Hoeing lethargically among the beets, I feel rather than see the Director step onto the lawn. It’s the moment I wait for each day, thinking, anytime now, I’ll make my move. I look through the trellis to the main lawn, keeping my head down and still hoeing, only more quietly, barely moving. If Boss was here, we would have gone into the shed. But Boss is up at the house, fetching our wages and the petty cash he uses for buying seeds and paying the egg man.

The Director, hands clasped behind his back, walks down the lawn that slopes towards the river. He pauses, looks at the sky, then turns to his right and paces, back and forth across the grass. His pale hair shines like honeyed varnish. The hands behind his back clasp and unclasp as if it helps him to think. I shuffle and hoe into a position that gives me a clearer view through the trellis. I’d give my right hand to know what’s going through the Director’s head. More plans to get rid of Cerels? World domination? He pauses again, as if in mid-thought, frowning, then touches a finger to the sweep of his hair. His lips are moving. Maybe he’s practising a speech; one of the incessant speeches he gives at the House of Law, filled with nationalistic cant, according to Jorzy, who has a spy in the building. The man bows his head, and continues pacing.

Cautiously I move towards the shed, to see if there are any Black Marks on the terrace. If he’s alone, what an easy target! A man could crouch by the gate over there, hidden until the Director comes closer, wait until he turns his back, then pounce.

I finger the talisman in my pocket, my closed pocketknife. Will it be big enough to kill a man? Moustache should be here now! Since Moustache walked along the towpath with me that day, I keep expecting something to happen.

Then I notice there’s a single Black Mark in a corner of the terrace, a senior officer, examining his fingernails.

Through the tall glass windows, I can see figures moving about inside the house. There have been visitors all morning: I’ve heard the crunch of gravel from the front of the house as automobiles have come and gone. The terrace doors stand open and I spot a long, polished wood table. A woman in an apron appears and puts a tray on the table. She glances down the lawn, as if she’s thinking about calling the Director, then changes her mind and leaves the room. As at Emee’s house, I get the impression that something is taking place; there’s a heightened sense of tension.

Still the Director paces.