Theo was still on the bed mattress, her little figure dimly visible, curled up in a ball. Wearily, Albert lay down on the sofa mattress, stretching out his aching limbs. He hadn’t realized they were hurting until now. Although he was tired, he found it impossible to sleep, tossing on the mattress his head filled with thoughts of everything that had happened all day, from the journey through the tunnels to the fights and what had happened after. He turned to his side again for what seemed like the thousandth time and lay there, listening to the sound of Theo’s breathing filling the tent. And then he stiffened, feeling the hair standing up on the nape of his neck.

He could hear two people breathing.

He started to sit up and caught a flash of movement and a sidelong glimpse of an arm with a red band around the bicep as it flashed into his field of vision and thudded into the side of his head, slamming him back down on to the sofa, dazed.

He heard a scream from Theo, quickly cut off, as if something like a hand or a cloth had been clapped over her mouth. He turned and saw another man, roughly bundling her into a shapeless, large sack as she struggled in vain.

‘Theo!’ he gasped, struggling to his feet.

The first man—the one who had hit him and was now standing with his arms on his hips looking at his companion—turned around.

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘We don’t need you, chum.’

Again the red-banded arm flashed into view, this time holding something, and again the world turned into a red haze of pain as he crashed down heavily, on the ground this time. He felt something warm trickling down his scalp, past his ear.

The voice was still talking. ‘You’re not the one who’s special, see?’ it said. ‘So you don’t get to come.’

Fighting off the darkness that was closing in, he pushed himself up, shaking his head, ignoring the alternating waves of pain and nausea. He was on his hands and knees, his head exploding, his heart beating fast—so fast it was almost vibrating.

‘I said, you don’t get to come!’

He saw the boot coming, moved to dodge it, but he was too slow, and he felt agony like he’d never felt before as it crashed into his temple. He fell again, his face on fire. He felt the ground, cold under his cheek—so cold—saw the inside of the tent, shimmering and dimming out of focus, the hazy outline of the man standing over him, beyond him, another shaky silhouette, a man holding a sack over his shoulder—a wriggling sack, fading into the blackness as it pressed closer.

The last thing he saw was the boot coming at his head again.

19