He sleeps soundly now. The dreams still come but the terror of them is less and the noises outside are more homely now, more normal and organic, like they belong to this place and his life. Like people who live near busy roads who say they get so used to the noise they can’t sleep without it. The meds given by Doctor Watson help. They take the edge off and aid his production of serotonin, which serves to improve rationality and well-being, and to rationalise is to know where you are in time and space.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Roland said, stepping out from the bunker one evening a few days after Ben woke up.

Ben nodded. ‘Is,’ he said.

Roland turned to look at Ben. Smiling politely but very clearly examining the other man. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘Tired . . . still sore . . . getting better though,’ he added.

‘I see,’ Roland said.

‘You’re here late,’ Ben said. Roland was rarely in the bunker. Ben had noticed Roland’s lack of presence even when he was in the grip of his mental deterioration, but it was something he never thought to question or could be bothered to ask about.

‘Indeed,’ Roland said while looking at the bottles of beer in the cooler. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Carry on,’ Ben said. He almost said it’s your bunker, but stopped himself at the last second.

‘Malcolm and Konrad needed some money,’ Roland explained as he selected a beer, unscrewed the cap and took the first swig. It didn’t look right somehow. Roland was too stiff and too formal to drink beer from a bottle. Ben’s curiosity prickled. His investigative mind moved into gear. He showed no reaction on his face but inclined his head as though to show interest in the conversation and by not speaking he invited Roland to fill the silence. ‘Costs a fortune,’ Roland said, feeling a need to fill that silence.

‘What does?’ Ben asked.

‘This,’ Roland said. ‘All of this.’

‘Oh,’ Ben said blandly. He paused, swigged his beer and exhaled to show a relaxed state, telegraphing that any questions he asked were purely conversational. ‘You must be wealthy.’

Roland snorted with a dry laugh. ‘God, no. I died in twenty forty-six. Committed suicide. Walked into the sea and drowned myself.’

The sudden information flow surprised Ben. He was expecting a gentle flow of conversation but the shift in pace told him Roland had something he wanted to say.

‘Go on,’ Ben said gently.

Roland cast him a look. Weariness in his eyes. Weight on his shoulders. Ben felt the urge to ask why, where, when and what happened but resisted asking any closed questions that invited single responses.