I steer the horse in that direction. I see the cremation pits now and we blast past them and up a hill, through the gates of the dump. On either side of us tower huge walls of rubbish and the stink claws at the back of my throat.

We arrive at the dump station—an L-shaped tin-roofed warehouse, backing onto the landing zone. I pull the horse to a stop in the rain and swing out the saddle and I’m down and looking up at Malik. My legs are shaking from the ride and I can see Malik’s feeling it too. He eases down off the horse, looking pale.

Then his eyes flick up and I see him go for his gun.

I swivel. Two armed men, standing in the rain. One of them has a shotgun levelled at us. He looks forty and as hard as nails. Unshaven, wearing a wide-brim hat from which rainwater sluices. The other carries a front-loading pistol. He wears a bowler hat, just so…and a poncho.

“You owe me ten francs and a jacket,” he says.

“Highwayman!”

He nods. “This here is my cousin, Jean-Marc.”

“Right,” I say. “The dump manager.”

Jean-Marc says nothing.

“You know these guys?” Malik says out the side of his mouth.

“Better tell your Pathfinder friend to drop his gun,” Claude Duval says.

I glance at Malik. His pistol is levelled on them both and he has that gunfighter look in the eye. I turn back to Duval. “I think it’s the other way around.”

Amazingly, Duval responds by pocketing his weapon. Jean-Marc watches him, side-on, and he too lowers his gun.

“Smart move,” Malik says.

“You are in the clan of Akuji,” Duval says now. “Not so?”

I’m at a loss at how to respond. Malik doesn’t speak either.

“She told us to get things ready,” Duval says. “And for her, we do what we must. There is not much time. Follow us. Now, or never.”

They turn and walk briskly towards the building.

Malik and I don’t move.

Duval turns and shrugs. “You want to get on the next ship? You have two minutes.”

—

Beyond the warehouse, we find a battered-looking hulk of a ship in the landing zone. A pair of workers in blue coveralls and face masks operate a waste removal machine. Hydraulic lever arms haul a giant skip from the roof, swinging it over the front of the ship, where it upends and drops a rank effluent onto a slope of rubbish. The workers see us approach, but don’t look bothered. Duval stands next to us in the pounding rain. He points to the side of the ship—a door, left open.

“In there,” he says. “They know you are going with them.” He waves at one of the workmen. “That’s Jean-Pierre. My other cousin.”

“What did she do?” I ask him. “To make you help us like this?”