Wall of Days

128

I make my way to Elba’s flat alone. In the settlement lights come on in windows, flickering behind curtains, barely lighting the street.

Shapes move past the lights, past yellow drawn curtains, hover like spirits before fading into black. I sense more of them, figures moving behind the walls, trying not to make a sound.

Not dead then.

I walk the long way to her flat and see few people out. I come to a place in the wall where you can climb up to the ramparts. It is normally guarded but now there is no one here. The gate is on a latch, not locked.

I lift it and walk through, climbing the narrow stairs. I used to come here sometimes, at night mostly, still summer nights. Looking out over the town, the quiet darkened town, I can see all of it. I can see the town hall. I can see the walls and the grey wooden buildings that have stood for so long, the architecture of a people with little imagination, little will to better themselves. I was torn, I remember, between fatherly feelings, between wanting to protect this mongrel people and anger at the lack of imagination, at the lack of will to do something out of the ordinary, to be extraordinary. A failure of imagination. I felt anger, sometimes, that it was left to me, a stronger mind, to lead, to imagine, to impose something like order on these simple people. I wondered if it was worth it. To have saved a savage is perhaps no great thing after all.

It is true, they did imagine something different for a while. But were they true believers or simply believing for the sake of expediency? I fear the latter. But then sometimes, at night, lying awake, I too sometimes stopped believing. I never told anyone that. Too late though. I stopped believing too late. Too late to stop the faces coming to me in the dark, to stop the screaming of the children in the island night.

I have achieved little since coming back. I have not told my story, 129

I have not found Tora or Abel. I need a reaction in order to know what to do. Somewhere in the town, somewhere in a building I can see will lie the answer, will lie my future. Somewhere in the town if alive, or somewhere just beyond the walls if dead, lie their bodies, my touchstones. Breathing or decaying, breath or fetid airs, their fumes I imagine wafting in the warm breeze, drifting here to my nostrils. I could follow them like a dog follows its prey. So close.

But not close enough. I have come home after a long absence and my children have made rules of their own. The patriarch has returned but his children no longer know who he is. Or admit to know.

If I don’t get a reaction soon I will have to take matters into my own hands.

130

8

I am surprised when the door opens. It is opened not by Elba but by a girl. She has large brown eyes. I am struck by them. They remind me of mine when I was a boy. It is the same girl I saw when entering the town for the first time.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘What is your name?’ I lean down to her.

She turns her face away from me and walks into the flat leaving the door open. Elba appears. ‘This is my daughter,’ she says. ‘Tell the man your name.’

The girl looks up and says boldly, almost haughtily, ‘My name is Amhara.’

I did not expect Elba to have a child. She had not mentioned it before. But then why would she? In the settlement children spend a long time away from their parents. They are schooled intensively and live in boarding houses for most of the week. That way we could both accelerate their learning and ensure that each was provided for equally and adequately. I presume that at least has not altered since my time.

‘That is a beautiful name.’ I say in response. ‘And how old are you?’

‘Nine.’

131

I will admit disappointment at the fact that Elba has a daughter.

Though I do not expect much of her, it will mean that her loyalties will never be totally with me.

‘I did not mention her to you as it did not come up,’ Elba says, as if reading my thoughts.

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘nothing to be concerned about.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘You have a very beautiful daughter.’

Luckily Elba smiles at that point and asks if I would like to come inside.

For a while we talk while the child draws on a sheet of paper at the table. The conversation is slightly awkward. She asks after a pause, ‘You seem to be wondering about her,’ nodding towards the girl. It is more of a statement than a question. In fact I have not wondered much at all.

It would be unusual to see a woman of a certain age without a child in our settlement and there do seem to be a lot of them around now. Tora did not have one. She was different in that way. I suppose you could say she was allowed certain favours, being the lover of the Marshal.

‘Where’s the father?’ I ask.

She pauses and does not look me in the eye. ‘He left,’ she says simply.

‘He went away. He is still alive but he won’t come back. Not truly.’

I want to ask what she means but she carries on.

‘He would not be a good father anyway. Too flighty, too angry. I do not mean physically, not that kind of anger. An anger against the world. Though he had things just so, though he was very successful in our way, he was angry. To say he went voluntarily would not be true.

He could not have stayed. Others began to sense it. It was like he was always looking for something else, somewhere else. This place was not for him.’

132

‘Where is he?’

She does not answer. Her head is bent over.

‘He named her.’ She says suddenly, pointing at Amhara. ‘At least, he suggested the name. He left before she was born. A long-dead people who once ruled the world only for time to turn their monuments into ruins. That’s what he said anyway, I have never heard of them. There was much knowledge of the past he claimed to have.’ She was beginning to sound bitter.

‘Still,’ she says more calmly, ‘without the history, it is a beautiful name. It is like the wind at night.’

I smile at her quaint expression. The Amhara people are indeed another of our rumours. I remember telling Tora about some evidence I discovered: a stone monolith engraved with a phrase. There were two scripts. The one I could decipher read, ‘We, the Amhara …’ The rock was chipped at that point and the rest of the sentence lost. I scratched around in the dust but could find no more.

‘You laugh,’ she says, smiling herself. Her gaze meets mine for a moment, then we both look at the child.

She changes the subject, ‘You say you too have been away. Where, with whom, doing what?’

I take a deep breath. I decide to play along for now. ‘I left ten years ago,’ I begin. ‘Ten years ago I lived in this town. I was an important man. It seems people have forgotten me. Our people have always had a lot to think about so I do not begrudge them their forgetfulness.’ I want to make sure she knows I do not blame her for the town’s collective memory loss.

I continue while we eat. ‘I left … The truth is I was asked to leave.

The settlement had changed. They thought I was no longer able to lead 133

them into the next phase of the recovery. They thought there was a need for a change. Or they were made to think that way by treacherous people close to me. They thought the policies that had served us so well for the previous ten years were no longer warranted. Or so they said. The fact of the matter is they could not admit that I had saved the settlement with these policies and given them all a sense of meaning and that they had been right behind the policies when it suited them. They could not admit their culpability for the deaths that took place beyond the city walls where the orange groves now stand. An interesting point that, I think. Where people previously lost their lives for the greater good now stands a fertile grove of fruit trees. Is that remembering the dead properly? Maybe it is.’

I realise I have gone off topic and Elba is looking at me strangely with her head cocked to one side.

I continue: ‘I went to an island just inside the settlement limits on the border we agreed with Andalus of Axum. And there I stayed for a decade. I found I could live off the island well enough. Though it rained nearly every day and I do not believe I saw the sun once, it was not too bad. It was never very cold and I found enough peat and enough food to keep myself going. I did not cultivate anything as there was no point, it being just me. I also realised that the island was winding down. Like an old man it had a number of years left to live but no more. In the north the cliffs were falling rapidly into the sea. Virtually every day a section would collapse. The water round that end was always black with the mud. I would fancy that it was like blood, that the cliffs were men falling one by one to be broken by the sea.

‘After a while I realised that the trees were infertile and weren’t replenishing themselves. I realised the fish were becoming more scarce, 134

that the peat bogs were not as extensive as they seemed. I calculated –

and I made many calculations – instead of planting. I made notes and wrote down observations and sums. I worked out that the island had about as many years left to live as I did. My death would coincide with the end of the island as a viable source of support. And I preferred it that way. I was, I thought, resigned to the island being my resting place. I was resigned to never seeing this place again. There was a pace of life that appealed. The routines, the endless rains, the wet grasses brushing against my skin, the silence of the forest. Though I was alone it was a better life than you might think.’

‘Why then did you leave the island?’ Elba asks.

‘Why did I leave?’ I repeat her question almost to myself. ‘I left because something happened that changed all that. One day I came across a man who had washed up on the shore. He was lying on the beach, almost dead. I gave him back life, took care of him but he had been through a trauma of some kind and would not speak. He did not say a word. As silent as a stone. To this day he has not said anything and it has been several weeks since he first appeared on my island.

‘But this was no ordinary man. Though I did not recognise who it was at first, after a while I realised that this was no less than Andalus, General of Axum, with whom I had negotiated our peace. I then realised the significance of why he might be there, of the immense danger our people might face. There were always those factions within the Axumites who disapproved of the Peace Treaty. If they got the upper hand and ousted Andalus, there would be no doubt where they would turn their attentions next and I feared our people had become weak after years without war. Or, though it seems fanciful, what if there were other people entirely who ousted him? Even if he wasn’t overthrown, 135

what was he, a General, doing out there? Exploring? Looking for new territories? Something which is strictly against the terms of the treaty.

Something had to be done. Our people had to be warned.’

Out of the corner of my eye I notice the child looking at me, staring at me in fact. Elba notices too and says quickly, ‘Bedtime.’ She takes Amhara by the hand and leads her through to the back of the apartment without a word to me.

When she returns, she says simply, ‘She seems to like your stories.’

I do not say anything.

Then she says, shaking her head quickly as if remembering something, ‘You’ve come into my home, told me a story, met my daughter and yet I don’t even know what you want me to call you.’

I can’t help but scoff. I hold my hand up to apologise. She sits down again and I lean in to her. ‘You have been very kind to me but I must ask, I must know.’ I pause. ‘You surely know who I am?’

She shakes her head. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Bran of course.’

She smiles again. ‘Like our town, I like that.’

I lean back again and sigh. ‘Elba, I would like you to help me understand what is going on. I would like you to tell me why it is that no one here has acknowledged me, why no one has admitted to recognising me? I was the ruler of this settlement for a long time, a man many grew to despise, and yet nothing. And where is everyone?

Everyone I knew. Is this a town of ghosts?’ I realise my voice is slightly raised. Again I hold up my hand.

Elba looks at me from across the table, then gets up and stands with her back to me, her arms folded.

After a few moments, when it seems like she is not going to answer, 136

I ask, ‘How did you know what happened this morning? I did not tell you.’

‘People talk.’ She shrugs her shoulders. Then, ‘I heard it mentioned that someone was chasing someone else through the streets. I assumed it was you.’

This is not a reasonable explanation but I cannot push her too hard, not yet. She is my best potential source of information so far.

‘The man I was chasing was the judge at my trial. He is the first person I’ve been able to put a name to. Some people here seem vaguely familiar, like the Marshal, who I think was someone I used to know. Though some are familiar, it is like everyone I knew well has disappeared.’

She says nothing.

‘And what of the person who lived in this flat before you? I cannot believe you wouldn’t know her. And Abel, the man who became Marshal after me, the one who led the campaign against me? You must know them. Where are they?’

‘The memory plays tricks sometimes. It can tell you you’re one thing when actually you’re another. Sometimes you discover you have an entirely different past to what you believed.’

‘Is there something going on I should know about? Is there a plan being cooked up for how to deal with me? I realise I have probably brought confusion to your midst. I am not asking to come back as Marshal. I am not even asking to come back. I am asking for … There are things I’ve done …’ I stumble.

‘What are you asking for? What have you done, Bran?’

‘I need to be able to speak to the Marshal about this. But he was not at his post yesterday even though we had an appointment. It’s 137

irregular. The world is broken, Elba. You will not survive without strong leadership and a man who abandons his duties is not a strong leader.’

‘The strong sometimes know very little about strength.’

I do not know what she means. She turns around quickly and says,

‘It is late. I have an early start. I think you should go now.’

I am being dismissed, perhaps a bit curtly too. At the door though, she takes me by the arm. She speaks softly, ‘Though I cannot help you, you will have your answers one day. I’m certain of it.’ With this she closes the door and I am left in the cool night.

I wander slowly back towards the shelter. The town is dark. There is no moon. Around me a few shapes flit through the dark, their heads buried in cloaks. I grab one by the shoulder as he shuffles past. I spin him around and the hood falls from his head. A blank face. ‘Do you know me?’ I ask. I speak from the back of my throat. He shakes his head. ‘Do you know Bran?’ He shakes his head, tries to pull away. ‘Ten years ago –’

He interrupts me. ‘I was not here.’ He wrenches himself free and slides back into the dark.

When I am within sight of the town hall I see a figure hurry into the courtyard. I don’t think he sees me. I recognise the gait and stature of the Marshal and I hurry after him. When I reach the courtyard there is no one in it. A glow from a lamp in the centre illuminates, dimly, the surrounding buildings.

I walk up to the Marshal’s door and am about to knock but I lower my hand and try the door instead. It is open.

My eyes have to adjust to the gloom inside. Once they do I see that the floor is coated in a thin layer of dust. It is on everything. The 138

dust gets everywhere in this town. I look down at the floor and try to make out the Marshal’s prints. But there is nothing. He must have gone through another door. Most of the offices connect so I could still find him. I will be quiet though. I might be able to find evidence of what’s going on if no one knows I’m here.

If I walk through the building now they will know from the footprints that someone has been in. But that is alright. They should know. I head up the stairs. They creak, but so lightly someone standing a few paces off would not be able to hear. I pass the landing with a window overlooking the courtyard. I freeze. There is a man standing below looking at the door. He would not be able to see me.

I cannot make him out, cannot see his face. He stands there for what seems like minutes, not moving, just staring at the door. Suddenly he turns and walks out of the courtyard. I wait for a while but he does not return.

I walk up to my old office. The door is closed and locked. I carry on down the passageway. The next room is one I used for my assistants.

This too is locked. The third room was used in my day by Abel. The current Marshal does not seem to have a deputy. This door is wide open. Inside everything is covered by sheets. I pull one off the desk.

It is the same. I know because I had it made. It was a present to Abel when I made him deputy. I try one of the drawers. Locked. I pull at it but the handle breaks off.

I must face the possibility that both he and Tora are dead. That would be unlucky certainly, for both of the people I know best to die within my period of absence. Perhaps they were together when they died. They would have been together quite often I suppose after I left, sharing what they did. But with no wars anymore, little crime, enough 139

food so it seems, why would they die? They were both young. Younger than I am anyway. They cannot both have died.

There on the side of the desk, the motto of Bran: In unity, strength.





The wood is worn from use.

I pull off the sheet from the bookshelf. There, a copy of the constitution of the settlement. Abel and I wrote this together.

I walk out of the room after replacing the sheets. Further down the corridor are more offices. Because we built in a random fashion and added bits to buildings when we needed to without regard for a grand design, the corridor is not straight. It turns, doubles back on itself. With no windows it is dark inside. You could lose yourself in here if you didn’t know what you were doing. I walk through the building trying all the doors. Abel’s office is the only one unlocked. I regret leaving my knife in the shelter. I usually have it. With it I could have forced a lock.

I could push in the doors but that would make a lot of noise.

I return the way I came and instead of going through the front door, turn left. I push open the doors to the hall. There is something I want to see. The room is empty. This is not unusual, it often was. Only for big meetings would we spread out the chairs. I walk towards the far end. There is a stage and to the left a wall panelled with wood. My footsteps, though cushioned by the dust, echo round the room. Gold lettering appears out of the gloom as I get close. At the top it reads, simply, ‘Marshals of Bran’. Below are just two names. I peer closely at them. It is like my heart stops. My name is not there. The first entry should be ‘Bran’ followed by the years I ruled but instead the first entry is Madara. The years are the same, b1 to b10. The second name is Abel.

That is right but then what of Marshal Jura? Why no inscription for the current Marshal? And if the decision was taken to expunge the 140

name of a Marshal convicted of wrongdoing, why replace my name with a fictional one? No matter what they thought of me, they cannot forget my achievements. And besides, they all know they are guilty too. Yes I was banished but out of guilt, not hatred. There were some who hated of course but it was mostly guilt. I feel a rage inside me, something I have not felt for years, not since the battlefield and even then infrequently. In a battle the angry lose, the detached win. I calm myself as I walk through the door and out into the cold air, though I notice I have been sweating. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.

I decide against exploring further tonight. Tomorrow I will make sure I have an audience with the Marshal.

Madara. A name. A fictional name. A word whose presence means that the settlement has an imperfect history. Why not keep the true name? Even if you hate the name and what it stands for, at least recognise it, stare it in the face.

Madara. It is familiar somehow. A name I once heard. A person I once knew. I am not Madara.

I walk around the town for hours. I walk past Elba’s windows. There is a light on in one. I watch it for a few minutes. A shadow moves across the yellow blinds, floats across the space, back and forth, back and forth as if in a dance.

I walk past Abel’s house. That, in contrast, is still dark. It is very late, however. It means little.

I walk past the courtyard entrance. Twice, three times.

The third time I look up at the windows. Behind one there is a movement. I am almost certain there is someone, a pale figure deep in the shadows, staring out, looking at me. I stare harder but there is 141

nothing more. I go further into the courtyard, look up. The window is black.

I think back to the figure I saw in the courtyard earlier. He too was looking up at the windows. Was he waiting for a signal from a figure behind one? Was he looking for me?

As I notice a lightening in the sky, I walk back to the shelter. Andalus is snoring slightly, his hands spread across his belly as if he has been feasting splendidly. I sit outside, my back to the wall, close my eyes and wait for the sun to creep up the alleyway.

142

9

I sleep for a short time. I wake when people should be starting the working day. Andalus has not eaten the food I brought back. I help myself to half of it.

He is awake. I say to him, ‘We are going to the Marshal’s office now.

I will get answers from him. It will be easier if you talk.’ He sits with his hands on his legs, palms upwards. His feet are within touching distance. Sun glints through tears in the canvas behind him.

‘You need to explain yourself, my friend. I cannot look after you forever. Sooner or later you will be on your own.’

It is no surprise to me when he does not answer.

We go out into the sunshine and walk the short distance to the complex. There are four people in the courtyard of the town hall.

The Marshal is in conversation with another man. He is tall, wears a hood and I cannot see any of his features. The Marshal is the only one who faces me. The other two, I am convinced, are Elba and Amhara.

Though it is a little distance away and they have their backs to me and are wearing scarves over their heads, I am convinced. As soon as I enter the courtyard the Marshal notices me. He seems to whisper something 143

to the three. They straighten up but do not turn. They walk through the open door behind the Marshal, the tall man leading the other two. The girl seems to hang back and begins to turn but the woman places a hand on her back and guides her through the door, which closes after them.

The Marshal waits for me, his hands crossed in front of him, unlike a soldier.

‘What can I help you with today?’ he asks.

Enough is enough, I decide. ‘We had an appointment yesterday.’

‘Did we?’

‘You mean to say you don’t remember?’

He shrugs.

‘Do you recognise me yet?’ I ask. I wonder if he notes my sarcastic tone. ‘You have had time to think, time to remember. I do not, I’m afraid, recognise you. You were perhaps a minor official when I left.’

The Marshal remains standing, not answering my question, waiting for me to finish.

‘I think you know who I am,’ I continue. ‘I think you know very well. What I can’t decide is why you would choose not to acknowledge me. Throughout my life I have been either hero or villain, depending on your political leanings. I have never been an object of indifference.’

The Marshal allows a smile to cross his lips.

‘But I am not the only issue here. The man I brought with me is one that has to be reckoned with. He is perhaps now of little use, of little consequence. Perhaps what he has seen has driven the life force from him but what he represents is important. The possibilities encased in his being here are what should be of interest. Perhaps the man Andalus is gone but we should understand why there is that void, the void in the space where he stands.’

144

‘You’re a philosopher,’ says the Marshal. ‘Or a poet.’

I do not respond to this.

‘Where is this man, then, this Andalus?’ He emphasises the second syllable, whereas he should know to emphasise the third. It is a mistake some of my less well-informed people used to make.

I do not correct him. I turn around, reaching out to Andalus who I assume is behind me. He is not. There is no sign of him.

I turn back to the Marshal. ‘He was here. He has wandered off.’

The Marshal smiles and turns to go.

‘I am not finished,’ I say. I have raised my voice.

He turns back. The smile has vanished.

‘Where are Elba and Amhara?’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘You know she doesn’t want to be a part of your plan. Hesitant at the very least.’

The Marshal looks at me without replying. His face is blank.

‘I saw them go inside.’

‘They are not who you say they are.’

I decide not to pursue that. Instead I say, ‘I would like to talk about my situation. I would like a decision from you. A deadline, at the least.’

‘You would like to talk,’ says the Marshal. It is not a question.

Before I can reply he stands aside and motions me through the door.

I walk straight ahead towards the staircase leading to the Marshal’s office. There is no sign of Elba and Amhara. Through a corridor I see the hall I was in last night. I think about going straight in there and questioning the meaning of the erasure of my name. But that can wait.

145

I walk up the stairs, past the doors to offices belonging to clerks and lower officials and straight through the door to the Marshal’s office.

Inside, things have changed slightly. There is a rug on the floor that wasn’ t there before and a cabinet against the right-hand wall. I notice too my portrait has been removed from above the desk. The space where it used to hang is darker than the surrounds. The desk and chair are the same and showing their age. I run my fingers over a scratch in the desk’ s surface. I remember making it – a slip of a knife. I remember it becoming dark with age. I turn to face the Marshal who just now appears in the door.

‘You seem to know your way around.’

‘Apparently so.’

Momentarily I feel as if I am back in my post and this man is the supplicant, instead of me. I find myself moving to the chair behind the desk but stop. I stand to one side and let the Marshal pass. He asks me to sit.

‘How may I help?’ The Marshal sits behind the desk, facing me.

‘You no doubt know who I am,’ I begin. ‘You no doubt know that according to the terms of my sentence I am not allowed to return to the settlement on pain of death. Nonetheless I have returned. You must be wondering why I have done so, why I have flouted the terms of my sentence.’

I pause but the Marshal says nothing.

‘I am surprised, I have to say, at the lack of urgency shown by you at my presence, at Andalus’ s presence indeed. I am surprised I am being left alone and not arrested. It is an agreeable turn of events in some ways but one which I would like to understand. We have things to clear up here. Firstly, you should be aware of the reasons for my 146

presence since I believe as Marshal you have a duty to react to them.

That is my major concern, as it has always been. Secondly, I would like to understand what this means. Why has the policy of the town been to ignore me, to pretend they don’t remember, for this must be what is going on? Perhaps it is not my concern. I am, after all, no longer of this place. Nonetheless I would like to understand what it means. Will I be forced to leave again? Will I face execution? Will I have to serve time in prison within the colony? I hope for leniency, given the dangers I have faced bringing Andalus here, bringing him to your notice. Thirdly, I would like to talk about the events of the past, about what we did.’

He interrupts me. ‘Who is this man you have brought to us?’

‘You must know who he is. Andalus, the General of Axum, the one who brought near destruction on our people, as we did on his. The one I fought, the one with whom I concluded a peace.’

‘I have not seen Andalus.’ This time he changes his pronunciation.

‘He appears to be traumatised. He is certainly not the same man who led Axum. Something has happened and I believe we need to try to discover what it is. In the time since I found him he has not spoken, has not said a word. He is docile. Quite tame. Much like a dog, you might say. He does what you tell him. Every now and then I can see a glimmer in his eyes of who he used to be. There was an instance on the island when I was chopping wood. He came up behind me, like a ghost, and the expression in his eyes … I did not trust him for a while after that but he seems harmless.’

‘You were on an island?’

‘Yes.’ I look at him unblinking. ‘I survived.’

‘Tell me about this island.’

I contain my irritation at the changing of the subject and decide to 147

humour him. ‘My calculations told me I was on the very edge of our territories as agreed with Axum. Any further and I would have been in violation of the Treaty and you could have been back at war. Banished by the town I saved, for carrying out what was necessary to save them, only to initiate war as a result of my banishment. You did not think of that possibility when you gave me a raft and a few provisions.’

‘I gave you a raft?’

I make a point of maintaining my patience. ‘Not you personally, though I’m sure you had some role in the whole proceeding. Not you but your office, specifically the man who occupied that seat before you, Marshal Abel.’

‘Abel?’

‘Yes, Abel. You are not going to tell me you have forgotten him as well.’

The Marshal smiles and looks down at his desk. ‘So, tell me about the island.’

Again I feel this is a waste of time but it is dawning on me that my people have lost a sense of urgency. Things have slowed down. I begin:

‘The island is a dead place or to be accurate, a dying place. It is like a body lying face down in a pool of muddy water, slowly sinking, slowly drowning.’ I stop myself.

‘The island I have documented well. I have brought my notes with me.’ I tap the bag that I hold. ‘My intention was to hand over the notes to the town’ s geographer. Though the island is disappearing there is knowledge there and since we have lost such a lot, a little is valuable.’

The Marshal holds up his hand to stop me opening the bag. ‘That can wait,’ he says.

I fix him with a stare. ‘You are right. There is little of interest on the 148

island. The island is not the story here, or at least not the main story.

What is of interest is Andalus and what is to be done with him.’

‘Still, humour me. How long were you on the island and how did you come to return to us?’

‘Ten years. I arrived there about three weeks after being sent away from here. It was the first dry land I had seen. Relatively dry at least.

I set up camp. I found water. I caught fish. I made fire from peat and from wood found in a small forest. I harvested grains and tubers. I caught seagulls every now and then. They were mostly dead already. I worked out how long the island would last, how quickly it was slipping into the water. I noted the rates at which food stocks dwindled – the fish, the birds – and worked out how long my fuel sources would last. I made annotations on the types of fish I caught, the varieties of grains I found, the earth, the rocks. I did not plant more because I did not need more. My life I realised would run out with the island’s. That was how it was for all the time I was there.

‘One day Andalus washed ashore. There he was, a large white being stranded on my shore. It took me a while to recognise him but eventually I did. He showed no signs of recognising me. In fact he showed no signs of noticing what was around him at all.

‘I began to realise what his presence might mean and decided I should do what was right and face death by bringing him to your attention. And here I am.’

‘And here you are.’ He pauses, then asks, ‘And how long do you plan to stay?’

I shake my head. ‘There are still questions, things to be done.’ I lean in towards the Marshal. ‘What have you done with Marshal Abel?

What have you done with his lover, Tora?’