Dalip invested the time in trying to climb up to the window-slit. The wall wasn’t smooth, and the rough stonework was pocked with gritty holes. That made it easy to get a little way up, and just as easy to slip down again. Because the wall was deep in shadow, he used his hands more than his eyes, reaching and feeling over his head. He was young and fit, and reasonably supple. Climbing the corner of the cell made it possible to brace himself, rather than rely on the strength in his fingers. His melted boots weren’t helping, so he took them off. He had his thick socks on underneath, and they were growing increasingly crisp with wear.

The outer wall was broad, as deep as his arm was long. The gap was far too narrow for him to pass through, even his head, let alone his shoulders, but if he could see outside and look down at the ground, he might have some idea of what lay beyond.

He was almost there, raised up off the floor, feet stuck in adjacent walls, and about to traverse towards the window, when there were three bangs at his cell door.

He scrambled down and dusted himself off, quickly kicking the sack into a dark corner. He stood away from the door: he genuinely wanted to do the question and answer thing, not fight. Not this time, at least.

Something slid aside, and the door opened outwards into the corridor. The guard was holding a lantern, a crude black iron cage, pierced with holes to let the light out. There was no point in trying to trick him by pretending he was still tied up; Dalip showed him his hands, and the guard reached for his knife.

‘I’ll come quietly,’ he said. That was what all the criminals in the TV shows said, and they were treated reasonably. He didn’t know if it would work here, but it was worth a shot. ‘You have my word.’

And that, strangely, seemed to have the desired effect.

‘A knife in the back if you break that. Out, then.’

It was the first time he’d seen the corridor. It was mean and narrow, just wide enough for one. There were doors all the way down, both left and right, but there was no way of being able to tell what was behind any of them.

At the far end was a T-junction. The finger in his back told him he was going left, though he was able to steal a glance the other way. A bigger door, better made. That way, then, was out.

The way he was facing was a short blank-walled corridor, with just one small door at the end to go through. There were bolts, and a bar, but they were pulled back.

‘Through here?’

‘Through there. Whatever you’re asked, you answer, right? Whatever you’re asked to do, you do it.’