Ma, horribly pale, nevertheless raises her chin. She drops her cane and pulls off the dark goggles, revealing her cloudy eyes, blinking in the light.

“Myself. Take me, in exchange for my son.”

The officer laughs and turns side-on to her, lighting a thick white cigarette. The musky smoke rises into the still air.

“We don’t want you,” he says dismissively, “you’re of no use to us. You’re just a blind old woman whose life is over and done with. Nobody wants you.”

My mother seems to sag as Mr White’s words hit her most vulnerable spots like bullets. Blue smoke drifts around the man’s head. He turns to stare at me.

“No, we don’t want you, old woman. Though we’ll have this boy.”

Ma gasps, turning her head to me. “No!”

Me? I blink, taken aback.

“A son for a son,” says the officer, matter-of-fact, “that’s fair enough.”

“No,” she breathes, tears running down her cheeks, and I know it’s not only that her eyes are hurting but she’s imagining losing two sons.

Mr White shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He’s already walking back to the polished copper doors.

“Wait–” Without thinking, I step forwards. “I’ll go with you.”

“Leho, no,” my mother wails, grasping at my arm.

I shake her off and take another step forwards, meeting the man’s arrogant gaze. “But you must bring Jorzy out first.”

The officer laughs. “I don’t have to do anything. It is I who dictates the rules here. You either come with me now, or all of you will be dead within the next few minutes.”

Hern clears his throat. “There are Black Marks,” he murmurs.

Glancing quickly around, I see that several Black Marks have appeared from side entrances of the building and their guns are trained on us. My mother, hands over her face, is quietly sobbing, all of her bravado gone. I take another step forwards and now I can see something of the interior of the building. There are figures inside, in poses of intense listening. That bright interior exerts a magnetic pull on me. All of my life I’ve wondered what is inside.

Mr White, directing himself to the crowd, says, “Go back to your homes. The show is over. Count yourselves lucky the Director is in a good mood today.” And to me: “Come along.” The Travester in his pointy red shoes stands back for us to pass.

But then Mr White stops with a grunt, slaps a hand to the back of his head. A stone clatters to the flags. There is blood when he brings his hand away. He stares at it in disbelief as if it belongs to somebody else.

I glance back wildly.

There are shouts and the crowd is running forwards, coats flapping open, men and women, boots sounding harsh on stone.