‘Lucky to be alive,’ him tell me on the quiet one night, soon after I arrive. ‘Catch the pox when me was a pickney. Nobody think me going live, but somehow me claw me way back to life. Death leave him stamp though,’ him say, and him finger him pock-pitted cheeks. ‘Get marked for life.’

When we alone, him tell me stories bout what it was like for him fighting in the rebellion. A short time, deep with memory. A time when no one was telling us what to do and we was in control of our life.

Him add a few more sticks to the fire burning in one of the drums outside in the pebble yard. ‘One night we just finish burn down the trash house. Burn it down to the ground. That trash was good and dry. It go up quick. And the accountant, Mister Richards. Him begging us to stop. To hold back. To have some r’straint.’

‘R’straint!’ I laugh. ‘How come backra don’t show no “r’straint” when him giving a slave the lash?’

McBean nod. ‘Dis Richards man. Him is all right. Not have much to do with us slaves. Not like the overseer who keep us in line good. Richards, him dress in a bright red jacket, silver buttons down the front. Is a jacket me favour, like the look of it and, when me see him standing there, me suddenly want that jacket, want it bad. Is like a big thirst come over me.’

‘Did you take it?’

‘Yes, me took it, put it on. And it fit like it meant to belong to me. Leave Richards tied up, sitting in the dust, shaking with rage. Wear that jacket all the time me fighting. Only give it up when backra cart me off to the gaolhouse. By then it mash up, covered in dirt. And the red turn a different shade because it get all covered up in blood.’

One time, him show me one of the silver button them. How him manage to keep it hidden I don’t know.

‘Bring you good luck?’ I ask, after one final look.

‘Yes,’ McBean say. ‘Me still alive.’ Him chuckle long and low.

Because we both not sure how much luck it give, when the number clock hammer eight times, bringing us back to the dust of the pebble courtyard. How not even as a slave, nobody tell us when to sleep, or force us to sleep in a place where backra bolt the door, lock us up together inside.

Sometimes when we play the food game, some of the other convicts join in. Talk bout big, fat, round potatoes, bread, butter, fresh milk they squeeze from the cow. But they always happy to hear bout the food we have on the island, fill up the time, make boredom seem to take flight. One night, the game start to run out when a voice in the shadows speak out.