Ma’s hand stills on my head. “I can’t risk having him come here – in case the Black Marks are watching, and take him in for questioning. He was one of those who got away.” She sighs. “At any rate, your grandmother keeps in touch with him.”

It’s a lot to take in. “Didn’t anybody try to stop him, the Director?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathes. “There were attempts. Though not successful, unfortunately.”

“Why not?”

Her hand on my head is still now and heavy. “He is clever, the Director. He is always on guard. He always has people around him. And he knows how much the Cerels must hate him … because he hates us, you see.” She sighs. “But maybe, also, he has been lucky.”

Well, maybe the Director’s luck is about to run out.

14

One day a week I don’t have to go to the garden, and me and Bit have got plans to go fishing. First, there’s something else I want to do. Outside Bit’s building, we turn right and head east. We pass two streets on the left, then Market Street across the way on the right.

“D’you think we’ll be able to get close enough?” asks Bit.

We’ve already talked it over, and I still don’t know the answer. “Probably.”

“Why don’t you wait until Last Day?”

“’Cause we don’t get to see him then anyway.”

On the last day of each month, families are allowed to leave parcels at the wild camps for their fathers, husbands and sons. There is no great expectation of seeing your loved one, but letters can be left and picked up, foodstuffs too, which hopefully will reach the right person, and clothing. If anybody dares to ask what the men are doing, they’re given the same old story: the men are helping to build the underground tunnel system that will make the city safe from another drought. Not that anybody has seen any evidence of it.

I know the route to the wild camps well – from taking my brother to the camp, and all the other times I’ve gone by myself. It’s best to stick to the alleyways rather than risk bumping into any of the Black Marks on the busier streets. You never know when you might get hassled just for being a Cerel kid. Maybe we’d get our rods confiscated, on a whim, and I’m very attached to my fishing rod. It took me many patient hours to make.

“Hey, shit-for-brains.” A kid is standing in the doorway of a dark, poky shop. “Where’s your river?”

“We could take him,” mutters Bit.

“Just keep walking.”