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up on rubbish heaps, men drinking, children sifting through trash looking for God knows what.
    Holes full of shit.
    Vicious tracker dogs.
    Thin, starved faces.
    â€˜Why don’t you wanna take me, Miss?’ asks Lenny.
    â€˜There isn’t any place to take you to,’ I say.
    â€˜I could help carry things,’ says Lenny.
    â€˜What things?’
    â€˜Any things you want me to carry.’
    â€˜You’re not coming.’
    â€˜But there is somewhere, ain’t there, even if you can’t take me?’
    â€˜And I haven’t got “things to carry” if that’s what you’re thinking.’
    He tilts his head to one side as if he knows better. ‘There’s the farm.’
    I roll my eyes. ‘The covered farms are not nice,’ I say. ‘They’re prison camps.’
    â€˜No, not them,’ he says. ‘The little farm.’
    â€˜Look,’ I say, ‘you don’t want to end up in a covered farm.’
    â€˜I mean the little farm in the north.’
    I haven’t got a clue what he’s on about so I just say, ‘Everywhere outside London’s got radiation.’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜No you don’t,’ I say.
    He goes quiet.
    â€˜It can strike you down, just like that, and all your hair’ll fall out and you’ll shrivel up and die and that’s it.’
    He sucks in his cheeks.
    â€˜There’s no cure for it and nobody’s working on one, neither.’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜No you don’t. Nobody survives radiation once they’ve got it.’
    â€˜I know. My mum didn’t.’
    That stops me dead. I should have known. His mum.
    I look at him. His bottom lip’s trembling. He keeps glancing across the racetrack and then back at me.
    â€˜He’ll be all right,’ I say. ‘They didn’t really have big knives.’
    He nods.
    â€˜We’ll
all
be all right. Me too. I’m always all right. I’m stubborn like that.’
    Immediately he looks more cheerful. ‘I knew you was going to be OK, Miss,’ he says.
    Well, that’s nice of him I suppose. And it’s true. I
am
going to be OK. I’m going to get out of here and go home. Whatever stupid plan these gangers have ‘in mind’ for me.
    And that makes me smile. The first smile since Nan died. I out-sparked them, didn’t I? So I know I can get away, plus I don’t care. I don’t care if I live or die right now. And that gives me power.
    So I crouch there thinking, slowly drying out by those embers, listening to the slight crackle of charcoal burning down and the noises of the ghetto.
    I’m not going to do anything to suit them.
    Not me.
    Not while I got a tongue in my head and a brain to think with.

7

    A wailing starts up outside the arena. Right by the stadium gate. The howl of dogs. The sound of tin pans suddenly banging.
    â€˜It’s Quinny, Miss,’ says Lenny, his face suddenly alight. ‘He’s back and the pack are on him.’
    I straighten up. Rub my eyes. The fire’s only embers. I’m dry. Nan’s coat’s dry. I pull it back on. ‘The pack are on him?’
    â€˜The dogs, Miss. Trying to stop him getting through.’ Lenny’s already on his feet and doing a little dance on the spot. ‘Me and her is going to go and help.’ The brindle bitch jumps up as well.
    â€˜OK.’
    Just as Lenny is about to leave, Kaylem reappears.
    â€˜Leaving?’ he snaps.
    Lenny’s face falls. ‘Quinny’s back,’ he says. The dog bolts away. Lenny remembers. He’s supposed to guard me. His dance changes. No more hopping. Now he shuffles slowly on the spot.
    Kayem shrugs. ‘Well, lucky for you, I can take over.’
    Lenny’s eyes widen. A look of relief. Quickly followed by a look of alarm. Kaylem isn’t trying to be helpful.
    â€˜Go on.’ Almost a smile from Kaylem.
    Lenny looks at me, looks at