He went to set the food on the table, saw my things spread out, and motioned for me to move the laptops to one side. I did, and he put the food down, returning to the kitchen to fetch two mugs of hot tea and two squares of kitchen towel. We sat down on wooden stools that were tucked beneath the table and ate ferociously with our fingers.

It was the first time I’d seen him clearly. He looked more substantial than he had done in the gloom of the tunnels – more like five-eleven, and a hundred and fifty pounds. It was the sniper’s curse to assess everyone as a potential target; mentally adjust every breeze for windage; scope every distance for elevation. His hair was bound up in a simple, neat black turban. Washed clean, his beard was still wispy, but at least looked a little more dignified. I hadn’t shaved. And my bullet wounds burned continuously.

‘That,’ I said, mopping the last of the spicy bean sauce from the bowl with the last of the parathas, ‘was grand. Thank you.’

‘They’re literally the only things I can cook. My mum’s sister taught me how to make them the day before I left the UK. She was worried I would starve. She was completely correct.’

I took a slug of the tea. It was sweet enough to put my teeth on edge.

‘I thought you were from Chandigarh?’ I asked him.

He nodded. ‘I came to London first, to see my auntie and finish school. Then I came to France. To Saclay. The university,’ he clarified, gesturing towards the piles of notes and the bank of screens. ‘I’m doing an MA. Computer stuff. But the campus is miles away.’

He looked around the living room as if to say, So here I am. I looked around, too. The apartment was large for Paris, never mind student digs.

‘Rich parents?’

He looked taken aback, and slightly sheepish. ‘Oh, no. Not at all. I … the course is OK, but, ah …’

‘But what? It’s OK, Baaz, I’m not going to call your auntie.’

‘OK.’ He drew a breath as deep as I had done before my first confession. ‘I trade crypto. Digital coins. It’s going quite well.’

‘So I see.’

There was a plain three-seater sofa in the room – which I’d slept on – with matching armchairs. The décor was simple, neutral: the walls were peppered with bland abstract art, the bookshelves lined with most likely unread classics. It felt more like a hotel room than a home – and would’ve had a rent to match. There were few, if any, personal belongings to be seen: hardware and notepads consumed his entire attention.