We found a small bench that thankfully wasn’t damp. The night was cold, thick with moisture, our breath stark white. His face was narrow and thin. He kept squinting at unseen objects, though he didn’t wear glasses, or at least didn’t have a pair with him. He wore a thin mustard jacket and a light brown shirt that hung from thin, drooped shoulders. He ate like a mouse, the samosa held between tiny hands, turned clockwise, nibbled, turned again. His legs were so slight the material of his hemp trousers hung from his thighs, leaving flattened material where flesh should have been.

We lived quite close to the airbase. Every so often a broad-winged plane roared by, lights blinking silent code. After the second, I raised my cup.

‘To our moral defenders,’ I said. I must admit, I was pretty drunk. The man said nothing, nibbling. His cup sat by his ankle. I tried to keep my eyes away, but it was tough. Mine was almost empty and I wanted more.

‘Don’t like them much, do you?’

His eyes were grey, I noticed. Grey and watery as the English Channel.

‘Not particularly.’

He lowered his head, going back to the samosa. I tried not to sigh aloud. This was getting ridiculous. I sipped the last of my wine and mentally gave up. I was thinking about going back inside when he said:

‘They’re not defending anything.’

I waited to see why. Not that I had anything to say.

‘They’re a security measure. They don’t get involved with our external affairs, what little there are.’

‘Really?’ Shifting sideways on, I put my cup down. Held out a hand. ‘Richard Pearson.’

‘Harry Devonald.’

His fingers were like clay, damp and sticky. I let go.

‘That’s very specific. How’d you know so much?’

‘Up until tonight, I worked there,’ Devonald crooned, a soft lament. I felt my heart stop, my instincts kick. A story perhaps?

‘What happened?’

Grey eyes blinked.

‘They accused me of something I didn’t do. Something I wouldn’t.’

I looked around the garden and half-open back door, cracked with light and voices, made sure we were alone. My mouth hung open, breath swirling. He looked at me, weighing me up, no doubt.

‘It’s this,’ he said, taking something from his pocket. Square and thin, tiny even in his hands. A circuit board. Soldering glinted in dim light.

‘I thought you said—’

‘I didn’t,’ he interrupted, voice firm for the first time. ‘I didn’t. They came to my desk. It was in my hand and I just …’

Didn’t let go. Dangerous choice.

‘Can you tell me what it does? Should you?’

He sighed a plume into the night, looked up. I didn’t think he would say anything until he did.

‘There’s a project. Decades old, possibly centuries. To build a starcraft—’

‘A starcraft? D’you mean the WiSP?’

Devonald whipped around to face me.

‘What?’

He was up, stumbling, one hand on the bench. He kicked over his drink, shook wine from his foot, cried out. I forced myself not to rise.