There are several ruined buildings in the lot. It was once a glassworks. Bit lets his dog off the rope here, and she pads about to sniff at corners and walls.First, we go around all the buildings looking for new graffiti. Somebody has painted a rude picture of the Director on a smooth plaster wall, and we have a good laugh at that. I’ve got an end of crayon in my pocket, so I add something extra to the drawing that makes us both crack up. Then Bit takes the crayon and draws a speech bubble with the words, “I am evil” inside.

Pleased with our work, we explore the other buildings, hoping to find a vagrant curled up in one of the corners. Most of the brick buildings still have roofs intact, so they’re dry. If you find a vagrant in a good mood, he might tell you the wildest stories, especially if you give him a scrap of bread in exchange. Some of them travel all over the place, and they’ve seen things I can only imagine. Once we found a Travester vagrant. A man who couldn’t even remember his name. Why was he homeless? Perhaps he’d broken a law and been kicked out. At any rate, he wouldn’t say. But there are no vagrants today, only signs they’ve been here: wine bottles, an empty jar of gherkins, a bundle of rags used for bedding.

“My brother once found a kind of engine in here,” says Bit, as we go into the last of the buildings.

I’m impressed. “Illegal?”

Bit nods. “Probably.”

“What happened to it?”

“Dunno. Next time they came back, it was gone.”

“Maybe the Black Marks took it,” I suggest.

“What for?”

“I don’t know.” I frown. “Why do they do anything?”

Next we go looking for treasure in the long grass that grows around the periphery, even though we ourselves and other kids have been over this ground countless times before. Still, there is always the hope you’ll find something somebody else has missed. We kick our way through the dry grass with our boots, hoping not to disturb any snakes, bending every now and then to examine a rock or a piece of glass. I find a thick iron nail and hold it up for Bit to see.

“Do you reckon I can make a fishhook out of it?”

“Maybe, if you can hammer it into shape.”

“It might be a bit too thick,” I say doubtfully, thinking that it would also have to be a pretty big fish to want to bite this hoary old nail. But I put it in my pocket anyway. You never know when a nail might be useful.