He sits on the bed and levers off one of his shoes, lifting the socked foot out of sight. The foot reappears, naked. He takes the sock off his other foot. His feet are very pale, like the underbelly of a fish. Four … five … The Director stands up and pads over to the wardrobe. Every sound is sharp as breaking glass and I can barely breathe. The Director comes back to the bed. He’s opening something. A brown paper bag falls to the floor. Seven … eight … New socks. One at a time he lifts his feet and puts on the socks. Then he replaces the shoes.

The Director stands up and pauses, like he’s stretching his toes inside the new socks. Nine …

“The humane solution,” he murmurs under his breath, and I stop counting, listening like my life depends on it. Is he talking about the Caucasas?

The Director rocks on the balls of his feet then lifts his heels. If he cared to look down at his highly polished shoes, he might see the tiny image of my pale face reflected there.

“It’s the best solution,” the Director murmurs again, as if satisfied.

Then he is gone.

* * *

Call me naive, but I expected Jorzy to be really impressed.

“What were you thinking?” my brother says harshly, eyes blazing. We’re in the pub, yet he doesn’t hold back just because we’re in public, and his voice is muted though angry. “What would I have told Nanna if you’d been shot for being in the Director’s bedroom? It would have broken our mother. You don’t realise how fragile she is. And it would have put all of us in danger – they would have come for us. How could you be so reckless?”

Crestfallen, I let my brother’s barrage flow over me and try not to let it get me down. All of those things also apply to him – once he and his friends act – except he doesn’t seem to be taking that into account.

Then he relents, takes a breath. “How did you get out, anyway?”

Sullen, I don’t feel like saying now. Mostly it was luck. Hugging the wall as the maid went past; my cunning exit out of the tall glass doors while the visitors were out the front of the house. But I’m not going to tell Jorzy anything else now.

Moustache shoulders his way into the pub, the scent of smoke and coal dust on his bulky jacket. Without a word, he pulls a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and flattens it out on the table. It is one of the cheaply printed bulletins that appear from time to time on lampposts and fences.

My brother reads the sheet with a frown.

Free land!

Fresh air!

Plentiful food!

A new incentive open to all Cerel families.

Apply at House of Law.

Transport leaving daily.