Up above, leaning over the parapet of the bridge, a Black Mark is putting away his pistol. Another one is hurrying down the stone steps. I’ve barely registered what’s happened when the Black Mark, in his shiny black boots, splashes into the water beside me. The man grabs the fish, holding it aloft by the gills. His companion on the bridge laughs and nods.

“Bring it up,” he shouts. “We’ll take it back to the barracks.”

Without a single glance at me, the man deftly pulls out the hook and strides off carrying the fish like a prize.

Quietness settles back over the river as if nothing has happened.

Still seeing the silvery-pink fish leap out of the water, I turn and trudge back up to the bank. I feel like crying. Water drains out of my trouser legs and into my boots, as if my body itself is weeping.

Bit, squatting on the bank, averts his face. Neither of us speak. A bird sings five notes, over and over again, as if trying to tell us some message. I turn my face up to where the bird might be. It seems like everything bad about the city is crystallised in this moment.

“Here,” says Bit, standing nearby.

He’s holding out one half of the jakard, a long bony fillet.

Wordlessly, I take the piece of fish, looking at it. Coming back to myself with an effort, I dig in my jacket pocket and pull out a folded square of brown paper. Putting the fish on the grass for a moment, I open up the paper and tear it evenly in half, giving one piece to Bit. We squat there in silence, two skinny boys, wrapping up our pieces of fish.

17

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” says Marina, grabbing at my jacket in the alleyway on my way into the building.

“Can it wait?” I’m hot and tired and can’t be bothered with any more “surprises”.

“No, silly.” She laughs, dragging me back to the street door. “You’ll like it, just wait and see.”

“But I’m hungry,” I whine.

Again that laugh, and the old Marina is back. “That’s why I’ve brought you this,” and she hands me a paper lump with two cold turnips wrapped inside.

Still grumbling, I follow her through the streets, munching on the turnips.

“What’s the rush, anyway? Can’t it wait till my day off?”

She rolls her eyes. “You disappear on your days off. I never catch you in time.”

Her dark hair is glossy in the late sunlight and I notice there’s a glow about her. Maybe she’s in love, I think sarcastically, and she’s taking me to meet her special friend. That won’t be much of a surprise for me. I’d rather be resting in my cubbyhole.