“Anyway, I didn’t think twice. I threw myself at the bloke. He went down and the gun went off – straight up into the air, thank the gods. I had a good grip on his wrist, so he couldn’t do much damage on that score. Damn near broke his wrist, getting him to drop that gun. By then, people had realised what was going on. Women and kids were screaming. About a dozen men landed on top of us. People shouting and yelling. Black Marks turned up, and dragged us both to our feet.”

“That’s some story.”

Boss turns the mug of chicory between his hands.

“Me, I’m no hero. It’s just the way it happened.” He sounds ambivalent on this point, as if he ponders it late at night, viewing the event from different angles. He glances at me wryly. “A bunch of us were taken in front of the Director. I just stood there, scared as hell how it was going to go. That bloke could’ve said it was me who had the gun. But the others all vouched for me. So did the Black Marks who’d stepped into the fray.

“And that’s how I got this job. It was my reward for fast thinking. Or maybe ’cause the Director decided I was lucky for him, so he’d keep me close.”

“What happened to the bloke with the gun?”

Boss shrugs. “I don’t rightly know. Better not to ask about that kind of thing.” He looks at the window, probably checking the weather. The rain has eased off. He stands up, his spine cracking as he stretches his back. “You finish your chicory, then we’ll set to again. I’m going for a slash.”

Sipping the bitter chicory, I imagine the Director being killed that day – assassinated. Would the city now be a better place for Cerels to live? Perhaps the old Director would have come back from his house on Karis, where it’s rumoured he’s practically a prisoner, and we could all have carried on like normal. Perhaps it isn’t too late. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. The Director had already seeded the idea that Cerels were inferior … perhaps his death wouldn’t have changed anything.

I take my tin mug outside and rinse it under the tap. Boss is coming back from the midden, buttoning up his trousers (piss can also be gold, apparently). Side by side, our backs to the big house, we hoe the crumbly damp earth between the potato plants.

* * *