Next I hunt out my friend Eric, finding him at the ruins. He’s with a gang of boys I vaguely know. They’re squatting in a circle playing peaknuckle on the stony ground. I stand off to one side, in the lee of a shattered building, and watch as each boy takes it in turn to throw the knuckles into the centre, trying to get close to the dried pea. One round finishes, and coins change hands. When the next round goes to start, Eric gets up and walks over.

I lead him away from the group, so we can speak in private.

“I need bullets,” I tell him.

If Eric is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He’s probably used to all sorts of requests. The stocky boy squints at me. “What kind?” is all he asks.

With a glance back at the group, I pull the pistol halfway out of my jacket pocket.

“How many?”

“Three.” It’s a lucky number for some.

Eric rubs the toe of his boot into the ground. “How d’you know it works?”

I see Moustache shooting the gun into the air. “It works.”

“All right then,” says Eric. “I can do that. How d’you want to pay?”

My skin feels taut and waxy in the early autumn sun. I think of all those weeks working at the garden, and the cache of coins I’ve tied into a rag and hidden in the basement of our building.

“I’ve got coins,” I tell him.

Eric names his price and I accept it. Then we arrange a meeting place for one hour’s time. I watch Eric as he scrambles over the fallen stones of the wall and makes his way swiftly through the cemetery. With the pistol heavy in my jacket pocket, I follow more slowly. There’s plenty of time to get the coins then meet Eric with the ammunition.

* * *

When I reach the garden, there is no sign of Boss. The blackened stove is cold, his cot neatly made up, as if it hasn’t been slept in recently. Even after just two days’ neglect, weeds are starting to appear. I wonder briefly about where he could be, then put him from my mind. There are more important things to think about.

I wait in the shed, sitting on my usual crate, the pistol in my hands. Time passes slow as mud. My thoughts are mud. I see my mother on the ground, and bite my lip. Once, I imagine I hear Jorzy’s voice, but when I strain to catch the words the voice drifts away. I stare at the bright window, blinking back tears, and feel hollowed out, like the pumpkin after Boss has scooped out the seeds. I look at my hands holding the black pistol, and think they are the hands of a stranger.