Esme frowned. Her roll-up collapsed. Hobbes offered her one of his Embassy Reds, which she took with a nod and a smile, telling him again, ‘I really shouldn’t be talking to you.’

‘You said that.’ He lit her cigarette. ‘Nadia’s very strict, is she?’

It was a guess, a good guess, and it hit home. Esme’s face creased into a frown.

‘What is she? The queen bee of the hive?’

The girl tutted. ‘You think you’re a clever bastard, don’t you? You’ve got it all worked out.’

‘Can I show you something?’ Hobbes took a photograph from his jacket pocket, the one Martin had inserted in the wedding album. ‘Do you know who this woman is?’

She didn’t answer, but he saw her eyes widen slightly.

‘I’m guessing she lives in the squat with you. Is this Nadia? Is it?’

‘I can’t help you.’ Her tone was flat.

Hobbes shook his head sadly. ‘Esme, I’ve been interviewing people for too long now, for too many years. I know a lie when I hear it.’

‘Good. Because I’ll never tell you the truth.’

‘She’s standing next to my son.’

‘So?’

‘Look at Nadia’s hands, the marks on her fingers. You’ve got the same condition. And I think Martin’s the same.’

‘So what?’

Esme was closing up. Hobbes blew out a breath in frustration. ‘All that matters to me is my son. Nothing else. And you still haven’t told me if he’s all right or not.’

‘He’s fine. Martin doesn’t need—’

‘Here, let me give you my number, my home number. Just in case.’

He wrote it on a page torn from his notebook, but Esme pushed it away, repeating almost to herself, ‘He’s fine. We all are.’ As some kind of evidence of this, she held out both her hands, first palm up and then down, and she let Hobbes see the marks, each finger looking – as Glenda had described it – as though it had been dipped in blue ink. But he could see the marks were ragged, not a pure colour but mottled, each one slightly different in shade and shape on the skin and fingernail.

‘Don’t you think it’s lovely?’ she said, in a whisper.

‘What is that? What causes it? Does someone paint your skin for you?’

‘It’s a mark of love.’

‘Love of whom? Your leader? Of Nadia?’

She frowned at this.

‘What then? The group? The tribe? Your little band of rebels?’

He couldn’t find a way in. Esme just looked at him with disgust on her face. ‘You’ll never understand.’

‘Try me.’

‘You’re too far away.’

Hobbes felt a knife twisting at his heart. ‘And what about Martin? He’s suffering from the same thing.’

‘It isn’t suffering!’ Her voice broke. ‘It’s joy and beauty and a great release.’

Hobbes tried to control himself.

Esme smiled. It was quite cold. ‘Thank you for the cigarette.’ She grabbed her bags and stood up. She called to her friend, who was still circling the trees. ‘Joe! Come on, we’re going.’