Текст книги "Wall of Days"

Автор книги: Alastair Bruce

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10

I walk over to the Marshal’s office. There is a man at the top of the alleyway I see when I leave the shelter. He is gone by the time I reach the road. I am being kept under surveillance.

I do not knock. Instead I turn the handle. The door is open. I walk up the stairs to the Marshal’s office.

He is sitting at his desk. He looks up as I enter. He does not look surprised to see me.

I sit down in the chair opposite him. I become aware of another man in the room. He sits in the corner behind my right shoulder. I turn around. Though I did not get a good look at him I think it is the man who knocked me over when I ran after the judge. He does not meet my gaze.

‘What do you want, Bran?’ the Marshal begins.

‘Good morning,’ I say. I wait for him.

Eventually he returns my greeting.

‘I do not pretend to understand your treatment of me but it seems you may need some time to adjust, to ponder. I am a patient man but I require some answers from you. Though you might not think I have rights here anymore I believe I do. I have a right to be concerned that my people are losing their way.’

The Marshal leans back in his chair but does not respond.

‘I have three questions for you. First, I would like to know the whereabouts of Abel, the second Marshal of Bran, the one who took over when I left, as well as the whereabouts of Tora. She was the woman who helped work out our meal plan. They might be found together if that helps though I suspect you might know that. I suspect you know very well where they are.’

Still nothing from him.

‘Second, I demand to know why this elaborate charade. Why do you all pretend not to know me? Not to see me? Why do you all pretend to be someone else? You, for instance. You are no Marshal. You are not a leader of men. You act the part but Marshal is not in your essence. You are not a Marshal at your core.’

I pause. After a few seconds he asks, ‘You mentioned three things?’

‘Yes.’ My tone alters. This is not as easy for me. ‘I want something from you. It is less a question than a request.’ I pause again.

‘I found a man on my island. This man should not have been there.

He means the balance has been disturbed. He means you have to reckon with the past again. He means that I am here now. That I am here before you demanding, asking, for you, for the settlement, to look again at me, to look at what I’ve done. And either kill me or set me free.’

‘You are free.’

I look away from him, out the window. From here I can see the roofs of houses, the watchtowers on the gates and, beyond, blue in the distance, the mountains. Across those, across the plain, the ocean, lies the island, melting in the rain.

‘What do you want from us, Bran?’

I turn back. I do not answer the question. Instead I say, ‘I am gathering proof. Proof that what I say is true.’

‘And what is that?’

‘I have seen the judge. The one who sentenced me. I could see recognition in his eyes. Others too. You are keeping my friends and close acquaintances well hidden but I know a lot of people. Sooner or later they will out. This town is not a ghost town. People cannot stay in the shadows forever.’

‘There must be more.’

‘I have a letter addressed to me. I have a jacket that used to belong to Abel. I have found human remains. I extracted a confession from Elba.’ This last point is an exaggeration and I watch the Marshal closely to see if he reacts.

‘Elba?’ he asks, his face still blank.

‘That’s right. I don’t believe she is who she says she is. Just as you are not the real Marshal. Maybe she was a friend of Tora’s. The child, who is not hers, seems to trust her, even if she does resent her a bit as well.

But she is not who she says she is. And you. I have been trying to place you. You are familiar. You were a clerk in one of my offices, weren’t you?

An administrator.

Sometimes you used to put on plays in the town’s courtyard to entertain us.’

While I am saying this I realise it is true. It has come back to me. At first I thought him a General but he is not. An insignificant man, until now, playing the part of a Marshal.

‘You’re having me followed.’ He looks blank. ‘In the orchard, last night, this morning.’

This time he does speak. ‘You have an elaborate imagination. Who would want to follow you?’

‘In the hut there was a pile of rags. It was shaped like a corpse. A body.’

‘A pile of rags? Not a hollow man then? A rag man?’ He sneers.

‘Do you think it is appropriate in such a solemn place to leave effigies? The marks on the wall. Do they not make you cower? Do they not make you regret everything?’ I stop myself.

‘Better effigies, better make-believe, than bodies of flesh.’

‘So you admit to knowing what went on there?’

‘What went on there?

‘You know what we did. You are the inheritor of it. You are the children of it, the bastard of a father you’re trying to forget.’

His face shows no emotion. ‘And you? Are you my father?’

I wave away this question. ‘What have you done with them?’

‘With whom?’

‘Where is everyone?’

He holds his arms out, palms upwards.

‘What have you done with Abel and Tora? Are they orchestrating this or are they victims of it too? Have you had them killed? Imprisoned?

Who is leading this?’

‘You know who is leading this.’ He speaks softly.

‘Who?’

‘I am. I am Marshal.’

‘You are not.’

‘I am Marshal of Bran. You are a wanderer. You have come in out of the wilderness. We wondered where you had come from. You came across the mountains. But before that? You speak of islands. You speak of a land where it rains incessantly. You speak of a man no one has seen.

Is he made up? We look at you, stranger. You demand we remember you. You come here asking for, what was it, to be killed or set free? You abuse our hospitality with your unreasonable demands.’

I might have underestimated this man. He speaks slowly but firmly.

I stand up quickly and before the man in the corner can move I lift up Jura by his shirt. He is a large man but I am strong. ‘You will reckon with me.’

The other man is up by now. I let go of Jura. I place both hands on the desk and lean in to him. ‘You will reckon with me.’

I leave the room and close the door behind me.

It does not re-open. I walk down the corridor towards the room with the window behind which I believe I have seen someone watching me.

I reach the door. I place my ear to it. I can hear nothing. Or, I can hear something but I’m not sure what. When you hold a shell to your ear you hear the ocean. Do I hear breathing? I knock softly. Listen again. Still the breathing. I try the handle. The door is locked. I push against it. It is solid. I kneel and bend down. The gap between door and floor is small. Inside it is dark. But there are two darker shadows I can see. It is as if someone is standing on the other side, arm’s distance away from me. The shadows do not move. It is silent in the corridor.

I whisper, ‘Hello.’

No movement. No answer.

‘Tora. It is me.’

I get to my feet. I place my palms on the door and lean in, press my cheek against it. It is warm. The temperature of blood.

‘It is me. Bran. I have come back.’

There is nothing from the room.

I hear footsteps coming from down the corridor. I move further down and try the handle of the room next door. I am surprised when it opens. I close the door silently behind me. The key is in the lock and I turn it.

The footsteps stop, first outside the room next door, then outside my door. The handle turns slowly. Then they move off, further down the corridor.

I look around me. The walls are hidden for the most part. Against them leans a jumble of boxes, furniture and planks. It seems this room is used only for storage. I begin shifting some of the wood. I find a small wooden box. Shaking it produces a rattling sound. I open it and inside I find a child’s toy, a man made of sticks, held together with twine. Or a woman perhaps, it is impossible to tell. I place it in my coat pocket to give to Amhara when next I see her. I pull back a large plank to see what’s behind it. There is something leaning against the wall.

It comes flooding back to me. I feel prickles at the back of my neck.

The colours are faded, bits of paint are starting to flake off but there is no doubt what it is, who it is. It is me. I am in three-quarter profile but looking directly at the artist. The portrait that used to be behind my desk. The same painting. I look fiercer than I remember. I am in military uniform. There is black writing beneath the picture. I do not remember that either and I cannot make out what it says. This is it.

This is the proof that will force them to confront me. I peer closely at the writing but still can’t make it out.

I take the painting and go to the wall dividing the rooms. I knock on it. A shuffling. Indistinct. The sound a mouse might make.

‘I will come for you.’

I don’t know if I can be heard. I speak louder. ‘I will come back for you. I promise.’

There is no one in the corridor. I walk back to the Marshal’s office.

The door is closed and locked. I see no one else in the building.

Outside though, the man from the office stands at one end of the courtyard. Though I have the portrait wrapped up and he cannot see what it is, there can be no doubt I have taken something. But he does not follow me. He watches me leave.

I see Amhara in the street. She wears the red tunic. She is some way ahead of me, darting in and out of sight, down side streets, up alleys.

She stops and turns, looks in my direction. I hold my hand up to her.

She is silhouetted red against a white building.

I go to her. As I get closer her companions emerge from the shadows, from the streets and walk up to me, float up to me. Their eyes are unblinking. They’re close and they reach out to me. One grabs my arm, another pulls at my coat. They’re silent, crowding around me. Amhara hasn’t moved. She is taller than the others. ‘Leave him,’ she says. They look away and run off, disappearing again into the streets. Amhara stays, looks up at me. She takes my hand and squeezes. Her eyes like mine. The world is so much smaller in this moment. Everything stops.

I open my mouth to speak but she turns and is gone. I remember the toy in my pocket too late.

I place the portrait in the shelter, covering it with tarpaulin. Andalus does not seem to notice what I’m carrying.

‘I have proof,’ I say to him.

He leans against the wooden frame of the shelter.

‘Proof that everything is as I say it is. Proof that you and I are the bedrock on which this settlement has been built. Our settlements.’

I watch his eyes.

‘And still you don’t speak. I don’t understand your game.

‘Proof. But I want more. I am going to find more.’

I start at the first house after the town gate. I will work street by street, knocking on every door, waiting for an answer from every one. I will see if I recognise the person who opens the door. I will make sure they cannot close the door on me. If I don’t recognise the person, to each I will ask the same questions: ‘Where are Tora and Abel?’ I will ask this, though I suspect I know the answer already. And: ‘You remember me, don’t you?’ If they look me in the eye and say ‘Yes’ I will smile at them, thank them and leave. But they will not say that. They will not speak the truth.

There are about a thousand dwellings in the town. I do the sums in my head. One thousand houses, five minutes each. Fourteen or fifteen hours a day. It could take a week. And then not all the houses will be occupied when I reach them. I will have to come back again and again.

But perhaps the very first house I come to will have an answer for me.

The occupant of the first will stand to one side, invite me in. They will sit me down, take my hand, tell the truth.

Each house has in theory the same chance of being the true one.

One in a thousand. But surely only the first house has those odds. The last house, the true house, has a one in one chance of being the right house. Does a house that is not the right one have any chance at all of being the right one? Would that I knew which is the last house.

Perhaps when I knock on one door an old crone will point down the road at a house and say, ‘There, that is where you will find your answer.’ A knock on that door elicits the response, ‘No, not here but that house down there,’ pointing to a third. And so on. With each step I move closer to and further away from the truth.

I sit on the steps of the first house for a few minutes. I hold my head in my hands. My forehead feels gritty, coated in sand, as if I am slowly being buried in the dust of the town.

The house behind me is silent. I knock on the door. Peer through the window. Try the handle. I pretend to leave and stand at the bottom of the steps, watching, listening.

Each house gives similar results. Sometimes there is movement inside. Sometimes there isn’t. The doors never open.

When it is the house of someone I know I shout their name. I wait for the echo. I shout again.

I spend hours doing this. The sun goes down. I continue. For a while I do not notice my hunger.

I keep at it until the moon is high in the sky.

At the last house I try I hurl myself at the door. Again and again. I feel my skin grow raw. I open my mouth as if in a scream but I do not know if I make a sound.

Then I stop. I go back to the town hall.

But I cannot get in. I walk up to the Marshal’s door in the moonlight.

It is locked. I get out my knife to pick the lock. I hear a cough to my right. It is the man from the office. I turn to him. I begin to walk up to him, my knife in my fist. He takes a step back. I stop. I lower the knife.

We look at each other for what seems like minutes.

It is not yet the time for that.

On my way out of the courtyard I look up at the window. Before I can see who it is, a figure draws the curtain. It sways for a bit and is then still.

11

I crawl out of the shelter in the morning and almost bump into the Marshal standing outside waiting for me. He is alone.

‘Yes?’ I say.

‘Tonight. Tonight we will sort things out. You are to come to the town hall at sunset.’

I stare at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, tonight we will know what will become of you.’

‘And Andalus?’

‘Andalus. Yes. I know what he is.’

‘You know what he is.’

‘He too is part of your game. Bring him too, if you can.’

‘I am not the one playing a game.’

‘Are you sure, Bran?’

With that he turns and walks away. As he rounds the corner, the other man appears. He stands in the middle of the road with his arms held behind him.

I go back in to the shelter. I speak to Andalus, ‘I know you can talk.

I need you to talk now.

‘I am beginning to think you are the cause of the hiatus. If I returned on my own they would have no hesitation in sending me on my way again, perhaps with an arrow between the shoulder blades. But as soon as they saw Bran and Andalus cresting the mountain they began to panic. They began to fear the resumption of war, the return of the past.

And now they stay indoors and debate amongst themselves.

‘This Marshal is not who he says he is. He used to be a minor official. I don’t believe he is orchestrating this. I think he is standing in for someone else. He intends to communicate a decision about us tonight. They cannot keep up the deception forever. I am finding clues to support my story all the time. Left alone long enough I will have overwhelming evidence that all this,’ I wave my arms in an arc, ‘is an elaborate façade.

‘But it would make it a lot easier if I had you to support me. Will you speak? Will you come with me? Tonight is when our fates will be sealed. I cannot see how this can go on for much longer. People will tire of staying indoors. Soon someone will set fire to this shelter, will come in the night armed with knives if only to be rid of us. Tonight we will either be recognised for who we are and accounted for or forced into a battle that it would be difficult to win. Will you help me?’

Andalus begins a slow rocking motion on his heels. He holds his hands in front of him, stares at the ground, his face blank, and does not speak.

I am not surprised.

‘I too have not spoken properly, Andalus. What I have to say is difficult. I have not asked for what I really want. I too cannot speak.

Why is that?

‘Tonight I will though. I have to. You must help me.

‘Speak.

‘Speak.

‘Speak.’

He does not. I stand up, take a deep breath, walk over to him. I grab him by the coat he still wears and draw him to me. His eyelids flicker open. I speak in a low voice. ‘You will not live another week in this place. They will come for you. I know these people, what they are capable of. They will come for you and drag you from your hole, slit your throat and bury you in a shallow grave beyond the walls. The weakest are the most dangerous. I am your only hope.’ I let go, pushing him back down at the same time.

He moves his lips. I lean in to him. ‘What? What are you trying to say?’

Nothing.

I give him a sharp kick in the leg.

I feel him staring as I leave.

I walk quickly, straight at the man in the alleyway. At the last second he moves to one side.

I feel light-headed and walk to the kitchens to eat. There is no sign of Elba. I do not ask after her. There is no one else eating.

When I am done I go to her flat. There is no one home. I try the handle. It is locked. I think about leaving the toy but I cannot be sure Amhara will get it. I want to place it in her hands. I start down the stairs. As I do, as I walk past the weeds in the cracks, the splintered wood on the rail, something hits me and I have to stop. I hear Tora. I stop in mid-stride and turn my head, listening for the sound again. I look at where it came from. But I know, knew straight away, it is not Tora. It is her voice dragged up from memories. Her standing in the door, waiting for me, a smile on her lips. This time a smile. Her wanting to see me. A moment twenty years ago when I made her happy. And it hits me. I can see her. She stands there and all that separates us is two decades. To say it is nothing. But it is too much.

I see a figure at the corner of the street. I walk towards him and he vanishes.

I go back to the houses. That is all there is to do now. Look for more proof. Tonight I will ask for what I have come for. I will find a way to free Tora. I cannot now. It is too light. I must just hope they give me a chance later on. Perhaps what I ask for will change everything. Perhaps it won’t.

I follow the sun. As it moves overhead so I move through the town.

I knock on door after door. Time after time they remain closed.

I realise I am completely alone in the streets. The children have gone. I turn around. I scan the tops of the houses. I watch clouds cross the line made by the rooftops. I scrape my foot along the sand. There is only silence. If someone is following me they are keeping themselves well hidden. I turn around and around with my arms held out, my face to the sky. I feel the breeze beneath my arms. Grey buildings. Sunlight.

Shadow. Dust blown into eddies.

Door after door.

At dusk one opens.

The man is blind.

And I know who he is.

He was another official in my administration. He ran the Farming Licensing Department. I stare at him.

‘Who’s there?’

I reach out to him. I fold him in my arms. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

He struggles now. ‘No.’ His voice barely registers.

‘It is me, Bran. You know me. We used to be friends.’

‘No.’ He struggles. He is like a fish before I beat it against a rock.

‘Bran.’

‘No. They will come for me. Please.’

‘You know me. How dare you deny me? I made you what you are.’

I speak softly.

Through his chest I can feel his heart beat. His ribs feel brittle. Like if I squeezed hard enough they would snap.

I put my face against his. My face is wet, my mouth at the bridge of his nose, my teeth sensing the taste of his flesh. I breathe over his blind eyes.

I push him away. He falls down. He whimpers.

Back at the shelter I find that Andalus has gone. I am not surprised.

I walk through a few of the streets around the alley but there is no sign of him. I will not look for him anymore. Chances are he will not be of much use.

It is well after sunset when I walk into the courtyard of the town hall.

In the middle stands the Marshal dressed, rather strangely, in a long white gown. ‘Come in,’ he says. ‘The others are here. We can begin.’

I fol ow him into the hall where we had our discussion about the names on the wall. Seated at a table in the middle of the room is Elba, who has her back to me. The man who has been watching me stands in a corner of the room. There are three empty chairs at the table. The Marshal extends his hand towards one of them, motioning for me to sit.

He goes over to talk to the man, whom I assume is a soldier. I whisper to Elba, ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I am sorry about the other night. My behaviour was inappropriate for the circumstances.’

She does not look at me but says, ‘You should not apologise for who you are.’

I do not get a chance to respond as Jura returns and sits down at the table.

He asks, ‘Where is your friend?’

‘I could not find him. He must have gone for a walk. He probably wouldn’t have been good company. He is not very talkative.’

‘So you say.’ Jura rests his hands on the table but says nothing more.

‘Well?’ I say.

He smiles at me. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

‘We do. Why have you called me here? You said you had come to a decision. What is it?’

‘In time, Bran, in time. First we must wait for the other member of our party.’

‘Who is that?’ But I know already.

‘A man who wants to talk to you. We tried to persuade him not to.

But it is his decision. This is his town.’

I feel the skin at the back of my neck prickle. ‘Who?’

I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t want to turn around.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look at it. It is white, manicured, the nails clean.

‘Hello Bran.’

I mumble. It is not how I want to sound. ‘Abel.’

He sits down opposite me. We stare at each other. The old warrior and his friend, his foe. He has half a smile on his face. He is tall. His limbs spill over the chair, over the table. I note the creases in his face, the grey in his hair, the paleness of his skin.

The years I have known this man. The things we have been through, the things we have seen. At this point, seeing him, I am numb.

The room grows darker. No one has lit a candle. Elba gets up to do so, sits down again.

He speaks first.

‘I want to hear your story, Bran. I want to hear why you are here.’

‘Hello Abel. Friend.’ I look at his eyes. Paler than I remember.

Abel stares at me. He does not blink. Then, again: ‘I want to hear your story.’

‘Just as I want to hear yours. I have many questions.’

‘So I have been told. You have come to us with fantastic stories, calling us murderers. You claim to have journeyed here across the oceans, a survivor, a wanderer.’

I feel a chill. ‘Are you continuing the game? You too.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You know me.’

He says nothing for a while. Then, ‘What do you want?’

‘If I tell you, will the games stop? Will you acknowledge the truth of who I am?’

Abel makes no movement.

I grip the table. ‘What is going on? I have come with a plausible story about Axum. You all know who I am. Yet no one will admit it.

You all stay out of my way, do not look me in the eye. It is like you are trying to persuade me I do not exist. Have never existed.’

The half-smile returns but still he says nothing.

I lean back. ‘Very well. We can play your game for a while longer. I have more proof of who I am now.’

‘More?’

I have brought my bag with me. In it I have placed the jacket and the letter. I have left the portrait in the shelter.

‘I told your assistant about these,’ gesturing in the direction of Jura and placing the items on the table.

Abel takes the letter and reads it. The smile disappears again.

‘An item of clothing and a letter you could have written yourself.

Hardly proof.’

‘It is not my handwriting. I found it in your house.’

‘So you say.’

‘We both know who wrote it. Why would I make this up?’

He does not answer but says instead, ‘You have broken into a lot of places. You must think us a very lenient people. Perhaps you think us lazy. Slow. Dog-people.’

I stare at him. ‘I have found my portrait as well.’

For a moment he looks almost startled. ‘Portrait?’

‘My portrait. A portrait painted when I was younger, when I was the Marshal.’

‘When you were the Marshal.’ My old friend appears to have adopted the habit of repeating what I say. Perhaps it gives him time to think. ‘A portrait of you?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is strange. Where did you find it? Was it in the hut in the orchard?’

I stare at Abel wondering if that is another joke. ‘Where I found it is of no concern. The fact that it exists is what is of concern, what should be of concern to you.’

‘And what does it look like, this portrait?’

I do my best to suppress a smile. ‘Why, like me of course. Only younger.’

‘I mean,’ says Abel – I have unsettled him – ‘I mean, how were you portrayed? What was the pose? What was the condition of the painting? Tell me more about this painting of you.’

‘I am in uniform. Three-quarter profile. Though the colours are faded you can see that I am portrayed as a leader.’

‘Faded?’

‘Yes, it was painted a long time ago but that is of no concern. It is in reasonable condition.’

‘And you’re sure it’s you?’

‘Of course I am sure. It is me, clear as daylight. There is an inscription under the portrait. True, that is faded more than the painting but a closer look would reveal a name, my name.’

‘What makes you certain? You say it looks like you but is it you?

Was it you? When was it painted would you say?’

‘Fifteen, maybe twenty years ago. Not long enough for your argument to be valid. It was the portrait that used to hang above my desk – your desk now. There is still a darker patch where it was hung.

Perhaps you had it replaced with one of yourself. You accused me of vanity.’

He waves this away. ‘But still, a long time. Long enough for appearances to change.’

‘For the painting to change? Paintings do not change. That is why they are commissioned.’

‘Exactly. But you have changed, no doubt. You looked one way once and now you look another perhaps. You say you lived on an island. Did you have a mirror? Have you seen yourself recently?

Would you recognise yourself? You can show me the painting. You can say here I am. See me. You can see it is me. And yet how can I see it is you? How can I who do not know you see that a twenty-year-old faded painting is you as a younger man? I do not know you. You say you know yourself but I do not know that, that has not been proven to me. The painting is not your proof. You must look elsewhere and find other proof.’

I bang the table. I shout at him. ‘You may despise me, Marshal Abel! You may despise me but you cannot deny me. You especially. You betrayed me. Twice. You banished me. I stayed away for years. And I survived. You were hoping I wouldn’t. I survived. I lived. I thought.

Ten years alone with only memories. Memories like ghosts. Ghosts everywhere.’ I stop myself.

‘Then I come here at great danger to myself. Not only the voyage but just by being here I risk death. I bring a man to you, a man whose presence means danger to the settlement you stole from me and you deny everything. You offer nothing.’

I open my mouth to continue but before I can, Abel asks softly,

‘What do you want from us?’

I get up quickly from the table.

‘I want…’ I breathe in quickly. I do not look at Elba who is staring at me. ‘I want a retrial. I want to be judged again in the light of the current events and those of the previous ten years. I do not want revenge on you. I do not want to be Marshal again. I do not seek to accuse you once more of participating in the murders for which you held me accountable. I want my legacy re-evaluated, my crimes recognised for what they truly were and my efforts in bringing an enemy General to the settlement authorities at great personal risk to myself noted. I want to be allowed to live among my people, the people I helped create.

Failing that, give me an end. Death, at least, brings redemption. Don’t deny me an end.’

There is silence.

‘I want to know what has happened to my friends and colleagues.

I want to know if Tora is still alive, the woman I loved.’ I look at Elba but she is still staring at the table.

‘Whether or not she loved me well enough, I still want to know what has become of her. And…’ Here I pause and feel my voice tremble slightly. ‘And I want the executed to be remembered. There is no monument to their sacrifice. The hundreds we had to kill, they should be remembered too. There were nine hundred and seventeen of them, Abel. Nine hundred and seventeen. Forgive me, please. I have to be forgiven. Please. They come to me at night. I cannot shake them. When I shut my eyes I see them. When I open my eyes they hide behind trees, on cliff tops, in the shadows. Every moment I see their faces, some of them. Others just blank. Skin. I have searched and searched for the names but I cannot. I cannot. Please.’

Abel’s jaw is set in a firm line. ‘You want to be re-judged? How can one be re-judged? One judgement is enough, surely? A judgement determines right or wrong. If the judgement was incorrect there would be no judgement in the first place. You cannot be re-judged. You ask the impossible.’

I am quiet for a while. ‘Do you admit you know who I am? Do you admit ten years ago a trial was held in this very room at which the citizens of this town banished me for life to the far corners of Bran territory?’

‘I admit no such thing at all. Nothing. There was nothing.’

‘Nothing? But look what has come of nothing,’ I say, pointing to myself. I am shouting again now. ‘Somehow I have appeared from nowhere, no one will admit to having known me and yet I know so much about this town. Of course you recognise me. I can see it in your eyes. You are just afraid to admit it. You are afraid of what that might mean for the paradise you have built. The paradise you have built on the bones of the dead.’

I am out of breath now. ‘In spite of your best efforts I have gathered proof of my past, the most obvious being a portrait of me. You refuse to admit it for fear that you might have missed something, for fear that the past you buried has resurfaced. I come here, searching for the forgiveness I cannot live without,’ again my voice trembles but I plough on, ‘yet you will not look me in the eye and allow me to explain, allow me to say what it is I need to say.’