As my mother is an enemy of the Director who has been allowed to live, an unexpected visit from the Black Marks is always possible. If men burst into her tenement room and find her treasures – any one of which could incriminate her and the whole family – it would go badly. For just this one button, she could be extinguished, as if she had never lived. And then they would hunt down the rest of the family. Guilt by association. It’s why she wants to stay indoors and not be seen, to protect the rest of us. She told me once they have long memories, the Black Marks. Though it doesn’t stop her from dictating pamphlets encouraging people to stand up to the Director. I hear her voice sometimes late at night, and the quiet step in the corridor as her trusted but anonymous friend leaves the building.

Opening my special pocketknife, the one that was Papa’s, I lever out the single brick in the wall opposite the window. It’s a loose brick of many such others, in the far right-hand corner. Times like this, it’s useful we live in a tenement, a broken-down building. The brick doesn’t stand out. Though not completely safe, it is safe enough. I pull out the old tin cigar box that belonged to my grandfather from the hole, and place the button inside, along with all the other small gifts I’ve brought her.

Ma raises her chin. “No more risks, Leho.” I pause and scan her face for clues. Is there something she isn’t telling me? Maybe an intuition of bad things to come? “I do not want you to be in danger for my sake.” I realise it’s just a mother’s fear. I lift her right hand to my cheek, and nod my agreement. I’ll try, at least, to keep safe. Though the fingers of my other hand are crossed behind my back.

* * *

The next day, me and Bit are wandering the streets. The voice booms out from a loud hailer attached to a lamp post – a disembodied voice that may or may not be the Director’s. Bit stops in his tracks. We are both scruffy and grimy around the edges, in patched clothes and scuffed boots. I push back the lanky dark hair that keeps falling in my face. I could chop it off, but I like hiding the high forehead that people say is like my father’s.

“Cerels,” the voice shouts, “you are not to congregate in public places, you are not to use Travester shops–” The broadcast carries on, blah blah blah, with the usual reminders of what we are and aren’t supposed to do.

“Come on,” Bit urges, running a hand through his dark orangey hair.