Here we know that no resistance will be offered. Nor will the occupants come forward to greet us and extend the traditional welcome. The walauwa is about two hundred years old with wide verandahs. Ten whitewashed pillars support the jak wood beams of the filed roof. There are barred inner-windows. A brass spittoon stands beside a shabby rattan armchair. The front door opens for me. Inside the spacious hall with an ornate ebony couch and a few straight backed chairs, sesath with glittering prisms of mica lean against the walls. Family portraits in their heavy frames are lined up with their stiff, formal gazes. Silent and dead as the past.

My men walk into the rooms, searching. The curtains swish aside. Empty.

‘Look under the viyan andha, the four poster bed.’

A young man in white shirt and sarong, ashen-faced, is cowering in fear beneath it. They drag him out.

‘Where is Nilame?’ they ask.

He’s a young servant boy. He’s speechless, his tongue stilled by terror. His body is trembling, his expression livid. They push him aside and walk into the next room. There are so many of them in the walauwa, half of them empty. An old couple, relations of Nilame, an uncle and aunt of his, this much I know, sit on the edge of a bed, side by side. Resigned to whatever has to happen.

‘Spare Nilame. Take us,’ they both beseech.

Naturally, this offer is spurned. Who wants this kind of noble self-sacrifice.

He has to be here. Couldn’t have escaped. The house is surrounded.

‘Nilame? Nilame?’

Shadowy forms are reflected in the old tarnished mirror of the dressing table.

I walk along a corridor and find myself before an open door. His study. He’s there, standing at his desk, back turned to me, intent on what he is doing, going through files and papers. Bookcases are crammed with hardcover books. There’s a glass-framed portrait of the President on the wall. Silver trophy cups won at College. An old, green, baize-lined writing desk with innumerable pigeon-holes. He gets no time even to turn around and face me. We never see each other’s faces.

I fire three shots. He falls where he stood. I shoot again. Several times. I have to make sure. There was a large rock on the road. A boulder of considerable weight and size. It had to be cleared out of the way.

My men come running to the door when they hear the shots. So do the servant boy, uncle and aunt.

‘No, don’t go near him. Leave him where he is.’ I order. My mission has been accomplished. Back to that empty room which is my life. The only place where I feel safe. Just myself and my weapons. I trust no one. I have had no one’s love. My men are loyal because they fear me and value what they could gain. Their passion for killing dictates their actions.