‘Look, Albert,’ said June, ‘do you or do you not want to hear this? After he ran away, Marcus’s father went to the tunnels. He found some sort of remote spot in there, goodness knows where, and built himself some sort of bunker or something, and that’s where Marcus was born. I don’t know if they ever loved him, or cared, but what I do know is as soon as he was old enough, his father was teaching him how to fight and set traps and kill and hide and all kinds of things. As long as he was able to, that was.’

‘He died?’

‘No, he was an addict. Pretty soon, he was past pretty much everything except loading the next fix. His wife was as bad. And, like most advanced addicts, they got to the point where they didn’t care about things like food, water or anything at all—except getting high. So it was all up to the boy Marcus.’

‘How old was he?’

‘Nobody’s sure, least of all him. It’s not like he ever knew his birthday, or age or anything.’ She shook her head. Her face was white but differently this time, as if the blood had drained away. ‘But it’s pretty certain that by the time he was eight years old, he had begun.’

Albert felt a thrill of forbidden excitement, shooting out from that part of the human soul that while repulsed by the horrifying remains fascinated by it. His voice came out as a whisper. ‘Begun what? What was he doing?’

She looked at him, her face even whiter than before. ‘Killing. It was the only thing he knew how to do, the only thing he’d ever known how to do. Killing. He ambushed and robbed and killed, and brought back food for the three of them. Every day. Can you even fathom that? Can you? Eight years old, and he was killing grown men. For his family.’

‘So he was killing to feed his family?’

‘Yes. For a while at least. Until they betrayed him.’

‘Who betrayed him?’

‘Who do you think? His parents. Father said he thinks that was the event that has defined Marcus. When he was about ten or eleven—twelve, he’s not even sure when—they sold him to a drug dealer in exchange for some dope.’

‘Sold him?’

‘Yes, sold him. It’s a big market out there—children.’

‘But why would anyone buy children?’ He broke off and sat up, feeling a prickling at the back of his neck, a stirring in the pit of his stomach as the dreadfulness, the horror, of what she had said sunk in.