“Help… Ple … ase … he … lp…” a dry, breathy voice calls out.

Jonah moves to the bed. The man who’s lying there looks to be in his sixties or seventies – thin and attenuated. He’s not under the sheets, his pyjamas tent around his thin frame. Jonah leans close, combs his hand through the man’s thin grey hair.

“You’re OK, mate,” he says softly. “I got you.”

“I’m … I’m sick.”

Jonah nods. “You’re very sick, mate.”

“I need a doctor.”

“Oh, you’re way past that,” Jonah says coolly.

“Please … help.”

“I know, I know,” Jonah whispers, still stroking the man’s hair. Jonah glances around, takes in the meagre room. “Pretty nice place you got here, my friend. Are you some kind of businessman?”

The man coughs a wry laugh. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

I watch Jonah rethinking. He’s after something. But what?

“Ah, right, right.” Jonah muses. “What do you do, my friend? You like to build things? Fix things?”

The man shakes his head, getting agitated. “I need a doctor, not twenty bloody questions.”

“Help is coming,” Jonah reassures him.

The man relaxes, lets his head rest against Jonah’s hand as Jonah delicately smooths his hair. Help isn’t coming, I think.

“I bet you’re a technical person, am I right?” Jonah says.

The man shakes his head. “I’m a cleaner, OK? I work for the bloody council.”

“Cleaner?” Jonah casts me a regretful look I don’t understand. He turns back to the man. “You got any hobbies, cleaner? What about guns? Do you like guns by any chance?”

The man groans and begins to shake his head. “Please… I’m scared.”

“Of course you are,” Jonah says, soothingly. “You got a good reason to be scared.”

The tendons on his forearm shift as his grip tightens. The hand that was stroking the man’s hair becomes firmer and suddenly Jonah is holding him down instead. He reaches behind his back with his free hand and draws out his hunting knife.

“It’ll be over soon, don’t worry, mate,” Jonah mutters.

I take a step forward, then freeze.

I know what’s coming next.

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

I imagine myself leaping forward and pushing Jonah away. But I don’t move. The man seems to sense what’s coming as well. He draws on some last reserve of strength and struggles, contorting under Jonah’s grip.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Jonah whispers, leaning closer. “It’s OK, you can let go now.”

“N … nn … n…” the man grunts, trying to resist.

Jonah presses the hungry point of his knife against his chest. The man tries to squirm away. It reminds me of Tongue’s desperate attempts to escape, but this man is much weaker and Jonah seems oblivious to his struggles.

For evil to flourish…

I look away just as Jonah pushes in the knife.

I hear the man’s chest give way with a dry crunch like a crust of stale bread. A cloud of dust from his disintegrating body billows out and engulfs us. I feel it catch in my throat. I see it settle in Jonah’s hair. Then life and movement go out of him.

Jonah steps back. He’s sweating. His breath comes in short animal grunts, his shoulders rock with each exhalation. He wipes the blade of his knife against the bedding and returns it to its sheath. He wipes a hand down his face, smearing the white ash and mud into white-grey streaks that look like war paint.

He glances at me and smiles.

TWENTY-FOUR

Jonah strides across the food court, pumped with febrile energy. He strips off his shirt and drops it on the ground, sweat shines on his twisted muscles in the non-light. He goes to the sink behind the bar and runs the tap. When the sink’s full, he cups his hands and drenches himself, rubbing without soap at the engrained white-grey ash from earlier.

He gasps when the cold water hits him, a triumphant yell, half laugh, half battle cry. He gestures for me to join him. “You need to wash as well, boy.”

I stand frozen. I feel hollowed out, the world feels slow and dream-like. I keep seeing the old man falling into dust in front of me, his chest crumbling. I can feel the oiliness of the ash from his body ingrained into my skin. It’s in my hair and on my clothes, it tastes sour in my mouth.

Is this what happened to the babies? Is this what Farah didn’t want me to see?

I’m aware of Farah and Chiu watching from the sofas, Ose and Levi too for that matter. I can’t bring myself to look at any of them. I pull my T-shirt over my head, repulsed by the feeling of the ash and oil as it presses against my face. The sink is too small, round, stainless steel. I scoop water on to my face and scrape with my fingernails to try to remove as much of the oily residue as I can. It’s useless, my efforts smear the ash around without getting rid of it.

Jonah has cracked open a beer and is dancing. Levi isn’t playing, but Jonah doesn’t care. He sways as if the music is already inside him.

As I lean forward to scoop more water on to my face, I notice that a small fruit knife has slipped down behind the sink and been forgotten. I glance up and check that nobody is looking my way, then I reach forward and slip the knife into my pocket. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it. The thought of trying to attack Jonah with it feels laughable.

I go to the sofa and sit down. Ose hands me a beer and I drink, feeling the flat, insipid liquid fill my throat.

Chiu flashes me a brief greeting. He’s holding something – a laptop. The incongruity is shocking. “How did you—?” I start.

“Ose made it work,” he says.

“How?”

“This was my job,” Ose says. “Chip designer. It doesn’t always work.”

“Do you have the internet?” I ask.

Ose shakes his head, smiling sadly. “No. Just the corporate site, a few games.”