. The girl was putting on a brave face, but there was something that she wanted to talk about.

Beatrix would normally have thanked her and left. She should have done just that. There were things to do, and the world wasn’t standing still. Duffy wasn’t indulging himself with a hard luck story, she could be certain of that. He must have seen her, and now every second that passed meant that he was eroding the advantage that she had over him. There was nothing that could be done about that. There was no profit in her being found all the way out here, unprepared, unready. It made sense for her to hide out for an hour or two until she had found a way to get a message to Faulkner. Then she would bring the fight to him.