There it is, I think. At last, no more games. It’s almost a relief.

He’s right in my face now. “I can’t decide about you, Kyle,” he says. “I don’t know if you’re going to be worth the effort or not.”

His face twists and he raises his arm ready for a backhand swipe. I’ve been hit plenty of times before, but never by a grown-up.

Don’t flinch, I think. I will not flinch.

His muscles clench and his eyes tighten. I’m used to people picking fights with me but this is different. This man has killed plenty of times, he’s not afraid of it.

You can do anything in this world.

A sharp, pained cry from behind stops him.

Jonah turns, irritated by the distraction. Tongue has stood up and is clutching his stomach, staggering unevenly away from the sofa. “Ahhmmmhhhh,” he groans.

“Get hold of him,” Jonah says.

Levi and Ose spring into action, closing on Tongue from both sides with a swiftness and confidence that can only come from practice. Tongue tries to shake Ose away but Ose pulls him towards the nearest armchair. Tongue squirms, sweat shines on his forehead and top lip. Ose grunts with effort as he adjusts his position to make sure Tongue can’t slip away. Levi pins his other arm.

I exchange frightened looks with Farah and Chiu. What’s happening?

“Come on, old pal,” Jonah says. “You know the drill. Let’s not make a fuss now, eh?”

Tongue’s face crunches up, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, moaning in fear and pain and sheer loathing for whatever is coming next. I take a step closer, fascinated, horrified. Jonah takes out his knife and slices Tongue’s shirt open, letting it fall away from his chest like a waistcoat.

Immediately he leans back, repulsed. The smell hits us a moment later: pungent, rancid, foul, like rotting meat.

“Sweet Jesus, Tongue,” Jonah scolds. “We talked about this. You’re not supposed to keep this stuff a secret, are you?”

I think, at first, that Tongue’s chest is covered in boils. There are three or four clusters of them, protruding, red and angry from yellowish skin. One batch swells from the curve of his muscle near his armpit. Another, composed of three or four small mounds half melded together, peeks out from beneath his ribs. A third pushes from behind the waistband of his trousers. Farah lets out a cry of disgust and a moment later I see it myself. They aren’t boils. They’re eyes.

Living, blinking, swivelling, watching eyes.

I can’t move. The set of eyes in Tongue’s armpit twist in my direction and fix on me. They stare, bulging with fear, pleading. Wiry eyelashes protrude from swollen flesh; the oily surfaces of the whites swell and swell.

Jonah reaches behind his back and pulls out his hunting knife. He leans forward and, without a pause, uses the tip of his knife to lever out the first eye.

Tongue swings his knees left and right trying to curl up into a protective ball but Jonah and the others have too firm a grip on him. I watch the tip of the knife slide into the flesh just below the next eyeball and a great welling up of dark blood.

“Ahhhhhh! Aaa!” Tongue cries.

There’s a gelatinous slurp and a brief squirt of more blood as the eye pops out and drops to the floor. Jonah barely pauses as he moves on to the next.

“Stop it!” Farah shouts. “You’re killing him.”

“We’re not,” Ose answers, without looking up. “We’re saving him.”

Jonah begins to work more quickly, more roughly. He levers out two more eyes.

“Aaaeae! Aaa!”

Chiu slaps his hands over his ears to block out the sound and turns away, Farah presses her face into my shoulder. But I can’t stop watching.

Evil, my mind whispers, has only ever been an abstract thing before. The biblical evil they used to rave about at church. The evil of wars in other countries and child soldiers and history books. This is different. This is evil. Right here.

For evil to flourish, it requires only that good men do nothing.

Jonah palms another eyeball and tosses it to one side. Tongue’s torso strains and relaxes, strains and relaxes. His foot slides over one of his own eyeballs and smears it into the ground, leaving a torn remnant on the floor like a crushed grape.

I should do something. But what? Run at him? Tear him away?

I’ve felt Jonah’s grip; he’s strong like nobody I’ve ever met before. And the truth is, I’m weak.

Fear squirms inside me like a poison, rooting me to the spot.

And then, it’s over.

Jonah rocks back on his heels and sits on the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him, laughing silently. He looks elated. His hair is matted, his chest heaves from exertion. He wipes a slimy hand on his chest and then turns laboriously on to all fours before he can bring himself to standing.

He catches my eye, flashes me a wink.

Ose and Levi slide back, similarly spent. Tongue’s chest is slick with blood, rising and falling with his shallow, trembling breaths.

Jonah reclaims the bottle of beer he was drinking and takes a long swig. For a moment I think he’s going to come back and pick up where we left off, break my jaw after all, but he staggers away instead. I watch him fade into a darker corner of the bar where they have their roll mats laid out. “Get some sleep, everyone,” he calls. “Me and Kyle are taking the bikes out tomorrow.”

TWENTY-ONE

Levi rolls Tongue on to his side and covers him with a blanket, tucking it around his shoulders with a surprising tenderness. Then he follows Jonah over to the roll mats, mutters a half-hearted and weirdly ordinary “g’night” and collapses.

Ose picks himself up, uses his long fingers to extract two beers and two Cokes from the crates nearby and comes and sits with us. He hands me a beer, hands the Cokes to Farah and Chiu, then sits on the sofa next to me and cracks open his own drink.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says softly.

“I don’t understand what happened?” Farah murmurs. “What were those … things?”

“We call them Puzzles,” Ose explains. “Tongue’s dying. That’s what it looks like here when we’re dying.”

“We grow eyes?” Chiu says.

“It’s different for everyone,” Ose says. “We treat the symptoms, like in the ordinary world. A cancer grows in your brain, you cut it out. A cancer grows in your lungs, you cut it out.”

“Not with a hunting knife,” I say, incredulous.

“Not eyes,” Chiu adds.

“Cutting them out will keep him going for a while,” Ose says. “If we tried something like this in the other world he’d fill with bacteria and he’d go septic. But bacteria aren’t a problem here.”