I trod the ten feet between us. I tried to squat down beside her, but my knee gave way. I grunted with pain as I sprawled on the floor, leaning on my right hand with one leg folded beneath me. I could feel fresh blood leaking into Polina’s bandages.

‘I knew you’d come,’ she said, ‘after I saw your photograph in the paper. You want to convince me that you didn’t kill him.’

‘That’s right,’ I said.

We were a foot apart. Her accent was harsh and unfamiliar, pulled between Ireland and Israel, edged with fear.

‘But you did, didn’t you?’

‘I don’t know where to start,’ I said.

I looked at the candles, at the few personal effects scattered around the room: a sleeping bag by the stove, a half-eaten loaf of bread, a plate and a bowl. But I could find no anchor to steady me; see no compass to navigate by. It felt both unremarkable to see her again and deeply disorientating.

‘Yes, you do, Max. Where all stories start,’ she said. ‘At the beginning. Remember?’

She looked down and rested her chin on her knees. Her hands were dirty, nails blackened. Then I saw on the floor next to her a burned stub of kindling, sharpened to a point. I studied the wall again. She’d been using firewood to write with, her hands as an eraser.

‘Rachel,’ I said, feeling the weight of the syllables fill my mouth, ‘this time you have to tell me the story.’ I opened my left hand and gestured towards her calculations. ‘I don’t understand what any of this means.’

‘It means,’ she said, slowly and deliberately, ‘the eyes to read every word, the ears to hear every whisper.’ She smiled at me. ‘It means the triumph of light, Max, and the defeat of darkness. At least that’s what I thought it meant.’

‘I see,’ I said, looking for some way, any way back into the mind, the soul, of the person I’d cherished as a teenager.

‘Do you?’ She stood up abruptly in one strong, fluid movement and moved away from me. She wrenched the centre candle free of its wax fixings and brought the flame to bear on the charcoal scrawl. ‘Do you see? Do you understand?’ I looked up at her and pursed my lips.

‘What do you think death looks like, Max? A skeleton on a horse? The Grim Reaper? A fantasy to scare children with?’ She turned around to face me, holding her arms and the candle aloft. ‘Well?’ The sleeves of her tunic fell back, revealing the thick, angry scars that ran from her wrists to her elbows. I bowed my head. ‘Look at me, Max. Look at me!’ she shouted. ‘Look at them!’

‘I’ve seen them already,’ I said, still staring at the floor. ‘Remember?’