White quartz pebbles, taken from a courtyard garden. I throw them, one by one, at Emee’s attic window. Most of them don’t make the distance, but one or two hit the glass with a ping. Then finally! The curtains are drawn back and a rectangle of golden light falls across the dark street. The girl lifts up the sash window and peers down. Seeing me, she makes a funny face then disappears from the window.

I’m expecting her to come out the front door like she usually does, and am surprised when she appears from around the side of the house, out of a narrow gap I hadn’t even noticed before. With a single glance back up at the house, Emee, carrying the little dog, crosses the street.

“I suppose you want to go to the park again,” she says, standing in front of me. She’s wearing another floaty, flimsy dress that looks blue in the light from the gas lamp.

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

I hadn’t realised it until she put it into words. I just wanted to see her again after her visit to our house – which my mother is still talking about, amazed that I’m friends with a Travester girl. I also want to talk to her about what happened in Market Square, though I’m not sure how best to raise the subject.

“Well, come on then,” she says, “before they see us.”

We set off down the street and once we’re a few doors away from the house, Emee tucks the dog under one arm and slips her free hand into mine. That’s a surprise, yet I try not to show it. Her hand feels cool and soft, and I’m aware that my own hand will be rough from all the outdoor work, my palms hardened by callouses and the skin cracked around the fingernails. She doesn’t seem to mind, or at least, she doesn’t show it.

The little dog’s eyes are bright and alert. Does she take it everywhere? Maybe it’s her alibi to be out at night.

“That … incident in the square,” she starts saying, and I’m relieved she’s the one to bring it up. “Does that happen very often?”

“Often enough,” I mutter.

“Were many people hurt?” She frowns.

“Don’t know,” I admit. “I ran off straight after you left.”

Her profile is serious, the dog snuffling under her arm. “It gave me nightmares. And I didn’t think …”

“What didn’t you think?”

Her sideways glance is impenetrable. “The Director,” she says, “I didn’t think you people hated him in that way.”

We hate the Director in all sorts of ways, but I don’t need to tell her that.