But as Tom brought his attention back to the red room, he caught no sense of excitement or even drunkenness in the thick air. This was just everyday life for the occupants of this wreck; late nights and smokes and booze and boredom. And maybe a little fear.

‘These are my people,’ Ramone told him and Kate, almost like he was challenging the two of them to disapprove.

Various grunts, calls and gestures issued in greeting from the slack bodies in the room as they realised Ramone was back.

But the most enthusiastic reaction came from the little figure with his nose pressed to the TV. ‘Ro!’ he shouted, and bounded over.

‘My brother, Rico,’ Ramone announced proudly, knocking knuckles with the kid. ‘Hey, could we smoke less in here?’ he called to the others. ‘You know how it messes with Ric’s asthma and shit.’

‘Ain’t nothing wrong with me, Ro,’ protested Rico fiercely.

‘Sorry, man,’ called a big guy whose bruised face and resigned tone suggested his life was one long losing battle. ‘So, how’d it go?’

‘Not good, Puff,’ Ramone told him. ‘They’re not interested in banding up. They ’wolf now.’

Puff nodded like he’d known all along, and turned back to the game without another word.

Rico looked up at Kate, his dark eyes glittering in his gaunt face. ‘The white girl’s pretty,’ he observed.

‘You think so?’ Tom said, mock-frowning.

‘Know so.’ Rico grinned. His cheekbones were so high and sharp you could cut your finger on them.

‘Nice TV,’ Tom observed.

‘Cicero found it and brought it home,’ said Rico, pointing to a stocky, muscular kid with shades and a ponytail, spread-eagled over a large cushion.

‘He found it?’

Ramone sniggered. ‘Sure he did, Tom. Out back of an ex-rental store on 106th.’

‘How’d you hurt yourself, Rico?’ Kate asked him, gesturing to his bandages.

Rico looked away, seeming suddenly afraid.

Ramone leaned in close to talk to Kate, as if trying to exclude Tom. ‘Howlers done it to him,’ he said. ‘There was some fighting when the Marqueta gang got turned. One of them nearly took off Rico’s shoulder.’ He swore. ‘Kid’s just ten and they done that to him. Jesus, the Marquetas are Puerto Ricans, for Chrissakes. We should be brothers.’

Rico shrugged and drifted off back to the widescreen.

‘They bit him?’ Tom watched Rico sit back down. ‘Then … isn’t he ’wolf?’

Ramone glared at him. ‘My brother ain’t no howler. He got sick for a while but he ain’t never turned. Shoulda seen the ’wolf that bit him. Went off screaming, all this froth coming out his mouth … awesome.’

Rico grinned. ‘Guess my blood don’t taste good.’

‘He’s a resister,’ Tom noted quietly.

‘You got it,’ Ramone breathed. ‘Shame your own blood ain’t that smart, huh, wolf-boy?’